See No Evil

by Morgan Hayes

  AS STEVIE FOLLOWED him through the apartment and down the stairs, she found herself disappointed that Allister was leaving so soon. She tried to convince herself that her disappointment had to do with Gary; that somehow, because of Allister’s link to her friend, Gary didn’t seem quite so gone from her life with Allister around. But she suspected there was more to it than that.

  “It was nice of you to stop by, Allister,” she told him once they’d reached the front hall. “I hope this isn’t just a onetime occurrence, your ‘being in the area.’“

  “No, I don’t think it is,” he said after a moment’s pause, during which Stevie tried to conjure up the smile she heard in his voice.

  “I appreciate your concern, Allister. Really I do. Coming down here and all. But I have to ask you something-and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but why do I get the feeling there’s more behind your visit than returning my light meter?”

  His silence was unsettling, and Stevie regretted her bluntness. It was a trait of hers that often took people by surprise, and now it made her sound ungrateful, which was far from the truth.

  “What I mean is,” she tried to explain, “well, this isn’t just about my using the warehouse again or about checking up on Gary’s blind friend, is it?”

  She was relieved when he finally did speak.

  “No, Stevie,” he admitted. “No, you’re right. I wanted to ask you something. About Gary.”

  “So ask.”

  Another pause. Obviously it was not something that Allister found easy to discuss.

  “It’s about his death. I don’t. I don’t believe it was the result of some random burglary like the police are saying.”

  “I kind of figured it wasn’t, either.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The police. A detective—Devane—has been asking me questions. A lot about Gary.”

  “I think Gary was in trouble.” There was a reluctance in Allister’s voice. “I think he was into something, and he was in too deep.”

  “You mean drugs? Money? What?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But…listen, Gary didn’t…he didn’t give you anything, did he? A package, maybe, to hang on to for him?”

  It was the same question Devane had asked at the hospital. He, too, had wanted to know whether Gary had given her anything before his murder.

  “No.” Stevie shook her head and hoped her surprise at the question wasn’t apparent. “No, Gary didn’t give me anything. Do you think—”

  “Forget it, Stevie. It’s probably nothing. Listen, I should go. Thanks for the coffee. I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better.”

  She felt his hand on her shoulder then, and in spite of his evident awkwardness, his touch felt sincere.

  “Take care of yourself, Stevie. I’ll…I’ll stop by again?”

  “Sure, Allister. That would be great. And thanks for dropping off the light meter.”

  “Good night, Stevie.”

  The door swung open to a blast of frigid air, and she heard the high-pitched squeak of his boots on the packed snow covering the walk.

  But even as she closed the door, Stevie could still hear Allister’s voice in her mind. When he’d said good-night, oddly, she’d thought about radio announcers, how you always created a mental image of what they looked like and then were shocked to discover how different they were from those expectations.

  Paige had been extremely brief and not very helpful in her description of Allister after the funeral. “Tall, dark and handsome,” was all she’d said. But it was Allister’s voicedeep and soothing and seductively familiar—that had a way of making Stevie’s imagination run rampant, she thought now as her hand lingered on the door handle.

  IT TOOK TWENTY MINUTES to drive from Stevie’s apartment to his own building, during which time Allister had not been able to let go of thoughts of Stevie—or the guilt he felt about lying to her. But it wasn’t just guilt that had made him leave her so abruptly. Nor was it that Stevie was the one person who could put him at the warehouse the night of Gary’s murder, the person who could essentially send him back to the very place he’d lost four years of his life to.

  More than those, it was his unexpected attraction to her that had driven him from Stevie’s tonight.

  Yes, somehow she held the answer, and he should have questioned her further when she’d walked him to her door. But he hadn’t been able to go through with it—partly because of the close quarters of the front hall and his overwhelming desire to hold her in his arms again, to confess his role in her blindness and beg her forgiveness.

  Fortunately, reason had won out.

  Reason—and experience.

  People were unpredictable. He’d learned that the hard way. And Stevie could not be considered an exception to that rule. He’d trusted people before. He’d told the truth before. Both had gotten him a four-year prison term. Not even Michelle had believed him—the one person whose trust he’d thought he could count on.

  That moment when Michelle had been unable to look him in the eye, when she’d handed him back the engagement ring, she had not only shattered his ideas of trust, but she’d also taught him the hard lesson of conditional love. And Allister had sworn never again to count on or trust anyone. Now that had to include Stevie. He couldn’t tell her the truth about what happened at the warehouse last week. There was no way of knowing how she would react if he did.

  As he steered the Explorer onto Cardinal Drive, Allister checked his rearview mirror. He’d noticed a car a couple of blocks from Stevie’s that had seemed to be following him. It was still there, its headlights shimmering through the glittering veil of snow a block back.

  When Allister drew up to his building, he saw the other driver flip off the headlights and pull the car to the curb. From this distance, there was no hope of discerning the type of vehicle it was, other than a dark sedan. And there was certainly no hope in making out the driver. Still, Allister had a pretty good idea it could be only one of two people—Detective Devane or Bainbridge’s hired man, for surely the collector would have employed someone to do his dirty work.

