“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.

Maybe shower first, he thought, then slip out when it was dark. Maybe Dorsey could meet him somewhere. He’d really been enjoying her company these past few days. She was smart. Had a good sense of humor. Took the job seriously. Not to mention the fact that the woman had some depth, and that put her head and shoulders above a lot of the women he’d known. She seemed to have it all. Including, he suspected, scars on her wrists and who knew where else.

His cell phone rang and he thought-hoped-it might be her.

“Agent Shields, this is Chief Bowden.”

“Hey, Chief, how are-”

“I’m over here at the Randall place, and they got a truckload of reporters out there.” Bowden had no time for pleasantries. “Miz Randall, she’s awfully upset about the whole thing, didn’t know what she should do, so she called me. I personally don’t mind going on out there and talking to those folks, but frankly, I don’t have a damned thing to say to them. I don’t know where y’all are going with this thing. Now, Miz Randall did call the daughters, but they don’t want to speak with the press either right now, so I’m asking you to come on over here and do the talking. I just don’t know what to say.”

“You’re right not to say anything, except maybe that the FBI is handling the investigation, Chief. Thanks for the heads-up,” Andrew said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“’Preciate it if you’d hurry.”

“Ten minutes, tops,” Andrew promised. “Oh, Chief? You can tell Mrs. Randall that I’ll be wanting to speak with her husband after the press conference. I’d appreciate you setting that up for me.”

“Do what I can,” the chief replied. “He’s not in a good way right now, from what I understand.”

So much for a shower and time to type up some reports for John, Andrew thought as he grabbed his jacket from the chair. He knew he looked a little shopworn, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. He wasn’t as adept at speaking to the media as some others in the unit were, and he’d assumed that John would send in someone from the Bureau who was proven at handling the PR aspects of the job since this was such a big case. But John had declined that as quickly as he’d declined to discuss the Beales. Andrew would have only the ten-minute drive from the motel to the Randalls’ to figure out what he wanted to say and the best way to say it. He just hoped the network hadn’t picked up the story.

The last thing he wanted was to face any of the reporters who’d covered the story about Brendan. They’d be compelled to ask about that situation, and Andrew wasn’t ready to talk about it in public. Hell, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d spoken about it in private. Once or twice with his sister, Mia, and once with Dorsey, and that had barely skimmed the surface. He still wasn’t able to face his cousins Connor and Aidan. The tragedy had left a hole inside him big enough for a small child to walk through.

He knew he should call Dorsey, but decided to do that from the car. He grabbed his phone and headed outside, where he was promptly approached by several reporters.

“I’m on my way to the Randalls’ home.” He held up both hands as if warding off their questions. “If you’d like to meet me there, you’ll hear everything I have to say on the matter.”

Ignoring their protests, Andrew got into his car and locked the doors. He dialed Dorsey’s number, knowing she wasn’t going to like what he was going to say.

“Hey,” he said when she answered, her voice sounding somewhat groggy. “Did I wake you?”

“Yeah. But it’s okay.” She yawned quietly. “Sorry. You thinking about trying to sneak out past the gathering crowd for a bite?”

“Too late for that,” he told her. “Listen, I got a call from Chief Bowden. He’s asked me to come to the Randalls’ to deal with the press.”

“You’re going now?” Suddenly she was wide awake. “You’re on your way?”

“Yes. Look, I’m sorry, but you know we have to keep any involvement on your part from becoming public knowledge.”

“It’s your case,” she said somewhat stiffly.

“That’s not what this is about. No one wants a camera picking up your face so that everyone in the Bureau knows you’re here. I wouldn’t leave you out if I didn’t have to.” He paused. “I hope you know that.”

“Will you give me a call when you get back?”

“Of course. But you know I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to, right?” He wanted to hear her say it. For some reason, it was important to him to know that she didn’t think he was deliberately cutting her out.

“I do.” She sighed. “Yeah, I understand. You did the right thing. And it’s not your fault.”

“It’s no one’s fault, Dorsey. It’s just what is right now. But as soon as I get back, I’ll fill you in on whatever I can drag out of Franklin.”

“You’re going to talk to Franklin?”

“I’m thinking a little quid pro quo here. I’ll handle the press for them, but only if Franklin agrees to talk to me after.”