See No Evil

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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.