See No Evil

by Morgan Hayes

  “It’ll be fine, Stevie. Trust me. Now give me your watch.”

  “My watch?”

  “Please.”

  She pulled back her sleeve and undid the clasp. “My mother gave me this, Allister. If anything happens to it, you can bet she’ll fly up from Tampa to deal with you personally. And believe me, if you think I’m bad, wait’ll you meet Ma.”

  His laugh momentarily eased the tension for both of them.

  “I’ll just have to be extra careful then. Here.” She heard a series of high-pitched beeps before he put his own watch in her hands.

  “What’s this for?”

  “I’ve set the alarm to go off in fifteen minutes. If I’m not back by then…” He handed her his cellular phone.

  “Oh, right, Allister, and who the hell am I supposed to call? The police? Or maybe you’d prefer I just call Devane at home?”

  “No, Stevie, you call Paige. If I’m not back when that watch alarm goes off, I want you to call Paige and lay low. She can come and pick you up in your car.”

  “And what about you?”

  She heard him turn in his seat, and then he grasped her shoulders firmly with both hands. “Stevie, don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine.”

  “Right.” And if he wasn’t back in fifteen minutes, she thought, he’d only be lying facedown in a pool of blood. Just like Gary.

  “Stevie, nothing’s going to happen.”

  She heard the soft creak of leather, and in the next instant his lips were on hers, muffling her small cry of dread.

  She tried to relax, drinking in the tenderness of his kiss. She tried to convince herself that Allister knew what he was doing. Why, then, did she feel as if this could be their last kiss?

  Frantically Stevie slid her fingers back through his silky hair and pulled him closer, kissing him desperately, letting her hunger drive out the fear. She wanted to hold him, to feel his life pulsing against hers, to embrace him and not let him go.

  Her hand brushed past the edge of his leather bomber and rested on his chest. Beneath her palm she felt his heart beating as fearfully as her own. But it was when her hand glided downward, following his muscled abdomen to his waist, that she froze.

  Tucked into the waistband of his jeans was something cold, hard and metallic. Her hand recoiled as though she had just touched red-hot iron.

  “Allister—”

  “Stevie, I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to. It’s Gary’s gun. He’d bought it for protection at the warehouse, and he’d shown me where he’d stashed it. I picked it up when we were there today.”

  “And you didn’t tell me you were carrying it?”

  “Stevie, listen, it’s just in case…”

  “Just in case what? No. No, you can’t go through with this. Not this way. God, Allister, you’re carrying a gun! Is Bainbridge really worth risking your life for? Let it go, for God’s sake.”

  She pleaded with him, but he’d already made up his mind. She heard him zip up his bomber.

  “Please, Allister, just let it go. We’ve gotten in way over our heads now. We’re not trained for this kind of thing. We’re not detectives or cops.”

  “That’s right, Stevie. We’re not cops. We’re the good guys.”

  When he kissed her this time, there was an unsettling severity to it, and when Stevie touched his face, her desire to see it was greater than ever.

  “I won’t be long. I promise.” His soft whisper did little to assure her. “Remember, if the watch alarm goes off, call Paige. Don’t do anything else. Just sit tight and call Paige.”

  She nodded. Her fingers caressed empty space now as he opened the car door to a whirlwind of freezing air and snow.

  “And, Stevie?” she heard him say as several flakes melted against her skin.

  “What?”

  “I love you.” And with that, Allister was gone. The car door slammed, and there was only a dark cold silence.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALLISTER TUGGED at the sheepskin collar of his bomber jacket, drawing it around his face as he sprinted across the empty one-way street. A block and a half away, Adelle Avenue intersected Dutton, one of the major east-west arteries of the city, but the sounds of the heavy traffic were muffled by the recent snowfall. The only thing Allister could hear above his own hammering heart was a television through the partially open window of one of the apartments.

