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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 (#ulink_bf4b9813-b285-52fb-8588-b3858fb32088)
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.”
