Last Look

1

June, 2007

Hot summer closed around the Florida panhandle like a tightly clenched fist. Soaring afternoon temperatures and suffocating humidity had thickened the night air, sending those poor souls who lacked air conditioning to seek respite in the nearest source of water, which for the prudent was a swimming pool or the shower. Only a fool would have taken to the lakes or ponds, especially in the dark, gators being what they are.

Dorsey Collins abandoned the air-conditioned comfort of her apartment for the balcony off her living room. The unrelenting sun had faded the orange-and-white-striped cushions on the two patio chairs she’d bought at the end of last year’s season. She’d known when she purchased the chairs with the matching table that the fabric wouldn’t stand up to direct sunlight, but she’d bought them anyway. When you’re on the job, and dealing with life and death on a daily basis, it’s life’s small pleasures that keep you going.

Dorsey leaned over the railing and tried to ignore the mosquitoes buzzing around her face. In the past, mosquitoes rarely bothered her, but lately, everything in her life had been totally screwed up. She was thinking her body chemistry must be reflecting this somehow, drawing a cloud of the little bastards to her whenever she stepped outside.

It really did figure, didn’t it?

She twisted the cap off her beer, took a long, serious swallow, and stared out into the parking lot beyond her apartment building. She’d met very few of her fellow residents in the complex, so she didn’t expect to recognize any of the tenants who were parking in their assigned spaces. By the time the last of the arrivals had disappeared into their respective buildings, she’d finished the beer. She debated whether or not to have another for all of three seconds.

Maybe, she told herself as she pushed aside the sliding door to her living room, just maybe she’d get lucky and pass out while leaning over the side of the balcony, fall three stories to the pavement below, and break her neck, thereby putting herself out of her misery.

It could happen, she reasoned as she opened the refrigerator door just far enough to grab another bottle. She was twisting the cap as she walked back toward the balcony when the phone began to ring. She stopped midstride to listen to the message.

“Dorsey, it’s Scott Murphy.”

She groaned at the sound of his voice, then walked to the patio door even as the message was being left on her machine.

“I was hoping to catch you at home…I mean, I know you’re busy, but I was hoping…” Breathy asthmatic pause. Big sigh. “Anyway, I was hoping to catch up with you before the weekend, see if you were free for Saturday night. Or Friday.”

He paused again, just as she slid the door closed.

“Or Sunday…” was the last she heard of the message.

Damn, she wished he’d stop calling. That was the third message he’d left for her since last weekend. She knew she should return his calls. He was a nice guy, just trying to be nice to her, even though she’d been a total shit to him.

Dorsey sat on the chair closest to the balcony and rested her feet on the railing. She looked up just as a frothy bank of clouds shifted from the face of the moon. A minute later, stars could be seen winking here and there overhead.

If I could have one wish, she thought, I’d wish for…

What?

She closed her eyes, knowing damned well what she’d wish for. She’d wish she could go back in time to 4 P.M. last Friday afternoon, and then instead of letting her friends talk her into going to a barbecue for a retiring agent, she’d go home to that book she’d been planning to read.

But no. When her fellow agents gathered around the door to her cubicle and harassed her, she gave in.

“Honestly, Dorsey, you live like a hermit. You need to get out once in a while.”

“Come on, Dorse. Just for an hour or two. It’ll do you good to have a little fun. You deserve a night out. You’ve been working nonstop for the past three weeks.”

“Yeah, well, there was that little matter of Hector Rodriguez and his buddy, Jon Mattson, and that young girl they kidnapped,” she’d reminded them dryly.

“Hey, just for a while, okay?”

“Yeah, come with us now, or we’ll follow you home and make rude noises outside your apartment until you cave in. Come along quietly, Agent Collins, and no one will get hurt.”

And no one did, but me…

Things had been just swell until sometime after ten when He walked in.

With Maddy Chambers, an agent just transferred from San Francisco, and Wilbur, the dog he’d shared with Dorsey.

He was Davison Everett Kane Haldeman.

Jesus, Dorsey chastised herself, with a name like that, she should have known.

