Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Copyright

“He ran after me along the catwalk—Gary’s killer.”

Stevie went on, in spite of Allister’s efforts to stop her. “I remember thinking that if I could beat him outside and get into my car, I’d be safe. But then he was right behind me.”

“Stevie, you don’t have to—”

“Allister! Allister, wait! I remember…when I fell, just before I blacked out, I saw him again. He was leaning over me.-The catwalk…it was dark, and his face was in shadow. But I remember him coming closer…And then I saw a scar.”

“A scar?” Allister couldn’t breathe. He pulled away from Stevie, needing space. This couldn’t be happening. A kind of excitement lit up her expression now—excitement at her newfound memory.

“On the man’s face.” She drew a finger along her left temple, and as he watched her, it felt as though an invisible icy finger touched his own temple where the ragged scar indelibly marked him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Although Morgan Hayes has never suffered temporary blindness, she suspects that blindness, whether temporary or not, is a condition that many people have pondered at least once in their lives. And she thought it would be a fascinating challenge to experience it through one of her characters, especially a photographer whose livelihood is dependent on sight. Morgan loves to hear from readers, and invites you to write her c/o:

Harlequin Superromance

Harlequin Enterprises

225 Duncan Mill Road

Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9

Canada

See No Evil
Morgan Hayes

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Dennis and Sandi Jones—the truest partners in crime a gal could ask for And for Pat Skinner, who is always there between all the chapters…taking breaths

Heartfelt thanks go out to Dr. Jeff and Brenda Freeman, who gave graciously of their time and medical advice

PROLOGUE

THE DARK CLOUD that had been hanging over Vince Fenton’s head all day had just gotten darker. From the moment he’d awoken this morning to a godawful hangover and a phone call from Edward Bainbridge, he should have known that things could only get worse. In retrospect, he never should have answered the phone. He should have figured it was Bainbridge calling about Gary Palmer and the shipment.

Then again, Vince thought as he followed the catwalk above the loading area of Palmer Storage and Shipping, if he played his cards right and this deal went through, he stood to gain more than the measly pittance Bainbridge had been paying him. Bainbridge was so uneasy about his package that he’d now offered Vince a handsome bonus if he could get it back from Palmer.

Vince wasn’t surprised that Palmer had called Bainbridge the night before requesting a meeting. The shipper had seemed suspicious from the moment his services were requested. The fact that the overseas shipment should have left days ago without a hitch was proof that Palmer was on to Bainbridge. It was clear he’d discovered the package’s contents and now hoped to cash in on what promised to be Bainbridge’s most lucrative venture yet.

With a collection of rare Spanish coins at stake, Bainbridge should have been more discriminating when selecting a shipper. He should have anticipated that someone like Palmer might see the opportunity for blackmail. If he had, this entire mess wouldn’t be happening. And Vince would not have had to come out here to Palmer Shipping this afternoon.

Well, he’d tried his best. He’d talked to Palmer like Bainbridge had asked him to. In the closed confines of the man’s office, Vince had pressed Palmer as far as he’d dared. He’d reined himself in when he’d been more than ready to take a piece out of Palmer just for wasting his time. And still the shipper refused to hand over the coins. As far as Vince was concerned it was time to take care of Gary Palmer once and for all. In fact, he’d call Bainbridge and offer to do it himself tonight. It had been a while since he’d had the pleasure.

But first, he needed to get out of here. He needed a drink.

A sudden resounding crash, followed by the shatter of glass brought Vince to an abrupt halt. Voices cursed in unison.

Only twenty minutes ago, when he’d come in the side entrance, he’d assumed the place was empty. It was Friday. Palmer’s crew had kicked off early for the weekend. Palmer was supposed to have been alone.

Vince looked down from the catwalk. Immediately he squinted against a brilliant glare of lights.

“Dammit, Ralph!” a woman’s voice echoed through the building.

Vince’s quick gaze caught sight of her. Wearing faded jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, the woman stood in the middle of the loading area. She shook her head and turned on the heel of her boot, swiping one hand through cropped black hair as she gripped a camera in the other.

A photo session?

Vince’s fingers tightened on the handrail as he assessed the situation.

Around the photographer, a half-dozen crew members snapped to attention. They scrambled to arrange lamps and panels as several long-legged models strutted casually in stiletto heels and scanty outfits that mocked the frigid January temperatures. No doubt this was some sort of fashion shoot.

“Sorry, Stevie,” one of the men called out.

“It’s all right, Ralph.” Curbed frustration marked her voice as she waved her hand toward the set. “But look, apologies aren’t going to get this job done. Just be careful with what lamps we’ve got left, okay? And can we get a broom to sweep that up before someone gets hurt?”

She glanced down at the camera in her hands, adjusting something before she looked up again.

“Now, let’s get this going, folks. We’ve got another. two hours here, and I’d like to take something home besides broken lamps. Paige, we need more light from the left. Yes, that’s it. All right. We’re looking good now.”

And in seconds her camera was up and snapping. The shutter whirred rapidly as she called out encouraging directions to the models.

He should have left right then, Vince realized a moment too late. He should have slunk away before anyone saw him, before the photographer brought her camera up on enough of an angle that he was certain the lens had caught him at the railing.

Vince darted back into the maze of lockers behind him and saw the woman lower her camera. She’d seen him. He was sure of it. Why else would she have stopped? And why was she gazing up at the catwalk, at the very spot where he’d stood only moments ago?

Hidden in the shadow now, Vince looked down again. The photographer was back at work, kneeling by a bag on the floor. “No, Paige, we don’t have time to fix it right now,” he heard her say. “Can you bring me the Pentax? We’ll use it, instead.”

Vince took a deep breath. He had to relax. There was no way of knowing if she’d actually seen him. And even if she had, who was to say she’d caught him on film?

He could hear the distant whir of the shutter again.

Still, he couldn’t afford to be placed at the warehouse. He made his way to the back stairs. If things went sour, as he suspected they were about to, no one could know he’d been anywhere near Palmer Storage and Shipping.

The entire situation with Gary Palmer was getting too risky. Something was going to happen and soon. And with his criminal record, Vince couldn’t afford to have anything—especially some damn photographer’s film—connect him to Palmer and that shipment.

No, he’d have to assume the worst. He’d have to get the camera and the film. Cover his tracks. Look out for himself. But right now he had to call Bainbridge. First the coins, then Gary Palmer.

After that, he’d take care of the photographer and her film.

CHAPTER ONE

THE EVENING NEWS had forecast only the possibility of snow. “A mild disturbance from the north,” the weatherman had warned, “bringing with it lower-than-seasonal temperatures and a twenty percent chance of precipitation.” That was three hours ago.

Now, as Allister Quaid grasped the handrail of the warehouse door with gloved hands, he wrenched it closed against the tornado of blinding snow. He dusted off his leather bomber jacket and jeans, and knocked the snow from his runners.

He’d driven his Explorer around to the back of Palmer Storage and Shipping before remembering that Gary had given him keys for the side entrance only. It had been a short run through the mounting storm; even so, his hair was wet and he shivered with chill as he headed to the cavernous loading area.

The dimmed lighting far overhead did little to dispel the shadows in the labyrinth of corridors, and for a moment Allister was reminded of a carnival funhouse. At the mouth of the loading area, he stopped and reached into the pocket in the thin lining of his jacket. From it, he withdrew a crumpled shipping order—the order he’d found on Gary’s desk just this morning.

He unfolded the carbon and tilted it to catch the light. If it hadn’t been for the company name at the top, Allister wouldn’t have looked twice at the form. And the vehement argument that followed between him and his best friend wouldn’t have happened.

At ten this morning Allister had gone up to Gary’s office to ask about a late delivery. His friend had been on the phone. He’d waved Allister in and given him one of his boyish grins, and it was while he waited that Allister saw the shipping order with “Raven Antiques” scribbled at the top in Gary’s left-handed scrawl.

Allister could still picture the look on Gary’s face when he’d hung up the phone and met his gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Gary had admitted, reaching across the desk for the pink form.

But Allister snatched it up first.

“Al, come on. I can explain if you’d just—”

“Explain what? You know who this is, don’t you?” The thin paper had crumpled in the fierceness of Allister’s grip.

“Yeah, yeah. So I’m taking care of a shipment for Edward Bainbridge. It’s what I do, Allister. I ship things.”

“It’s Edward Bainbridge, Gary. Dammit, you know what that man did to me. What he did to my business. How can you even consider getting involved with him knowing what he’s capable of?”

“I can handle it.”

“Meaning I couldn’t?”

“I didn’t say that, Al.”

“No, but you’re thinking it. Otherwise you wouldn’t have accepted this shipment.”

Gary, his face sagging with exhaustion, stood up and began to pace behind his desk. He looked like a caged animal, Allister thought, an animal that had been trapped with no way out.

“What’s in the shipment, Gary?”

“I don’t know. I don’t check the packages. I just ship them.”

“What’s in the package?” Allister demanded again, knowing by the way his friend chewed the corner of his lip that he was lying. It was a nervous habit Allister had come to recognize even before they’d taken the training wheels off their matching CCM bikes all those years ago.

“I told you, I don’t know. So just drop it, Al, okay?”

But it wasn’t that easy. The topic of Edward Bainbridge could not just be dropped. Not for Allister. With the shipping order in his hands, with the mere mention of the antiquity collector’s name, everything Allister had fought so hard to leave behind came flooding back. Standing in Gary’s office, knowing what his friend might be getting into, Allister had used every ounce of restraint he had to bite down the anger and resentment he still felt toward Edward Bainbridge—the man who, in one fell swoop, had taken everything Allister had loved and worked for. The man who would do the same to Gary without thinking twice.

It had been six years ago that Allister had experienced firsthand the extent of Bainbridge’s corruption. At that time, Allister had owned a shipping company much like the one he helped Gary manage now. He’d spent eight years salvaging his family’s business and turning it into the most reputable in Danby.

But it had taken only one shipment, one seemingly innocent package from Edward Bainbridge, to destroy it all. Destined for a collector in Buenos Aires, the shipment had contained several pieces of near-priceless antique jewelry and a number of rare gems. Allister had handled Bainbridge’s exporting needs in the past; he’d had no reason to believe that the package bound for Buenos Aires was any different from the others.

But when Allister’s company was burgled the night before the shipment was scheduled to go out, the bricks had begun to fall one by one. First there’d been Bainbridge to deal with, then the insurance company and finally the police when they came with a search warrant four days later and confiscated three of the stolen gems, wrapped in an old T-shirt of Allister’s, from under the spare tire in the trunk of his car.

The gems had obviously been planted there by one of Bainbridge’s goons. Or, quite possibly, by the police themselves, Allister later suspected. It was obvious, too, that Bainbridge must have been paying someone off—someone on the force—to see the million-dollar scam through. The whole setup had been too easy, too slick.

The rest of the gems were never recovered; Bainbridge collected a tidy sum from the insurance company, and no doubt turned around and sold the other “stolen” items to the intended buyer with no more a glitch than a two-month delay. Allister’s business folded, and after a grim and incontestable trial, he was convicted of grand theft.

Four years in prison was a long time. But not long enough to forget who had put him there, Allister thought as he looked at the name of Bainbridge’s company on the Palmer shipping form. Below “Raven Antiques,” Gary had scrawled the aisle and bin numbers. That was why Allister was here tonight. With the building empty, Allister intended to search for Bainbridge’s package and check its contents himself. If there was even the slimmest chance that Bainbridge was up to his old tricks, Allister couldn’t stand idly by. He wouldn’t let it happen again, not to Gary, not to his closest friend.

