Last Look Page 9

  “If your daughter was into self-mutilation, don’t you think you’d know?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’d know.” She nodded. “But sometimes the source of the pain is unaware of the means the child takes to alleviate it.”

  “So in other words, the source of the pain could be something or someone in the family?”

  “It almost always is,” she said simply. “There’s the sign for I-95. Take a right.”

  He followed the signs and merged onto the interstate. They rode in silence for a while, then he asked, “So how do you think it’s going to go with the Randalls?”

  “Probably not very well.” She closed her eyes and moved the seat to a slightly reclined position. “For one thing, we represent the same agency that concluded Shannon had been murdered twenty-four years ago. Christ, if any of them knew my father was the one who investigated this and was instrumental in charging Eric Beale, in concluding she’d been murdered…”

  “From what I’ve read, everyone back then came to the same conclusion. It wasn’t just your father. The locals asked the agency to come in because they believed Shannon had been killed, and they’d had very little experience dealing with homicides. There was nothing in the Bureau file or in the Hatton police file that indicated anyone had given any thought to any scenario other than Shannon ’s murder.”

  “Mistake number one, then, and don’t you wonder why? If no one had considered that Shannon had been abducted, or that she’d run away, then there were never any leads pursued that led anywhere other than murder.” She made a face. “If there was anything to be found back then, it’s going to be a million times more difficult to find it now. It’s just so unlike my father to jump to a conclusion without considering every possibility.”

  “You don’t know for certain that he didn’t, so let’s not make that assumption. That’s one of those things you might want to ask him. Someone must have steered him in that direction. In the meantime, I think we’re going to have to take another look at the evidence they did have, maybe reevaluate it.”

  “What evidence was there?” She counted off on the fingers of her left hand. “They had Beale’s shirt covered with Shannon ’s blood. Her assignment book was found in his car. They had his admission he’d driven her to the park where she cleaned up, and they found the bloody paper towels in the ladies’ room there. They couldn’t find anybody who saw Shannon after Beale said he dropped her off, but somebody saw Beale driving Shannon out of town around seven, according to the file I looked at last night. There were no other sightings of this girl. The evidence shows she got into Beale’s car and was never seen alive again.”

  “Well, not in Hatton, anyway,” Andrew added. “And you have to admit that all seems to point to Beale.”

  “What are the chances he drove her someplace, helped her to run away?” Dorsey suggested.

  “You’d think he’d have said something back then, when his life depended on it.”

  “Suppose Shannon convinced Beale that something terrible was happening to her at home, that she had to run away, and he helped her.” Dorsey considered the possibility. “He was her friend, maybe she made him promise not to tell.”

  “Promise or not, he would have spoken up,” Andrew insisted. “No matter how good a friend he was, no way would that kid have kept his mouth shut if it meant being executed.”

  “You’d think.” She sat quietly again for a while, then asked, “So you’ve read the Bureau’s entire file?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fill me in on everything. I’ve only read bits and pieces.”

  “Where would you like to start?” A light rain started to fall and he turned on the wipers.

  “Start with the family. I remember seeing a picture of the four girls in the newspaper back then. Shannon was the second youngest, I think.”

  “Right. The oldest is Natalie, now Natalie Randall-Scott, the state senator. She was twenty-one, away at college in 1983. They barely talked to her at all back then. The next sister is Aubrey-she’s not married. She’s the one who has the television show, sort of a Southern Martha Stewart, if I understand correctly. She’s rumored to be in line for a national show. She was seventeen, a high school senior, when Shannon disappeared. Shannon was the third child, and the last was Paula Rose, who was three years younger than Shannon. She’s a minister in the church previously served by her father and grandfather.”

  “Mom and Dad are both still alive, I know. But what about the grandparents?”

  “Martha and Paul Randall. Grandma’s still with us, Reverend Paul passed on a few years ago.”

  “One of the sisters might know what it was Shannon was running away from,” she murmured, “if in fact she ran and wasn’t abducted.”

  They drove a mile in silence.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For?”

  “For not shutting me out of this. I know you’re letting me closer than John wanted me to be.”

  He chose his words carefully.

  “John didn’t exactly tell me what to do here-he rarely does. I don’t know that he’s afraid anyone would recognize you-why would they?-or figure out you’re Matt’s daughter. Your last name is Collins, not Ranieri. No one connected with the case, outside a very few individuals within the Bureau, would know, which is why he doesn’t want your name on any reports. You just don’t know who might read them inside the Bureau.”

  “He doesn’t think anyone would…” Dorsey looked confused.

  “Your dad had a great career with the Bureau, and left to have an even better one as a crime analyst, or whatever they’re calling him on TV these days. There might be some who are jealous of his success.”

  “Jealous enough to call the media and tell them that Matt’s daughter is secretly investigating the case?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Hey, people can be unpredictable, you know that. The bottom line is, we just have to play this whole thing very smart. Like I said, Mancini doesn’t want it out there that you’re Matt Ranieri’s daughter and he’s right about you not signing reports. You’re not assigned to the case. He certainly doesn’t want the Bureau to be embarrassed.