It was bad enough he’d brought along the woman he’d left Dorsey for, knowing there was a good chance she’d be there, but the bastard had the nerve to bring Wilbur.

Up until then, she’d been mourning the loss of the dog almost as much as she’d been mourning the loss of the guy. But damn that Wilbur, fickle mutt that he was. His heart always did belong to whoever held the treat box. And these days, all the treats were in Maddy’s hands, along with the brown leather leash Dorsey had picked up on the way home, the day Davis had called to tell her he was bringing home a dog he’d seen sleeping in a vacant lot three days in a row.

It had been hard enough, watching the flirtation in the office once word had gotten out that Davis had moved out on Dorsey-taking Wilbur. (“Hey, I was the one who found him. He goes with me.”) Harder still to maintain a professional demeanor when she had to work with either Davis or Maddy. But she’d drawn the line at socializing with them.

Dorsey tossed back another long swig of beer and questioned her ability to make sound decisions in her personal life. What in the name of God had she been thinking when she’d let Davis move in with her? And more recently, whatever had possessed her to throw caution to the wind on Friday night and hit on Scott Murphy, the new prosecutor from the state’s attorney’s office?

God, she cringed whenever she thought about it.

Not that he’d been a bad guy, or anything. He was nice enough-too nice, actually-when she found herself the next morning hung over and embarrassed in his apartment.

Scott had compounded her humiliation by sending her flowers and repeatedly assuring her-and anyone else who’d listen-that absolutely nothing had happened; she’d merely passed out on his sofa and he’d let her sleep it off right where she’d slumped.

God, what ever possessed me…?

She leaned forward, her arms resting on her knees, and watched dark clouds roll in and lightning move across the sky. Maybe if I sit here long enough, it’ll strike me.

If nothing else, she knew, she should go back inside and return his call. Thank him for the flowers, at the very least. She owed him that much. The roses had set him back a pretty penny. She could at least thank him for his thoughtfulness.

She took a swig and wondered if she’d ever make the call.

The humidity continued to rise by the minute, the sultry air thick in her nostrils. The closeness made her slightly claustrophobic. She’d be infinitely more comfortable in the apartment, but she just couldn’t bring herself to go back inside. It was too quiet. Too empty. Too lonely.

She watched a jagged spear of lightning stab at a grove of trees and thought, God, I am pathetic.

When she finally did go back in, she stayed only as long as it took her to grab another beer. She twisted off the lid and it lifted with a soft pop. She dropped the lid on the counter and went back to the balcony. The rain was just beginning to fall with a few fat drops here and there.

Maybe she should look for another place. One that had no memories, good or bad. Sort of like starting over.

Damn it, she didn’t want to start over. She’d been here for six years. She loved this apartment. It had taken her days to find it when she first moved to Florida, freshly divorced and living alone for the first time in her life, focused solely on her career. The apartment was perfect: a big airy bedroom and bathroom, large living room with a small dining area at one end, and a nice eat-in kitchen. A balcony with a view of the lake, and some gorgeous sunsets. Good parking, convenient location, decent rent. Pool, gym, and spa, though she never used those amenities.

No, damn it, she wasn’t giving up her perfect apartment just because the man she’d recently shared it with had turned out to be a perfect asshole.

Sooner or later, the last trace of him would fade and she’d be comfortable here again.

She wondered wryly if the psychic in that little stucco house down on Lakeview had any experience with exorcisms.

She was only half kidding.

She drained the bottle and set it next to the two others on the table and leaned over the rail, debating whether or not to go in for another. She’d needed a good buzz the night before-and the one before that-to get to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that moment when he walked in with her dog, Maddy, clinging to his arm, and everything had gone white before her eyes.

The rest of the night was a blur, which was probably just as well.

The front pocket of her jeans began to ring. She pulled out her phone and checked the caller ID. She was more than a little surprised to see a Virginia number displayed.

This was a call she should probably take.

“Collins.”

“Dorsey, Steven Decker.”

The SAC she’d worked for after graduating from the academy.

