by Morgan Hayes
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.
She wanted to be home in the security of her apartment over the studio. She felt exposed here, completely vulnerable, naked in the eyes of people she could not see.
No, she would just as soon have stayed in bed, with Puccini blaring on the stereo, until Saturday, until her appointment with Dr. Sterling.
But Paige hadn’t let her.
Within minutes of returning home from the hospital three days ago, Paige had tossed Stevie’s bag in the corner and guided her through both the studio and the apartment. She’d cleaned the night before, she warned Stevie. She’d straightened the frightful mess that Stevie’s apartment tended to fall prey to whenever contracts piled up and had proudly shown her how she’d organized the place, so Stevie would be less apt to trip over things.
After that, Stevie had spent a good two hours on the phone to Chicago assuring her brothers and sister that she was fine. If it hadn’t been for Paige staying with her, Stevie was certain the entire Falcioni family, aunt and uncle and cousins included, would have been on her doorstep within hours wanting to cater to her every need. Instead, she’d been able to find comfort in her own surroundings with just her good friend around.
Paige knew Stevie well enough to recognize when she needed to be alone and when she was on the verge of wallowing in self-pity. And it was at those moments that Paige had been her savior. She’d put Stevie to work in the studio, rolling film and helping out with other tasks that required darkness. Even yesterday Paige sat her down with the jammed Nikon so that Stevie could salvage the film from the broken camera.
Yes, Paige had been more than a friend through this. She’d been a saint.
Stevie gave her friend’s hand a gentle squeeze now, appreciative of her presence. She couldn’t have come here without Paige. She couldn’t have attended Gary’s funeral. And, as uncomfortable as she was, if Paige hadn’t dragged her here today, Stevie would later have regretted not coming.
Stevie heard a man clear his throat near a mike at the front of the room.
“Seems like I’ve known Gary all my life,” she heard him begin, his deep fluid voice catching only slightly. He paused, took a breath and then went on. “In fact, I don’t remember much before the day his family moved into the house across the street on Birch, and this cocky freckle-faced kid walked right up to me and introduced himself. ‘We’re gonna be best friends, you and me, Al,’ he’d told me. And I believed him. I mean, I didn’t even know this kid, but I be lieved him. Gary always was so sure of himself even back then…”
So this was Allister Quaid, Gary’s best friend. After years of hearing about him, this was the closest Stevie had come to actually meeting the man.
His voice reached out across the congregation, its soothing and heartfelt tone touching Stevie in a way she hadn’t thought possible, stirring her own memories of Gary and bringing a painful lump to her throat.
He spoke of their childhood together, shared exploits and conquests, followed by humorous and fond anecdotes. He spoke of Gary the friend, Gary the loving husband to Barb, and Gary the person they’d all known. And throughout, Stevie tried to envision the man behind the voice.
In spite of his closeness to Gary, Stevie couldn’t remember if she’d even seen a picture of Allister Quaid in all those years. She imagined him tall. And she imagined him dark. But most of all, she imagined warm sincere eyes as she listened to him speak so lovingly of their mutual friend.
“…and I think I speak for everyone here today, for everyone who had the good fortune of knowing Gary, when I say that he will be greatly missed among us. His loss is truly tragic, and we are all lesser people in his absence.”
WHEN ALLISTER STEPPED back from the podium and returned the folded sheet of paper to his pocket, a somber hush hung over the congregation. At last, though, the service was finished, and people rose from their seats, many of them stopping to murmur words of condolence to Barb.
Allister stayed with her, his hand resting on the small of her back, lending her support as she thanked Gary’s friends for their attendance. But Allister’s attention was elsewhere.
From the podium minutes ago, he thought he’d seen Stevie Falcioni seated near the back, but now as he scanned the room, the only face that caught his attention was Detective Devane’s. He saw the man scowl and slip out the door. He’d been right behind Allister on his way to the funeral home, and judging by the scowl, Allister could only assume that Devane hadn’t seen anything during the service that resembled a possible lead.
It was then, as Allister resigned himself to the fact that Stevie must have already left, that he saw her at the side of the room. In one heart-stopping moment, an unexpected flood of memories from that night came hammering backhow he’d lifted her unconscious body from the catwalk and carried her to his car, how he’d held her in his arms, her head resting against his chest, and how he’d smelled her perfume on his own skin even after he’d fled the hospital.
Today she wore a short form-fitting black dress that emphasized her gentle curves. She was striking, with her olive complexion and sleek chin-length black hair. Standing next to her, with one hand on Stevie’s arm, was a taller faircomplexioned woman with a long mop of tight orange curls.
He watched them for a moment, but it wasn’t until the woman at Stevie’s side whispered something to her and proceeded to guide her toward the front that Allister felt the sickening swell of remorse twist up from his gut.
He had to get out of here somehow, before Stevie reached Barb to offer her condolences.
“Allister?”
It was Barb. She looked up at him, her pale blue eyes glistening slightly, her expression drawn with exhaustion.
“Thank you for the eulogy, Al. It was beautiful. And thanks for not…for not mentioning the divorce.”
