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 toward Edward Bainbridge—the man who, in one fell swoop, had taken everything Allister had loved and worked for. The man who would do the same to Gary without thinking twice.
It had been six years ago that Allister had experienced firsthand the extent of Bainbridge’s corruption. At that time, Allister had owned a shipping company much like the one he helped Gary manage now. He’d spent eight years salvaging his family’s business and turning it into the most reputable in Danby.
But it had taken only one shipment, one seemingly innocent package from Edward Bainbridge, to destroy it all. Destined for a collector in Buenos Aires, the shipment had contained several pieces of near-priceless antique jewelry and a number of rare gems. Allister had handled Bainbridge’s exporting needs in the past; he’d had no reason to believe that the package bound for Buenos Aires was any different from the others.
But when Allister’s company was burgled the night before the shipment was scheduled to go out, the bricks had begun to fall one by one. First there’d been Bainbridge to deal with, then the insurance company and finally the police when they came with a search warrant four days later and confiscated three of the stolen gems, wrapped in an old T-shirt of Allister’s, from under the spare tire in the trunk of his car.
The gems had obviously been planted there by one of Bainbridge’s goons. Or, quite possibly, by the police themselves, Allister later suspected. It was obvious, too, that Bainbridge must have been paying someone off—someone on the force—to see the million-dollar scam through. The whole setup had been too easy, too slick.
The rest of the gems were never recovered; Bainbridge collected a tidy sum from the insurance company, and no doubt turned around and sold the other “stolen” items to the intended buyer with no more a glitch than a two-month delay. Allister’s business folded, and after a grim and incontestable trial, he was convicted of grand theft.
Four years in prison was a long time. But not long enough to forget who had put him there, Allister thought as he looked at the name of Bainbridge’s company on the Palmer shipping form. Below “Raven Antiques,” Gary had scrawled the aisle and bin numbers. That was why Allister was here tonight. With the building empty, Allister intended to search for Bainbridge’s package and check its contents himself. If there was even the slimmest chance that Bainbridge was up to his old tricks, Allister couldn’t stand idly by. He wouldn’t let it happen again, not to Gary, not to his closest friend.
Across the main loading area were aisles ten to fifteen. From the shadowed corridors, Allister could almost feel Bainbridge’s shipment beckoning him. But when he stepped out into the open area, he saw the light from Gary’s office upstairs spilling out the doorway onto the steel catwalk.
With a muttered curse, Allister tucked the slip of paper back into his pocket. He couldn’t check for the package now. Gary would be sure to hear him, if he hadn’t already.
“Gary?” His voice boomed through the old converted mill. “Hey, Gary!” he shouted again, but there was no response.
Letting out a long breath, Allister headed to the stairs. It was as good a time as any to apologize for the harsh words he hadn’t managed to swallow before he’d stormed out of the office this morning. And maybe there was still a chance of talking some sense into Gary about Bainbridge.
Taking the steps two at a time, Allister felt the catwalk vibrate beneath his runners. An apology was already forming on his lips as he stepped across the threshold of Gary’s office, but instantly the words froze.
The room had been torn apart. Papers were strewn everywhere, spilling from filing cabinets and thrown from the desk that, despite its weight, had been shoved across the room a good five feet. The cheap vinyl chairs had been hurled in several directions, and the cooler that had stood in the corner still glugged softly as water washed across the tiled floor.
But it was the sight of blood that made Allister’s heart stop. Not much of it at first. Nothing more than a few red smears. But then Allister saw the crimson pool behind the desk and—”
Gary!” He fought his panic as he rushed forward. “Oh, my God! Gary?”
STEVIE FALCIONI pulled the key from the Volvo’s ignition and switched off the headlights. Leaning forward against the steering wheel, she gazed up through the blurred windshield at Palmer Storage and Shipping. In the sallow light from the sodium vapor lamp mounted above the side door of the building, the snow seemed to be driving horizontally through the night. The full force of the sudden winter storm whistled around the old station wagon, rocking it gently. Stevie searched one deep pocket of her lined trench coat for the key Gary had given her, preparing herself for the freezing dash to the warehouse.
Crossing the city of Danby had proved to be a small miracle in itself. The storm had been a complete surprise, and in the fifty-minute drive that normally took her twenty, Stevie had seen more accidents than she’d been able to count. Each time she’d passed another fender bender or an abandoned vehicle at the side of the road, its hazards blinking through gusts of snow, she had silently thanked her father for persuading her to buy the ten-year-old tank of a Volvo.
Regardless, it had been a stupid idea to head out on a night like this—driving all the way to Gary Palmer’s warehouse for a forgotten camera. The Nikon had jammed only minutes into their shoot this afternoon, when she’d been momentarily distracted by the man on the catwalk. With no time to deal with the faulty camera, Stevie had shoved it into the closest bag, a black duffel, and when she’d glanced back up, the stranger was gone.
Just before seven, with the shoot complete and the models weary, Stevie’s assistant, Paige Carpenter, and the rest of the crew had cleared up, collecting the equipment and all the bags except Stevie’s. And after Stevie had finished thanking Gary for the use of his building and left, she’d realized she’d forgotten the bag—and the camera.
Right now Paige was back at the studio madly printing contacts for
