“I know what you’re thinking,” Barb said. “I know the two of you had grown apart while you were…” She shook her head, unable to say the words. Both she and Gary had always made a painful habit of trying to deny what Allister had gone through, where he’d been those four years and how it had altered his life. “But still, Allister, no matter what you think, you were closer to Gary than anyone. You knew him best.”
Allister looked out across the soft blanket of snow that covered the backyard.
She was wrong. He didn’t…hadn’t known Gary anymore. They had grown apart—on that point, Barb was right. But there was much more about Gary now that Allister didn’t know or understand.
Like his failing marriage, for one. Barb had shocked him this morning with the news of their plans for a divorce. Gary had never even let on that there were problems, and here Barb was, already planning to sell the house and leave Danby for a new life.
Even more disturbing than that, Allister couldn’t understand what had possessed Gary to try to double-cross a man like Edward Bainbridge, especially after what Gary knew about him, after Allister had warned him.
Was it for money? Because of the divorce? No. Barb wasn’t the type of woman to take more than her share when she left the marriage. As a family counselor with a successful practice, she had her own money.
It just didn’t make sense. The Gary he had known and grown up with wouldn’t take those kinds of life-threatening risks. Then again, maybe that was it. With Barb leaving, maybe Gary figured he had nothing to lose by taking on the likes of Edward Bainbridge. Maybe he figured he could make some extra money.
Or maybe he’d just gotten restless. Gary had always been restless, even as a kid. Always wanting to move on, try new things. Allister had never pegged him as the settling-down type, never believed he could put work aside long enough to maintain a relationship, let alone a marriage.
But he and Gary had still been friends. Gary had stuck by him during those hard years, believed in his innocence when everyone else had harbored doubts about what had gone on and how Bainbridge’s gems had come to be in the trunk of his car.
Even Michelle hadn’t believed him. Out of everyone, Allister had thought he could count on his fiancée the most. Three years together—he thought he knew her. But before the trial had even finished, the day before the verdict was to be handed down, Michelle had returned his engagement ring.
Only Gary had believed in Allister throughout. And only Gary had come to see him in prison. Then, eight months ago, it was Gary who’d been waiting for him upon his release. It was Gary who’d calmed Allister down, taken him for a beer when all he’d wanted to do that afternoon was drive to Bainbridge’s estate and strangle the smug bastard with his bare hands.
Gary had tried to convince him that the revenge Allister was seething to exact on Bainbridge was only a product of the ordeal he’d just suffered, and not a reflection of the man Allister really was. He’d told Allister to put it behind him, to start again, start fresh.
But to forget those four years, to forget how Bainbridge had taken the life he’d known and worked for, these were impossible. He could never put them behind him.
Allister brushed a hand through his hair, and as he did, his finger grazed the jagged scar that curled up from his cheekbone to the top of his eyebrow. He traced the gnarled ridge of skin with his fingertip, recalling the brawl with another inmate and the resounding crack when his head had struck the metal bars of the cell-block gate. But now, four years later, he couldn’t even recall the name of the man who had initiated the fight. As far as Allister was concerned, it was Edward Bainbridge who had put the scar there.
“So can I count on you, Allister?” Barb asked once again.
He nodded. “Of course, Barb. I’ll give the eulogy.” Now all he had to do was figure out a way to speak at Gary’s funeral without Stevie Falcioni seeing him. He wondered if there was any chance she’d still be in the hospital by then, because if she wasn’t, he was definitely going to have to let Barb down.
He couldn’t risk coming into contact with the photographer and having her identify him. Not unless he managed to speak with her before the police did, not unless he could convince her that he had not been trying to attack her, had not been the one who’d killed Gary. If only he could see her before the cops got to her.
But there was little chance of that. Allister had already tried.
That was where he’d gone this morning, before Barb had woken up. He’d left her a note, telling her he was running a few errands, and he’d headed to the hospital. In the car, outside the main entrance, Allister had tried to prepare what he could possibly say to convince Stevie he was telling the truth. He would try to explain how he’d arrived only minutes before she had, how when he heard her in the warehouse, he’d mistaken her for the killer returning, and when he’d run after her, he’d only been trying to stop her.
And then he wanted to ask her about the coins. He wanted to know why Gary had whispered her name on his dying breath.
It had been barely 6:00 a.m. when Allister slipped past the front desk and checked the hospital directory board. He took the elevator to the tenth floor. But when he rounded the corner of the wing that housed the ICU, he pulled up short. One uniformed officer paced the width of the corridor, a plastic-foam cup in hand and a paper tucked under his arm. Obviously the police recognized Stevie’s potential as a witness and weren’t taking any chances.
During the drive back to Barb’s through the early-morning streets, he’d thought about Stevie Falcioni, and he’d begun to doubt whether she really would have believed him if he had managed to see her.
No, it was probably better this way, Allister thought now, holding his empty mug and gazing out at the snow. He couldn’t trust anyone.
When Stevie Falcioni did regain consciousness, the police would talk to her. All Allister could do was pray that she hadn’t gotten a good look at him. And maybe, with any luck at all, she might not even remember whatever she’d seen.
Then again, luck hadn’t made a habit out of knocking on Allister’s door in the past.
“Want more coffee, Al?” Barb asked.
“Sure, thanks.” He left the patio doors and followed her into the kitchen. “Have you heard from the hospital yet?” he asked, handing her his empty mug.
She shook her head and poured his coffee. “I called a couple hours ago and spoke to Stevie’s assistant, Paige. There’s still no change, but Paige promised to call if there was any news. The doctor told her this morning that they won’t know much more until Stevie comes around. It must be serious if they’re keeping her in the ICU.”
Allister only nodded, remembering how pale Stevie had looked, lying on the gurney last night in that bustling corridor.
Barb’s empty cup slipped from her hands, clattering against the countertop but not breaking, and when she reached for it, her hands were shaking. “I just thank God Stevie wasn’t killed, too,” she stated, and then looked straight at Allister. “To think she might have been there. She might have…seen Gary’s killer…”
But Allister didn’t have to respond. The doorbell rang, and Barb almost dropped her mug again.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’ll get it.”
Through the frosted-glass panel of the front door, Allister saw two blurred figures, and when he opened it, he was not surprised. He’d been expecting them.
“Detective Devane, good afternoon,” he greeted the older of the two homicide detectives with whom he and Barb had spoken last night.
“Mr.