See No Evil

by Morgan Hayes

  And then, as Stevie stared at the light she guessed to be a window, the bittersweetness of this sudden breakthrough hit home. Yes, she was regaining her sight, but did that even matter now? Would she live to appreciate it?

  She had little doubt that it was Vince Fenton who had broken into her apartment last night, who had savagely attacked her and then dragged her off to this airless hideaway. And she had no doubt he was here now.

  Since she wasn’t bound, Stevie could only guess she was locked in a sort of storage room. Fenton had to be just outside, or at least within earshot.

  Memories of her violent struggle with him last night churned in her mind. And with a jolt of sickening realization, Stevie thought of Paige.

  Paige would not have neglected to activate the security system. Fenton must have gotten into the studio just as Paige was leaving.

  A hot terror gripped Stevie. Fenton must have jumped Paige. It was the only way he could have bypassed the alarm. He must have attacked her at the door.

  What had he done to her?

  Fear sent another shudder of nausea through Stevie. She’d seen the violence Fenton was capable of. What if Paige was injured? What if she was back at the studio and no one knew she was hurt?

  Or maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe-No, she would not consider that possibility.

  She swung her legs over the side of the mattress. She had to do something. She wasn’t sure what, but she couldn’t just sit here.

  She swept her hands across the black shadows around her until her wrist struck something hard and sharp. Pain shot up her arm, and there was a resounding crash.

  Within moments there were footsteps—boots heavy against creaking floorboards. Stevie’s heart stopped. There was the slide of a metal bolt and the unmistakable squeal of hinges.

  And then his voice, cold and rough, the same as last night, sent a chill through her.

  “So, you’re awake,” he said, and she heard him take a step toward her.

  “THINK, PAIGE. You’ve got to try and remember everything that happened last night,” Allister urged. He’d had to physically drag her, drag himself, out of the bedroom, away from the horror of what had taken place there only hours ago.

  “I don’t remember, Allister.” Her voice trembled. She was on the verge of tears. He handed her a cup of instant coffee, hoping to snap her out of her grogginess.

  “Come on, Paige.”

  She drew a long shaky breath. “Uh…I was going out to get some dinner. We were hungry and—”

  “What time?”

  She shrugged. “I’m…not sure. It was late. Ten, I guess. Maybe later. Stevie wanted Chinese, so I agreed to go to the takeout place around the corner. I was going to be fifteen minutes, Allister. Fifteen minutes. I didn’t think anything of leaving her, because of the alarm system.”

  She shook her head. He had guided her to one of the stools, and she sat there now, wringing her hands on top of the kitchen bar.

  “I should have taken her with me,” she said. “I wanted to, you know? But Stevie…she looked so tired. Still, I should have forced her. I should have made her come along.”

  He placed a hand over hers. “It wouldn’t have made any difference, Paige.”

  Even here in the kitchen, away from the dreadful evidence of Stevie’s struggle in the other room, Allister could not let go of the images that lay back there. Every time he blinked, he saw the blood.

  “Paige, do you remember seeing him? Did you get a look at his face?”

  She glanced at Allister and then back at her hands again. “No. I didn’t see anything. He came out of nowhere. He was there the second I opened the door. Like he’d been waiting for me.”

  It had to have been Fenton, Allister thought. And that was what frightened him the most. He’d seen Fenton’s handiwork in Gary’s office. He’d seen Gary. Allister’s throat tightened at the thought of those same hands on Stevie.

  “I…I tried to warn her,” Paige was saying. “To call out. But he clamped a hand over my mouth. A cloth. It was a cloth soaked in something. And the fumes—that’s the last thing I remember before I woke up on the floor downstairs.”

  He’d used chloroform, Allister figured, or maybe ether. And he must have used the same on Stevie. But why the blood then? Why the knife?

  Fenton could have walked right up to Stevie, overpowered her the same way he had done with Paige. Easier even. Unless…unless Stevie had struggled.