Across the main loading area were aisles ten to fifteen. From the shadowed corridors, Allister could almost feel Bainbridge’s shipment beckoning him. But when he stepped out into the open area, he saw the light from Gary’s office upstairs spilling out the doorway onto the steel catwalk.

With a muttered curse, Allister tucked the slip of paper back into his pocket. He couldn’t check for the package now. Gary would be sure to hear him, if he hadn’t already.

“Gary?” His voice boomed through the old converted mill. “Hey, Gary!” he shouted again, but there was no response.

Letting out a long breath, Allister headed to the stairs. It was as good a time as any to apologize for the harsh words he hadn’t managed to swallow before he’d stormed out of the office this morning. And maybe there was still a chance of talking some sense into Gary about Bainbridge.

Taking the steps two at a time, Allister felt the catwalk vibrate beneath his runners. An apology was already forming on his lips as he stepped across the threshold of Gary’s office, but instantly the words froze.

The room had been torn apart. Papers were strewn everywhere, spilling from filing cabinets and thrown from the desk that, despite its weight, had been shoved across the room a good five feet. The cheap vinyl chairs had been hurled in several directions, and the cooler that had stood in the corner still glugged softly as water washed across the tiled floor.

But it was the sight of blood that made Allister’s heart stop. Not much of it at first. Nothing more than a few red smears. But then Allister saw the crimson pool behind the desk and—”

Gary!” He fought his panic as he rushed forward. “Oh, my God! Gary?”

STEVIE FALCIONI pulled the key from the Volvo’s ignition and switched off the headlights. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, she gazed up through the blurred windshield at Palmer Storage and Shipping. In the sallow light from the sodium vapor lamp mounted above the side door of the building, the snow seemed to be driving horizontally through the night. The full force of the sudden winter storm whistled around the old station wagon, rocking it gently. Stevie searched one deep pocket of her lined trench coat for the key Gary had given her, preparing herself for the freezing dash to the warehouse.

Crossing the city of Danby had proved to be a small miracle in itself. The storm had been a complete surprise, and in the fifty-minute drive that normally took her twenty, Stevie had seen more accidents than she’d been able to count. Each time she’d passed another fender bender or an abandoned vehicle at the side of the road, its hazards blinking through gusts of snow, she had silently thanked her father for persuading her to buy the ten-year-old tank of a Volvo.

Regardless, it had been a stupid idea to head out on a night like this—driving all the way to Gary Palmer’s warehouse for a forgotten camera. The Nikon had jammed only minutes into their shoot this afternoon, when she’d been momentarily distracted by the man on the catwalk. With no time to deal with the faulty camera, Stevie had shoved it into the closest bag, a black duffel, and when she’d glanced back up, the stranger was gone.

Just before seven, with the shoot complete and the models weary, Stevie’s assistant, Paige Carpenter, and the rest of the crew had cleared up, collecting the equipment and all the bags except Stevie’s. And after Stevie had finished thanking Gary for the use of his building and left, she’d realized she’d forgotten the bag—and the camera.

Right now Paige was back at the studio madly printing contacts for another job so that they could begin work on today’s. Whatever film was in the Nikon, if it was salvageable, needed to be developed tonight along with the rest. Brian Armatrading, the man behind the contract, was due at the studio at ten tomorrow morning to check the work they’d done for his summer line of clothing.

He wanted something innovative, something young and fresh, he’d told Stevie within minutes of breezing into Images, Stevie’s studio-apartment, two weeks ago. She and Paige had been booked solid with other jobs, but they’d have been fools not to shelve everything in favor of Armatrading’s offer. This one was big. This was the contract that could quite conceivably boost Stevie’s career to a level she’d hardly dared imagine.

When she’d signed her first free-lance photography contract ten years ago for a meager $135, Stevie hadn’t imagined it could lead to anything like a full-time career, let alone something as potentially lucrative as shooting an entire line of Armatrading fashions.

Ever since her father had given her that old Leica camera for her tenth birthday, photography had been her absolute passion. She’d lived her life through the dingy viewfinder of that battered camera and the many others that followed. Over the past few years, Stevie’s reputation soared with the phenomenal success of Images, and she considered herself truly blessed to be doing what she loved most in life.

Battling a winter storm for the sake of some jammed film in an aging Nikon, this she could have lived without. Stevie groped for the Volvo’s door handle. As she stepped from the car, a gust of frigid air sucked the breath from her lungs, and sharp pellets of snow stabbed her exposed skin. Stevie pulled up the collar of her coat and raced for the warehouse door.

“GARY? GARY!”

In his frantic dash across the ransacked office, Allister stumbled once, banging his shin on the chrome leg of a toppled chair. He ignored the pain as he forced his way behind the desk to where Gary lay in a crumpled heap amidst scattered file folders.

“Gary!”

He heard a quiet moan, and one shaky hand reached toward him from behind the desk. Fear seizing him, Allister shoved the office chair aside. When he looked down into the bloodied face that gazed up at him, he hardly recognized his friend.

“Oh, God, Gary.” He knelt beside him. “What the hell happened?”

Gary tried to push himself up, but the effort was futile and he moaned weakly. Going against what little first aid he knew, Allister grasped Gary’s shoulders and eased his head onto his lap.

He hadn’t imagined that one person could bleed so much. The front of Gary’s denim shirt was soaked, and his blond hair was matted to his head. But it was his face that appeared to have taken the most abuse. A two-inch gash above his right eye still flowed freely, and Allister couldn’t tell if the blood that Gary choked on came from the split in his lip or from internal injuries. Fear coiling in his stomach, he suspected the latter.

Allister scanned the debris for the phone. But it, too, had been smashed into shards.

“Gary, I have to get you an ambulance. I’m—”

“No.” Gary’s head wobbled to one side in feeble protest. “No,” he muttered again, his voice a strained whisper between weak coughs.

“Gary, you’re bleeding.”

“No, Al…listen. You have to listen—to me.” His hand shook as he reached past Allister’s open jacket and clutched his shirt with bloodied fingers.

He was dying. He knew it and Allister knew it. He could feel the life slipping from Gary’s battered body as he cradled his friend’s head in his lap and held his weakening gaze.

“You—you were right, Al,” Gary said, each word, each syllable, wrenched with pain. “I should…have listened to you. You…warned me.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, Allister kept thinking even as Gary struggled for breath. This kind of brutality—it wasn’t the way it was supposed to end.

“Al, listen to me. I—”

“It’s Bainbridge, isn’t it, Gary? It’s Bainbridge who’s done this.”

Gary gave a single nod, swallowed hard, then coughed again. His hand sought Allister’s. His grip was weak through the thin leather of Allister’s glove.

“It’s the shipment, right, Gary? Bainbridge’s shipment. What’s in the package? What’s he dealing?”

“Coins. It’s…coins.”

Allister shook his head. “Coins? I don’t understand.”

“From the museum… the collection… remember?”

Allister was still shaking his head, trying to put the pieces together. “The burglary? Back in May? That was Bainbridge?”

Gary nodded feebly, and then his eyes closed.

“Gary, no! Stay with me, you hear?” Allister’s fear rose again, and finally his friend’s eyes flickered open.

“Where are the coins now, Gary?”

Allister wondered if his friend even heard the question through his pain.

“Where are the coins? Does Bainbridge have the coins?”

Gary shook his head. “No…”

“Where is the package?”

“Safe…”

“Where, Gary? Where is it safe?”

“Stevie.”

“Stevie who?”

“Fal…Falcioni.”

“The photographer? Your friend the photographer?”

Gary nodded.

“She has them? She has the coins?”

This time when Gary shook his head, it was followed by a rattling gasp. “You have…to…to get…Stevie, Al. And tell…Barb…I love her. Tell her…for me, will you?”

And then, with one final shuddering breath, he was gone. Allister felt his body slacken. His eyes, suddenly vacant, gazed upward. In the silence of the warehouse, Allister held the man who had been his dearest friend, the man who had always been there for him. And yet, when Gary had needed Allister…

No, he thought, as he gently eased Gary to the floor again. No, he couldn’t think about the way things might have been. How if he’d forced Gary to hand over Bainbridge’s package, or if he’d gone to check the shipment this morning, instead of waiting until tonight, his friend might still be alive. There were other factors to consider now. Like Edward Bainbridge.

From what Allister remembered, the coin collection, with an estimated value in the seven figures, had been stolen from a touring exhibit hosted by the Danby Museum in the spring. Definitely the kind of job that had Bainbridge written all over it. No doubt the collector had a buyer in mind and had hoped to use Gary to ship the stolen goods for him.

But why kill Gary? It didn’t make sense. Not unless Bainbridge had found out that Gary knew the shipment’s contents. Not unless Gary had tried to blackmail Bainbridge.

Allister stood, his gaze surveying the destruction of the office. There wasn’t time to sift through it for clues. Six years ago Bainbridge had successfully framed him. Allister couldn’t take any chances. He had to assume that this time, too, the collector had something similar in mind.

But this time it was murder.

He had to get out. If, as he’d always suspected, Bainbridge had connections on the Danby police force, Allister had to get as far away from the warehouse as possible. Until he knew what Bainbridge was up to, he couldn’t risk being placed at the scene. Gary was dead because of the stolen coins. Once the police put the pieces together, with Allister’s record, he was sure to be their prime suspect.

Allister stumbled toward the door. He’d get back in the Explorer and drive to his apartment. He would tell the police that he’d spent the night in front of the TV. It would be easy enough to check the local listings and make up an alibi.

But halfway to the door, Allister stopped.

He couldn’t do it. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, imagining that when he opened them, none of this had happened. But when he did, all he saw was Gary’s blood. On his shirt. On his gloves.

No, he couldn’t just leave his friend lying there on the floor. And what about Barb? What on earth was he going to tell Barb?

Then above his own hammering heart, Allister heard a distant footfall—boots against the concrete of the main floor, slow and assured. As he stood in the middle of the office listening, he could think of only one person who would be lurking in the warehouse this late at night—the man who had killed Gary. Maybe he was searching for the package now, checking the aisles and the bins. Maybe he’d heard Allister come in.

And maybe he was coming back up to the office.

There was no time to think. Allister moved on instinct now, instinct and adrenaline. He scanned the office until he saw the heavy fire extinguisher mounted by the door. Certainly not his weapon of choice, he thought as he grappled with the clips, but it would have to do.

STEVIE WALKED through the warehouse toward the area she’d been shooting in earlier, searching for her bag. The old building creaked and groaned under the force of the storm outside.

In the main loading area, the rough stonework and massive timbers attested to the original function of the structure. The building had serviced Danby for decades as a mill before it had been shut down. Years later, after Gary had bought and converted it, some of its authentic charm remained. And it was that charm that had been the deciding factor in choosing it as the backdrop for the Armatrading shoot.

Luckily, when Stevie had arranged to meet with Gary for coffee only two weeks ago to ask him, he’d been more than willing to grant her access to the building. It had been the first time she and Gary had seen each other in months. She’d apologized for that, and also for the fact that it took a photo shoot to bring them together again.

