From behind the secretary’s cluttered desk, Allister glanced up at the wall clock and watched the steady sweep of the second hand. He needn’t have looked to know that it was almost one. After four years of measuring time, four years of counting each minute, each second until the day he’d walked away from that prison cell, Allister had developed an inner clock that rarely failed him.
Absently he drummed a chewed ballpoint against the edge of the desk. In one hour he’d be standing at the podium next to Gary’s closed casket delivering the eulogy, gazing out at the faces of friends and family, faces torn by disbelief and shock, begging for an explanation for the violence that had touched all their lives.
Faces like Stevie Falcioni’s.
Allister could still feel twinges of the remorse that had flooded him three nights ago when Barb had called to give him the news. She’d just received word from the hospital, from Stevie’s friend Paige Carpenter. Stevie had regained consciousness. But even before the implication of this news hit home, Allister had been shocked to learn of her condition.
Blind.
Temporarily blind was what Barb said the doctors were hoping. But Stevie’s friend had implied that there might not be a change for days or even weeks.
And then this morning, when he’d gone to the house for Barb’s signature on several forms, finalizing the transfer of signing authority on the company’s accounts to him, Barb had been visibly distressed by more than the impending funeral.
“They don’t know anything yet, Allister,” she’d told him, her hand shaking while she systematically signed each form. “I phoned Stevie yesterday afternoon. She’s home from the hospital at least, and her friend Paige is staying with her, but she’s… My God, Allister, I just don’t know what to say to her. I mean, she’s blind. What do you…what do you say to someone who…”
“I don’t know, Barb.”
“It’s just not fair, Al. She’s always been so full of life, so happy, so energetic. And her photography. God, it’s her life. I just can’t imagine what she’s going through. What she’s going to do now that—”
“But you said they thought it was temporary.”
Barb shook her head. “They can’t tell yet. Stevie said it could still be a couple of weeks before they know if she will ever regain her vision.”
A couple of weeks. Allister wondered if that would be enough time to find Bainbridge’s coins, enough time to find even a shred of evidence against the antiquities collector that would clear Allister of any suspicion. In a couple of weeks, when—if—Stevie’s sight returned, it could be only a matter of time before she identified him as the man who’d attacked her. The man she undoubtedly believed to be Gary’s killer. After that, there’d be no hope of proving his innocence—either to her or to the authorities.
Yet Allister knew that somehow, in some way, Stevie held the key. Gary wouldn’t have mentioned her otherwise. She was inextricably bound up in Bainbridge’s deal, whether she knew it or not.
Or maybe she’d been in on Gary’s scheme from the start. Maybe she even had the coins.
Allister had already inspected the shipping bin he’d come to check the night of Gary’s murder. Of course it was empty. He’d spent several hours over the past couple of days searching all the likely places Gary might have stashed the shipment. Still nothing. Apart from going through Gary’s office, which had been secured and taped off by the police, there was nowhere else to look. Surely Gary wouldn’t have taken Bainbridge’s package to his home. Even Bainbridge must have known Gary wasn’t that foolish, otherwise the house would already have been ransacked, just like the office.
Then there was the box that Mrs. Dorsey had mentioned the other day—a large box, she’d told him, with some of Gary’s office things that the police had taken with them the morning after the murder. But if the coins had been among those belongings, there would have been word of their recovery by now in the local paper.
No, the coins were still out there. Somewhere. And it was only a matter of time before Bainbridge started to get really antsy—and, with any luck, even careless.
In the silence of the office, Allister withdrew a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and unfolded it. Gary’s eulogy. His last words for a friend he thought he’d known. A friend who’d quite literally taken his life in his hands when he’d agreed to do business with Edward Bainbridge.
When he got up from the desk, Allister heard someone call his name. He left the office and headed to the catwalk overlooking the loading bay.
One of the workers below gave Allister a quick wave. Beside him was Detective Devane. “Mr. Quaid, someone here to see you,” the worker said before nodding in the direction of the stairs for the detective.
Allister watched Devane take the steps two at a time and follow the catwalk to where he stood at the railing. Already Allister could feel cords of tension tighten along the back of his neck.
“Good afternoon, Detective.”
“Mr. Quaid.” Devane nodded.
“I hope this won’t take long,” Allister said flatly as he headed back into the office, the burly detective on his heels. “I was on my way out. I have a funeral to attend.”
“Shouldn’t take more than a minute, Mr. Quaid. I just need you to listen to something for me.”
Allister turned as Devane drew a microcassette recorder from his coat pocket. With one fleshy thumb the detective jabbed the play button and set the compact recorder on the desk. The hiss of the tape sliced through the room’s silence. Devane crossed his arms over his broad chest and watched Allister.
Allister focused on the small black recorder. The tape crackled a few times and then he heard Gary’s muffled voice.
“It’s me,” Gary said through the hiss. “We’ve got to talk.”
“About what?” another voice asked, more distant, rather fuzzy, as though it came through some cheap portable phone. “You told me everything was taken care of.”
Bainbridge. If Gary hadn’t told him about Bainbridge and the coins, Allister would never have recognized the voice.
“Not quite,” Gary answered. “We’ve got a couple loose ends.”
“How the hell can there be loose ends? What are you talking about, Palmer? I thought you said the shipment was going out today. What is it? Customs?”
“No. Not customs.”
“What then?”
“It’s a matter of the shipment’s contents. I…I don’t make a habit of shipping stolen goods.”
There was scuffling noise then, as though one of them had covered the mouthpiece of the phone, and then more hissing.
“But I think we can come to some sort of arrangement. Perhaps we should talk.”
“Damn right we need to talk, Palmer. I thought we had a deal. If you think you can—”
“I just want to talk, that’s it.”
“I’ll send Vince.”
“No, I want—” But Gary’s last words were swallowed by a dial tone.
Devane reached for the recorder and turned it off. When Allister looked up, the detective’s expression was something between expectation and challenge.
“So, Mr. Quaid, what do you know about stolen goods being shipped out of this warehouse?”