  Either way, Allister was grateful for the security entrance of his apartment building. Then again, he thought as he pulled into the parking garage, how secure was any building from someone as ruthless as Gary’s killer?

  STEVIE YANKED the cushions from the couch and ran her fingers behind the seat. The stereo’s remote control wasn’t to be found. Maybe Paige had hidden it because of the hours of opera Stevie had listened to.

  Stevie replaced the cushions and straightened. She shook her head and smiled. She couldn’t really blame Paige. Paige hated Puccini.

  Initially Stevie had hoped that playing her father’s favorite opera would take her mind off her blindness and the murder of her friend. But it hadn’t.

  Then there was Allister Quaid and his surprising visit last night. She’d tried to convince herself that it had to do with their mutual connection to, and loss of, Gary. But there was more to it than that, and more to it than the way Allister’s presence consoled her or his voice enticed her.

  It was Allister’s parting question that kept running through her head. Like Detective Devane, he’d asked if Gary had given her anything for safekeeping. There was something neither Devane nor Allister was telling her about Gary, something that obviously had to do with his death.

  It had bothered Stevie so much throughout the day in fact, that several times she’d wanted to call the warehouse and ask Allister exactly what it was he expected Gary had given her.

  But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d surrendered to Paige’s insistence that she help out around the studio: developing negatives after Paige set out all the premeasured chemicals, rolling film and whatever else would normally have been done in the darkroom with no more than the red light.

  The paces Paige put her through today were nothing more than a diversion tactic, Stevie thought now as she redirected her search to the coffee table. Tomorrow was Saturday—her follow-up
appointment with Dr. Sterling—and clearly Paige had hoped to keep Stevie’s mind off it.

  The tactic had worked, until of course this evening when Paige had pronounced the cupboards bare and had headed out on a quick grocery run. That had to have been less than fifteen minutes ago, and already Stevie’s thoughts were darkening with worries of tomorrow’s appointment. What if the news wasn’t good? What if Dr. Sterling had gotten another opinion on the scans and told her that, contrary to the sliver of hope he’d given her before, there was no possibility of her sight ever returning?

  For almost a week now, Stevie had put up a front for Paige, and yes, a front even for herself. She’d pretended to believe that her condition was only temporary, pretended to have faith that, when the swelling finally went down, she’d be able to see perfectly. And sometimes, just sometimes, the pretending almost convinced her.

  Each morning, when Stevie opened her eyes after yet another night filled with bad dreams and horrifying images of Gary and the man who had attacked her, she prayed she would open her eyes and see again. But each morning she was greeted only by darkness.

  Too often lately, Stevie had allowed herself to lapse into speculation of the future, of the possibility of being blind for the rest of her life. Usually those times were in the middle of the night, when Paige was asleep out on the sofa bed, when her friend wouldn’t see her tears.

  Times like now, Stevie thought as she swiped at the moisture that had gathered beneath her eyes.

  She couldn’t think like this. Paige would be home soon. She needed a distraction.

  Finding the remote at last on one of the side tables, Stevie was feeling for the on button when she heard a crash downstairs. Her heart skipped and she let out a gasp.

  It was far too soon for Paige to be back.

  Tiny had been sleeping at the end of the couch. He’d been contentedly minding his own business when she’d begun her search for the remote, tossing pillows and shoving cushions. But when she reached for the cat now, he was gone. Her fingers found only the warm spot where he’d been.

  That had to be it, she convinced herself. Tiny, the obese but brilliant feline, had finally come to realize that he could take advantage of Stevie’s situation in Paige’s absence. He’d probably trundled off downstairs to wreak havoc on the studio as retribution for being disturbed. She was about to yell out a warning to the cat when she heard a second crash.

  There was no telling exactly what had caused the resounding thud this time, but Stevie was certain it had come from the office. It sounded like the supply cabinets.

  That was not Tiny.

  The next crash convinced her—someone was in the studio.

  Stevie should have felt fear, but instead she felt angeranger at the violation. Not one, but two break-ins?

  She had to do something. Whoever it was down in the studio could decide to come upstairs. And standing here in the middle of her apartment completely defenseless was not where she wanted to be when that happened.

  The phone.

  She had to get to the phone. Call the police. Hadn’t Paige programmed Detective Devane’s number into the memory keys on the bedroom phone the day she came home from the hospital?

  The only trick was getting to the bedroom without alerting the intruder.

  It was when Stevie turned, almost tripping over a stray pillow on the floor, that the first wave of panic hit her. She was defenseless, a concept she hadn’t fully comprehended until now.

  Her hands shook as she groped her way from the couch toward the hall. And with each shuffling step Stevie prayed that Tiny was not in her way, that she wouldn’t topple one of the floor lamps or bump into anything that would draw the intruder’s attention.

  She wouldn’t stand a chance in hell if he came upstairs. She understood that now. How could she fight off an assailant she couldn’t even see?

  When she reached the hall, she fumbled for the light switches and pushed them off. Darkness was her only defense.