She’d first met Gary at college when he’d briefly dated her roommate. But for some reason, Stevie had clicked better with him than her roommate had, and they’d been fast friends ever since. After obtaining their respective degrees, Gary had moved upstate to his hometown of Danby. And then, a few months later, Nick, the graduate student Stevie had been dating for the last two years of college, had accepted a position with a Danby-based engineering firm. She’d moved with him and landed a job at a local photography studio.

It seemed so long ago that she’d had the time for socializing with Gary and Barb. That was before Nick had been transferred and Stevie had decided to stay in Danby, before she’d left the studio to start one of her own, before the success of Images put greater demands on her time and energy. She hadn’t sat still since. And, regrettably, she hadn’t seen much of Gary and Barb, either.

Gary had changed over the past couple of years, Stevie had thought earlier this evening when she’d spoken to him in his office after the shoot. He’d aged. He’d looked tired and strung out, almost nervous in a way.

She’d suggested he take a holiday, but he’d attempted to assure her that he was fine. She hadn’t met Gary’s friend Allister, but she knew he’d been helping with the company over the past few months. Gary could have Allister take care of things for a couple of weeks, she’d said. When Gary told her he would consider it, Stevie knew he only said so to placate her.

Maybe she’d try talking to him again, Stevie thought when at last she found the black duffel bag and shouldered it. Bracing herself to face the winter storm, she was about to leave when she saw the light upstairs. Gary’s office door was open, and the overhead fluorescents from inside glared coldly against the subdued night-lighting throughout the rest of the building.

Stevie shook her head as she checked her watch. That was Gary. Almost ten o’clock, and he was still at his desk. She was smiling to herself as she took the stairs to the upper-level catwalk and headed toward the office. Gary had always bragged about being able to outdo even a diehard workaholic like Stevie.

Well, if she had her way tonight, she’d convince him to take some time off. Maybe she’d even speak to his friend Allister herself, get him to side with her.

Stevie’s smile dissolved the moment she reached the office doorway. Gary’s name caught in her throat and the room seemed to tilt in slow motion as shock and disbelief washed over her. She saw the devastation of the office. She saw the smears of blood. And then she saw Gary.

He lay in a crumpled heap amongst blood-soaked files and papers; his face was turned away from her. One tentative step was as far as she got before her peripheral vision caught a sudden flash of red. It came from just inside the door to her right. She gasped and spun around, dropping her bag.

In an instant she registered the man’s bloodied hands, gloved fingers gripping the neck of a fire extinguisher. Gary’s blood, she knew. There was more of it on the man’s shirt, and a crimson streak along one high cheekbone. She saw the dark hair, the tanned face and raging black eyes.

He’d killed Gary. And he was going to kill her, too.

Stevie ran.

He yelled something after her, but she couldn’t make it out over the slamming of her hard-soled boots on the steel grating.

And then she felt the vibrations of the catwalk. He was coming after her.

She couldn’t afford to look back. She had to focus on the stairs. Get to the stairs, then through the main loading area and to the side door. She wouldn’t need the keys; pushing the handrail would unlock it. Then the car, and she’d be home free.

Frantically she slid one hand into her coat pocket and grabbed the Volvo’s keys.

Only another five yards to the stairs. She could make it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her lungs screamed for air. And all the time, the walkway shook beneath her feet.

He had to be right behind her now.

Without slowing, Stevie readied her keys between her fingers. She’d be prepared if she couldn’t outrun him.

But the thought had barely formed in her mind when she felt his hand on her shoulder. The vicelike grip stopped her dead in her tracks.

She heard him say something. It sounded like “Wait,” but she couldn’t be sure. It was now or never. She had to defend herself. She had to swing at him before he had the opportunity to overpower her.

She brought the fistful of keys up—but he was too fast. With one forceful jerk, he spun her in the opposite direction. The smooth leather soles of her boots were useless against the hard surface of the catwalk. And in that critical moment, they slid out from under her.

She pitched backward, flailing for anything to stop her fall. For an instant she imagined herself plunging to her death on the concrete floor two stories below. That was before the pain, blinding excruciating pain that pierced through her head from the base of her skull. She slumped to the steel grating.

The shadows around her reeled and blurred. She heard the distant whir of the industrial ceiling fans spinning lazily farther up in the rafters, coupled with an intensifying buzz in her head, and then his voice.

“Oh, God. Stay with me now. Do you hear me? Stay with me.”

He was kneeling over her. A pallid finger of light from the dimmed lamps high above touched one side of his face as he came closer. And in that split second, through a semiconscious haze, Stevie saw the scar, a jagged scar, along the man’s left temple, twisting down from the corner of his eyebrow to the top of his chiseled cheekbone.

She didn’t think about death then. Nor did her life flash before her eyes as she’d always expected it would. Instead, it was the man’s scar. Absurdly, in that last shred of consciousness, Stevie wondered what might have caused such a scar.

And then, finally, the blackness swallowed her.

CHAPTER TWO

BENEATH HIS FINGERTIPS, the woman’s pulse fluttered rhythmically. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Allister withdrew his hand from the silken smoothness of her neck and eased her head to one side. Fearing the worst, he feathered his fingers back through her sleek, jet black hair, searching for injuries.

There was a small gash, hardly worthy of stitches, and a rapidly swelling lump. It would be pretty painful, he guessed, given the force with which she’d struck the railing when she’d lost her balance.

Lost her balance. Allister shook his head. No, her fall had had more to do with his manhandling than any action of her own. He’d been so determined to stop her, to explain why he was in Gary’s office and why he’d appeared poised to swing a fire extinguisher down on her head, that Allister had grabbed for her without any thought beyond selfpreservation.

Now she lay on the shadowed catwalk, unconscious, and most likely concussed. She needed medical attention. Even in his own panicked state, he recognized that.

It was one thing to leave Gary at the warehouse and remove himself from the crime scene for fear of being framed by Bainbridge; there was nothing he could do for Gary. But it was quite another to leave this woman here. He couldn’t do that.

Allister paced the distance between her and the office door, uncertain of his next move but knowing he had to do something. Finally he saw the black duffel bag. He picked it up. Giving her another sidelong glance, he unzipped it. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but when he brushed aside the nylon flap, Allister saw the Nikon.

This woman, no doubt, was Stevie Falcioni.

Allister looked at her again. Her right arm was stretched out toward him, her slender fingers partially curled. It was as if she was reaching for him. And the way her delicate face was angled, the tenuous light from the overhead lamps lending a warmth to her unconscious expression, only served to increase that impression.

No, he couldn’t leave her here, even if he placed an anonymous call to the police. Whoever had beaten the life out of Gary could still be on the premises. Gary had said Bainbridge didn’t have the coins. And when Allister had asked about the shipment’s whereabouts, Gary had mentioned Stevie. Chances were good that Gary’s killer would be back to look for the package—if he wasn’t still here.

Allister slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and knelt beside Stevie. Slipping his gloves on again, he realized the risk he was about to take. Yes, there was the very real threat of being framed by Bainbridge. And in all likelihood, the police would not believe his story once they’d placed him at the scene of Gary’s murder. Then there was Stevie Falcioni; it was going to take some pretty creative explaining to convince her that he hadn’t been trying to kill her when, mistaking her for Gary’s assailant, he’d come at her with the fire extinguisher. But given the circumstances, he thought as he lifted her limp body from the catwalk and shifted her weight against his chest, he would have to run those risks.

The stairs were the trickiest. After Allister maneuvered them, he found carrying Stevie through the warehouse to the side door relatively easy. Outside, the storm had risen to its full force; the wind howled and the snow had turned to biting pellets of ice. After struggling briefly with the passenger door of the Explorer, Allister eased Stevie onto the seat. He reclined it, then fumbled with the seat-belt clip until he heard it catch.

In another moment he was behind the wheel, and the engine rumbled to life. Above the thrashing wipers and the noise of the fan, he heard the radio announcer on the local station advise people to stay indoors and caution drivers about the hazardous conditions.

“…and you can certainly expect to wake up to a few more inches of the white stuff tomorrow,” the announcer said, “after that green Christmas, it looks like winter’s finally settling in…”

Allister steered past Stevie’s Volvo, out of the warehouse lot and onto the deserted street. Five blocks later, he brought the big vehicle to a sliding stop at a red light and restlessly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as cars crawled through the intersection.

In the close quarters of the Explorer, Allister detected a faint trace of her perfume. He looked over and saw how the yellow glow of a street lamp through the windshield cast gentle shadows across her striking features: high cheekbones, a square yet delicate jawline, a small straight nose, and lips that looked as though they’d been carefully sculpted into an enticing curve. Allister didn’t doubt that Stevie Falcioni had seduced countless men with little more than a smile.

“…and remember, drive carefully if you have to be out tonight,” the radio announcer cautioned again. “Police are reporting numerous accidents in and around the city, and we’ve just received word of a multicar pile-up along the north branch of the Harriston Expressway near the Jefferson exit. We’ll have more details on the ten-o’clock news coming up in seven minutes. For now, though, here’s something that should brighten things up a bit for all you storm-bound listeners. The golden oldie ‘I Can See Clearly Now’—”

Allister switched off the radio and eased the Explorer past the intersection. The rest of the drive to Danby General Hospital was a white-knuckled ordeal. Throughout, he snatched quick side glances at the woman next to him whenever the driving permitted. Her small frame rocked with each bump and swerve.

He had no idea what he would have done had she regained consciousness in the car—would she have believed he was actually trying to help? And by the time he pulled into the hospital lot, Allister was grateful she hadn’t come around. He turned off the ignition and in the welcome silence looked at the emergency entrance.

Three ambulances were parked out front, one with its lights still strobing. Beyond the wide sliding doors in the bright glare of the ER, he could see a blur of activity.

This was it, he thought, taking a deep breath. As soon as he carried Stevie Falcioni through those doors, there would be no turning back. He’d have to give his name, address, phone number. And shortly after that, the police would be knocking on his door, if they hadn’t already picked him up at the hospital.

Allister glanced at Stevie again. So how was he going to explain his apparent attack? Who would believe him? And what made this any different from six years ago?

But right now there wasn’t time to debate these questions and fears. What mattered was Stevie and getting her the medical attention she needed. He owed her that much.

When the emergency-room doors swung open at his approach, Allister shifted Stevie’s weight in his arms, careful not to drop the duffel bag, which he also held. Her head rested on his shoulder, her face only inches from his, and again he detected a subtle hint of her perfume. Dodging two attendants wheeling an empty gurney back to the ambulances, Allister stepped through the second set of doors.

He stopped abruptly.

The ER bad more than activity; it reeled in utter chaos. The waiting room was jammed; people without seats paced or leaned against walls, while another dozen waited impatiently to give information to the harassed desk nurse. Orderlies flew from one station to the next, their crisscrossing paths seeming more like a well-choreographed dance than the frantic scramblings of an ER staff beleaguered by a sudden string of accident victims. Behind him, Allister could hear the approaching siren of yet another ambulance.

“All right, people, we’ve got another two coming in!”

A woman in green scrubs moved past Allister at full tilt. “Let’s make some room out here. Jerry, use the halls if you have to. Karen, Dr. Stowe needs you in number four. And, Alex, get another crash cart down here.”

“Excuse me?” Allister hurried after her, twisting his way through the crowded corridor.

The woman briskly signed two charts thrust at her by interns, before starting down the hall.

