understand, not so that he could offer excuses when the cameras caught up to him and the microphones were shoved in his face, but so that he would have the strength to face her, to tell her what had gone wrong, to explain to her how he and the system had failed her son. How he had failed her. How regardless of what else in life had let her down, she should have been able to count on him to find the truth, and on justice being done.
He reached up and grabbed one of the pilings, pulled himself to his feet, and stood for one moment more to watch the gulls dive for the small fish that swam close to shore. On the way back to the house, he took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He knew just the place where he could hide out and relive the past for a few days.
“Hey, Diane? Matt. Yeah, great, thanks. Yes, I got your message. You said something about taking your boat out on the Chesapeake for a few days? I think I changed my mind. Yeah, sure. I can be ready to leave in the morning….”
4
Another airport. Another rental car. Another winding country road heading toward another marsh. Dorsey couldn’t help but make the parallels between where she’d been yesterday and where she was today.
The big difference was that Hathaway Beach had not been the scene of a recent murder, a murder certain to gain national attention once it became known this was the case that had made Matt Ranieri, if not a household name, certainly a recognizable one.
Shelter Island was located off Georgia’s coast, a pretty, privately owned island which had once been the exclusive domain of a family named Sheldrake. In the early-1800s, Horace Sheldrake purchased the island from its original owners and turned it into one big cotton plantation. The mansion Horace built for his family had since been renovated and was now a luxury hotel. Much of the rest of the small island had been turned into a private golf course. If you wanted to play the course, you booked a room or a suite or perhaps one of the small guest cottages, and you played for free. Otherwise, you didn’t play at all.
The island lay across a two-lane bridge. At its foot, Dorsey took a right turn and followed a sandy patch of road to Calvin’s Crab House. Special Agent Andrew Shields had promised he’d be waiting at two o’clock. She was fifteen minutes early, time enough, she figured, to get her bearings.
She parked next to a battered station wagon and left the air-conditioned comfort of the Taurus and stepped into the muggy world of Low Country summer. The thick air held the distinct odor of fish and the hum of insects. She walked to the wooden deck that surrounded the ramshackle structure and looked for the door.
She was halfway around the building—still looking—when she heard her name. She glanced down to the dock below and saw a tall, dark-haired man looking up.
“Dorsey Collins?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right up.” He waved, then turned back to the man he’d been speaking with.
Dorsey leaned over the railing and watched a small boat pass under the bridge and head to the dock where the two men stood. Of course, the man who’d called to her was Andrew Shields. She’d have recognized him anywhere. Not because they’d met before, but because she knew several of the other members of the Shields clan and rumor had it they all bore a striking resemblance: tall, athletically built, dark hair and eyes, strong features. Dorsey had worked a case, early in her career, with Aidan Shields, Andrew’s cousin. Even from this far away, the resemblance was unmistakable.
When he reached the top of the step, he put out his hand. “Andrew Shields.”
“Dorsey Collins.” She accepted the hand he offered and shook it. “But I would have recognized you.”
“Because I look like my…who? Brother? Cousin? All of the above? And you worked with one of them at some point.”
“Actually, I did work with Aidan a few years back. And I was in a criminal investigation class
He reached up and grabbed one of the pilings, pulled himself to his feet, and stood for one moment more to watch the gulls dive for the small fish that swam close to shore. On the way back to the house, he took his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He knew just the place where he could hide out and relive the past for a few days.
“Hey, Diane? Matt. Yeah, great, thanks. Yes, I got your message. You said something about taking your boat out on the Chesapeake for a few days? I think I changed my mind. Yeah, sure. I can be ready to leave in the morning….”
4
Another airport. Another rental car. Another winding country road heading toward another marsh. Dorsey couldn’t help but make the parallels between where she’d been yesterday and where she was today.
The big difference was that Hathaway Beach had not been the scene of a recent murder, a murder certain to gain national attention once it became known this was the case that had made Matt Ranieri, if not a household name, certainly a recognizable one.
Shelter Island was located off Georgia’s coast, a pretty, privately owned island which had once been the exclusive domain of a family named Sheldrake. In the early-1800s, Horace Sheldrake purchased the island from its original owners and turned it into one big cotton plantation. The mansion Horace built for his family had since been renovated and was now a luxury hotel. Much of the rest of the small island had been turned into a private golf course. If you wanted to play the course, you booked a room or a suite or perhaps one of the small guest cottages, and you played for free. Otherwise, you didn’t play at all.
The island lay across a two-lane bridge. At its foot, Dorsey took a right turn and followed a sandy patch of road to Calvin’s Crab House. Special Agent Andrew Shields had promised he’d be waiting at two o’clock. She was fifteen minutes early, time enough, she figured, to get her bearings.
She parked next to a battered station wagon and left the air-conditioned comfort of the Taurus and stepped into the muggy world of Low Country summer. The thick air held the distinct odor of fish and the hum of insects. She walked to the wooden deck that surrounded the ramshackle structure and looked for the door.
She was halfway around the building—still looking—when she heard her name. She glanced down to the dock below and saw a tall, dark-haired man looking up.
“Dorsey Collins?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be right up.” He waved, then turned back to the man he’d been speaking with.
Dorsey leaned over the railing and watched a small boat pass under the bridge and head to the dock where the two men stood. Of course, the man who’d called to her was Andrew Shields. She’d have recognized him anywhere. Not because they’d met before, but because she knew several of the other members of the Shields clan and rumor had it they all bore a striking resemblance: tall, athletically built, dark hair and eyes, strong features. Dorsey had worked a case, early in her career, with Aidan Shields, Andrew’s cousin. Even from this far away, the resemblance was unmistakable.
When he reached the top of the step, he put out his hand. “Andrew Shields.”
“Dorsey Collins.” She accepted the hand he offered and shook it. “But I would have recognized you.”
“Because I look like my…who? Brother? Cousin? All of the above? And you worked with one of them at some point.”
“Actually, I did work with Aidan a few years back. And I was in a criminal investigation class
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