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. Quaid. Well, this is convenient,” the man drawled caustically, a sour grin turning up one corner of his crooked mouth. “I was hoping to talk to you, as well as Mrs. Palmer. Is she home?”
“As a matter of fact, she is. I’ll see if she’s up to—”
“It’s all right, Allister.” Barb stood at the end of the hall, her cup clutched in both hands now. “Let them in. I want this over with.”
SHE’D BEEN DREAMING about being in the kitchen of the old house on Cicero Avenue. Her mother was baking bread and bottling tomato sauce the way she always did on Sunday afternoons. Stevie had almost been able to smell the sweet aroma of spices and the yeast from the rising dough, when a voice broke the spell.
“I think she’s finally coming to.” It was a female voice-distant, as though it traveled down a long hollow tunnel. “Stay with her. I’ll get Dr. Sterling.” The voice was closer now. It sounded as thick and heavy as the pain that throbbed in her head.
And then she heard the door. It slapped in its frame, just like the two-way door that separated her mother’s kitchen from the family room. It swung a couple of times, and in between, she could make out other sounds: ringing phones and buzzers, and something that sounded like the chime of an elevator.
Then there was silence again. Silence and the stringent odor of antiseptic. This was not her mother’s kitchen.
“Stevie?” A different voice this time, but familiar.
There