  Pausing on the sidewalk outside 56 Adelle, Allister gazed up at the three-story building. Snow clung to the old redbrick exterior, and a cracked and chipped concrete archway bore the name The Royal. Obviously the residence had seen better days.

  The front door seemed appropriate to its derelict setting; its steel frame was battered and the reinforced glass panel was shattered from what appeared to have been a well-aimed kick. Allister pushed the door open.

  To his immediate left was a wall of steel mailboxes, some with labels, others with only a tacky residue where previous ones had been. Allister scanned the row until he found 2C. Luckily Fenton’s was one of the few that was marked. It wouldn’t have been the first time the DMV had gotten an address screwed up, Allister thought as he took the stairs two at a time.

  With only four apartments on each level, and with 2C at the back, it was simple enough to locate the apartment’s windows from outside. There was no light under the door, and when he put his ear to the dingy veneered surface, Allister heard nothing.

  Contrary to Stevie’s fears, Vince Fenton appeared to live alone.

  Not expecting it to be that easy, Allister tried the door, anyway. It was locked of course, and with two dead bolts. He didn’t fool himself that he could do anything with those. No, he’d have to go with his original plan. An outside approach.

  Allister welcomed the cold air after the stuffy stairwell. He paused at the side of the building and glanced across the street. He’d deliberately parked Paige’s car out of range of any street lamps so that the interior was unlit. From here, if he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the car was empty. In fact, he had to look twice to be sure Stevie was there, slumped down in the passenger seat.

  The back of The Royal looked out onto a row of tall coniferous trees, and beyond those, the parking lot of an auto-repair shop. Pretty much all the cover Allister could have hoped for, he realized as he climbed the rusting fire escape to the second floor and the darkened windows of 2C. Then again, what did he know about cover? It wasn’t as if he’d ever done this kind of thing before. He started to pry off the corner of one window screen.

  Well, there was the time he and Gary had tried to sneak into Old Man Hooper’s house. Word was Hooper had gone upstate to his daughter’s for the weekend, and with all the rumors flying around the schoolyard about the old man in that dilapidated house down on Egert, Gary and Allister had gladly taken up the dare. Under cover of darkness, they’d climbed to the second story and popped the torn screen off one of the hall windows. It had been that easy. Until, of course, Old Man Hooper, who had been home, found them out and hollered curses at them all the way down the block.

  Even now, years later, the look of shock on Gary’s wideeyed freckled face when they’d been caught never failed to bring a smile to Allister’s lips. Gary. If Allister had had a brother, he couldn’t have loved him more than he had Gary.

  The screen loosened at last, and Allister pried it off almost as easily as he had all those years ago. But this was a far cry from any childhood escapade with Gary. Hooper’s had been a dare, and they’d been kids. And no matter how vile Hooper’s curses were that night, the old man had nothing on a thug like Vince Fenton.

  Allister propped the screen on the landing beside him. His heart was pounding even faster as he worked his gloved fingers under the window’s frame, and when it finally budged, Allister thought the whole world could hear the wrenching grind.

  But, it seemed no one did. And no one saw him shimmy the window up the rest of the way and slip inside the dark apartment.

  The heat was stifling, and the place smelled
of stale cigarette smoke. Allister switched on his pocket flashlight and scanned his surroundings. The living room. The thin beam passed over a beige sofa and armchair, worn and dotted with burn marks. Newspapers and magazines were strewn throughout the room, from the sofa to a scarred coffee table, and across the pale green stained carpeting.

  Where to start? It was hard to know, especially since he had no idea what he was looking for.

  The glow of his flashlight caught the table shoved in a corner near the window. More newspapers were stacked there, and balanced on top of this teetering stack was a black rotary-style phone. Maybe Fenton took notes while on the phone. Allister moved to the table.

  As he passed the window, he noticed the dirty pools of melted snow and salt he’d left on the sill and the floor. Concealing his presence in the apartment was going to be impossible, not to mention the fact that he’d probably never get the screen back on the window. Then again, what was the sense in being careful? A man like Vince Fenton was not likely to report a break-in.