  “On the other hand, Edith Chiong obviously responded to you better than she did to me. It was in the best interest of the investigation for you to do the talking, and for me to observe.” He took note of the highway sign directing them toward their exit.

  “The notes will be in your handwriting and will go into the file,” she murmured. “No need to even mention that I was there.”

  “For the record, I think Mancini knew going in that you weren’t going to play silent partner.” Andrew changed lanes. “And let’s face it, there are going to be times when the interests of the investigation will best be served by you doing the talking.”

  “Because I’m a woman.”

  “Simple fact.” He shrugged. “Some people relate better to women, some to men. We’ll go with whatever best suits the circumstances.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Dorsey used the controls to bring her seat back up. “Why do you suppose he agreed so quickly to let me in on this?”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons. Maybe he thought you’d try to investigate on your own, and that wouldn’t have been good for anyone.”

  “So at least this way he thinks he can keep an eye on me?”

  “I’m not reporting back to him on what you are or are not doing, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” For some reason, the idea that he was spying for John annoyed the hell out of him.

  “Sorry,” she said after a few silent minutes had passed. “But you have to admit, the devil you know, and all that…”

  “I don’t really know all of his motives, but I do know he’d declined to bring another agent into the case, so as long as you’re not flaunting your pedigree and no one in the Bureau figures out you’re here, I think he’s just going to leave things the way they are. As long as it works.”

  “Do you think it’s working?” she asked.

>   “You did a good job with Edith Chiong. The Randalls might be a little tougher. We’ll play that by ear, see what kind of a read we get on them. They’ve gone through a lot in the past few days.”

  “About that.” Dorsey turned in her seat to face him. “Have you seen any news reports about this?”

  “No, but I haven’t been watching television. The newspapers I read at breakfast this morning didn’t have the story, either.”

  “I totally expected this to be everywhere. I even told my dad not to answer his phone unless he knew for certain who was on the other end.”

  “Guess it just hasn’t been put out there yet.”

  “But wouldn’t you expect it to have been? This is a story. How is it that even the local papers haven’t picked up on it? I mean, if this had been your daughter, or your sister, wouldn’t you be screaming about the incompetence of the FBI or the police or something?”

  “Maybe not if I was one of the Randall sisters, and my screaming announced to the world that my sister was a hooker.”

  “Still, it seems odd to me. My first thought was that this was going to be a bomb of a story, a PR nightmare for the Bureau. But then…silence.”

  “Has anyone from the press tried to get in touch with your father? Has anyone contacted him?”

  “He had a call from Owen Berger the other day, but I told him not to return it.”

  “Are you sure that’s why Berger was calling? Your dad does guest spots on his show a lot, doesn’t he?”

  Dorsey nodded.

  “Well, maybe he was calling about a different case. There was that model that disappeared out in Oregon last weekend. Berger could have been calling about that.”

  “It’s possible,” Dorsey agreed. “You’re probably right. It doesn’t make sense that Berger could know about Shannon and no one else in the media would know. And he certainly wouldn’t miss an opportunity to break the story. As soon as I talk to my dad, I’ll ask.”

  “Then let’s assume the story isn’t out because the family doesn’t want it out there.” He slowed for the exit and eased into the far right lane. “Does that tell you anything?”

  She thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “It tells me that no one’s told Eric Beale’s family that Shannon ’s been alive all these years. They’re the ones who would be doing all the screaming. They still don’t know… God, what a horrible shock this will be to them.”

  “John assured me that he’s handling that. Let’s just hope he finds them before the story hits the wires.”

  The main street in Hatton, South Carolina, was decidedly Southern. The houses lining either side were brick or clapboard, and most dated from the 1880s or earlier, the town fathers having surrendered to their Northern occupiers rather than see their homes burned to the ground. In some families, this was still whispered about, as it implied a level of cooperation much of the South had disdained. But in retrospect, it had been a damned good idea, Dorsey thought, since most of the town had survived the invasion of their Northern aggressors and now qualified as a historic site.

  Live oaks lined the wide boulevard on either side and their moss-covered branches met in the middle to form a canopy over the street. Large, gracious homes with porticos and porte cocheres sat well back on generous, lush green lawns, their drives long and winding. Andrew slowed the car to a near crawl. Somehow he felt speeding on this street would have been tantamount to running through a church yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “Quite the place,” Andrew remarked, watching for the Randalls’ street.

  “It’s beautiful,” Dorsey agreed. “It looks almost as if time’s stood still here. The houses, the grounds, the gardens-look, there are even swans on that pond over there on the right.”

  “That’s our turn. Swan Pond Road.”

  “Seriously, that’s the name?” She turned in her seat to read the sign. “Damn if it isn’t. How do you suppose they’ve managed to keep swans here since that road was put through?”

  “They clip their wings, most likely, so they can’t leave. Or they bring in new ones when the old ones fly away.”

  He turned right and continued the slow drive past the pond.

  “They’re pretty,” she said, watching the swans float across the water. “Majestic. They go with the town.”

