Mariah Stewart - Last Look

“Right. Mike Patton’s boy, Tom. Remember him? He used to tease the hell out of you because you were so short.”

“I remember.” She nodded, recalling that Tommy Patton had been a bully who’d made the life of every kid in Hathaway Beach miserable at one time or another.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “He’s about five seven now. And you’re…?”

“Five nine.” She smiled too, thinking it might be a good sign to know that mean Tommy Patton had gotten his, so to speak.

“Tommy’s grown up okay.” Matt Ranieri turned and reached for his daughter with both arms and hugged her. “He’s settled down and from what I hear, he hasn’t set rotten eggs under anyone’s tires in a long time.”

“Good to know.” She forced the smile to hold for a few moments more while she returned the hug.

“So. What brings you here?”

They stood side by side, his arm draped over her shoulder casually, but the tension between father and daughter was as tangible as a third entity there on the beach with them.

“What’s up?” He stared out at the horizon, as if he knew whatever news she was about to break would be devastating.

She cleared her throat, but before she could speak, he asked, “Are you all right, Dorse? Something happen to you? Something going on…?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened slightly in surprise. It had never occurred to her that her message might have given her father the impression that this had to do with her. “Oh, no, Pop, no. I’m fine.”

“Good, honey.” He exhaled a breath as if he’d been holding it since he’d heard the message she’d left. “Then tell me what’s so important that you had to drive all the way here from…” He paused. “Have you been transferred?”

“No, I’m still in Florida. I flew to Philly, then rented a car and drove to the house. Mr. Genzano said you’d be here.”

“Must be important, then, for you to do all that traveling. You get promoted?”

“No, but-”

“Fired? You weren’t fired, were you?” He turned fully toward her, his face creased with concern for his only child. “Because I still have friends in the Bureau, the director and I-”

“No, Pop, this has nothing to do with me.”

“Then what?”

“It’s…” Her stomach clenched. She did not want to do this. “Maybe we should go back to the house.”

“Spill it, kiddo.”

“I got a call from Steve Decker last night.” She swallowed hard.

“And?” He made an impatient gesture with his right hand, urging her to continue.

“Pop, three weeks ago, they found the body of a woman in Georgia who has been positively identified as Shannon Randall. She’d been dead for less than half a day. She’s been alive all these years.”

He stared at her as if she’d spoken a foreign language.

Finally, he laughed awkwardly. “That’s impossible. We both know that Shannon Randall died twenty-four years ago. There’s been a mistake.”

“No mistake, Pop. They’ve matched the dental records and the fingerprints. DNA is being tested as we speak. Decker says it’s definitely Shannon.”

“I don’t believe it. Someone screwed up someplace. No way.” He shook his head slowly side to side. “No goddamned way.”

He broke away from her and paced several steps down the beach, then turned back to her.

“That was a good arrest. Eric Beale was guilty as sin, and everyone knew it. The jury knew it. He was convicted-”

“Pop, they never found her body.”

“And they still haven’t.” His voice grew louder and his dark eyes flashed. He looked at his daughter as if seeing her for the first time. “You believe this bullshit, don’t you?”

“Pop, Decker says a positive identification has been made by one of her sisters-”

“What positive identification? No one’s seen that girl since she was fourteen, that’s been, what…twenty-four years?” His voice continued to rise. “You wouldn’t recognize yourself after twenty-four years. And they expect me to believe…?”

Matt shook his head adamantly. “No goddamn way, Dorsey. No goddamn way is anyone ever going to convince me that Shannon Randall was alive all those years. Eric Beale killed her back in 1983. He was tried, convicted, and executed for her murder. No goddamn way was that a mistake.”

“Pop…”

She reached for him, but he pushed past her, heading back up the lonely stretch of beach that dead-ended across the cove from the lighthouse. She watched him go, watched his stride increase with each step. She knew better than to follow him.

Dorsey walked back to where she’d dumped her shoes and gathered them up, then returned to the house. She walked around back and sat on the top step of the wooden porch, then reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She debated for several minutes who to call.

She’d start with Decker.

“Tell me again why the body in Georgia is Shannon Randall. You can’t possibly have any DNA results back yet,” she said when he picked up his private line.

“Fingerprints. Dental records. Identification of her birthmarks.” Her old boss sighed. “You’re at your dad’s.”

“Right.”

“And he’s pissed off and thinks this is all bullshit.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“If I were in his shoes, yeah, I probably would want to see every scrap of evidence. However, in this case, under the circumstances, your father can’t be anywhere near this, Dorse. For the obvious reasons.”

“Like, he was in charge of the Bureau’s investigation?”

“It isn’t just that he was lead on our investigation, he made the case. It was a noteworthy case, one of the first trials in South Carolina where a defendant was convicted on circumstantial evidence alone, where no body had ever been found.” On the other end of the line, Steven Decker took a deep breath before adding, “And I probably don’t need to remind you that your father’s made quite a career out of this case.”

There was no denying that Matt Ranieri had become the poster boy for the FBI following the swift arrest and conviction of Eric Beale for the murder of young Shannon Randall, daughter and granddaughter of the ministers of a popular church in Hatton, South Carolina. Tall, handsome Matt had been a public-relations dream, and over the years had gone on to become the face of the FBI on every television news and talk show. He’d retired from the Bureau ten years ago and was still everyone’s favorite talking head. After every horrific crime, you were sure to see former FBI superstar Matt Ranieri on your favorite news talk show later that night, and for several nights thereafter. At one time, one of the cable networks had even talked about giving him his own show, where he’d interview law enforcement agents who’d been instrumental in the investigations of high-profile crimes.

“So, where does the case stand?” Dorsey asked tersely. “Who’s in charge of the investigation? Locals? Sheriff? State investigators?”

Decker laughed. “You’re kidding, right? The sheriff’s department in Georgia caught the case when it first came in. But once the ID came in from Deptford, and they realized who they had in the morgue, they called the Bureau and pitched that hot potato off to us like it was on fire. They want no part of it.”

“Odd. You’d think they’d like the opportunity to show up the Bureau.”

“I think they thought it would be more fun to watch us fall all over ourselves trying to spin it. Which sooner or later, someone is going to have to do. We’ve been trying our damnedest to keep a lid on it, but sooner or later, word will start to spread. I don’t know how much longer before something leaks out.”

“Shit.” She grimaced, knowing it would only be a matter of time before her father’s media contacts would catch up with him. “Who’s on it for the Bureau?”