  Allister took Stevie’s watch from his pocket—ten minutes left. If he didn’t find something before then, the entire undertaking would have been for nothing.

  He could feel sweat practically rolling down his back as he started to scan the papers and bills on the table. Clenching the penlight between his teeth, Allister unzipped his jacket. His hand grazed the walnut grip of the Ruger semiautomatic.

  Stevie was right about their getting in too deep, but that was precisely why he’d taken Gary’s Ruger from the warehouse this morning. That was why he had it with him now.

  Vince Fenton was not someone Allister planned to deal with personally. But if he had to, he certainly didn’t want to be unarmed.

  As he riffled through unpaid bills, receipts and meaningless scraps of paper, Allister thought about the man back at Stevie’s studio, sitting in his brown sedan. No doubt, with the temperatures dropping, Fenton would be getting edgy. It could only be a matter of time before he decided that Allister was staying the night at Stevie’s. After that, he’d give up his vigil and most likely head home to his dingy apartment.

  Allister had to move fast.

  VINCE FENTON was chilled to the marrow. He figured he must have gone through a quarter tank of gas just running the car off and on to keep warm tonight. And for what? Quaid wasn’t going anywhere. Not now, not this late.

  And even if he was, Fenton thought, at this point he didn’t give a damn. It was ridiculous, sitting around outside in the middle of bloody January. No one could pay him enough for this.

  No, he was definitely beginning to feel the same impatience Bainbridge felt for those damned coins. He had to get this job over with and fast. He needed to get his money and leave this goddamn burg for good.

  Maybe his strategy required a slight modification. Maybe it was time for a little force. Not necessarily the kind he’d used on Palmer. No, this would call for a bit more finesse.

  From seeing Quaid and the photographer woman together, he had his suspicions about what was really going on between them. And maybe what this assignment needed now was some light pressure applied in just the right spotnamely the woman. Through her he’d be more apt to get somewhere with Quaid. The plan was worth mentioning to Bainbridge. As a backup.

  Besides, after two attempts he still hadn’t gotten the right film. Taking care of the Falcioni woman could be the one stone he needed to kill both these birds. He’d get the film and he’d get to Quaid.

  But for now, the most important thing was getting home to a hot shower. Tonight, even a beer at Mario’s wasn’t at the top of his agenda, Vince thought as he hit the gas.

  STILL NOTHING. Allister cursed under his breath. He’d been fooling himself to think that this scheme could work, that he could actually get somewhere by breaking into Fenton’s apartment.

  He stood back from the table and surveyed it once again. He’d been through practically everything. Every scrap of paper, every envelope. He’d even leafed through the newspapers and Fenton’s collection of survivalist and gun magazines.

  But nothing.

  The only thing he’d found was an address, scratched in a backhand scrawl across a utility-bill envelope. He’d recognized the address instantly—Edward Bainbridge’s. But there was nothing incriminating about an address written on an old envelope.

  Allister released a frustrated breath and leaned heavily against the table. Maybe he’d been grasping for straws, rushing out here like this tonight. Desperate to put an end to this whole mess with Fenton and Bainbridge, he hadn’t thought the plan through. And leaving Stevie out there in the car.what had he been thinking? Hadn’t he put her life in enough danger as it was?

  He had to get back to her.

  He took out her watch again. Time was up.

  Still.this was the last chance he’d have. He wouldn’t be able to break into Fenton’s a second time. Once Bainbridge’s thug discovered that someone had been in his apartment, he’d be on the alert, and there would be no getting past him then.

  No, if he was going to get anything on Fenton, it had to be now.

  Allister reached for the phone. He’d call Stevie on the cellular. Make sure she was all right. And then he’d tell her to give him another five minutes. There had to be something here.

  But when he turned the beam of his flashlight onto the old rotary phone and reached for the receiver, Allister’s heart froze.