“Excuse me!” This time he shouted, slowing his awkward pursuit only when she spun around on one sneakered foot.

Even then, she didn’t look at him. Her attention was riveted on the woman in his arms.

“I need some help here,” he said. “Are you a doctor?”

The woman nodded. “Dr. Delaney. Is this one of the expressway-pileup victims?”

“No. She fell,” he explained, shifting Stevie’s weight, his arms beginning to feel the strain. “She hit her head.”

“Carol, find a gurney,” Dr. Delaney called to a nurse, her eyes never leaving Stevie. “How long has she been unconscious, sir?”

The doctor reached up and lifted Stevie’s eyelids to examine her pupils.

“I don’t know. Fifteen… twenty minutes, I guess.”

“Where did she hit her head?”

“The back. She fell backward.”

The doctor was already probing Stevie’s skull when the gurney arrived, and Allister lowered Stevie onto the crisp sheets. Dr. Delaney pulled open Stevie’s coat, as well as the shirt beneath, and grappled with her stethoscope. When he saw the edge of a white lace bra against olive-colored skin, Allister redirected his gaze. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as the doctor looked Stevie over and finally muttered something to the nurse.

And then the emergency doors slammed open.

“Here they come!” someone shouted.

All available hospital staff, including Dr. Delaney, raced

to the doors as attendants rushed in with the next accident victims.

“We need these forms filled out, sir,” the nurse said, shoving a clipboard at Allister. “Dr. Delaney will be with you as soon as she can,” she added as she scrambled to the speeding gurneys and was swallowed up in the frantic flow of medical staff down the main hall.

Allister looked at the form and then at Stevie. He moved to the side of the gurney, which had been pushed up against the corridor wall, and lowered the black duffel from his shoulder onto the sheets beside her. She appeared paler now under the harsh unforgiving fluorescents, her face framed by the short gleaming black hair.

Her beige trench coat was splayed open, and the edges of her white cotton shirt were still brushed aside. Gingerly Allister reached out to pull it closed over the delicate lace bra. And then he noticed the red smear on her jeans.

For the first time, Allister looked at his gloved hands. There were traces of blood—Gary’s blood. And there was more on his shirt, his jacket, and his jeans.

Panic rose again. He had to get out of here. Four years in prison. There was no way he was going back. He was not about to be framed by Bainbridge a second time, and that was exactly what was going to happen if the police found out he’d been at the warehouse tonight, if they matched the blood on his clothes to Gary’s.

He needed to think this through, away from the clamor and confusion of the ER. He needed a plan. Some way to get to Bainbridge before Stevie Falcioni had a chance to identify him.

As the rest of the ER whirled in confusion, Allister recognized his one and only opportunity. If he left now, before the doctor returned, he’d be able to slip out without anyone noticing. And with the frenzy caused by the expressway pileup, chances were no one would even remember him later when the police came around to question Stevie and the rest of the hospital staff.

He’d have to leave her.

She’d be all right though, he tried to convince himself, or else the doctor wouldn’t have left them here unattended in the middle of a corridor. Stevie was in good hands now. He’d done all he could. There had to be identification in the fanny pouch she wore around her slim hips; the attendants could get any information they needed. They’d call her family or a friend. She wouldn’t be alone.

Allister took one more look at Stevie, but somehow suspected it wouldn’t be his last. She was a part of this—part of Gary’s murder and Bainbridge and the coins. How she was connected, Allister didn’t know yet. But why else had Gary whispered her name?

He could only hope to have the answers soon. For now he had to get out.

And, leaving Stevie there on the gurney, running off into the night like some fugitive, for the first time in his life Allister felt like a criminal.

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED to kill him, dammit!” Edward

Bainbridge yelled into the phone. “You were meant to get the coins, Vince. Remember? The coins? Without them, we don’t have a deal. You were supposed to go over there last night to get them from that weasel, Palmer. After that, I didn’t care what you did with the son of a bitch.”

Gary Palmer’s murder had been on the front page of the Danby Sun and the first story Edward Bainbridge had read with his morning coffee. He’d gotten as far as “…police speculate the murder was a result of a random break-in.” Seconds later he had Vince Fenton on the phone.

“He didn’t have the damned coins,” Vince was saying.

“What the hell do you mean, he didn’t have them?”

“Like I said, I went over there, roughed him up a bit—”

“He’s dead, Vince.”

“Okay, I roughed him up a lot. The point is, he didn’t have the coins. I searched the office. They weren’t there. If you ask me, Allister Quaid’s probably got ‘em.”

Edward Bainbridge’s grip tightened on the cordless phone. He squinted against the glare of the sun and gazed past his stables to the snow-covered paddocks marking the north end of his property.

This couldn’t be happening, he thought. It couldn’t be falling apart like this. First, he’d lost almost everything when the building-development project in London had fallen through, then his offshore-oil company had gone into receivership, and finally, after pooling his remaining resources into this last attempt to see himself out of his financial hole, everything was coming apart at the seams.

It was Vince Fenton’s fault.

No, it was his own fault for hiring a moron like Vince in the first place. He should have known better. And he should have put Vince to work on Palmer the second he’d found out about Allister Quaid a couple of days ago. He should have pulled up stakes right then, knowing that the ex-shipper would almost certainly mean trouble.

There could be only one reason Allister Quaid was hanging around Palmer Storage and Shipping, and no doubt, it had to do with him and his shipment. Vince was right. If anyone had the coins, it had to be Quaid.

And if that was the case, Allister Quaid would have a lot more to deal with this time than a prison term.

“I’D LIKE YOU to deliver the eulogy, Allister.”

Allister’s back was turned to Barb as he stared out the patio doors. It had stopped snowing finally, and the lateafternoon sun filtered through the bare trees that bordered the Palmers’ backyard.

Allister closed his eyes. He was thinking of Gary.

Last night, after he’d left Stevie in the hospital corridor and slipped out unnoticed, he’d initially driven toward home. The sanders had been out, and the snow had begun to taper off. But two blocks from his apartment building, Allister had turned around and headed back to the warehouse. Thoughts of Gary lying there alone in the ransacked office haunted him.

He had no idea what he intended to do even as he pulled onto the quiet industrial street at ten-forty-five. Part of him—a very small part that hadn’t been crushed by four years in prison—had wanted to believe that the truth was best. He’d wanted to believe that he could call the police, that he could tell them everything he knew and they would actually believe him.

In retrospect, he was glad that by the time he got to the warehouse the police were already there. He’d seen the blue strobes of the patrol cars as he neared the building. And then he’d spotted the white van next to Stevie’s Volvo. The cleaning crew had been late because of the storm, but they’d still showed up. And obviously found Gary’s body.

Allister had kept driving, back to his apartment.

Barb had called almost four hours later, long after he’d gotten home and washed up. She was at home. Two detec tives were there with her waiting to take her to identify Gary’s body; she asked Allister to meet her at the morgue. She sounded amazingly calm and in control. Allister arrived at the morgue right behind her, and after they’d confirmed Gary’s identity, the two detectives had mounted their preliminary questions.

Eventually they’d asked about Stevie Falcioni. The de tectives told Barb and Allister that shortly after arriving at the scene, a phone call came through to Gary’s business. It had been Stevie Falcioni’s partner, the older detective explained; she’d become concerned when Stevie hadn’t returned. With the Volvo still parked at the warehouse, the police had called around and located her at Danby General. They told Barb how they suspected Stevie may have stumbled onto Gary’s killer and consequently been attacked herself. It was only when they stated that Stevie was still unconscious in the intensive-care unit that the cumulative shock of the night’s events had begun to show on Barb’s face.

Allister had been able to persuade the detectives to postpone their questioning until the next day and had driven Barb home. Except for this morning, when he’d managed to slip away for an hour, he’d been with her ever since.

“Allister,” Barb tried again, exhaustion dragging at her voice, “I think you should deliver the eulogy.”

He shook his head, still unable to face her or her request. “Barb, I—”

“You have to, Al. Please. You were Gary’s best friend.”

Best friend. Somehow, that title didn’t seem exactly appropriate after last night. What kind of best friend left a man lying dead on the floor of his office? What kind of best friend lied to the man’s wife about his knowledge of her husband’s murder?

“Allister?” She came up behind him now and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You must.”

When he turned to her finally, he was surprised by the firm set of her mouth and the determination in her pale blue eyes. Barb Palmer was a strong woman. From the moment they had stood together looking at Gary’s body on the stainless-steel table at the city morgue in the wee hours of morning, she had been holding up unbelievably well.

And ever since that moment in the morgue, Allister had wanted to tell Barb the truth—that he’d been in the warehouse last night, had held Gary in his arms and that Gary hadn’t been alone when he died. Most of all, he wanted to tell Barb how her name and Gary’s love for her had been the last words from Gary’s lips. But Allister couldn’t. No one could know he’d been at the warehouse last night.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Barb said. “I know the two of you had grown apart while you were…” She shook her head, unable to say the words. Both she and Gary had always made a painful habit of trying to deny what Allister had gone through, where he’d been those four years and how it had altered his life. “But still, Allister, no matter what you think, you were closer to Gary than anyone. You knew him best.”

Allister looked out across the soft blanket of snow that covered the backyard.

She was wrong. He didn’t…hadn’t known Gary anymore. They had grown apart—on that point, Barb was right. But there was much more about Gary now that Allister didn’t know or understand.

Like his failing marriage, for one. Barb had shocked him this morning with the news of their plans for a divorce. Gary had never even let on that there were problems, and here Barb was, already planning to sell the house and leave Danby for a new life.

Even more disturbing than that, Allister couldn’t understand what had possessed Gary to try to double-cross a man like Edward Bainbridge, especially after what Gary knew about him, after Allister had warned him.

Was it for money? Because of the divorce? No. Barb wasn’t the type of woman to take more than her share when she left the marriage. As a family counselor with a successful practice, she had her own money.

It just didn’t make sense. The Gary he had known and grown up with wouldn’t take those kinds of life-threatening risks. Then again, maybe that was it. With Barb leaving, maybe Gary figured he had nothing to lose by taking on the likes of Edward Bainbridge. Maybe he figured he could make some extra money.

Or maybe he’d just gotten restless. Gary had always been restless, even as a kid. Always wanting to move on, try new things. Allister had never pegged him as the settling-down type, never believed he could put work aside long enough to maintain a relationship, let alone a marriage.

But he and Gary had still been friends. Gary had stuck by him during those hard years, believed in his innocence when everyone else had harbored doubts about what had gone on and how Bainbridge’s gems had come to be in the trunk of his car.

Even Michelle hadn’t believed him. Out of everyone, Allister had thought he could count on his fiancée the most. Three years together—he thought he knew her. But before the trial had even finished, the day before the verdict was to be handed down, Michelle had returned his engagement ring.

Only Gary had believed in Allister throughout. And only Gary had come to see him in prison. Then, eight months ago, it was Gary who’d been waiting for him upon his release. It was Gary who’d calmed Allister down, taken him for a beer when all he’d wanted to do that afternoon was drive to Bainbridge’s estate and strangle the smug bastard with his bare hands.

Gary had tried to convince him that the revenge Allister was seething to exact on Bainbridge was only a product of the ordeal he’d just suffered, and not a reflection of the man Allister really was. He’d told Allister to put it behind him, to start again, start fresh.

But to forget those four years, to forget how Bainbridge had taken the life he’d known and worked for, these were impossible. He could never put them behind him.