He nodded.
“And thank you for everything else. Taking care of the business and the funeral arrangements. I…I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Barb, you don’t need to thank me, you know that.”
They were drawing nearer, Stevie and the other woman, skirting the perimeter of the room. Allister doubted that Barb had seen them yet, but they were only seconds away now.
He tried to reason with himself. Stevie Falcioni was blind. There was no way she could recognize him. He had to relax.
Still…
“Listen, Barb, I have to go out for a minute,” he said, taking a step back. “I won’t be long.”
“Oh, wait, Allister.”
He was too late.
“There’s Stevie. Just let me introduce you.”
There was nothing he could do but stand and watch as Barb threw her arms around Stevie and hugged her. Heartfelt whispers passed between the two women, and when Barb drew away, Allister saw her dab at her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Stevie,” Barb said. “I just… Do the doctors know anything else? Do they know when…”
Stevie shook her head, and Allister noted how forced her fleeting smile was. But it was her eyes that sent another nauseating wave of guilt crashing through him. Wide, almost black, beneath dark brows. Eyes that no doubt were normally bright and alert, but now were eerily unfocused. In them he saw fear and uncertainty—an uncertainty, he was sure, that reached far beyond her immediate surroundings and situation.
“Is there anything you need, Stevie?” Allister marveled at Barb’s ability to turn her own sorrow and loss into
compassion. “Anything I can do?”
“No, Barb, really. But thank you.”
Her voice. Allister swallowed hard. He’d been so close to her the other night, memorized almost every line and every angle of her face, and yet he hadn’t heard her voice. Now its soft tone cut like a knife through his chest.
“Paige is taking good care of me,” she said. “So you’re returning to Baltimore with your family, then?”
Barb nodded. “The day after tomorrow. I’ll be back in Danby at some point to pack up the house and finalize things before I move there. In the meantime, Allister is going to take care of the business for me. I don’t think you two have ever actually met, have you?” she asked, turning to Allister.
“NO. NO, I DON’T BELIEVE we have met,” the man replied. For Stevie there was no mistaking the smooth male voice that had delivered Gary’s eulogy.
As Barb made the requisite introductions, Stevie turned in the direction of the voice. She hoped her guess was good. When she extended her hand in greeting, she was relieved when it was enclosed in warm flesh.
His hand was large, his grasp firm and instantly reassuring. And for a moment, Stevie wondered if it was just her imagination that the handshake was lasting longer than a customary greeting warranted.
“It’s great to finally meet you, Allister,” she said, her hand still lost in his. “After hearing Gary sing your praises all these years and never meeting you, well, I was starting to believe you were some imaginary friend left over from his childhood.”
She heard a quick exhalation of breath and guessed that she’d managed to elicit a smile from the man. He finally released her hand.
“It was a beautiful eulogy,” she added in the brief silence that fell between them.
“I was just commenting on that myself,” Barb added. “Gary would have liked it.”
“I’m glad you think so,” he said. There was something in his voice, a hesitancy, a slight awkwardness, that made Stevie suspect her blindness made him nervous.
“Oh, Stevie,” Barb said, “you mentioned something about needing to use the warehouse again. With me out of town, maybe you should make arrangements with Allister.”
“Gary told me about your photo shoot,” Allister put in. “It must have gone well if you’re wanting to use the warehouse for another.”
“Actually, it’s the same shoot,” she explained. “Seems we’re going to have to redo it.” But even as Stevie said the words, she couldn’t help thinking it could very well be Paige who’d be doing the reshooting, not her.
“Why?” he asked. “The pictures didn’t turn out?”
“Oh, I’m sure they were fine.” She sighed. “It’s just that we don’t exactly have them anymore.”
“Our studio was broken into a couple nights ago,” Paige explained.
Allister didn’t respond to that, and in the awkward silence that fell, Stevie felt obliged to clarify.
“It wasn’t too bad, really. We’re insured. It’s just that the cameras that were stolen were the ones we’d used for the shoot at the warehouse, so we’ve lost all the film.”
“When did this happen?”
“The day after…I mean, Saturday sometime,” Stevie said.
Allister watched Stevie bite her bottom lip, and another flood of guilt forced him to look away from her, as images from that night shuddered through his mind again.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he offered, his words sounding weak. “Of course you’re welcome to use the warehouse whenever you need.”
“Thank you.” She combed her fingers back through her luxuriant jet black hair and seemed to search for Paige’s arm. Her friend was quick to respond, but not quick enough.
Whether it was a lack of balance caused by her blindness or perhaps fatigue from the past few days, Stevie faltered as she turned. In a flash, Allister was at her side. With one arm around her small waist and the other catching her hand, he felt her familiar weight sag momentarily against his chest. A combination of surprise and relief washed across her face, and her grip tightened on his arm as she steadied herself.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her lips trembling into a smile.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “I’ve got you.”
“I…I get a little dizzy sometimes. Not sure if it’s the painkillers or just…”
Or just that she was blind, Allister thought when it was obvious Stevie couldn’t bring herself to finish the statement. Her hand lingered on his arm a moment longer before he guided her to Paige, and as he did he caught the faint yet familiar scent of her perfume.