  From across the dark room, he heard the metallic rattle of a key in the lock.

  STEVIE SLUMPED LOWER in the seat when she’d heard the first car pass by. She checked the locks on both doors, but Allister had already seen to them. Then she opened each window a crack, just far enough so she could hear any sounds from the street or the building.

  Eventually a second car passed. She sank even farther in her seat, listening to the sound of the engine fade down the street. Earlier, when she could no longer hear Allister’s boots against the snow, she had started to count the seconds and minutes. But when the third car passed the Tercel, Stevie was aware that the sounds were different. There had been a low rumble, as if the car had slowed. She couldn’t be certain, but then it sounded as if the car had pulled into a lot across the street. She heard the engine rev once before all was quiet again.

  There was the slam of a car door. And immediately Stevie had thought of Vince Fenton. What if he had decided to call it a night? What if that was him returning? There was no way she could warn Allister. Fenton would go to his apartment and-Stevie heard someone whistling. It took her all of five seconds to play “Name that tune,” and when she did, she was certain it was not Fenton. Somehow she couldn’t imagine a man like Fenton, a murderer, whistling the chorus from The Pirates of Penzance.

  Allister should be back, she kept thinking over and over again. Her hands were cold as she held his watch. She rubbed the worn leather band with her thumb as though willing the alarm not to go off. Because if it did and Allister still wasn’t back…

  No. He’d be back. Any second now she would hear him come across the street.

  When the alarm pierced the silence, Stevie almost dropped the watch. She fumbled with it, pressing whatever buttons she could feel until the high-pitched beep died.

  “Allister.” She whispered his name, each syllable slipping into the hush of the car like a desperate plea. “Where are you?”

  She reached for the cellular, and her index finger worried the number pad.

  “Please, Allister…”

  ALLISTER WAS PROUD of himself for getting out of the apartment and scrambling down the fire escape so quickly. It wasn’t until he hit the ice on the last step and rammed his knee agonizingly against the steel railing that his pride deflated. Pausing to rub his bruised bone and gaze up at the window through which he’d escaped, he saw a light come on.

  It would be only a matter of minutes, seconds even, before Fenton discovered the disarray of his papers, the puddles on the floor and the missing screen. Allister would have to be long gone by then.


  He hobbled the length of the building, staying close to the wall in case Fenton looked out. His jacket flapped open in the wind as he ran across the empty street, and he laid his hand against the butt of the Ruger to make sure it didn’t slip.

  “Stevie, it’s me.” He knocked on the window of the Tercel and saw her jump, almost dropping the cellular phone.

  She reached across to unlock the door, and when he got in, he could see how on edge she was. She said nothing, and Allister wondered if she somehow sensed how urgent it was that they get out of there immediately. He turned the key in the ignition, half fearing it wouldn’t start. When it did, Stevie’s sigh of relief echoed his own.

  It wasn’t until they reached Dutton and turned into the northbound traffic that Stevie finally spoke.

  “So did you find anything?”

  He eased the Tercel into the right lane and let the flow of traffic carry them along. Then he glanced over at her profile. Her gaze was fixed forward as though she were actually watching the traffic, and her complexion appeared blanched in the pallid glow of each passing street lamp.

  “No,” he admitted eventually.

  “That was Fenton, wasn’t it? He came back.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  In that moment, Allister realized just how terrified Stevie must have been, sitting out there, alone, vulnerable, powerless to warn him.

  “But I got out in time, Stevie,” he said, hoping to ease her anxiety. “I heard him coming, and I got out in time. He didn’t see me.” At least, he didn’t think Fenton had seen him. Once he’d started the Tercel and veered away from the curb outside 56 Adelle, Allister hadn’t looked back. For all he knew, Fenton might have rushed down the stairs and out the front door, only to watch them drive off.

  She said nothing. In one hand she still held the cellular phone, but with the other she maintained a relentless grip on the armrest.