Mariah Stewart - Last Look

“Agent Shields, you do take me to the nicest places.” Dorsey stared out the window, taking it all in.

“Nothing’s too good for a fellow agent.” He un-buckled his seat belt. “Ready?”

She swung open her door and stepped out onto broken pavement. Candy wrappers and fast food bags lay on the ground close to the steps leading into the building, and chalked squares for hopscotch were barely visible on the sidewalk.

“Do kids still play hopscotch?” Andrew glanced down as he caught up with Dorsey.

“Guess so.” She started up the steps.

“You play when you were a kid, Dorsey?”

“No.” She pushed open the unlocked door. “Did you?”

“My sister played. She loved colored chalk, the brighter the better.”

“We didn’t have sidewalks where I grew up,” she told him as she read the names on the mailboxes.

“No sidewalks?” He frowned.

“ Hathaway Beach, where I was born, had sandy paths. No concrete.”

“I thought you were from around Philly.”

“How would you know that?” It was her turn to frown.

“I know that’s where your father lives. He’s on TV all the time, and he always mentions it. Besides, you have the accent.”

“I do not have an accent.” She tapped on one of the mailboxes. “Second floor, apartment 2G.”

She headed toward the steps and Andrew followed.

“We’ll knock on the door, and when she answers, you tell her you’re here to talk about Shannon,” he said.

“I thought I was supposed to stay in the shadows.”

“Like you did yesterday at the ME’s?”

She glared at him and went past him on the steps.

“Hey, that was the deal,” he reminded her. “You do have a way of getting yourself right in there.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“Only if it gets you noticed by the wrong people.” He reached the landing first and held the door for her.

The hall was narrow, the carpet old, and the padding bunched in several places. Dorsey tripped twice between the stairwell and the door with 2G painted unevenly in black.

“This must be hell at night after a few drinks,” she muttered, looking down at the uneven floor covering.

Andrew pointed to the door, and Dorsey knocked three times and waited, listening for some movement behind the door. She knocked again, louder, then called, “Miss Chiong, are you in there?”

After a few moments of silence, they heard a shuffle from inside the apartment.

“Miss Chiong, are you there?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Dorsey Collins. I’m with the FBI. I need to talk to you about Shannon.”

“You got some ID?”

“Yes.”

“Hold it up so’s I can see it.”

Dorsey pulled her badge from her pocket and opened it while a dead bolt was released on the other side of the door. A chain kept the door from opening more than three inches.

“Hold it closer,” Edith demanded.

Dorsey did as she was told.

“What is it you want to know?” Edith asked.

“I want to talk about Shannon.”

The chain came off and the door swung open.

“Better late than never, I suppose.” The woman stepped back to let Dorsey enter, then began to close the door when she saw Andrew. “Wait a minute, who’s he? I thought you were alone.”

“Special Agent Andrew Shields, Miss Chiong. We spoke on the phone the other day,” he reminded her. “I’m in charge of the investigation into Shannon ’s death.”

“What got the FBI all fired up? That sister of Shannon ’s being a senator? Is that what it took to get someone’s attention? Couldn’t be bothered looking for her when y’all thought she was just a hooker. But ooh-wee, once it started getting out that her family was big shots, yeah, now you’re interested.”

Edith Chiong drew her pale yellow robe tighter around her, and tied it snugly. She was short and slender, with straight dark hair to her shoulders, and dark, uneasy Asian eyes that smoldered in a pretty face. Dorsey guessed she was in her mid-thirties.

“I understand how upset you must have been when you reported Shannon missing and the local police blew you off,” Andrew said. “I’m sorry for the way you were treated.”

Edith looked from Andrew to Dorsey and back again.

“Come in.” She closed the door behind them and relocked the door.

They followed her into a small living room that was surprisingly neat and girly. The sofa was covered with quilts, and there was a worn hooked rug on the floor. On the top of a chest that had been painted white sat a small television, and a glass topped trunk served as a coffee table. On the table was a blue vase filled with daisies and a bottle of dark pink nail polish.

Edith gestured to the sofa and both agents sat.

“Miss Chiong-may I call you Edith?” Dorsey asked, and the woman nodded.

“Is it like I said, the FBI is interested because of that sister being a senator?”

“Actually, no,” Andrew said carefully. “We were called in because there’s a relationship between this case and an old case the Bureau handled a long time ago.”

“What case was that?” She leaned against the doorway with one hand on her hip.

“How long had you known Shannon, Edith?” Dorsey asked.

“Six, seven years.”

Dorsey stole a quick glance at Andrew. She knew he was supposed to lead, but they had agreed Edith would most likely respond better to her questioning, and now was as good a time as any to test that. Andrew sat back against the sofa cushions, and Dorsey took that as a green light.

“Where did you meet? Here in Deptford?” she continued.

“ Savannah. We were both working Savannah at the time.” Her voice softened and she seemed to debate with herself for a moment before walking into the small kitchen area. She returned with a wooden folding chair and placed it next to the coffee table, opposite Dorsey. “Both of us were on the street for the same guy.”

“You worked for the same pimp?”

Edith nodded. “His name was Bass. He was one mean son of a bitch. There was just no pleasing that man. No matter how hard you worked, how much you made, it was never enough, you know?”

Dorsey nodded, but Edith appeared not to notice.

“Me and Shannon got to be friends. We were always talking about moving on, moving out. Getting a place of our own, saving some money so that someday we could do something else. Something better. But we knew there was no chance of that while we worked for scum like him.”

“How did you get involved with him?”

Edith snorted. “The same way any girl gets into it. It’s such a…what you call it, a cliché? You come to town thinking you’re gonna get a nice job, and you get off that bus and realize those few dollars you got in your pocket aren’t going to be near enough. Guys hang around the station, just waiting-you know that. You know the story.” She looked directly into Dorsey’s eyes. “You know you do.”

“Young girl, no place to go. Nice looking guy promises you a job, he tells you he can get you a place to stay with a friend of his…” Dorsey nodded. Edith was right. She’d heard it a hundred times before with minor variations.

“Yada, yada, yada.” Edith finished Dorsey’s sentence. “What can I say? I was stupid but I thought I was so grown-up, you know? I thought I was leaving something bad for something better. Thought I could handle the city, thought I could handle anything.” She bit her bottom lip. “Well, I guess Bass showed me.”

“And Shannon?”

“Same story.” Edith nodded. “Way back when, some guy picked her out at the bus station, same as me. Same promises. Same job. Same yada yada. Then she comes to Savannah, same thing all over again.”

“She arrived in Savannah before you? How much before?”