Allister brushed a hand through his hair, and as he did, his finger grazed the jagged scar that curled up from his cheekbone to the top of his eyebrow. He traced the gnarled ridge of skin with his fingertip, recalling the brawl with another inmate and the resounding crack when his head had struck the metal bars of the cell-block gate. But now, four years later, he couldn’t even recall the name of the man who had initiated the fight. As far as Allister was concerned, it was Edward Bainbridge who had put the scar there.

“So can I count on you, Allister?” Barb asked once again.

He nodded. “Of course, Barb. I’ll give the eulogy.” Now all he had to do was figure out a way to speak at Gary’s funeral without Stevie Falcioni seeing him. He wondered if there was any chance she’d still be in the hospital by then, because if she wasn’t, he was definitely going to have to let Barb down.

He couldn’t risk coming into contact with the photographer and having her identify him. Not unless he managed to speak with her before the police did, not unless he could convince her that he had not been trying to attack her, had not been the one who’d killed Gary. If only he could see her before the cops got to her.

But there was little chance of that. Allister had already tried.

That was where he’d gone this morning, before Barb had woken up. He’d left her a note, telling her he was running a few errands, and he’d headed to the hospital. In the car, outside the main entrance, Allister had tried to prepare what he could possibly say to convince Stevie he was telling the truth. He would try to explain how he’d arrived only minutes before she had, how when he heard her in the warehouse, he’d mistaken her for the killer returning, and when he’d run after her, he’d only been trying to stop her.

And then he wanted to ask her about the coins. He wanted to know why Gary had whispered her name on his dying breath.

It had been barely 6:00 a.m. when Allister slipped past the front desk and checked the hospital directory board. He took the elevator to the tenth floor. But when he rounded the corner of the wing that housed the ICU, he pulled up short. One uniformed officer paced the width of the corridor, a plastic-foam cup in hand and a paper tucked under his arm. Obviously the police recognized Stevie’s potential as a witness and weren’t taking any chances.

During the drive back to Barb’s through the early-morning streets, he’d thought about Stevie Falcioni, and he’d begun to doubt whether she really would have believed him if he had managed to see her.

No, it was probably better this way, Allister thought now, holding his empty mug and gazing out at the snow. He couldn’t trust anyone.

When Stevie Falcioni did regain consciousness, the police would talk to her. All Allister could do was pray that she hadn’t gotten a good look at him. And maybe, with any luck at all, she might not even remember whatever she’d seen.

Then again, luck hadn’t made a habit out of knocking on Allister’s door in the past.

“Want more coffee, Al?” Barb asked.

“Sure, thanks.” He left the patio doors and followed her into the kitchen. “Have you heard from the hospital yet?” he asked, handing her his empty mug.

She shook her head and poured his coffee. “I called a couple hours ago and spoke to Stevie’s assistant, Paige. There’s still no change, but Paige promised to call if there was any news. The doctor told her this morning that they won’t know much more until Stevie comes around. It must be serious if they’re keeping her in the ICU.”

Allister only nodded, remembering how pale Stevie had looked, lying on the gurney last night in that bustling corridor.

Barb’s empty cup slipped from her hands, clattering against the countertop but not breaking, and when she reached for it, her hands were shaking. “I just thank God Stevie wasn’t killed, too,” she stated, and then looked straight at Allister. “To think she might have been there. She might have…seen Gary’s killer…”

But Allister didn’t have to respond. The doorbell rang, and Barb almost dropped her mug again.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’ll get it.”

Through the frosted-glass panel of the front door, Allister saw two blurred figures, and when he opened it, he was not surprised. He’d been expecting them.

“Detective Devane, good afternoon,” he greeted the older of the two homicide detectives with whom he and Barb had spoken last night.

“Mr. Quaid. Well, this is convenient,” the man drawled caustically, a sour grin turning up one corner of his crooked mouth. “I was hoping to talk to you, as well as Mrs. Palmer. Is she home?”

“As a matter of fact, she is. I’ll see if she’s up to—”

“It’s all right, Allister.” Barb stood at the end of the hall, her cup clutched in both hands now. “Let them in. I want this over with.”

SHE’D BEEN DREAMING about being in the kitchen of the old house on Cicero Avenue. Her mother was baking bread and bottling tomato sauce the way she always did on Sunday afternoons. Stevie had almost been able to smell the sweet aroma of spices and the yeast from the rising dough, when a voice broke the spell.

“I think she’s finally coming to.” It was a female voice-distant, as though it traveled down a long hollow tunnel. “Stay with her. I’ll get Dr. Sterling.” The voice was closer now. It sounded as thick and heavy as the pain that throbbed in her head.

And then she heard the door. It slapped in its frame, just like the two-way door that separated her mother’s kitchen from the family room. It swung a couple of times, and in between, she could make out other sounds: ringing phones and buzzers, and something that sounded like the chime of an elevator.

Then there was silence again. Silence and the stringent odor of antiseptic. This was not her mother’s kitchen.

“Stevie?” A different voice this time, but familiar.

There was a hand on hers. She tried to pull away. She didn’t want to be dragged from this warm place. She wanted to stay in the kitchen. It was safe there. Her father was in the family room, listening to the Sunday opera on the radio. The final act of Tosca was playing, and he’d promised that as soon as it was over, he’d show her how to develop the film from her camera.

“Stevie? Honey? Can you hear me?”

Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed, she’d be able to go back to the kitchen, to linger in its warm memories. Her head—it hurt so much. It hadn’t hurt when she was in the kitchen.

“Stevie, come on. I know you can hear me. You’ve got to snap out of this. Please.”

And then there was another voice. A man’s this time.

“Stephanie?”

Her father? No, it couldn’t be. He was dead. He died three years ago, the day after her twenty-seventh birthday. She’d gone home to Chicago for a visit. It had rained the whole weekend. A cold late-September drizzle that hadn’t let up until after the funeral.

“Stephanie? Can you hear me? I’m Dr. Sterling. Can you open your eyes, Stephanie?”

“Her name’s Stevie.”

Now she recognized the quiet soothing voice. It was Paige.

“Stevie, you’re at Danby General Hospital. You’ve had us all pretty worried. Stevie? Can you hear me?” he asked again.

She tried to nod, but pain hammered through her head. She wanted to answer him, but her mouth felt dry, her tongue swollen.

“Yeah.” The word rasped in her throat.

“I knew you’d come around sooner or later,” the man said, a smile in his voice. “Paige here tells me you can develop quite the appetite when you miss meals. I figured you’d be getting pretty hungry by now.”

She attempted a smile, surprised that the effort didn’t hurt as much as she’d anticipated.

“Can you open your eyes, Stevie?”

She licked her lips and finally opened her eyes a crack, expecting shards of light to pierce her already throbbing headache. There was only darkness. She opened them farther. Still darkness. And then there was Paige’s voice again.

“Hey, Stevie. How’re you feeling, honey?”

“Paige?”

She felt a hand take hers. “I’m right here.”

“Where?”

“Right…right beside you.”

Stevie squeezed the hand. She blinked several times. Or at least, she thought she did. But all she saw was darkness.

“Man, this is one strange dream.” She let out a weak laugh.

“Stevie?” The hand tightened around hers. “Honey, it’s…it’s not a dream.”

She blinked again and was met by the same chasm of utter blackness—a dizzying abyss.

“Paige, what are you saying?”

“Stevie, listen to me…”

She tried to sit up. Instantly there were hands on her shoulders, on her chest, holding her down, forcing her back into the pillows. And she felt something sharp pull on her arm.

Then there was Paige’s voice again. “Stevie, just take it easy. You’re going to be all right. Dr. Sterling’s here, and—”

“I can’t see!” Panic coursed through her, and another wave of nauseating pain knifed along the back of her head. “Paige, what’s going on? I can’t see you!”

CHAPTER THREE

DETECTIVE JACKSON was a man of few words, Allister decided as Jackson perused Gary’s collection of bottled ships on the mantel of the flagstone fireplace. It was Detective Devane, the older of the pair, who was the lead man in the investigation into Gary’s murder and who had taken an almost immediate dislike to Allister. Last night after they’d identified Gary’s body, the gruff detective had undoubtedly recognized Allister from six years ago. When he’d asked Allister his whereabouts at the time of Gary’s death, Devane had shot him a look of distrust across the corridor outside the morgue. And later, as Allister ushered Barb out the door and to the car, Devane had said good-night with a definite “don’t leave town” tone in his voice.

Today, the detectives had asked to speak with Barb alone. But she’d remained firm in her demand that Allister be present, and Devane had had no choice. He eased his broad muscular frame farther back into the striped wing chair across from the couch where Allister and Barb sat. Her hand hadn’t left Allister’s the whole time.

“And you were home in your apartment last night, is that correct, Mr. Quaid?” Devane turned his questions to Allister now.

“That’s what I said, Detective. I already told you, the last time I saw Gary was yesterday morning. We spoke in his office about a couple of late shipments. I ran a number of errands for the company in the afternoon, and then I went home.”

“But there’s nobody who can confirm you were there?”

Allister shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose there is. It’s a big building. The neighbors pretty much keep to themselves.”

“Did you receive any phone calls last night?”

“Phone calls?”

“Yeah, you know, did anyone call when you were home? Anyone who can vouch for you?”

“No. No one called. Not until Barb rang me around three.”

Devane nodded wordlessly, but continued to squint distrustfully at Allister. No doubt, if Barb wasn’t present, Devane would not be holding back the accusations Allister sensed beneath the detective’s reserved composure.

Barb, however, was quite aware of what was going on.

She squeezed his hand. “What is this all about, Detective?” she asked, disbelief lifting her tone slightly. “Is…is Allister a suspect here?”

“At this point, Mrs. Palmer, everyone is a suspect. And quite frankly, considering Mr. Quaid’s record—”

“Oh, my God!” Barb bolted from the couch. She stalked to the other side of the room, and when she turned again, even Allister was surprised at the fury that had flared across her previous calm. “I don’t believe this! You’ve really got some nerve, you know that, Detective? Coming in here and accusing Allister after everything you people have already put him through.”

“Barb.” Allister went to her. He felt her tremble when he placed his hands on her shoulders, and when she looked up at him, he wondered if she was going to cry. “Barb, it’s all right,” he whispered.

“It’s wrong, Allister. What they’re doing, what they’re implying, it’s wrong.”

“Barb, trust me, it’ll be all right,” he said again, wishing he had faith in his own words. “Don’t worry.”

She relaxed somewhat, and in time she followed him back to the couch.

Detective Jackson paced behind them before stopping to gaze out the patio doors.

Devane was loosening the tie around the yellowed collar of his shirt. He scratched at a day’s growth of stubble on his chin, and then ran a hand over his silver-flecked hair. Last night, when the early-morning hour and the harsh lights of the morgue had been unkind to everyone’s appearance, Allister had pegged the senior detective in his early fifties. Still, he was a commanding presence—muscular and fit, almost a full head taller than his younger and slighter partner.

“Right now, Mrs. Palmer,” Devane said at last, “we’re working on the assumption that last night may have been a random break-in. We’ve had a couple other burglaries up there in the Dumphries area. We’ve got the warehouse closed off and my men are going over every square inch of the place. Your husband’s secretary, Mrs. Dorsey, is helping us out with the inventory of the office, and we should know soon if anything was stolen. Until then, you have to understand, we can’t rule out any possibility.”