“Hey.” She brightened, happy in spite of herself to hear his voice. He’d been a great boss, fair and smart and always accessible. She’d missed him. It had been what, two years since they’d last been in touch? “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yours, too. Listen, Dorsey, I wish this call was strictly social, I’d love to catch up, but there’s something that’s come to my attention that I think you need to know.”

“Make it good news, please.”

“Wish I could, but I’m afraid there’s no way to clean this up.” His voice was sober, serious.

Not a good sign.

“What?” She frowned and lowered herself onto one of the chairs, a bad feeling snaking its way around her insides.

“I just caught a report that was coming in from HQ. Case in Georgia I thought you should know about.”

“Go on,” she said cautiously. It wasn’t like him to hedge.

“The body of a woman was found a couple of weeks ago. The ME’s best guess is she’d been dead less than eight hours.”

“Cause of death?”

“From the preliminary report, looks like multiple stab wounds to the torso, exsanguination.”

“Sexual assault?”

“Not sure.”

“O-kay…” She dragged out the word. And I need to know this because…?

It wasn’t as if she had no corpses of her own to deal with. Georgia wasn’t her territory, so what was Decker’s point?

Decker sighed. “The woman had no identification on her, so the locals faxed her description to other agencies in the surrounding area hoping someone would be able to match her to a missing persons report.”

“No TV, no newspaper reports?”

“Nothing. The body was found on Shelter Island, which is about as big as your thumb, and is just an inch south of the line separating South Carolina and Georgia. No local paper. Nearest city is Savannah.” He cleared his throat. “The police in Deptford-Georgia, right over the border-had been sitting on a report that appeared to be a match. Seems a woman had come in to the station a few weeks back, said her roommate had been missing since the night before. Said they always kept in touch with each other throughout the night-both of them are working girls-so when the girl didn’t return by morning, the roommate knew something was wrong. I got the feeling the Deptford cops didn’t invest a lot of time looking for her-hookers come and hookers go. The roommate apparently had gone in to talk to the cops several times, but not much was done. No APBs, no mention in the news, nothing.”

“And…?” Dorsey felt impatience rise within her chest.

“And…I’ll cut to the chase. The victim has been positively identified as Shannon Randall.”

“Not possible.” Dorsey felt herself relax. This had nothing to do with her after all. “Shannon Randall died in 1983. The state of South Carolina executed her killer, remember? This has to be a mistake, Decker.”

“Shannon Randall’s family was notified, Dorsey. Her sister went to the morgue and identified her. It’s Shannon.”

“Someone’s playing a nasty hoax on them. Not funny.”

“The dental records match. Fingerprints from the body matched fingerprints on items from Shannon ’s room that her mother had kept all these years. They’re running DNA from the hairbrush the mother sent down. The results won’t be back from the lab for at least a week, you know how that goes. But the sister was positive once she saw the birthmarks. The body is definitely that of Shannon Randall.”

“It has to be a mistake,” she insisted, a buzzing starting inside her head.

“If a mistake was made, it was made in 1983,” he said softly.

“If this is true…” She shook her head, swallowed hard. “If this is true…if this is really Shannon Randall…the Shannon Randall…”

She took a deep breath, blew it out again, still trying to gather her thoughts.

“If this is true, who’s going to tell my father?”

“Well, we were hoping you could give us a hand with that…”

The ringing phone sounded so far away, farther still if one pulled a pillow over one’s head.

Which is what Special Agent Andrew Shields had done in an effort to muffle the incessant noise. Finally, recognizing the futility of his efforts, he rolled out from under the pillow and felt along the bedside table for his cell phone.

He blinked several times to clear his vision. He picked up his watch and blinked again. It was barely five in the morning. There was only one person who’d be calling him this early. And odds were, it wasn’t going to be a social call.

“Shields.”

A cheery voice greeted him. “Good morning, Andrew.”

He knew it. John Mancini. His boss. Andrew sat up and ran a hand over his face.

“Morning, John.”

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad, for the middle of the night.”

“Oh, did I wake you?”

