Only twenty minutes ago, when he’d come in the side entrance, he’d assumed the place was empty. It was Friday. Palmer’s crew had kicked off early for the weekend. Palmer was supposed to have been alone.
Vince looked down from the catwalk. Immediately he squinted against a brilliant glare of lights.
“Dammit, Ralph!” a woman’s voice echoed through the building.
Vince’s quick gaze caught sight of her. Wearing faded jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, the woman stood in the middle of the loading area. She shook her head and turned on the heel of her boot, swiping one hand through cropped black hair as she gripped a camera in the other.
A photo session?
Vince’s fingers tightened on the handrail as he assessed the situation.
Around the photographer, a half-dozen crew members snapped to attention. They scrambled to arrange lamps and panels as several long-legged models strutted casually in stiletto heels and scanty outfits that mocked the frigid January temperatures. No doubt this was some sort of fashion shoot.
“Sorry, Stevie,” one of the men called out.
“It’s all right, Ralph.” Curbed frustration marked her voice as she waved her hand toward the set. “But look, apologies aren’t going to get this job done. Just be careful with what lamps we’ve got left, okay? And can we get a broom to sweep that up before someone gets hurt?”
She glanced down at the camera in her hands, adjusting something before she looked up again.
“Now, let’s get this going, folks. We’ve got another. two hours here, and I’d like to take something home besides broken lamps. Paige, we need more light from the left. Yes, that’s it. All right. We’re looking good now.”
And in seconds her camera was up and snapping. The shutter whirred rapidly as she called out encouraging directions to the models.
He should have left right then, Vince realized a moment too late. He should have slunk away before anyone saw him, before the photographer brought her camera up on enough of an angle that he was certain the lens had caught him at the railing.
Vince darted back into the maze of lockers behind him and saw the woman lower her camera. She’d seen him. He was sure of it. Why else would she have stopped? And why was she gazing up at the catwalk, at the very spot where he’d stood only moments ago?
Hidden in the shadow now, Vince looked down again. The photographer was back at work, kneeling by a bag on the floor. “No, Paige, we don’t have time to fix it right now,” he heard her say. “Can you bring me the Pentax? We’ll use it, instead.”
Vince took a deep breath. He had to relax. There was no way of knowing if she’d actually seen him. And even if she had, who was to say she’d caught him on film?
He could hear the distant whir of the shutter again.
Still, he couldn’t afford to be placed at the warehouse. He made his way to the back stairs. If things went sour, as he suspected they were about to, no one could know he’d been anywhere near Palmer Storage and Shipping.
The entire situation with Gary Palmer was getting too risky. Something was going to happen and soon. And with his criminal record, Vince couldn’t afford to have anything—especially some damn photographer’s film—connect him to Palmer and that shipment.
No, he’d have to assume the worst. He’d have to get the camera and the film. Cover his tracks. Look out for himself. But right now he had to call Bainbridge. First the coins, then Gary Palmer.
After that, he’d take care of the photographer and her film.
THE EVENING NEWS had forecast only the possibility of snow. “A mild disturbance from the north,” the weatherman had warned, “bringing with it lower-than-seasonal temperatures and a twenty percent chance of precipitation.” That was three hours ago.
Now, as Allister Quaid grasped the handrail of the warehouse door with gloved hands, he wrenched it closed against the tornado of blinding snow. He dusted off his leather bomber jacket and jeans, and knocked the snow from his runners.
He’d driven his Explorer around to the back of Palmer Storage and Shipping before remembering that Gary had given him keys for the side entrance only. It had been a short run through the mounting storm; even so, his hair was wet and he shivered with chill as he headed to the cavernous loading area.
The dimmed lighting far overhead did little to dispel the shadows in the labyrinth of corridors, and for a moment Allister was reminded of a carnival funhouse. At the mouth of the loading area, he stopped and reached into the pocket in the thin lining of his jacket. From it, he withdrew a crumpled shipping order—the order he’d found on Gary’s desk just this morning.
He unfolded the carbon and tilted it to catch the light. If it hadn’t been for the company name at the top, Allister wouldn’t have looked twice at the form. And the vehement argument that followed between him and his best friend wouldn’t have happened.
At ten this morning Allister had gone up to Gary’s office to ask about a late delivery. His friend had been on the phone. He’d waved Allister in and given him one of his boyish grins, and it was while he waited that Allister saw the shipping order with “Raven Antiques” scribbled at the top in Gary’s left-handed scrawl.
Allister could still picture the look on Gary’s face when he’d hung up the phone and met his gaze.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Gary had admitted, reaching across the desk for the pink form.
But Allister snatched it up first.
“Al, come on. I can explain if you’d just—”
“Explain what? You know who this is, don’t you?” The thin paper had crumpled in the fierceness of Allister’s grip.
“Yeah, yeah. So I’m taking care of a shipment for Edward Bainbridge. It’s what I do, Allister. I ship things.”
“It’s Edward Bainbridge, Gary. Dammit, you know what that man did to me. What he did to my business. How can you even consider getting involved with him knowing what he’s capable of?”
“I can handle it.”
“Meaning I couldn’t?”
“I didn’t say that, Al.”
“No, but you’re thinking it. Otherwise you wouldn’t have accepted this shipment.”
Gary, his face sagging with exhaustion, stood up and began to pace behind his desk. He looked like a caged animal, Allister thought, an animal that had been trapped with no way out.
“What’s in the shipment, Gary?”
“I don’t know. I don’t check the packages. I just ship them.”
“What’s in the package?” Allister demanded again, knowing by the way his friend chewed the corner of his lip that he was lying. It was a nervous habit Allister had come to recognize even before they’d taken the training wheels off their matching CCM bikes all those years ago.
“I told you, I don’t know. So just drop it, Al, okay?”
But it wasn’t that easy. The topic of Edward Bainbridge could not just be dropped. Not for Allister. With the shipping order in his hands, with the mere mention of the antiquity collector’s name, everything Allister had fought so hard to leave behind came flooding back. Standing in Gary’s office, knowing what his friend might be getting into, Allister had used every ounce of restraint he had to bite down the anger and resentment he still felt