Barb only nodded.

“And there’s still Ms. Falcioni. With her car parked outside the warehouse, we figure she might have interrupted the offender. We’re hoping she got a good look at the guy, and that could be all we need. I have an officer posted at her hospital door, and we’ll question her as soon as she regains consciousness.”

“And what about the man who brought her in?” Barb took Allister’s hand again. “Do you know anything more about him?”

Devane shook his head. “No one on staff at the hospital last night was able to give us a description beyond what we got from the nurse who actually spoke to the guy—tall, average build, with dark brown or possibly black hair. Beyond that, he could be anyone. Although we’re almost certain he was at the warehouse, too.”

Barb shook her head. “But last night you suggested that Stevie might have wandered out of the warehouse. That she may have even been picked up along the road somewhere.”

“We found traces of blood on Ms. Falcioni’s clothing. On her jeans and coat. Since she wasn’t bleeding herself, we can only assume that it was your husband’s. And considering the way it was distributed on the clothing, it would appear that it was put there by whoever carried her into the ER last night. We’ll know better in a few days, but I’m willing to bet it’ll match your husband’s blood type, Mrs. Palmer.”

“So what are you saying, Detective? That whoever this mystery man is, whoever brought Stevie to the hospital, he could be the same man who killed my husband?”

Devane made a noncommittal shrug. “Given the immediate evidence, I’d say it’s one possibility.”

“That’s absolutely insane. You can’t honestly believe that—”

“Mrs. Palmer, it doesn’t matter whether or not I believe that your husband’s killer may be the man who took Ms. Falcioni to the hospital. It’s still a possibility we have to investigate. There are a lot of unanswered questions right now, but I’m certain that we’ll be getting some answers soon-when Ms. Falcioni regains consciousness.”

Barb stood up again, letting out a frustrated sigh as she moved to the fireplace. She took up the position Detective Jackson had occupied only a few minutes ago and surveyed Gary’s collection.

Eventually she shook her head. “None of this makes any sense. Why would somebody…why would anyone hurt Gary?”

And in what Allister guessed was a rare moment of compassion for Devane, the detective joined her at the mantel.

“We’ll know more once we can talk to Ms. Falcioni,” he repeated quietly. “If my hunch is right, she’ll be able to finger your husband’s killer for us. Trust me, Mrs. Palmer, we’ll get this guy. With Ms. Falcioni as our eye witness, we’ll put him behind bars for a long, long time.”

STEVIE COULDN’T STOP shaking. Her hand trembled when she lifted it to her eyes. She expected to find gauze, bandages, something covering them, anything that would explain this horror.

There was nothing.

“Paige, I can’t see.” The words had become a desperate chant now. “I can’t see.” She tried to sit up again, still believing that this had to be some sort of nightmare, that it wasn’t real, that if only she could sit up-”Stevie, please.” Paige held her down. “Dr. Sterling’s here. Let him explain.”

“Stevie?” The male voice again. Stevie tried to locate him in the dizzying blackness and imagined him to her left. “Stevie, I know this is a shock,” he said, “but just try to relax and I’ll explain.”

“Paige?” Stevie reached out to where her friend had been before. She found only a crisp edge of the hospital sheet. “Paige, are you still here?”

“I’m right beside you, honey. I’m not going anywhere.” A hand took hers, and Stevie clung to it as though it was her only lifeline in this terrifying sea of darkness.

“Stevie,” the doctor continued, “you’ve been unconscious for over twenty hours now. That’s why we’ve had you on an IV. Do you remember anything about last night?”

Stevie nodded—the jammed film, the storm, the warehouse. Gary. “I think so.” She swallowed dry. “But what happened? I mean, why can’t I see?”

“You’ve suffered a severe concussion, either from a fall or being struck with a blunt object. We’ve already run a CAT scan, and there’s no evidence of skull fractures or intercerebral bleeding. Nor are there signs of any subdural hematomas, which indicates to me that any damage isn’t likely to be permanent. You’re extremely lucky, Stevie.”

“How is this lucky? I’m blind!”

“Stevie, your loss of vision won’t be permanent. You have a certain degree of swelling, bruising of the occipital lobe. That’s the area that controls your vision. With the severity of the injury you’ve suffered, there is generally the possibility of a certain degree of visual impairment, of damage that the scans can’t pick up. I still want to run an EEG, possibly today, to establish that there isn’t any damage to the cerebral cortex.”

“So my blindness…is temporary, then, right? That’s what you’re saying?”

Of course that was what he was saying. She’d heard of this kind of thing before, hadn’t she? It was just a temporary condition. That was all. Not permanent. It couldn’t be. She had the Armatrading shoot to finish, and there were other contracts waiting back at the studio. There was her career—her whole life—waiting for her.

Paige shifted her hand in hers. Stevie slackened her hold, wondering if she’d gripped her friend’s hand so hard she’d hurt her.

“I can’t say anything for certain, Stevie,” the doctor answered. “But yes, more than likely this is just a temporary condition caused by the swelling.”

“So, what are we talking about? A couple of days?”

“I really can’t say, Stevie. With injuries like this, no two cases are alike. But I’m optimistic with yours. I’d say that after a week or so the bruising should resolve, and all, or part, of your vision should return. In fact, I don’t see why you can’t go home as soon as tomorrow afternoon, providing you have someone to take care of you.”

“I’ll be with her, Doctor,” Paige offered.

“Good. I’ll want to see you a couple of times over the next little while for reassessment. After two weeks, if there’s still no resolution of your vision, we’ll repeat the CAT scan and run another EEG. Even then, you have to understand that the bruising may take even longer than two weeks to clear up. But things should start to improve by that time.”

“And if they don’t?” she asked, struggling against the quiver in her voice. “If I don’t regain my vision, and a new CAT scan and EEG show nothing, what then?”

Her question was met with silence. Stevie felt her panic rise and a wave of nausea crash over her.

“Doctor, please. I need the truth.”

“We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, Stevie. In situations like this, each case is unique. As much as I’d like to be able to give you a simple answer, I just can’t. Your sight could start to return by tomorrow morning or next week or the week after.”

“Or not at all?”

“Stevie—”

“No, Paige. Please. I have to know. Dr. Sterling? What is the likelihood that this is permanent?”

Beyond the hospital room, Stevie heard warbling phones and chimes, and the crackle of a PA system. There were other voices and laughter. And then the doctor’s long intake of breath before he spoke again.

“Stevie, in all honesty, I just don’t know. There’s no way to tell at this point. Everything depends on the degree of the swelling and the rate at which it diminishes. So I can’t answer your questions. I’m sorry. I can recommend another specialist for a second opinion if you like…”

“So my blindness could be permanent then.” It wasn’t a question, but a cold statement.

There was a dreadful silence again, and then Stevie felt the doctor’s hand on her arm.

“Stevie, I know this is a shock for you, but please, try not to worry. We’re doing everything we can. You just need time to heal. That’s the best prescription I can give you right now.”

Stevie tried to find a thin shred of comfort in his words. Only in her worst nightmares, in her darkest thoughts, had she ever imagined something like this. Just last year, a highschool friend from Chicago had nearly died in a car accident. Now her friend saw life from a wheelchair, was completely dependent on a live-in nurse. It had haunted Stevie for months afterward, the thought of being suddenly and completely dependent on others, of having the life you knew snatched away in one senseless flash, altering everything you’d known and worked for, and to never again see or perceive the world in the same way you once had.

“I’m going to arrange for that EEG,” Dr. Sterling told her finally, removing his hand. “I’ll be back shortly.”

The door swung quietly in its frame a few times and then was still. She wasn’t certain how long she lay there listening to the buzzing in her head, to the wild pounding of her heart, but it was Paige who eventually drew her out of the dark silence.

“Honey?” She rubbed Stevie’s shoulder as if this could possibly ease the fears that raged through her mind. “You’re going to be all right.”

Stevie felt herself about to cry. She shook her head, fighting back the tears.

“Tell me I’m dreaming, Paige.” Her voice trembled. “Tell me this is just a really bad dream.”

“Stevie, listen to me, you have to think positively. Like Dr. Sterling said, it has to do with the swelling or whatever. It’ll go down. You’ll be fine.”

That was Paige—the eternal optimist. Three years ago, not long before Stevie’s father had died, when the contracts had been stacking up and she had been working twenty-hour days, Stevie had recognized the need for help around the studio. She’d placed the ad, and the instant Paige Carpenter had arrived at Images, fifteen minutes late and more than a little windblown, her hair a vibrant orange cascade of curls and her face glowing with an apologetic smile, Stevie knew there was no need to look any farther. From the start, Paige exuded the confidence and fresh talent Stevie had been looking for in an assistant, not to mention an enthusiasm and commitment that sometimes exceeded even her own. Within weeks of working together, Paige had proved herself the greatest assistant and friend Stevie could have hoped for.

“Do you want to sit up, Stevie?”

She barely nodded, and immediately Paige was at her side, rearranging pillows and drawing up the blanket.

“Listen, Stevie, I should tell you, the police have been lurking around. They even have an officer posted at the door. A Detective Devane said he’d be by to ask questions about last night.”

“Gary’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, Stevie.”

Stevie bit her lower lip. In spite of the darkness around her, she could still see the office, how everything had been thrown about, papers scattered, furniture tossed aside like toys, and Gary.lying unmoving on the floor. Then the man at the doorway, the man who had attacked her, and her race along the catwalk. And finally, nothing.

“How did I get here, Paige?”

“Someone brought you in last night.”

“Who?”

“They don’t know, Stevie. The police are still trying to find out, I guess.”

She wished she could remember more, wished that last night wasn’t such a blur. Then again, did she really want to conjure up those images? Perhaps the details of the ordeal were best forgotten.

“Barb’s called a couple of times,” Paige said. “She wanted to come by, but. she has a lot of arrangements to make.”

Stevie nodded.

“She said she’d try to stop in later.”

“I want to go home, Paige.”

“I know.”

She wanted to be in her own bed, away from the phones and the bells, from IVs and EEGs. She wanted to turn on the stereo and block out the rest of the world. Pull the duvet over her head and not come out for two weeks.

“Uh, Stevie?”

Paige was pacing. Stevie heard the soft squeak of her leather soles on the linoleum and the jangle of her bracelets.

“Paige, what’s wrong?”

The squeaking stopped, and Stevie imagined her friend standing in the middle of the room. Knowing Paige, she probably wore an oversize shirt and vest, a pair of black tights and socks bunched up at the tops of her ankle boots. Her hands would be buried deep in the pockets of a man’s tweed jacket she’d picked up at the thrift shop downtown. Her carrot-colored hair was most likely disheveled and pulled up in a wild ponytail after her long vigil at the hospital, and her pale complexion no doubt appeared paler still with lack of sleep.

“Paige?” she prompted.

“Stevie, listen, I’m sorry, but I…I called your mom.”

“Oh, Paige.”

“I know, I know. You always say you don’t want to worry her. But Stevie, you…well…dammit, Stevie, you scared the hell out of me.” Her voice wavered now, and Stevie wondered if Paige was crying. “I mean, the doctors…they were going on about you, talking about comas and brain damage and hematomas. I—”

“Paige, it’s all right. I’m all right.” But she heard the tremor in her voice and doubted her words were any more convincing for Paige than they were for her right now. She reached out for her friend, needing comfort as much as Paige seemed to.