  And of course she would have. Allister didn’t doubt that. She must have put up a damned good fight, considering the state of the room. And Allister had to wrestle down a hot rage as he imagined the attack, as he wondered what must have been going through her mind in those last frantic moments.

  He looked across at Paige. A trace of color had returned to her face, but her expression was still drawn with fear and dread. Even though there was nothing Paige could have done, she blamed herself.

  But if anyone, he was to blame. It was his fault Stevie was gone. He should have stayed. He should have parked outside all night, knowing that Bainbridge would make his move as soon as Stevie was alone.

  “I’m phoning the police.” Paige dropped from her stool. “I’m going to call Devane and—”

  “No, Paige. You can’t.”

  “What are you talking about, Allister?” she shrieked, her grogginess vanished. “Stevie’s gone!”

  “Paige, listen, you can’t call Devane. It’s Bainbridge who’s got Stevie. He wants the coins, Paige. He’s—”

  “I don’t give a shit about your damned coins! Or whatever vendetta you’ve got against Bainbridge. Stevie’s gone, Allister! That’s her blood all over the floor in the other room there, and if you think I’m just going to—”

  “Paige.” He reached out and caught her arm. She was on the verge of tears. “Listen to me.”

  “No, Allister!” She tore free from his grasp and started for the phone. “That’s my best friend out there!”

  He was after her like a shot. “Paige!”

  But she wasn’t listening. She stormed through the room. And when he tried to grab her arm again, she jerked away from him, snatching the phone.

  “Paige, please!”

  She ignored him. Only when Allister yanked the receiver from her hands did she turn on him, a combination of desperation and fury in her eyes.

  “Paige—” he glared back at her, the phone clutched to his chest “—she may be your best friend, but she’s the woman I love.”

  Fresh tears trailed down her face.

  “And I’m not letting some two-bit dick like Devane jeopardize her life,” he continued. “Now listen to me. We have to think this through, okay? We have to deal with Bainbridge his way. As long as he has Stevie, we have to play by his rules, not Devane’s.”

  Allister returned the phone to the side table, his eyes never leaving Paige’s. He wasn’t sure if he should hold her now or give her space.

  Finally she broke the silence. “So what do you propose we do?”

  “First off, I have to contact Bainbridge. I’m sure he’s expecting my call. And then we decide whether we can afford to go the police. All right?”

  Her nod was barely perceptible, and he felt compelled to give her hand an encouraging squeeze, even though he himself felt the same anxious fear Paige so obviously did.

  As he looked up Bainbridge’s number in the Danby directory, he thought about Gary’s recording equipment he’d left back in the warehouse. The phone call he was about to place to Bainbridge would be the perfect opportunity to get the evidence he needed against the man. But that wasn’t important now, Allister realized as his finger trailed down the B’s.

  Stevie was all that mattered. He had to get Stevie away from Bainbridge. At whatever cost.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BAINBRIDGE PICKED UP on the sixth ring. Allister couldn’t help wondering if the man bad let it ring just to toy with him, knowing it would be him calling.

  He recognized the collector’s pompous tone instan
tly.

  “What the hell have you done with her, Bainbridge?”

  “Ah, Mr. Quaid. It’s been a long time. Have you been well?”

  “Where is she?”

  There was an extended sigh over the line. “Still as hotheaded as I remember you. I guess time hasn’t changed that, hmm?”

  Allister caught the double meaning and bit down his rage. Paige was beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder as though sensing the need for calm.

  “Well, I’ve been expecting your call, Mr. Quaid.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Seems to me we’ve got some merchandise to exchange. Do I need to be more specific?”

  “Just tell me where.”

  “You remember my estate?”

  “Sure, I remember. But if you think I’m coming out there, you must really take me for stupid.”

  There was a pause. “All right then. Where would you suggest we meet?”