  “This part of it anyway. Let’s see what the rest of it looks like. I’m betting it isn’t all white columns and restored grandeur.”

  “What street are we looking for?”

  “ Sylvan Road. Three streets down.” Andrew took a right and continued driving slowly, taking in the town.

  The houses on the side streets were increasingly modest in size. By the time they turned onto Sylvan, the architecture had gone from antibellum to sturdy American foursquares. The lots were still generous, but not stately, and the driveways made of crushed stone led to one-or two-car garages rather than handsome carriage houses.

  “That’s it there, number 717.” Andrew slowed, then stopped on the opposite side of the street from the Randall home.

  “Nice, tidy looking house,” Dorsey noted.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s a lot going on,” Andrew observed as he got out and slammed the car door. In the quiet of Sylvan Road, the sound almost seemed to echo.

  Dorsey got out as well and stood on the sidewalk, taking in the neighborhood. All the homes were well-kept, the lawns and flower beds well-tended.

  “All very respectable, wouldn’t you say?” Andrew asked when he joined her on the walk.

  “Looks very solid. Late-model car back there near the garage, flower pots on the front steps, even a porch swing. Think there’s an apple pie in the oven?”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  They followed the walk to the front door, where Dorsey stood back while Andrew rang the bell. Somewhere in the house a dog barked and seconds later footsteps could be heard crossing a hardwood floor. The inside door opened, and a women in her fifties holding a small white dog asked, “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Judith Randall?” Andrew asked. “Special Agent Andrew Shields, FBI.” He held up his credentials, and she leaned close to the screen door to study them.

  “Well. I suppose this is about Shannon,” she drawled flatly. “You could have called first.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I should have. I apologize for not having done so.”

  “I suppose I should let you in,” she said, as if thinking aloud. She unlocked the screen door and ushered them in. The dog began to wiggle in her arms, its nose sniffing furiously.

  “Bebe, you behave yourself, now.” Mrs. Randall placed the dog on the floor and it immediately jumped around Andrew as if begging to be picked it. “You can come on in-you just ignore her and she’ll stop.” She paused a moment. “Eventually…”

  She led them into the living room, which appeared to be one of those rooms used only on holidays and at times like this. The furniture was mostly antique and highly polished, and the mantel was adorned with a tall vase of flowers. She gestured to the sofa and said, “Please have a seat.”

  Andrew moved to the far end of the sofa to allow Dorsey to sit to his left. “Mrs. Randall, I know how difficult a time this must be.”

  “Well, we just do not know what to make of all this,” Mrs. Randall said as she sat on a high-back wood chair opposite the sofa. “I simply do not know how such a thing could happen. All these years, we believed Shannon was dead-killed by that boy-and now they tell us she’s been living down in Georgia, working as a…”

  She shook her head, unable to say the word.

  “I cannot imagine what ever could have possessed that child to do such a thing. Clearly, she’d been forced to leave, someone took her and did God only knows what to her, and made her do these terrible things. Imagine, her being kidnapped and held against her will all these years.” Mrs. Randall’s voice was shaky. “I knew my daughter, Agent Shields. She was a good girl. An honor student. Played on the high school softball team from the time she was in seventh grade, she was that goo
d, did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Andrew replied. Dorsey had yet to open her mouth.

  “Oh, she was quite the star. She had so much here, so much to live for here. Everyone loved her. Why would she have stayed away?” The woman’s eyes now filled with tears. “That’s what I don’t understand. Why would she have stayed away all this time? Her father and I just can’t understand that. So you see, she must have been held against her will. Forced into slavery, like you read about nowadays.”

  “Mrs. Randall, did Shannon ever try to run away from home, or give you any indication that she’d thought of doing something like that?”

  “Good heavens, no.” She appeared slightly indignant. “ Shannon came from a very good home, Agent Shields. She was loved. She was happy. She had everything. What on earth would she have been running away from?”

  “Is your husband home?” Dorsey broke her silence.

  “He’s in the back room. He was in an accident a few years back, Miss…?” She tilted her head slightly to the right, looking at Dorsey as if she hadn’t noticed her before.

  “Agent Collins,” Dorsey told her.

  “My husband had a terrible accident about three years ago, run off the road one night coming back from a home visit-he took over his daddy’s church when Father Randall passed on-and was just left for dead. He’s been in a wheelchair ever since. It’s made him…a bit bitter.” She lowered her voice. “This thing with Shannon has just about killed that man now. He’s been sitting in the back room staring out the windows ever since Chief Bowden came down here and told us about that girl’s body being found on that island and it turnin’ out to be Shannon.”

  She swallowed hard and stood, her arms across her chest, staring at Andrew.

  “Now, you just tell me how that could be.”

  “Mrs. Randall, I promise you we’re doing everything we can to find out,” he replied.

  “Can you find out how my baby girl could have been alive all these years, and I didn’t know?” Her voice grew husky. “Can you tell me how it could be that her mother’s heart didn’t know she was still on this earth?”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t.” He shook his head. “I am very sorry-I cannot imagine what you must be feeling right now.”