“Very funny.” Andrew covered a yawn.

“So I was looking over the assignments last night, and I noticed you’re working on the Gilchrist case.”

“Right.”

“I need you somewhere else.”

Andrew waited. He’d been half-expecting this. The Gilchrist case wasn’t exactly low profile, and he knew several of the other agents working the case were less than happy when he’d been assigned to join them. Less than happy? Who was he kidding? A couple of them looked downright pissed to see him show up on the job that first day.

Andrew wasn’t sure he could blame them.

“Andy?”

“Yeah-I’m listening.”

“I need you to pack for maybe a week.”

“Where am I going?”

“ Shelter Island, Georgia, to start…”

“What’s there?” Andy asked.

“A public-relations nightmare, if what I’m hearing is true.” John sighed.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s about a twenty-four-year-old case that just came back to life.”

“Want to fill me in?”

“In 1983, the Bureau got a call to lend a hand with an investigation in Hatton, South Carolina. One of the daughters of the local preacher had gone missing two days earlier, and all indications were that she’d been murdered by a young guy she knew from town. The Bureau sent a team with one of its up-and-comers-Matt Ranieri-to lead the investigation.”

“Ranieri. He’s the guy on TV every time there’s a big case ongoing. He’s like Mr. Crime on the talk show circuit.”

“Right. After the Randall case-that was her name, Shannon Randall-Ranieri landed a lot of TV gigs.” John cleared his throat. “Anyway, the young kid was arrested, the case went to trial even though the body had never been found-revolutionary down there in that day-and the kid was convicted on circumstantial evidence.”

“What evidence?”

“A shirt covered with her blood was found under the seat of his car, along with her school assignment book, and an eyewitness saw him driving her out of town. She was never seen again.”

“And the boy’s explanation?”

“The kid admitted he picked her up that afternoon, but said she was bloody when she got into his car, that someone had worked her over, and he’d given her the shirt to wipe her face on.”

“He say who beat her up?”

“He maintained he asked, but she refused to tell him. Says he drove her to a park, she went into the ladies’ room and cleaned up, and then he drove her home. Says she asked to get out a few blocks from home, so he let her.”

“And the cops didn’t believe him.”

“They had a witness who said otherwise.”

“Who was the witness?” Andrew asked.

“A friend of the girl’s. Said the guy had a big crush on Shannon, was hanging around her all the time but Shannon wouldn’t give him the time of day. You know the rest.”

“So where’s the problem? You had an arrest and a conviction…” Andrew stopped and thought for a moment, then said, “Let me guess. There’s DNA evidence to prove his innocence and he’s getting out.”

“No, and there will be no getting out for him,” John told him. “He was executed back in ’91.”

“So what’s the deal?”

“The deal is, we just got word that a body found in Georgia has been positively identified as Shannon Randall’s.”

“The vic whose body was never found?”

“Right.”

“So great, case closed.”

“Not quite,” John said. “The body had only been dead for maybe eight hours.”

“What?” Andrew frowned. “How can that be?”

“That’s what we’re sending you down there to find out.”

Andrew hesitated, then said, “John, if this is true, if this is Shannon Randall, this could become a high-profile case.”

“Not could,” John corrected him calmly. “Will.”

“So, don’t you think you’d rather assign someone else?”

“If I wanted to assign someone else, I’d have called someone else,” John said coolly.

“This could be national news.”

“Say it, Andy. Say it once, and get it over with.”

“Look, I’m just back from leave.” He wanted to keep going, but the words stuck in throat.

“I know that. Go on.”

“You’re going to make me say it?”

“Damn right I am.” John sounded angry.

“I’m just saying, a Shields may not be the best man for the job. After everything that happened last year-”

“I will tell you this one more time, and if I ever have to say it again, I’ll fire your ass on the spot. I never want to have this conversation with you again, understand?” Without waiting for a response, John said, “You are not your brother. Many families have a black sheep. Brendan was yours. He betrayed everyone who loved him. His family. His friends. The Bureau. But-and this is the important part, so listen good-you are not Brendan. You are not responsible for what he did, and you are not expected to pay for his sins. If anyone in the Bureau thinks otherwise, I want to know who, because I will personally straighten out his or her ass. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir,” Andrew said quietly.