  “The warehouse,” Allister proposed, mainly because he couldn’t think of anyplace else offhand.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. I tell you what, Mr. Quaid, why don’t we just say that I’ll call you at seven tonight and let you know then, hmm? I trust you won’t have any trouble putting your hands on the merchandise by that time?”

  “Why wait, Bainbridge? I can have your ‘merchandise’ within the hour. Let’s get this over with.” The thought of Stevie’s being in Bainbridge’s clutches a moment longer sent a shudder of rage through him. He could hear the desperation in his voice and knew he was playing right into Bainbridge’s hands.

  “No, Mr. Quaid, I think this evening would suit me much better.”

  “Then let me talk to her. I want to know she’s all right.”

  “That isn’t possible at the moment.”

  “Look, you son of a bitch, if you don’t let me talk to Stevie right now—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Quaid, but you’ll just have to take my word for it that…your merchandise is in good condition.”

  “Your word? You think your word means anything to me, Bainbridge?”

  Paige squeezed his shoulder, harder this time, and Allister clenched his fist.

  “Well, I’m afraid my word is about all you’re going to get for now, Mr. Quaid. Besides, you don’t actually think I’d be foolish enough to have the goods here, do you?”

  Allister didn’t respond.

  “Fine. I’m glad we finally understand each other. So where is it I should call you this evening? At your girlfriend’s studio?”

  Allister remained silent, and Bainbridge must have taken it as a yes.

  “Fine,” he said again. “And another thing, Mr. Quaid, I don’t expect company, if you know what I mean. If there are any uninvited visitors…well, I don’t think I have to spell it out for you, do I? I’m sure I’ve made myself clear.”

  BAINBRIDGE HUNG UP and looked out the window, squinting into the glare of sun-drenched snow. It shouldn’t have come to this, he kept thinking. This whole situation was rapidly getting out of hand. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had everything riding on those damned coins, he’d almost consider cutting his losses and letting it go.

  But he needed this deal. He needed the coins. Once he delivered them to his buyer, maybe he’d even sell the estate. Get out of Danby. The Riviera had always had a certain appeal to him. Besides, he was getting too old for these New England winters.

  Yes, the south of France would be good. As soon as he got the coins from Quaid, he’d start to make the arrangements. In fact, he’d start today. He’d probably have to move quickly after tonight’s rendezvous.

  Well, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about Quaid’s going to the police, Bainbridge thought as he lifted the receiver again and dialed the number to his antiques storehouse. If Quaid had any kind of faith in the authorities, he would have gone to them long ago. Even so, Bainbridge would rest a lot easier if he’d still had his contact on the force.

  The lieutenant had been essential six years ago when he’d needed the gems planted in Quaid’s car. But the man had taken an early retirement and moved to Florida on the money Bainbridge had paid him over the years. Damn. He could have used the old man right now.

  The line was still ringing, and Bainbridge was ready to give up when at last it was answered.

  “Fenton. What the hell’s going on over there?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You need a hand? You want me to send one of the boys over?”

  “No, I’ve got it under control.”

  “How’s our guest?”

  “She’s awake.”

  “And you’re sure you can manage her?”

  “She’s blind. Whaddaya think?”

  “I just want to be sure there aren’t any screwups, that’s all.”

  “Relax, will ya? Everything’s under control.”

  “Fine then. I want her ready to go by seven tonight. That won’t be a problem, I trust?”

  “No problem. She’ll be ready.”

  ALLISTER PACED the length of the corridor for what had to be the hundredth time. The gray walls and grimy glass barriers, the reek of burned coffee and pine-scented floor cleaners, all hammered home too many unsettling memories. Danby’s main precinct. How had he let Paige talk him into this? How could he have come back here?

  He wanted out. He needed air.

  He needed to think.

  But then, they’d done all the thinking they could, he and Paige. It didn’t matter how many times they went over the situation, or how many different ways they looked at it, the fact remained Allister couldn’t handle Bainbridge. Not alone.

  Things had gotten beyond his control as soon as Stevie had become involved.

  Stevie.

