20

“Well, now, isn’t this nice?” Jeanette Beale stood in front of the closed door facing the table that stood in the middle of the tiny living space her son called home. “Mother and son, father and daughter. I’d call this cozy. Timmy, I think it’s time to put on the tea.”

“Dorsey, what in the name of God are you doing here?” a weary Matt said loudly. “I specifically told John I didn’t want you here. For this very reason.”

“I should be here.” She forced a calm, steady tone into her voice. No need for anyone-her father or the Beales-to know how hard her heart was pounding at that moment. This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she arrived at the trailer. She had no idea her father was being held at gunpoint by Eric Beale’s brother.

“And I’m here because Mrs. Beale thought it was a good idea.”

“Very funny.” Jeanette pointed to Dorsey’s shoulder bag. “I want to see what’s in that bag. Hand it to me.”

The urge to swing the bag at the woman’s head was almost overwhelming, but Tim still was holding a gun on her father, though he’d moved to the other side of the table. How quick would he be to fire off a round? How accurate was his aim? Dorsey didn’t think she wanted to find out. She passed the bag to Jeanette and watched as the woman rifled through it.

“Now, this isn’t a very ladylike thing to be carrying around.” Jeanette held up Dorsey’s Sig Sauer and tsk-tsked.

“Maybe we should search her.” The woman’s son stared at Dorsey. “She might have another gun hidden someplace.”

“She’s wearing a tank top and a short skirt. Where do you suppose she’s hiding a gun?” Jeanette asked with a touch of sarcasm. “You watch too much TV, Timmy. I’ve been saying that from the time you were three years old.”

Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was tall and slim with thinning, light brown hair and pale, vacant eyes. He seemed to have inherited the same air of poverty and desperation worn by his mother.

Jeanette leaned on the counter in the miniscule galley kitchen, the gun held loosely in her hand. She pointed it in Dorsey’s general direction and looked Matt in the eyes and said calmly, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take your daughter’s life, same as you took my son’s.”

“We could start with the fact that there are several of her fellow agents outside along with some local law enforcement officers. That might be something for you to consider. You’ve dealt with the legal system before, both of you.” He looked from son to mother. “You know there’s no chance you’ll walk away. You’ll either die here or you’ll be arrested and face murder charges.” He addressed Jeanette directly. “You want your daughters to have to deal with that?”

“My daughters would understand,” Jeanette told him. “That the best you got?”

She was in control and liking it, but Dorsey noticed she’d shifted the gun slightly so that it pointed downward.

“No pleading for the life of your child, Agent Ranieri?” Jeanette asked.

“I don’t suppose that would be very effective, Mrs. Beale. And for the record, I’m no longer with the Bureau, so I’m not Agent Anyone anymore.”

“Ahh, that’s right. So I’ll just call you Matt. And you can call me Jeanette, since we’re all so cozied-up here.” She narrowed her eyes. “I seen you on TV. You’re the big expert they call in to talk about all them tough criminal cases, aren’t you? The guy they always bring in when they want a professional, expert opinion on those big cases no one can solve? The man they go to when they want to figure it all out, right?” She snorted. “Well, I’m bettin’ that’s one job you wished you never signed on for.”

“You have no idea,” Matt told her solemnly.

Jeanette slammed her fist on the table hard enough to make Dorsey flinch.

“My son was innocent, Matt. You and that dumb shit of a police chief we had back then railroaded that boy.” The woman’s small body shook with fury. “You killed my boy. You, Matt Ranieri. You built up a case out of nothing. You made it all up.” She wiped tears from her face with a shaking hand. “You told the jury Eric murdered that girl, and you made them believe you. My son was killed for a crime he did not commit, because of what you made up. The Bible says an eye for an eye.”

She turned the gun onto Dorsey and repeated, “So tell me again why I should not take your daughter the same way you took my son.”

“Momma, let me do it.” Tim touched his mother’s arm gently. “He’s right. Someone gets killed here, it’s murder one. I been in before, I can handle myself. You’d get eaten alive in that place.” He took a deep breath. “You want her to pay the price, I’ll do it. I’ll do him, too”-he pointed at Matt-“if that’s what it will take to end this for you.”

Before Jeanette could reply, Dorsey spoke up boldly.

“Before you blow either of us away, I’d think you’d want to know the truth about what happened back then.”

“We know the truth,” Tim told her, his face twisted with anger. “Your father figured he’d come into this little town, take over this case, show Chief Taylor how it’s done, solve the case just like that”-he snapped his fingers-“make a big name for hisself, ride right on back out of town and onto a big career on the TV. So he sets up Eric, he-”

“No,” Dorsey said. “It was Chief Taylor who set up Eric, not my father.”

“Why would he have wanted to do that?” Jeanette sneered. “What’d he have against Eric?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll bet he knows.” Dorsey pointed at Tim. “Go ahead. Ask your son.”

“I don’t know what she’s talking about, Momma, I swear,” Tim protested. “She’s just saying anything she can think of to save her ass.”

“Both you and Eric had run-ins with Jeff Feeney,” Dorsey reminded him.

“Yeah, so?”

“So what were the fights about?” Dorsey met his eyes levelly.

“I don’t remember,” Tim muttered.

“Isn’t that funny?” Dorsey said. “Jeff doesn’t remember, either.”

“What’s so funny about that? It happened a long time ago.”

“I remember the bar fight that got you sent away, but I don’t remember hearin’ nothing about no fight with Jeff Feeney.” Jeanette turned her attention to her son. “What was it you was fightin’ about?”

“I said I don’t remember.”

“Timothy Beale, you have never been a good liar. You look me in the eyes and tell me what that fight was about,” Jeanette demanded.

“It was something personal between me and Jeff, okay?”

“And the fight with Eric was personal between him and Jeff?” Dorsey asked.

“Yes. I mean, I suppose so. I don’t know.”

“You were already in prison then. When Eric and Jeff got into it, you were already serving time,” Dorsey reminded him.

“Was there something going on back then I didn’t know about, son?”

“Momma, this ain’t the time,” Tim told her.

“I’m standin’ here with a gun on this man, and I’m thinkin’ about pulling the trigger. If there’s something I need to know, if something else happened back then, damn it, I need to know it now.”

“Jeff was always on me. Always gettin’ in my face back then. First me, then Eric.”

“About what?” Jeanette’s voice had dropped to almost a whisper, as if she knew what his answer might be. When he started to shake his head, she snapped, “Say it.”

“It was about you, Momma,” Tim told her. “He was always goin’ on about you. Tellin’ the most awful lies about you. I can’t even repeat them, they was so bad.”

Jeanette stared at her son for a very long time, her color fading until her skin lost its early-summer tan and turned pasty white.

“You argued with Jeff Feeney about me. Eric argued with Jeff about me,” she repeated.

“About the lies he was sayin’. Every time he saw me, he’d say it. And he was always teasing Eric.”

“It was all about me?” Jeanette appeared dumb-struck.