“You’re a damn fine agent, Andy. I have full confidence in you. This case is going to blow up in our faces unless we get to the bottom of it real fast. It’s most likely going to blow up anyway. We had a hot-shot agent pushing for the death penalty and a jury that was happy to give it to him. The Randall family was well-known and highly respected in town, and the family of Eric Beale was not. Dad and mom reportedly were drunks, dad had been arrested for beating up the wife and kids on more than one occasion. Older brother served time for assault. The kid who went to jail had apparently had a run-in with the nephew of the police chief’s wife the week before.”

“So back then, it almost didn’t matter if he was guilty or not.”

“Well, that was then, this is now. It matters. I want to know the truth. I want to know what happened to this girl, and how.” John paused, then added, “Did I mention that Shannon had apparently been making her living as a prostitute all these years?”

“Ah, no. I think you left that part out.” Andrew swung his legs over the side of the bed. “They’re sure it’s her? They’re positive?”

“Positive.”

“Shit.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“So when do I leave?”

“This morning. I want you there before noon. I don’t know how long before the press gets wind of this, so you’re going to have to move fast. Go over the original file with a fine-tooth comb and find out what went wrong. Figure out where this girl’s been all these years, and why no one knew she was still alive. And then, after you’ve done all that-”

“I’m going to have to solve the case,” Andrew finished the sentence. “Who killed Shannon Randall, and why.”

“You’re pretty good at this, you know.”

“Hey, I’m a special agent with the FBI. You can’t put much over on me.” Andrew smiled. “By the way, who’s working with me on this?”

“No one. You’re on your own. It’s a sensitive case, and I expect you to treat it as such.”

“I will.”

“Stop in and pick up the file on your way to the airport. I’ll have everything copied and ready for you.”

“I’ll be there within the hour.” Andrew stood, ready to hang up.

“Oh. There’s one more thing,” John said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re going to have company.”

“You just said you weren’t assigning anyone else,” Andrew reminded him.

“I’m not.” John paused. “I mentioned Matt Ranieri…”

“You have to be kidding.” Andrew laughed out loud. “You couldn’t possibly let him in on this.”

“Of course not. You will, however, be joined by his daughter.”

“His…John, that’s almost as bad.”

“His daughter. Dorsey Collins, you hear of her?”

“The name sounds familiar. She’s with the Bureau?”

“She’s been working out of the Florida office for the past six years or so. She’s good, she’s smart, she’s tough, and she’s honest. She can’t be officially connected with the case, I don’t want her name showing up on so much as one damned scrap of paper, but she can shadow you.”

“If anyone figures out who she is…”

“Then she’s out of there in the blink of an eye. But I don’t know how anyone would know. She has a different last name and she’s never exploited the relationship with her father. I heard from Decker that even after her divorce, she kept her married name so as to not ride Matt’s coattails. I don’t think more than a handful of people at the Bureau know she’s his kid.”

Andrew sat silent.

“Look, from what I hear, she’s going to want in on the investigation. I figure she can work with us, or she can go off on her own and end up working against us. I’d rather have her right there where we can see her.”

“May I say something?” Andrew asked.

“Of course.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, John. I know you’re the boss and it’s your decision, but I have to go on record and say I don’t think this is good.”

“Objection noted. Just trust me on this. Decker says she’s good, Andy. I wouldn’t saddle you with anyone who isn’t. And she’s going to have to play by my rules if she wants to be allowed to play at all. I don’t think she’ll be a problem. If she is, she’s gone.”

“So when can I expect her to show up?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with her yet.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know she’s going to want in?”

“Because I know her reputation. And I know Matt. I spoke with Steven Decker last night. He’s already told her about the situation. I don’t expect it will be much longer before I hear from her. I’ll have her call you.”

“You think you have everyone figured out, don’t you?” Andrew said, only half kidding.