Stevie felt the bed shift as Paige sat next to her and slid her hand into hers.

“Thanks for staying with me, Paige. For being here.”

“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”

And then Paige’s arms were around her before she could reply, giving her a reassuring embrace.

“God, you really had me scared,” Paige murmured, pulling away but keeping her hand in Stevie’s, and Stevie could tell that, for her sake, Paige was only telling the half of it.

“I’ll be okay, Paige. You’re right, I’ll be fine. But I think I’d better call Ma before she jumps on the next plane from Tampa.” “Wait, Stevie.”

“What?”

“There’s something else.” Paige stood and started to pace again.

“My mother’s already here?”

“No, Stevie. No, it’s not about your mother. It’s…it’s the studio.”

“The Armatrading film?”

“Well, sort of. We had a break-in. It must have been late last night or early this morning when I was here. I went to the studio this morning to make a couple of calls and—”

Stevie was already shaking her head. “No, Paige. No.”

“It’s not that bad, Stevie, really. I called the police and filed a report. The insurance will cover the stolen equipment. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. They got away with a few of the cameras and one of the bags, but…we’ve lost the film from the Armatrading shoot.”

“All of it?” This couldn’t be happening, Stevie thought. It was like an endless nightmare, one horror following the next.

“I’m afraid so,” Paige answered.

“Dammit, Paige. I don’t believe this. What the hell is going on?”

“Stevie, listen to me. I don’t want you to worry. I took care of everything. I called Brian this morning and he understands. He wants us to take whatever time we need to reshoot, and he promises that a couple of weeks won’t make any difference to him.”

Stevie rubbed her forehead. Well, maybe a couple of weeks didn’t make any difference to Brian Armatrading. But according to Dr. Sterling’s prognosis, two weeks meant the world to her. If, after that time, her sight hadn’t returned, her blindness could very well be permanent. And then worrying about the reshoot for Brian Armatrading—or any other contract—would be immaterial.

VINCE FENTON felt more than a little proud of himself as he swilled back the rest of his beer and motioned to the night bartender of Mario’s for a refill. It had been so easy.

First, getting the name of the photographer—that had been a simple matter of seeing the company name on the personalized plates of the Volvo when he’d sneaked out of the warehouse yesterday afternoon. Second, finding the studio and getting in—again, a piece of cake. He’d waited until the redhead left for the night, and without any kind of security system to contend with, he jimmied the back door of the converted warehouse. Then he’d grabbed all the cameras he could find, loaded them into his car in the alley behind the building and drove them to his buddy Stan Swanson.

In exchange for developing the film for him, Stan could keep the stolen goods. But Vince wanted to see the film himself, be sure that he’d stolen the right one, the one used for the shoot at Palmer’s warehouse. After that, he’d have covered all his tracks.

Maybe then Vince could finally get out of Danby. Bainbridge and his precious coins were starting to piss him off. It wasn’t worth the money anymore, not with Palmer’s murder on top of everything else. All he needed was the film—the right film—and he was gone.

IT HAD BEEN a long day, followed by an equally long night. After the EEG, Stevie had been returned to her room and told to rest, as if she’d been able to do anything else. She had called Tampa and assured her mother that there was no need to fly all the way up to Danby. She’d listened patiently to her mother ramble on about the new condo, her neighbors and the weather. And when she’d asked once again about flying up to Danby, Stevie had promised her she was fine and would call again soon.

Before he left for the day, Dr. Sterling had spoken to the floor nurses. Paige had been allowed to stay past visiting hours, and for this Stevie was grateful. Paige had helped her with dinner and had guided her to the washroom a couple of times.

But eventually even Paige had been forced to leave. Reluctantly she’d said good-night with promises of sneaking in a large coffee for Stevie in the morning. After that, Stevie had lain awake listening to the sounds of the hospital.

At one point during the night, when the corridor outside her door had fallen almost completely silent, Stevie had decided to brave the short trip across her room to the washroom unaided. But within moments of leaving the bed, a wave of dizziness swept through her, and when she flailed out to stop her fall, Stevie thought she’d woken the entire wing. Stainless-steel pans crashed across the linoleum.

Seconds later one of the night nurses had rushed in to find Stevie on the floor clutching her hands to one throbbing knee and letting out such a string of expletives she was certain the nurse must have had second thoughts about coming to her aid.

After that, Stevie had slipped in and out of sleep, never really knowing whether it was day or night, trying to judge time by the sounds of the hospital around her. She’d even taken to counting seconds out loud after another nurse had told her it was 2:00 a.m.

In the morning, Barb had called, saying she was tied up with various arrangements. She voiced her relief that Stevie was all right, and at the same time stated how sorry she was that something so terrible as her blindness had happened. She’d mentioned briefly the plans for the funeral, that Gary’s friend Allister was helping her out with the business, and once again how sorry she was.

There had been more tests, followed by enough of Dr. Sterling’s optimism to see Stevie through another week, or at least until her next scheduled appointment.

Only when Paige had arrived for her second visit in the afternoon, with a change of clothes and another smuggled coffee, did Stevie begin to feel a little more on track. Paige had helped her dress, and by the time Dr. Sterling arrived to sign her out, Stevie was more than ready to go home.

“So, we need to book a follow-up appointment, Stevie,” Dr. Sterling told her. “There’s a conference I have to be at in Seattle early next week, so I’m taking appointments on Saturday. How would late morning be for you?”

“Should be fine.” Stevie shrugged, then added a quick smile. “But only if you promise to give me some good news then.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Stevie wondered what his smile looked like; she imagined it was as gentle as his voice. “So, next Saturday, eleven-thirty, in my office upstairs. I’ve given Paige a prescription for you. Just a mild sedative to help you sleep, if you feel you need it, and a painkiller. Other than that, you’re formally discharged.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Stevie managed another smile for his benefit. She shifted in the chair next to the bed, the chrome armrests cold against her wrists.

“And, Stevie, I’ve also given Paige my card. I want you to feel free to call me day or night if there’s any change, or if you have even the smallest concern.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Now the only other matter of business is the police,” he said as she heard him click his pen a few times. “A couple of detectives have been anxious to talk to you. And now that you’re discharged, I don’t have the authority to keep them out anymore.”

“Are they here now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She had to talk to them. For Gary’s sake. She appreciated Dr. Sterling’s efforts to protect her from the countless questions they undoubtedly had, but she was going to have to face them sooner or later, no matter how tired and disoriented she felt.

“Well, I may as well get it over with,” she said.

Dr. Sterling had been gone less than a minute before the door swung open. Stevie heard them come in, hard soles against the floor, and one of them cleared his throat.

“Ms. Falcioni?” His voice was rough, and when he cleared his throat a second time Stevie suspected he was a smoker. “Ms. Falcioni, I’m Detective Devane, and this is Detective Jackson.”

Stevie nodded, her hands firmly gripping the chrome armrests.

“This is my friend, Paige Carpenter,” she said.

“Yes, we’ve…met.”

Stevie couldn’t resist an inward smile. Paige had mentioned to Stevie this morning that she’d had “words” with Detective Devane. Now, by the momentary awkwardness in the silence between them, Stevie didn’t doubt the content of those words.

“Ms. Falcioni, we have a few questions we need to ask you about Friday night…”

SHE TOLD the detectives everything she remembered—the drive to the warehouse because she’d forgotten her bag, going upstairs to Gary’s office, seeing his body on the floor, and then the man who attacked her.

“So this guy with the fire extinguisher,” Devane asked a second time, “before he took a swing at you, did you get a good look at him?”

Stevie shook her head. “Not really. I had just stepped into the office when he came at me. It was only a split second.”

“So how would you describe him, then?”

“I really can’t be sure. He was tall, over six feet, I’d guess. Average build. Dark hair, dark eyes.”

“And you say there was blood on his hands?”

“Yes. On his gloves.”

“But nothing else? Do you remember any distinguishing features?”

Again Stevie shook her head. She’d racked her brains, sifting through the hazy and disjointed memories of that night, but the only image she’d been able to conjure up of the man was based on that one instant when she’d stepped into the office and seen him about to swing the fire extinguisher at her.

Dr. Sterling had tried to assure Stevie that, given time, further memory of that night could return. She was likely experiencing a type of selective amnesia—blocking out certain details of the attack that were too frightening for her to deal with—and she might never recall every second of that night.

“No, Detective, I can’t remember any distinguishing features.”

“Ms. Falcioni, do you think you got a good enough look at this guy that you might be able to, say, pick him out of a lineup?”

Stevie let out a short laugh, a combination of wry amusement and resentment curling the corners of her lips as she shook her head. “Under the circumstances, Detective, I think I’d have to say no to the lineup.”

“What I mean is—” he stumbled with his words “—perhaps, when your sight returns, do you think you might be able to?”

“If my sight returns, yes, maybe I’d be able to ID him for

you. But I can’t make any promises.”

“Fine. That’s all I’m asking. And in the meantime, you might remember something else about this man.”

Stevie heard the detective moving around the room. She tried to follow his path by the sound of his tread and the soft rustle of paper as he leafed through his notebook. But when he finally spoke again, his voice came from the far left, instead of in front of her where she’d expected him to be. Stevie shifted uneasily in the chair and massaged her temple. The painkiller was wearing off.

“The man who brought you in the other night,” Devane was saying, “he told the attending physician that you fell. Do you remember falling?”

“Like I said before, Detective, all I remember is running along the catwalk away from Gary’s office.”

“So this man, he was chasing you?”

“Yes.” Impatience and exhaustion sharpened her tone. How many times would she have to answer the same questions? “Yes, I’d assume he was chasing me. And then…I think he grabbed me. That’s it. I can’t tell you if he hit me, or I fell, or what happened. I’m sorry. I just can’t remember.”

“And what about Mr. Palmer? You were at the warehouse for a few hours earlier in the day, doing a photo shoot, right?”

“Yes. Both Paige and I and our hired crew.”

“Did you speak with Mr. Palmer then?”

“Yes, a couple of times.”

“And did he seem out of sorts at all?”

Throughout the night as Stevie had lain awake, wishing for sleep, she’d thought a lot about Gary and the last time she’d spoken to him. She remembered how, shortly after the Nikon jammed, Gary had come out of his office. He’d crossed the loading area to where she worked and told her that he was going out for a bit, that if anyone needed him he’d be back in twenty minutes. He had seemed “out of sorts.” Preoccupied, almost nervous. And when he headed to the side door, Stevie noticed how he’d glanced over his shoulder a couple of times.

“Was there anything unusual about his behavior, Ms. Falcioni?”

Stevie nodded, recalling how later she’d gone up to see Gary. “When I stopped in his office after the shoot was done, he practically jumped out of his skin. I asked if there was anything wrong, but he said he was just tired.”

She could still picture how his exhausted smile had done little to mask his obvious anxiety. “But looking back now, I don’t know, it almost seemed as though Gary had known something was going to happen.”

“And did you talk about anything that last time you saw Mr. Palmer?”

“No, not really,” she replied. “I think I suggested he take a holiday or something.”

“And what was his response?”

“He said he couldn’t leave the business, that there was too much going on. And then I suggested he get Allister to handle things for a while.”

“So you know Allister Quaid?”

