See No Evil. Morgan Hayes
on the next plane from Tampa.” “Wait, Stevie.”
“What?”
“There’s something else.” Paige stood and started to pace again.
“My mother’s already here?”
“No, Stevie. No, it’s not about your mother. It’s…it’s the studio.”
“The Armatrading film?”
“Well, sort of. We had a break-in. It must have been late last night or early this morning when I was here. I went to the studio this morning to make a couple of calls and—”
Stevie was already shaking her head. “No, Paige. No.”
“It’s not that bad, Stevie, really. I called the police and filed a report. The insurance will cover the stolen equipment. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. They got away with a few of the cameras and one of the bags, but…we’ve lost the film from the Armatrading shoot.”
“All of it?” This couldn’t be happening, Stevie thought. It was like an endless nightmare, one horror following the next.
“I’m afraid so,” Paige answered.
“Dammit, Paige. I don’t believe this. What the hell is going on?”
“Stevie, listen to me. I don’t want you to worry. I took care of everything. I called Brian this morning and he understands. He wants us to take whatever time we need to reshoot, and he promises that a couple of weeks won’t make any difference to him.”
Stevie rubbed her forehead. Well, maybe a couple of weeks didn’t make any difference to Brian Armatrading. But according to Dr. Sterling’s prognosis, two weeks meant the world to her. If, after that time, her sight hadn’t returned, her blindness could very well be permanent. And then worrying about the reshoot for Brian Armatrading—or any other contract—would be immaterial.
VINCE FENTON felt more than a little proud of himself as he swilled back the rest of his beer and motioned to the night bartender of Mario’s for a refill. It had been so easy.
First, getting the name of the photographer—that had been a simple matter of seeing the company name on the personalized plates of the Volvo when he’d sneaked out of the warehouse yesterday afternoon. Second, finding the studio and getting in—again, a piece of cake. He’d waited until the redhead left for the night, and without any kind of security system to contend with, he jimmied the back door of the converted warehouse. Then he’d grabbed all the cameras he could find, loaded them into his car in the alley behind the building and drove them to his buddy Stan Swanson.
In exchange for developing the film for him, Stan could keep the stolen goods. But Vince wanted to see the film himself, be sure that he’d stolen the right one, the one used for the shoot at Palmer’s warehouse. After that, he’d have covered all his tracks.
Maybe then Vince could finally get out of Danby. Bainbridge and his precious coins were starting to piss him off. It wasn’t worth the money anymore, not with Palmer’s murder on top of everything else. All he needed was the film—the right film—and he was gone.
IT HAD BEEN a long day, followed by an equally long night. After the EEG, Stevie had been returned to her room and told to rest, as if she’d been able to do anything else. She had called Tampa and assured her mother that there was no need to fly all the way up to Danby. She’d listened patiently to her mother ramble on about the new condo, her neighbors and the weather. And when she’d asked once again about flying up to Danby, Stevie had promised her she was fine and would call again soon.
Before he left for the day, Dr. Sterling had spoken to the floor nurses. Paige had been allowed to stay past visiting hours, and for this Stevie was grateful. Paige had helped her with dinner and had guided her to the washroom a couple of times.
But eventually even Paige had been forced to leave. Reluctantly she’d said good-night with promises of sneaking in a large coffee for Stevie in the morning. After that, Stevie had lain awake listening to the sounds of the hospital.
At one point during the night, when the corridor outside her door had fallen almost completely silent, Stevie had decided to brave the short trip across her room to the washroom unaided. But within moments of leaving the bed, a wave of dizziness swept through her, and when she flailed out to stop her fall, Stevie thought she’d woken the entire wing. Stainless-steel pans crashed across the linoleum.
Seconds later one of the night nurses had rushed in to find Stevie on the floor clutching her hands to one throbbing knee and letting out such a string of expletives she was certain the nurse must have had second thoughts about coming to her aid.
After that, Stevie had slipped in and out of sleep, never really knowing whether it was day or night, trying to judge time by the sounds of the hospital around her. She’d even taken to counting seconds out loud after another nurse had told her it was 2:00 a.m.
In the morning, Barb had called, saying she was tied up with various arrangements. She voiced her relief that Stevie was all right, and at the same time stated how sorry she was that something so terrible as her blindness had happened. She’d mentioned briefly the plans for the funeral, that Gary’s friend Allister was helping her out with the business, and once again how sorry she was.
There had been more tests, followed by enough of Dr. Sterling’s optimism to see Stevie through another week, or at least until her next scheduled appointment.
Only when Paige had arrived for her second visit in the afternoon, with a change of clothes and another smuggled coffee, did Stevie begin to feel a little more on track. Paige had helped her dress, and by the time Dr. Sterling arrived to sign her out, Stevie was more than ready to go home.
“So, we need to book a follow-up appointment, Stevie,” Dr. Sterling told her. “There’s a conference I have to be at in Seattle early next week, so I’m taking appointments on Saturday. How would late morning be for you?”
“Should be fine.” Stevie shrugged, then added a quick smile. “But only if you promise to give me some good news then.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Stevie wondered what his smile looked like; she imagined it was as gentle as his voice. “So, next Saturday, eleven-thirty, in my office upstairs. I’ve given Paige a prescription for you. Just a mild sedative to help you sleep, if you feel you need it, and a painkiller. Other than that, you’re formally discharged.”
“Thanks, Doc.” Stevie managed another smile for his benefit. She shifted in the chair next to the bed, the chrome armrests cold against her wrists.
“And, Stevie, I’ve also given Paige my card. I want you to feel free to call me day or night if there’s any change, or if you have even the smallest concern.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Now the only other matter of business is the police,” he said as she heard him click his pen a few times. “A couple of detectives have been anxious to talk to you. And now that you’re discharged, I don’t have the authority to keep them out anymore.”
“Are they here now?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She had to talk to them. For Gary’s sake. She appreciated Dr. Sterling’s efforts to protect her from the countless questions they undoubtedly had, but she was going to have to face them sooner or later, no matter how tired and disoriented she felt.
“Well, I may as well get it over with,” she said.
Dr. Sterling had been gone less than a minute before the door swung open. Stevie heard them come in, hard soles against the floor, and one of them cleared his throat.
“Ms. Falcioni?” His voice was rough, and when he cleared his throat a second time Stevie suspected he was a smoker. “Ms. Falcioni, I’m Detective Devane, and this is Detective Jackson.”
Stevie nodded, her hands firmly