Mariah Stewart - Last Look

Moments later, a woman who looked to be in her mid-seventies appeared and opened only the inner door.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Special Agent Andrew Shields, FBI.” Andrew held his badge to the door. “Are you Mrs. Taylor?”

“I am.” She remained motionless on the other side of the screen.

“We’d like to talk with you for a moment, if that’s all right.”

“About?”

“We’re trying to track down some old files of your husband’s. Chief Bowden said files had been stored here at one time.”

“They were all sent to the new police department.”

“Mrs. Taylor, if we could just have a minute of your time.” Dorsey put on her best manners. “We’d like to ask you about an old case that your husband handled.”

“I never involved myself in my husband’s work. I’m sure I’d be of no help at all.”

“Mrs. Taylor, if you don’t mind-” Andrew started to plead with her, but he didn’t get far.

“Oh, but I do. You all have a nice day, now.”

The inner door closed.

“Well, was it something we said?” Dorsey asked.

“Apparently. I’d say we’ve been dismissed.”

They turned to walk back to the car.

“I’m feeling overwhelmed by all this hospitality,” Andrew told her.

“Me, too. That was so strange.”

“Do you think she’s just an inhospitable, cold, ornery bitch, or do you think she knew why we were here and wasn’t having any of it?”

“Both. I think she’s a cold and ornery bitch and I think she knew why we were here and doesn’t want to talk about the Randall case.”

They reached the car and got in.

“Word has to be starting to get around town. No doubt it’s reached the chief’s widow that the FBI is questioning the old investigation,” Andrew said.

“She could just be protecting her husband’s name,” Dorsey suggested, “or she could be protecting something-or someone-else.”

“You think her nephew?”

“I think it’s a possibility.”

“Me, too. Let’s see what Chief Bowden knows about Jeff Feeney.” Andrew took out his phone and dialed the chief’s private line. After several minutes of conversation, he snapped the phone closed and slid it into his pocket.

“So, what did you find out?” Dorsey asked.

“Jeff Feeney was three years older than Eric Beale, and had the reputation of being a bully.”

“Three years older, that makes him about the same age as Eric’s brother Tim, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Andrew appeared thoughtful as he started the car and pulled onto the roadway. “He said there was definitely bad blood there, but he didn’t know why.”

“That’s all he said?”

“That, and the fact that Jeff Feeney was one of the witnesses in the assault case that sent Tim Beale to prison.”

“We need to talk to Jeff Feeney.”

“And in about another minute, we will.”

Andrew made a left onto the street that led to the town’s center, then parked in front of the hardware store. He pointed to the sign above the door. FEENEY’S HARDWARE EST. 1886.

“Let’s go see if the proprietor is here.” Andrew got out of the car and dropped a quarter in the meter.

They walked from the oppressive heat of the afternoon into the air-conditioned cool of the old building.

“Nice.” Dorsey observed as they looked around. The store had wide-planked oak floors and old-fashioned displays and fixtures, but the lighting and the cooling system had obviously been updated.

“Something I can help you find?” a young clerk asked them.

“We’re looking for Jeff Feeney,” Andrew responded.

“Jeff’s right back there near the office.” The boy pointed toward the rear of the store. “Blue shirt.”

“I see him, thanks.” Andrew motioned to Dorsey to follow him.

Jeff Feeney looked up from his conversation and watched the pair approach. He was a tall, burly man of around forty, and his arms, chest, and neck broadcast that he still worked out on a frequent basis.

“Mr. Feeney?” Andrew had his badge out of his pocket, and Feeney’s eyes were on it.

“That’s me.” Jeff Feeney’s smile was clearly disingenuous. “Help you with something?”

Even as Andrew held up his badge, he had the distinct feeling that Feeney knew exactly who he was. Feeney took the badge and pretended to look it over. He gave Dorsey a long look, top to bottom.

“And you, pretty lady? You have something to show me?”

“It’s Agent Collins.” Dorsey passed her credentials to him. He took a long time studying them before handing them back.

“We can step into my office.” He turned and walked through an open door to his left.

He closed the door after the agents and folded his arms across his chest.

“What can I do for you?”

“We’re in town-”

“I know why you’re in town. I suspect by now, everyone else does, too.” He waved off Andrew’s explanation.

“Word travels fast,” Dorsey remarked dryly.

“Not really, pretty lady, it’s taken-”

“Agent Collins,” she repeated coldly. “My name is Agent Collins.”

“Ahhh, right, of course. My apologies,” he drawled without sincerity. “I was going to say, word has actually traveled a bit slowly, by Hatton’s standards. You’ve been here, what, three days now, and people are just starting to talk? Why, that’s near unheard of.”

“What exactly have you heard?” Andrew asked.

“Well, they’re saying you’re looking into the Shannon Randall case because somehow she’s been alive all this time, but turned up dead for real a few weeks back down in Georgia.” He shook his head. “Imagine that. Alive all these years, and no one knowing. And that kid being executed and her not even being dead.”

“Eric Beale,” Dorsey said pointedly.

“What?” Feeney frowned.

“Eric Beale. The boy who was executed was Eric Beale.”

“Oh, right. Beale.” He nodded.

“We understand you had a run-in with him not too long before he was arrested for Shannon ’s murder.”

“Did I?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I may have. It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.”

“You remember having been involved somehow in a bar fight with his brother sometime before that?” Andrew asked.

“Agent Shields, that was a long time ago. I’m afraid when I was younger, I did more than my share of hell-raising and got into more than one barroom brawl. It may be one of them involved this kid’s brother-Tim, was it?-but like I said, it was a long time ago.”

“You were a witness in the case against him. He went to prison for assault. Served time.”

“Oh, that fight.” Feeney nodded as if a light had just gone on in his head. “That was out at the Past Times. I do remember that. Tim Beale got into it with a buddy of mine.”

“Do you remember what the fight was about?”

“’Fraid not.” Feeney perched casually on the edge of his desk.

“Where’s this buddy now?” Dorsey asked.

“In the churchyard, First Baptist of Hatton,” he said smugly. “Motorcycle accident. Knoxville, nine, ten years ago.”

He stared at Andrew. “Anything else I can help you with, Agent Shields?”

“I think we’re good for now.”

“Well, then, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Feeney reached out one long arm and opened the door.

They left without thanking him for his time.

“I swear I feel his eyes burning a hole right through the back of my head,” Dorsey mumbled as they stepped back into the sunshine.

“I don’t think it was the back of your head he was staring at.” Andrew unlocked the car with the remote.

“What an asshole,” Dorsey said when they were in the car. “Creepy and arrogant.”