Читать книгу See No Evil - Morgan Hayes - Страница 8

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.