Jackson paced behind them before stopping to gaze out the patio doors.
Devane was loosening the tie around the yellowed collar of his shirt. He scratched at a day’s growth of stubble on his chin, and then ran a hand over his silver-flecked hair. Last night, when the early-morning hour and the harsh lights of the morgue had been unkind to everyone’s appearance, Allister had pegged the senior detective in his early fifties. Still, he was a commanding presence—muscular and fit, almost a full head taller than his younger and slighter partner.
“Right now, Mrs. Palmer,” Devane said at last, “we’re working on the assumption that last night may have been a random break-in. We’ve had a couple other burglaries up there in the Dumphries area. We’ve got the warehouse closed off and my men are going over every square inch of the place. Your husband’s secretary, Mrs. Dorsey, is helping us out with the inventory of the office, and we should know soon if anything was stolen. Until then, you have to understand, we can’t rule out any possibility.”
Barb only nodded.
“And there’s still Ms. Falcioni. With her car parked outside the warehouse, we figure she might have interrupted the offender. We’re hoping she got a good look at the guy, and that could be all we need. I have an officer posted at her hospital door, and we’ll question her as soon as she regains consciousness.”
“And what about the man who brought her in?” Barb took Allister’s hand again. “Do you know anything more about him?”
Devane shook his head. “No one on staff at the hospital last night was able to give us a description beyond what we got from the nurse who actually spoke to the guy—tall, average build, with dark brown or possibly black hair. Beyond that, he could be anyone. Although we’re almost certain he was at the warehouse, too.”
Barb shook her head. “But last night you suggested that Stevie might have wandered out of the warehouse. That she may have even been picked up along the road somewhere.”
“We found traces of blood on Ms. Falcioni’s clothing. On her jeans and coat. Since she wasn’t bleeding herself, we can only assume that it was your husband’s. And considering the way it was distributed on the clothing, it would appear that it was put there by whoever carried her into the ER last night. We’ll know better in a few days, but I’m willing to bet it’ll match your husband’s blood type, Mrs. Palmer.”
“So what are you saying, Detective? That whoever this mystery man is, whoever brought Stevie to the hospital, he could be the same man who killed my husband?”
Devane made a noncommittal shrug. “Given the immediate evidence, I’d say it’s one possibility.”
“That’s absolutely insane. You can’t honestly believe that—”
“Mrs. Palmer, it doesn’t matter whether or not I believe that your husband’s killer may be the man who took Ms. Falcioni to the hospital. It’s still a possibility we have to investigate. There are a lot of unanswered questions right now, but I’m certain that we’ll be getting some answers soon-when Ms. Falcioni regains consciousness.”
Barb stood up again, letting out a frustrated sigh as she moved to the fireplace. She took up the position Detective Jackson had occupied only a few minutes ago and surveyed Gary’s collection.
Eventually she shook her head. “None of this makes any sense. Why would somebody…why would anyone hurt Gary?”
And in what Allister guessed was a rare moment of compassion for Devane, the detective joined her at the mantel.
“We’ll know more once we can talk to Ms. Falcioni,” he repeated quietly. “If my hunch is right, she’ll be able to finger your husband’s killer for us. Trust me, Mrs. Palmer, we’ll get this guy. With Ms. Falcioni as our eye witness, we’ll put him behind bars for a long, long time.”
STEVIE COULDN’T STOP shaking. Her hand trembled when she lifted it to her eyes. She expected to find gauze, bandages, something covering them, anything that would explain this horror.
There was nothing.
“Paige, I can’t see.” The words had become a desperate chant now. “I can’t see.” She tried to sit up again, still believing that this had to be some sort of nightmare, that it wasn’t real, that if only she could sit up-”Stevie, please.” Paige held her down. “Dr. Sterling’s here. Let him explain.”
“Stevie?” The male voice again. Stevie tried to locate him in the dizzying blackness and imagined him to her left. “Stevie, I know this is a shock,” he said, “but just try to relax and I’ll explain.”
“Paige?” Stevie reached out to where her friend had been before. She found only a crisp edge of the hospital sheet. “Paige, are you still here?”
“I’m right beside you, honey. I’m not going anywhere.” A hand took hers, and Stevie clung to it as though it was her only lifeline in this terrifying sea of darkness.
“Stevie,” the doctor continued, “you’ve been unconscious for over twenty hours now. That’s why we’ve had you on an IV. Do you remember anything about last night?”
Stevie nodded—the jammed film, the storm, the warehouse. Gary. “I think so.” She swallowed dry. “But what happened? I mean, why can’t I see?”
“You’ve suffered a severe concussion, either from a fall or being struck with a blunt object. We’ve already run a CAT scan, and there’s no evidence of skull fractures or intercerebral bleeding. Nor are there signs of any subdural hematomas, which indicates to me that any damage isn’t likely to be permanent. You’re extremely lucky, Stevie.”
“How is this lucky? I’m blind!”
“Stevie, your loss of vision won’t be permanent. You have a certain degree of swelling, bruising of the occipital lobe. That’s the area that controls your vision. With the severity of the injury you’ve suffered, there is generally the possibility of a certain degree of visual impairment, of damage that the scans can’t pick up. I still want to run an EEG, possibly today, to establish that there isn’t any damage to the cerebral cortex.”
“So my blindness…is temporary, then, right? That’s what you’re saying?”
Of course that was what he was saying. She’d heard of this kind of thing before, hadn’t she? It was just a temporary condition. That was all. Not permanent. It couldn’t be. She had the Armatrading shoot to finish, and there were other contracts waiting back at the studio. There was her career—her whole life—waiting for her.
Paige shifted her hand in hers. Stevie slackened her hold, wondering if she’d gripped her friend’s hand so hard she’d hurt her.
“I can’t say anything for certain, Stevie,” the doctor answered. “But yes, more than likely this is just a temporary condition caused by the swelling.”
“So, what are we talking about? A couple of days?”
“I really can’t say, Stevie. With injuries like this, no two cases are alike. But I’m optimistic with yours. I’d say that after a week or so the bruising should resolve, and all, or part, of your vision should return. In fact, I don’t see why you can’t go home as soon as tomorrow afternoon, providing you have someone to