Stevie shook her head. “No, not personally. I know of him through Gary, that’s all. I know they were friends since childhood and that he’s been helping out with the company for the past few months. But I haven’t met him.”

There was a long lull. Paige, apparently recognizing Stevie’s fatigue, placed one hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle rub. Stevie wondered if Paige made some sort of gesture to the detectives, because Devane suddenly cleared his throat and said, “Well, Ms. Falcioni, thank you for your time. Here’s my card. I guess your friend here can…” He didn’t bother to finish. “If you remember anything else, any other details, you’ll be sure to call me?”

Stevie reached out and accepted the card that Devane slipped into her hand. She fingered the embossed surface.

“I will, Detective.”

“Very good.”

She heard them walk to the door, heard it swing open to the clamor of the corridor, and then there was Devane’s voice again.

“One more thing, Ms. Falcioni. About Mr. Palmer…did he by chance give you anything? A package perhaps?”

“A package?”

“Yeah. Or maybe an envelope? For safekeeping?”

“No, Detective.” Stevie shook her head, puzzled by this shift in Devane’s questioning. “Gary didn’t give me anything. Does this have something to do with his death?”

“No, probably not. It’s just that with Mr. Palmer’s office being ransacked and then the break-in of your studio later that night…well, it’s probably just coincidence, you know? I was only wondering. Thanks again for your time, Ms. Falcioni. We’ll be in touch.”

As the door swung lazily in its frame, Stevie wondered if her expression reflected her confusion at Detective Devane’s parting question. A package? Safekeeping? Was there some connection between Gary’s murder and the studio break-in, after all?

And for the first time, Stevie realized how distant she and Gary had become. What had he been into? What was Devane looking for? And was it the reason Gary had been killed?

CHAPTER FOUR

ALLISTER HAD GIVEN Mrs. Dorsey the day off. Out of all the Palmer Shipping employees, Gary’s secretary had taken the news the hardest. Even five days after Gary’s murder, the staff still seemed to be functioning in a state of shock and disbelief. And with many of them planning to attend Gary’s funeral this afternoon, Allister had let most of them go for the day, leaving only a skeleton staff.

From behind the secretary’s cluttered desk, Allister glanced up at the wall clock and watched the steady sweep of the second hand. He needn’t have looked to know that it was almost one. After four years of measuring time, four years of counting each minute, each second until the day he’d walked away from that prison cell, Allister had developed an inner clock that rarely failed him.

Absently he drummed a chewed ballpoint against the edge of the desk. In one hour he’d be standing at the podium next to Gary’s closed casket delivering the eulogy, gazing out at the faces of friends and family, faces torn by disbelief and shock, begging for an explanation for the violence that had touched all their lives.

Faces like Stevie Falcioni’s.

Allister could still feel twinges of the remorse that had flooded him three nights ago when Barb had called to give him the news. She’d just received word from the hospital, from Stevie’s friend Paige Carpenter. Stevie had regained consciousness. But even before the implication of this news hit home, Allister had been shocked to learn of her condition.

Blind.

Temporarily blind was what Barb said the doctors were hoping. But Stevie’s friend had implied that there might not be a change for days or even weeks.

And then this morning, when he’d gone to the house for Barb’s signature on several forms, finalizing the transfer of signing authority on the company’s accounts to him, Barb had been visibly distressed by more than the impending funeral.

“They don’t know anything yet, Allister,” she’d told him, her hand shaking while she systematically signed each form. “I phoned Stevie yesterday afternoon. She’s home from the hospital at least, and her friend Paige is staying with her, but she’s… My God, Allister, I just don’t know what to say to her. I mean, she’s blind. What do you…what do you say to someone who…”

“I don’t know, Barb.”

“It’s just not fair, Al. She’s always been so full of life, so happy, so energetic. And her photography. God, it’s her life. I just can’t imagine what she’s going through. What she’s going to do now that—”

“But you said they thought it was temporary.”

Barb shook her head. “They can’t tell yet. Stevie said it could still be a couple of weeks before they know if she will ever regain her vision.”

A couple of weeks. Allister wondered if that would be enough time to find Bainbridge’s coins, enough time to find even a shred of evidence against the antiquities collector that would clear Allister of any suspicion. In a couple of weeks, when—if—Stevie’s sight returned, it could be only a matter of time before she identified him as the man who’d attacked her. The man she undoubtedly believed to be Gary’s killer. After that, there’d be no hope of proving his innocence—either to her or to the authorities.

Yet Allister knew that somehow, in some way, Stevie held the key. Gary wouldn’t have mentioned her otherwise. She was inextricably bound up in Bainbridge’s deal, whether she knew it or not.

Or maybe she’d been in on Gary’s scheme from the start. Maybe she even had the coins.

Allister had already inspected the shipping bin he’d come to check the night of Gary’s murder. Of course it was empty. He’d spent several hours over the past couple of days searching all the likely places Gary might have stashed the shipment. Still nothing. Apart from going through Gary’s office, which had been secured and taped off by the police, there was nowhere else to look. Surely Gary wouldn’t have taken Bainbridge’s package to his home. Even Bainbridge must have known Gary wasn’t that foolish, otherwise the house would already have been ransacked, just like the office.

Then there was the box that Mrs. Dorsey had mentioned the other day—a large box, she’d told him, with some of Gary’s office things that the police had taken with them the morning after the murder. But if the coins had been among those belongings, there would have been word of their recovery by now in the local paper.

No, the coins were still out there. Somewhere. And it was only a matter of time before Bainbridge started to get really antsy—and, with any luck, even careless.

In the silence of the office, Allister withdrew a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and unfolded it. Gary’s eulogy. His last words for a friend he thought he’d known. A friend who’d quite literally taken his life in his hands when he’d agreed to do business with Edward Bainbridge.

When he got up from the desk, Allister heard someone call his name. He left the office and headed to the catwalk overlooking the loading bay.

One of the workers below gave Allister a quick wave. Beside him was Detective Devane. “Mr. Quaid, someone here to see you,” the worker said before nodding in the direction of the stairs for the detective.

Allister watched Devane take the steps two at a time and follow the catwalk to where he stood at the railing. Already Allister could feel cords of tension tighten along the back of his neck.

“Good afternoon, Detective.”

“Mr. Quaid.” Devane nodded.

“I hope this won’t take long,” Allister said flatly as he headed back into the office, the burly detective on his heels. “I was on my way out. I have a funeral to attend.”

“Shouldn’t take more than a minute, Mr. Quaid. I just need you to listen to something for me.”

Allister turned as Devane drew a microcassette recorder from his coat pocket. With one fleshy thumb the detective jabbed the play button and set the compact recorder on the desk. The hiss of the tape sliced through the room’s silence. Devane crossed his arms over his broad chest and watched Allister.

Allister focused on the small black recorder. The tape crackled a few times and then he heard Gary’s muffled voice.

“It’s me,” Gary said through the hiss. “We’ve got to talk.”

“About what?” another voice asked, more distant, rather fuzzy, as though it came through some cheap portable phone. “You told me everything was taken care of.”

Bainbridge. If Gary hadn’t told him about Bainbridge and the coins, Allister would never have recognized the voice.

“Not quite,” Gary answered. “We’ve got a couple loose ends.”

“How the hell can there be loose ends? What are you talking about, Palmer? I thought you said the shipment was going out today. What is it? Customs?”

“No. Not customs.”

“What then?”

“It’s a matter of the shipment’s contents. I…I don’t make a habit of shipping stolen goods.”

There was scuffling noise then, as though one of them had covered the mouthpiece of the phone, and then more hissing.

“But I think we can come to some sort of arrangement. Perhaps we should talk.”

“Damn right we need to talk, Palmer. I thought we had a deal. If you think you can—”

“I just want to talk, that’s it.”

“I’ll send Vince.”

“No, I want—” But Gary’s last words were swallowed by a dial tone.

Devane reached for the recorder and turned it off. When Allister looked up, the detective’s expression was something between expectation and challenge.

“So, Mr. Quaid, what do you know about stolen goods being shipped out of this warehouse?”

Allister shook his head. “Absolutely nothing.”

Devane’s skepticism lifted his thick brows. “Nothing, hmm?”

“No.”

“We found this tape in Gary Palmer’s office, along with a telephone recording device. You know anything about that?”

“No.” Allister didn’t have to lie.

“Do you know anyone named Vince?”

“No.”

“Seems to me your friend was in over his head. Looks like maybe he was dabbling in a bit of blackmail, wouldn’t you say?”

“Why don’t you tell me? You’re the detective.”

Devane returned the recorder to his pocket and started to pace the small office. “Even more interesting, we found these in Mr. Palmer’s desk.” He withdrew several photocopied newspaper clippings and tossed them onto Mrs. Dorsey’s desktop.

“Mean anything to you, Mr. Quaid?”

Allister glanced at the articles, but he didn’t need to. He knew what they were—stories from seven months ago announcing the theft of a collection of rare Spanish coins from a traveling exhibit, which had stopped at the Danby Museum.

Dammit, Gary, Allister thought, clenching his jaw, what the hell were you thinking? What did you get yourself into?

“Mr. Quaid?”

Allister nodded. “Yes, I heard about the robbery.”

“Pretty big heist,” Devane continued, retrieving the photocopies from the desk. “Happened last May. That’d be what? Five, six weeks after your release?”

“If you’ve got something to say, Detective.”

Devane waved his hand dismissively. “Just thinking out loud,” he said. “And what was that you were serving time for again, Mr. Quaid? Grand theft, wasn’t it? Something to do with stolen gems, if I remember correctly.”

Devane stopped pacing and turned to look squarely at Allister, sizing him up. If the detective was hoping he would lash out, trip up somehow, he was going to be disappointed, Allister thought, clenching his fists in the pockets of his jacket.

“But they never did recover the rest of those gems, did they? Just the ones from your car, am I right? You still claiming you didn’t do it?”

Allister refused to respond. But Devane seemed undaunted.

“And what was that? Four, five years ago? Gosh, seems like only yesterday, and here you are, out on the streets again. Gotta love our justice system, huh?”

“Listen, Detective, if I’m a suspect, why don’t you come right out and say it. In fact, why don’t you go and get a warrant, and then you and your men can go over to my apartment and search it like you did the last time.”

“Actually, Mr. Quaid, it would be a lot easier if you just told me where the coins are.”

Allister shook his head. “And I suppose next you’ll be accusing me of killing Gary, right?”

Devane gave a shrug, but it was the accompanying sneer that grated on Allister’s patience.

“Are you finished, Detective?” he asked, swallowing his anger. “Like I said before, I have to bury a friend today.”

STEVIE SHIFTED on the hard wooden chair. Sliding one hand along her thigh, she felt for the hem of her dress, making sure it was in place as she crossed her legs. Next to her, Paige must have sensed her restlessness. She laid her hand over Stevie’s.

“How are you doing?” she whispered.

Stevie nodded and offered a quick smile to reassure her. But the truth was, she couldn’t remember if she’d ever felt as uncomfortable as she did right now.

Arriving a few minutes late had given Stevie the perfect excuse for taking a back-row seat, closer to the door in case she started to feel sick again from the painkillers, and out of sight of the rest of the mourners. When they’d sat down initially, Stevie had caught snippets of the whispered conversations—words of grief, murmurs of comfort. But without a visual context of who was speaking, that was all they were to Stevie—disjointed voices reeling dizzyingly around her.

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