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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 (#ulink_98e9ffca-e9fb-598c-907f-b0f611c88185)
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.”