  Allister closed his eyes, but all he could see was her face. He opened them again and stared at the gray walls. Stevie was the only reason he was here at the precinct—the last place on earth he ever dreamed he’d go voluntarily.

  He glanced at Paige, sitting on one of the hard-backed vinyl chairs along the side corridor where they’d been instructed to wait. Except for the anxiety that seemed permanently etched on her face, she looked marginally better. He’d even managed to talk her into eating some dry toast before they’d headed out.

  She’d been tensely silent during the drive to the precinct, which had been just as well. Allister wouldn’t have known what to say. Instead, he’d kept his attention on the rearview mirror. They hadn’t been followed.

  Paige caught his glance and smiled weakly. “It’ll be okay, Allister,” she murmured. “I promise you. You’re doing the right thing. We’ll make them understand.”

  He gave her a noncommittal nod and continued to pace. He felt trapped.

  It wasn’t just the memories of his four years behind bars. It was because as long as he was here, Stevie was out there. With Bainbridge. With Fenton. And if Devane didn’t believe him today, if Allister didn’t walk out of here with the detective’s support and ended up behind bars, instead, Stevie’s life would be in Devane’s hands. Allister couldn’t live with that thought.

  But he’d had no other choice. From the moment he’d heard Bainbridge’s voice on the phone, he’d been haunted by one numbing fear. He couldn’t pinpoint whether it was something in Bainbridge’s voice, or if was some kind of sixth sense, but Allister knew tonight’s meeting was not going to be a straightforward transaction.

  Bainbridge was not about to leave loose ends. And that was exactly what Allister and Stevie were to him. Bainbridge would take his coins and leave Fenton to do his cleanup work. Allister was sure of it.

  If it had been just him, if Stevie hadn’t been involved, he would never have come here. He would have taken care of Bainbridge himself. But Stevie’s life came before everything else now, even the possibility of prison. If anything happened to her…

  One of the doors along the corridor opened suddenly, and Allister stopped pacing. Paige was already out of her chair.

  “Ms. Carpenter, Mr. Qu
aid,” Devane greeted them with a thin smile. “You said this was urgent?”

  Paige nodded. She shot a nervous glance from Allister to Devane. “It’s Stevie.”

  The accusatory look Devane gave Allister might have deflated a lesser man on the spot, Allister knew, but he refused to bend under the detective’s intimidation. He was here for Stevie. If ever there was a time to swallow his pride, this was it.

  Devane led them to one of the interview rooms, barren except for a battered table and four chairs. It was every bit as bleak as Allister remembered it from that day six years ago. The blinds on the window overlooking the detective’s wing were open, and Allister recognized Devane’s partner behind one of the desks.

  Devane pulled out a chair for Paige, offering her a coffee. She declined, and as Allister lowered himself into a chair, he was grateful she was here with him. Without her, he doubted he’d stand much chance of getting through to Devane.

  The detective took a seat, as well. Allister studied him for a moment, hoping to see something there that would convince him he hadn’t made a mistake in coming to Devane, in trusting him with Stevie’s life. After all, how could Allister be certain that Devane wasn’t working for Bainbridge?

  “So, you wanna tell me what’s going on?” Devane held his gaze.

  Allister glanced over Devane’s shoulder through the glass barrier and nodded at Detective Jackson.

  “Not without your partner, Detective. I want someone else in here.”

  Devane let out a short grunt of a laugh. “What’s the matter? You don’t trust me, Quaid?”

  Allister didn’t have to answer the question. Devane’s chair scraped back against the floor, and he opened the door.

  “Jackson,” he bellowed across the wing, “get in here, will ya? And bring me a coffee.” When he returned to his chair, he stared at Allister. “Something tells me this is gonna to take a while.”

  THE BLURRED SQUARE of light had faded some time ago. Stevie prayed that evening had fallen beyond the window, and that the light she’d seen earlier hadn’t been some cruel trick her vision had played on her.