“We should probably get going,” Paige suggested.
Stevie seemed to withdraw suddenly, as though embarrassed by her momentary weakness and her dependency on her friend, and Paige handled the goodbyes. Stevie murmured some parting words to Barb, followed by something about being glad to have finally met Allister, and then they moved away. He watched the pair weave their way carefully through the remaining mourners who waited to extend theircondolences to Barb.
Allister felt sick seeing Stevie’s utter helplessness and knowing he was the cause. That proud tilt of her head, that air of fierce independence, made him realize that Stevie Falcioni was not the type of person who took well to relying on others.
Still, he couldn’t ignore one crucial fact—her blindness, the condition that brought such an acrid taste of remorse to his mouth, was the one guarantee that Stevie Falcioni could not place him at Gary’s warehouse the night of the murder. Her blindness, which was a dreadful curse to her, was now almost a blessing to him.
“And on top of everything else, to have her studio broken into,” Barb was saying as she followed his gaze.
Allister nodded.
The break-in. Could he really believe that it was just coincidence? Could he believe that Bainbridge had nothing to do with it? That the man didn’t suspect a connection between Gary and Stevie?
If it wasn’t coincidence, it could mean only one thing. Someone, whether Bainbridge or not, somehow recognized the possibility that Stevie was linked to Gary and the coins. And if indeed Stevie was the key to the missing shipment, then she was the one person who could help Allister recover the coins and prove Bainbridge’s corruption once and for all. Unless, of course, Stevie Falcioni knew far more than she was letting on. There was a possibility that Stevie knew all about the coins and Gary’s involvement with Bainbridge. And maybe she even had the coins herself; maybe she had her own agenda.
If that was the case, Allister could only wonder whether Stevie realized the dangerous game she was playing.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don’t have them yet?” Edward Bainbridge stood with his cordless phone at the patio doors and looked out at the slate gray sky. His last words had sent a shower of spittle against the glass. He didn’t wipe it off. “Dammit, Fenton, what the hell’s taking so long? I’ve got a buyer waiting in—”
“Hey, I’ll get them,” Vince Fenton said. “Just let me do my job, all right? I know what I’m doing. Man, you really gotta relax.”
“Relax? I’m not paying you to be my therapist, Fenton, you hear me? This has gone on too long now.”
“Look, I don’t need this aggro, okay? I got shit of my own to take care of, too, you know.”
“Not while you’re on my payroll, you don’t.”
Fenton didn’t respond. In the silence over the line, Edward Bainbridge realized that no matter whose payroll Fenton was on, the man was not about to make a move on the coins until it suited him.
“So what the hell’s happening with Quaid?” he asked Fenton now. “Does he have them or not?”
“Yeah, he’s got them. I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure yet where he’s got them. You don’t want me moving in on Quaid before I know where the coins are, do you?”
Right. Another Gary Palmer. That was all he needed. If it hadn’t been for Fenton’s overzealous nature to begin with, he’d never be in this mess now. The coins would be in his buyer’s hands overseas, and he’
d already have collected the prearranged sum.
“Look, Fenton, I just want my stuff, okay? I don’t care what you have to do to Quaid to get it. Remember our deal. Until I see that shipment, you don’t see the final instalment of your fee.”
Even across the bad connection he could hear Fenton’s sharp intake of breath. He should have never hired him. The ex-con had too quick a temper, too great a liking for violence.
God help anyone who got in the man’s way.
God help Allister Quaid, Bainbridge thought, as he hung up the phone.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHIRLWINDS OF SNOW danced along the empty street, shimmering momentarily in the headlights of the Explorer before being whisked off into the darkness. It had snowed most of the day, light crystalline flakes that accumulated along the banks formed by the plows after that first storm six days ago.
Allister pulled the vehicle to a stop, killed the headlights and turned off the ignition. Across the street, the squat twostory converted warehouse appeared vacant. Its facade, illuminated by three covered bulbs mounted over the Images Studio sign, had been stuccoed and painted an unusual shade of apricot that reminded him of a New Mexico desert. In the heat of a Danby summer, Allister didn’t doubt that the color had its appeal, but tonight, with the mercury dipping to a frigid nine degrees, it seemed decidedly at odds with its surroundings.
A second Images sign was mounted in one of the two wide windows that flanked the double doors. This one was in soft pink neon letters that swirled in a graceful arc over a pale blue slash. But the neon sign was the only discernible light from within the studio where Barb said Stevie had her apartment.
Allister angled his wrist to catch the light of a street lamp. Just after nine. Perhaps he should have called first. But then, he hadn’t wanted to make his visit seem like anything other than a casual coincidence.
“I was just in the area,” he planned to tell Stevie when he handed her the light meter he’d found at the warehouse this morning. Obviously the piece of equipment was not irreplaceable, otherwise she would have made arrangements to retrieve it by now. And had he called first, Allister was certain she wouldn’t have wanted him to come all the way across the city to return it.