“Identification, sir?” he asked.

“Special Agent Andrew Shields, Special Agent Dorsey Collins,” he said as he pulled out his badge and Dorsey handed over hers. The trooper looked them over and returned them promptly.

“I’ll clear the way for you,” he told Andrew. “You’re going to have to be careful. We haven’t allowed anyone out of their cars-they’d be trespassing, and we’ve already made it clear we’d arrest anyone caught trespassing-but I don’t know how they’re gonna react when they see someone leaving. You’re likely to be followed, sir.”

“I can deal with that.”

“In that case, sir, have a good night.” The trooper walked away, and motioned for the car blocking the entrance to move.

Andrew slipped past the patrol car and onto the road. Several cars that had been parked began to follow him. He removed his phone from his pocket and used the speed-dial.

“John, I’m afraid we’re beginning to draw a crowd…”

14

The waves licked against the side of the boat, rocking it gently in the wake of a passing cruiser. Matt Ranieri sat on one of the deck chairs and stared out at the setting sun. The bay was quiet tonight, the silence broken by the engine of the occasional boat or a fish breaking the water’s plane. Overhead a heron glided toward its rookery, across the bay a family of swans sought their own shelter.

“Matt, can I bring you a beer?” the boat’s owner and skipper called from the cabin. “Wine? More coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks. I’m fine,” he called back.

Moments later she appeared on deck, a glass of wine in one hand and an unlit candle in the other.

“I thought a little soft light might be nice.” She placed the candle on the small table. “It’s supposed to have something in it to keep the mosquitoes away.” She smiled. “One could hope.”

She took a seat in the chair opposite Matt’s and pretended to watch the emerging stars. She was petite and blond-her natural color required more help these days to stay that way, but she didn’t seem to mind-and athletically built. She’d played tennis and field hockey back in school, had excelled at archery and water-skiing, and knew her way around the Chesapeake and the rivers that fed into it like an old bayman. She was tanned even this early in the season, was a gourmet cook, and had been widowed almost as long as Matt had been a widower. She was totally head over heels about Matt and made no bones about it.

She knew he’d been dating someone named Anna on and off for several years but, as she told Matt, if Anna couldn’t hold his interest, it was her own damned fault. Diane Coleman was in her late fifties, old enough, she told Matt, to make a stand when she wanted something. At this stage of her life, she wanted Matt. Her candor both amused and flattered him, and he’d found himself seeking out her company more and more. Lately, he’d been thinking about making the relationship permanent.

“So.” She crossed her legs and sipped her wine. “Have you solved your puzzle?”

“I think so.” He nodded slowly. That he’d told her about the case had surprised him, that he’d actually discussed it with her surprised him even more. “I think I know what went wrong back then. And I know what I have to do.”

“Good.” She smiled and took another sip. “Where will you start?”

“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.

15

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-”