Mariah Stewart - Last Look

“I already did,” he told her.

“That phone call earlier?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll be wanting to head back to shore.”

“In the morning, yes.”

“Have you called your daughter?”

“Not yet.”

“Matt, you know she’s worried about you.”

“You’re right.” He took his phone from his pocket and speed-dialed her number.

“I can go below if you want privacy,” Diane offered, though she made no move to leave.

“It’s not necessary.” He listened for another few seconds. “She’s not picking up.”

“Just leave her a message. Let her know you’re okay, let her know what you’re going to do.”

“Hey, honey. Sorry I missed you. I’m with a friend on her boat, just needed a little time to think things through, hoping to find some answers before the shit hits the fan.” He tried to make a joke, but even to his ears, the joke fell flat. “Anyway, I just didn’t want you to worry. I’ll be in touch.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Love you, Dorse.”

He closed the phone and slid it back into his shirt pocket.

“You didn’t tell her what you were going to do,” Diane said pointedly.

“No. I did not.” He started to repack his notebooks and files into the box that sat on the floor near his feet. “I don’t want her to worry.”

“Should I be worried?”

“You’re a big girl.”

“So’s your daughter. She’s been in the FBI for…how many years? Twelve? She’s hardly a babe in the woods, Matt,” she reminded him.

“Did you drop anchor here for the night?” He changed the subject without further comment.

Diane sighed. She got the point. He didn’t want to discuss his next move with his daughter. Diane wouldn’t push. She’d speak her mind, but she wouldn’t push.

“No. I thought we’d go back to that cove up near the Sassafras again tonight.”

“Sounds good to me.” He stood and lifted the box. “I’ll take these down below, then come back up and give you a hand.”

“No need.” She drained her glass and sat it on the table. “I’ve been pulling up anchors by myself for years.”

He glanced back over his shoulder and wondered if the double meaning had been intentional or if he was just reading something into her comment that wasn’t there. He knew Diane had been on her own for a long time, just as he had been. And, she’d just reminded him, as his daughter had been. He wondered what Dorsey would think of this woman, what she’d say if he told her he was thinking of marrying Diane. He’d never even mentioned Diane’s name to her, and now he couldn’t remember why.

Just one more thing he hadn’t told Dorsey. He just hoped that he’d get the chance, and that his next move wouldn’t be his last.

Andrew snapped on the light in his motel room as he came through the door. Outside it was still sunny late afternoon. Inside, with the drapes covering the windows, it was midnight.

He’d really wanted to push for some time with Franklin Randall, but John suggested he back off for tonight after Andrew filled him in on the interviews with the Randall sisters and Jeff Feeney. John also reminded Andrew that with the press beginning to sniff around, he needed to make sure Dorsey kept a very low profile.

“Especially now,” John had said.

“Why especially now?” Andrew had asked, but the question had not been answered.

“Just tell her to keep her head down for a little while longer.”

Andrew knew better than to push. If John wanted to say more, he would.

“What do you want me to do about the reporters?”

“Talk to them. Sooner, rather than later. Keep everyone under control. Say as little as possible at this point, but make sure everything you say is true. Don’t say anything you’ll need to apologize for later. God knows we’re going to be doing enough backpedaling on this case as it is.”

“You think maybe you should send someone down to handle this? Maybe someone from PR?”

“No, you’ll be fine,” John assured him. “Besides, there’s no one who knows what’s going on better than you. I don’t want anyone thinking we’re spinning this. It is what it is.”

“I’ll type up my reports later tonight and e-mail them in the morning.” Andrew pushed aside one edge of the drapes and peered out through the window. The news vans that had followed him were parked in the lot where their drivers would have clear view of his door. Shit.

This was the last thing he needed.

“Listen, John, about Eric Beale’s family…”

“It’s covered, Andrew.”

“Something was going on between this Jeff Feeney character and both the brothers. We’re going to need to talk to someone in the family, and soon. Preferably Tim Beale, though if we could track down the mother-”

“Not yet.”

Andrew frowned. It wasn’t like John to be evasive when it came to a case one of his agents was working on.

“When, then?”

“I’ll let you know. For now, just let me handle them from this end.”

“All right,” Andrew said slowly. He was feeling sandbagged and he didn’t like it. No point in mentioning it, though. John obviously had an agenda he wasn’t in the mood to discuss.

“How’s Agent Collins doing?” John changed the subject.

“Fine. Good.”

“Think she’d fit in with the rest of the unit?”

“You thinking about bringing her on?” Andrew watched as one of the cameramen got out of his van and began to chat with a reporter from another station.

“She’s expressed an interest, and everything I’m hearing about her is good.”

“Yeah. She’s good, John. Real good. She’d fit in just fine.”

“Then I’ll have a talk with her when this is all over, see what we can work out. For the time being, just keep her out of the public eye. Any idea how much longer before you’ll be able to wrap this up?”

“A few more days, at least. We have a picture emerging but it isn’t clear yet.” Andrew filled John in on the theories he and Dorsey had tossed around. “It’s like a big puzzle, and we’re still missing a lot of the pieces.”

“Sometimes too many possibilities can be worse than too few,” John said, “and I’m referring to the old case as well as the new. That many possible motives, you can make yourself crazy trying to figure it out. Of course, there’s an upside to that, too.”

“What’s that?”

“When you get that many people involved, sooner or later someone is bound to step out from the crowd on their own. It doesn’t sound as if any of these people are professional criminals,” John told him. “Sooner or later, someone’s guilt is going to get the best of him. Or her.”

“I can only hope.” Andrew let the curtain fall back. “So you’ll get back to me on the Beales?”

“Soon as I have something to tell you,” John assured him. “Good luck with the press. Gotta run.”

Andrew disconnected the call and dropped the phone on the bed wishing he’d pushed John a little more about the Beale family. But he knew better. When John had something to say, he said it. If he was keeping something to himself, he had a reason and he wouldn’t be sharing that until he was ready.

He hung his jacket over the back of the chair and debated whether to order a pizza or take a shower. If he called for pizza, chances were there’d be a reporter in his face when he opened the door. For a moment he wished they were still staying at the inn. At least they had room service and the rooms were nicer. This motel room was anonymous, too much like every other motel room he’d ever been in. It made him feel displaced, and he’d had plenty of that over the past year. Now he realized he’d traveled so much just to keep himself moving, to keep from thinking too deeply about too many things. For a while, it had worked.