Читать книгу See No Evil - Morgan Hayes - Страница 10

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?