“That’s why I’m the boss of the best of the best.” Andrew could hear the humor in John’s voice.

“John, the boy who was executed…if this is really Randall, and it sounds like it is, someone’s going to have to talk to his parents before word gets out to the press.”

“That’s my problem. I have someone trying to locate them as we speak,” John told him. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be expecting you by 6:30.”

The line went dead, and Andrew folded his phone shut.

He was well aware of the gift he was being offered, but didn’t know quite how to express his thanks. His family had a proud history in the service of the FBI almost since its formation. His father and uncle had served, three cousins, both his brothers, his only sister. Theirs had been a respected name for decades, their collective record impressive. And in one moment, as long as it had taken for a high-powered rifle to be fired, their name, their reputation, had been destroyed.

Andrew’s brother Brendan was the black sheep John had referred to. He’d marked their cousin, Connor, for murder, and mistaking Connor’s brother Dylan for Connor, pulled the trigger on the wrong man and blew away a one-in-a-million guy. In Dylan, both the family and the Bureau had both lost an irreplaceable member.

But even that had not been the worst of Brendan’s sins.

Somehow, Brendan had gotten mixed up with another rogue agent and became a willing participant in a sex-slave ring kidnapping children out of Central America. When Brendan suspected their brother Grady’s wife might be catching on, he facilitated her murder as well.

Andrew still couldn’t quite believe it himself. Nor could he understand how someone you know and love-someone you have known and loved your entire life-how that person could turn into a monster right before your eyes without you seeing, without you knowing. How is it possible that none of them had recognized the evil in him? Had any of them even known him at all?

More than a year later, Andrew was still asking himself the same question. How could we have not known?

Andrew thought back to the Christmas before it all fell apart, to their cousin Aidan’s wedding, to family dinners where they’d all gathered. If there had been anything in Brendan’s behavior that might have tipped them off to the demon that dwelled within him, why hadn’t they recognized it? Try as he might, Andrew could not recall one incident that might have given it away. Brendan had always been…Brendan. Fun loving, happy-go-lucky. When had his jovial façade become a mask for something sinister?

Andrew would never know. None of them would. Brendan now lay as dead as Dylan. Because of him, the family had lost two of their beloved. Grady had been the big loser. He’d lost not only his brother and his cousin, but he’d lost the love of his life as well. After it was all over, Grady had retreated to the house in the Montana hills he’d shared with his Melissa. Other than an occasional call to their father, no one had heard from Grady in months. Andrew knew his brother would never be the same-how could he be?-nor would his father. Frank Shields had given thirty years to the Bureau, and it was mostly because of him that Andrew had decided to return to the job after his leave was over. Not to have done so would have been, in Frank’s eyes as well as in Andrew’s, cowardly. The name Shields had stood for something. Andrew knew it was up to him, and his sister, Mia, to make certain it still did.

He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He’d have to hustle if he was going to make it into the office before rush hour traffic clogged the highways. He wished John had given him a choice about whether or not Dorsey Collins should be permitted to tag along through his investigation-silent partner or no-but as John had pointed out, he was the boss. In general, John was a damn good judge of character, which is how he’d managed to put together the best and most specialized unit within the Bureau. Well, except for Brendan, but if his own family hadn’t seen his flaws, John couldn’t be expected to.

Then again, John admitted he hadn’t even met this woman yet. So why, Andrew asked himself, would John go out on a limb to let her become part of an investigation when all the facts seemed to indicate she shouldn’t be permitted within miles of Shelter Island?

Good question. Andrew turned on the water and set it for hot. Just one more to be answered before the investigation was over.

Just one more to be added to a long list of questions: What really happened that night twenty-four years ago? Where had Shannon Randall been all that time? How did she get there? And why? Had anyone known she was still alive? If so, why didn’t that person speak up? And who killed her now, and why?

And why was John Mancini so insistent that Dorsey Collins-the daughter of the man who pushed the case to a faulty conclusion all those years ago-be permitted to work with Andrew behind the scenes in search of the answers?