  Steadily she worked her way down the hall. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought she heard footsteps in the main studio area.

  She had to keep moving.

  And then, when she stepped on the one and only squeaky board in the entire corridor, Stevie thought the world had split open beneath her foot.

  Finally she stubbed a finger sharply against the wooden jamb of the bedroom door. She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the jolt of pain. She was almost there. Halfwalking, half-crawling, her hands sweeping the black abyss in front of her, she inched her way across the bedroom until at last she reached the nightstand. In her anxiousness to find the phone, her hand knocked over the bedside lamp.

  Incredibly she caught the lamp before it clattered to the floor and righted it. For a long moment she did not remove her trembling hands from its smooth base. She listened, straining through the heavy stillness, her ears ringing.

  Perhaps he was listening for her, as well. Downstairs at the bottom of the steps, or maybe even in the apartment with her.

  No, she tried to calm her panicked mind, he couldn’t be upstairs. Surely she would have heard him come up.

  She groped for the phone now. As soon as her fingers curled around the receiver, Stevie felt her knees weaken. She lowered herself to the floor, wedging herself between the nightstand and the wall.

  The dial tone blared like a homing beacon. Stevie covered the earpiece as her fingers fluttered over the keypad. What number had Paige told her she’d programmed Devane as? Three? It had to be three. One had always been reserved for her mother. And two was Paige. It had to be three.

  With a silent prayer, Stevie pressed the third key. As she listened to each hollow ring, she wondered if Devane was even in. And if he wasn’t, would someone else pick up his line?

  “Please, please, please…” she mouthed, too terrified to utter a sound until absolutely necessary.

  And then, “Homicide. Jackson here.”

  Devane’s partner.

  But her words froze in her throat, choking her, cutting off her breath.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” he asked.

  “Detective Jackson. It’s Stevie Falcioni.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and still she imagined that the whole world could hear her.

  “Ms. Falcioni? Are you all right?”

  “I’m…There’s someone in my studio.”

  “Are you there now, Ms. Falcioni?”

  “Yes.”

  She heard him yell across the mouthpiece of his own phone. “I need all available patrols in the Brandon area to respond to a B and E in progress at eighteen Whitby. Intruder is on the premises right now. Move it!”

  Then his voice lowered. “Ms. Falcioni? We’ll be right there. Just hang on, okay? We’ll—”

  Footsteps sounded on the steel staircase. Stevie was certain of it.

  Not waiting to find out if Detective Jackson wanted her to stay on the line, Stevie hung up. She couldn’t afford to have anything give away her location.

  With a sudden jolt of panic, she wondered about the lamp on the night table. Was it on? Was she huddled here on the floor completely exposed by the glow of its bulb?

  She bit her lower lip and reached for the shade. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and lines of sweat trickled down her skin beneath her sweatshirt. Her hands shook so much now she was certain she’d send the lamp flying this time, but when her fingers touched the cool bulb, she breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

  A small voice in her head urged her to move, to crawl under the bed, anywhere. Even to grab the lamp in an effort to arm herself. Anything, instead of just sitting here and waiting.

  But the fear was too great.

  A blind paralyzing fear.

  And then she detected the faint smell of a man’s cologne.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SIRENS SHATTERED the night. Their distant wail grew steadily louder, piercing through her darkness and drowning out all other sounds.

  Stevie concentrated on that approaching wail.

&n
bsp; But there was another sound above the sirens, above the pounding of her heart. A banging sound she couldn’t ignore. And then a crash.

  In moments she heard heavy footfalls on the stairs. Voices. Doors opening and closing. And still more sirens.

  There was someone moving down the hallway now coming into the bedroom. When she felt a hand touch her shoulder, she jerked back.

  “Miss? Miss, it’s all right. I’m Officer Barratt. Are you all right, miss?”

  She was nodding, trying to stand, but her legs were wobbly. Her whole body felt as if it wasn’t even hers, her shaking was so violent.

  “Miss, are you hurt?”

  “No,” she managed to say. She felt tears on her cheeks and swiped angrily at them.

  “Let me help you, miss.” Hands grasped her shoulders, guiding her to her feet and over to the bed. Through the rest of the apartment, she heard other officers’ voices now, the squawk of police radios and boots thudding against the hardwood flooring.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, miss?”

  When Stevie nodded this time, she clenched her jaw, biting down on the residual fear that had paralyzed her only moments before. “I’m fine.”

  The officer crossed the room. She heard him speak in a harsh whisper with another officer—something about her being in shock and the need to call the paramedics.

  “I told you, I’m all right,” she said, loudly. “I don’t need an ambulance. I’m not in shock. I’m blind.” The anger in her voice seemed to silence the two officers, and in the sudden hush, Stevie heard Devane’s rasping voice downstairs in the studio.

  Moments later he was standing over her where she still sat on the edge of the bed. “Ms. Falcioni, are you okay?”

  She sighed. “Yes, Detective, I’m okay.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Stevie nodded. She told him everything, from the moment she’d heard the first crash downstairs in the studio to when the officers had come through the front door. And when she was finished, she heard Paige’s voice.