See No Evil

Cover Page

Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Copyright

“He ran after me along the catwalk—Gary’s killer.”

Stevie went on, in spite of Allister’s efforts to stop her. “I remember thinking that if I could beat him outside and get into my car, I’d be safe. But then he was right behind me.”

“Stevie, you don’t have to—”

“Allister! Allister, wait! I remember…when I fell, just before I blacked out, I saw him again. He was leaning over me.-The catwalk…it was dark, and his face was in shadow. But I remember him coming closer…And then I saw a scar.”

“A scar?” Allister couldn’t breathe. He pulled away from Stevie, needing space. This couldn’t be happening. A kind of excitement lit up her expression now—excitement at her newfound memory.

“On the man’s face.” She drew a finger along her left temple, and as he watched her, it felt as though an invisible icy finger touched his own temple where the ragged scar indelibly marked him.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Although Morgan Hayes has never suffered temporary blindness, she suspects that blindness, whether temporary or not, is a condition that many people have pondered at least once in their lives. And she thought it would be a fascinating challenge to experience it through one of her characters, especially a photographer whose livelihood is dependent on sight. Morgan loves to hear from readers, and invites you to write her c/o:

Harlequin Superromance

Harlequin Enterprises

225 Duncan Mill Road

Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9

Canada

See No Evil

Morgan Hayes

For Dennis and Sandi Jones—the truest partners in crime a gal could ask for And for Pat Skinner, who is always there between all the chapters…taking breaths

Heartfelt thanks go out to Dr. Jeff and Brenda Freeman, who gave graciously of their time and medical advice

PROLOGUE

THE DARK CLOUD that had been hanging over Vince Fenton’s head all day had just gotten darker. From the moment he’d awoken this morning to a godawful hangover and a phone call from Edward Bainbridge, he should have known that things could only get worse. In retrospect, he never should have answered the phone. He should have figured it was Bainbridge calling about Gary Palmer and the shipment.

Then again, Vince thought as he followed the catwalk above the loading area of Palmer Storage and Shipping, if he played his cards right and this deal went through, he stood to gain more than the measly pittance Bainbridge had been paying him. Bainbridge was so uneasy about his package that he’d now offered Vince a handsome bonus if he could get it back from Palmer.

Vince wasn’t surprised that Palmer had called Bainbridge the night before requesting a meeting. The shipper had seemed suspicious from the moment his services were requested. The fact that the overseas shipment should have left days ago without a hitch was proof that Palmer was on to Bainbridge. It was clear he’d discovered the package’s contents and now hoped to cash in on what promised to be Bainbridge’s most lucrative venture yet.

With a collection of rare Spanish coins at stake, Bainbridge should have been more discriminating when selecting a shipper. He should have anticipated that someone like Palmer might see the opportunity for blackmail. If he had, this entire mess wouldn’t be happening. And Vince would not have had to come out here to Palmer Shipping this afternoon.

Well, he’d tried his best. He’d talked to Palmer like Bainbridge had asked him to. In the closed confines of the man’s office, Vince had pressed Palmer as far as he’d dared. He’d reined himself in when he’d been more than ready to take a piece out of Palmer just for wasting his time. And still the shipper refused to hand over the coins. As far as Vince was concerned it was time to take care of Gary Palmer once and for all. In fact, he’d call Bainbridge and offer to do it himself tonight. It had been a while since he’d had the pleasure.

But first, he needed to get out of here. He needed a drink.

A sudden resounding crash, followed by the shatter of glass brought Vince to an abrupt halt. Voices cursed in unison.

Only twenty minutes ago, when he’d come in the side entrance, he’d assumed the place was empty. It was Friday. Palmer’s crew had kicked off early for the weekend. Palmer was supposed to have been alone.

Vince looked down from the catwalk. Immediately he squinted against a brilliant glare of lights.

“Dammit, Ralph!” a woman’s voice echoed through the building.

Vince’s quick gaze caught sight of her. Wearing faded jeans and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, the woman stood in the middle of the loading area. She shook her head and turned on the heel of her boot, swiping one hand through cropped black hair as she gripped a camera in the other.

A photo session?

Vince’s fingers tightened on the handrail as he assessed the situation.

Around the photographer, a half-dozen crew members snapped to attention. They scrambled to arrange lamps and panels as several long-legged models strutted casually in stiletto heels and scanty outfits that mocked the frigid January temperatures. No doubt this was some sort of fashion shoot.

“Sorry, Stevie,” one of the men called out.

“It’s all right, Ralph.” Curbed frustration marked her voice as she waved her hand toward the set. “But look, apologies aren’t going to get this job done. Just be careful with what lamps we’ve got left, okay? And can we get a broom to sweep that up before someone gets hurt?”

She glanced down at the camera in her hands, adjusting something before she looked up again.

“Now, let’s get this going, folks. We’ve got another. two hours here, and I’d like to take something home besides broken lamps. Paige, we need more light from the left. Yes, that’s it. All right. We’re looking good now.”

And in seconds her camera was up and snapping. The shutter whirred rapidly as she called out encouraging directions to the models.

He should have left right then, Vince realized a moment too late. He should have slunk away before anyone saw him, before the photographer brought her camera up on enough of an angle that he was certain the lens had caught him at the railing.

Vince darted back into the maze of lockers behind him and saw the woman lower her camera. She’d seen him. He was sure of it. Why else would she have stopped? And why was she gazing up at the catwalk, at the very spot where he’d stood only moments ago?

Hidden in the shadow now, Vince looked down again. The photographer was back at work, kneeling by a bag on the floor. “No, Paige, we don’t have time to fix it right now,” he heard her say. “Can you bring me the Pentax? We’ll use it, instead.”

Vince took a deep breath. He had to relax. There was no way of knowing if she’d actually seen him. And even if she had, who was to say she’d caught him on film?

He could hear the distant whir of the shutter again.

Still, he couldn’t afford to be placed at the warehouse. He made his way to the back stairs. If things went sour, as he suspected they were about to, no one could know he’d been anywhere near Palmer Storage and Shipping.

The entire situation with Gary Palmer was getting too risky. Something was going to happen and soon. And with his criminal record, Vince couldn’t afford to have anything—especially some damn photographer’s film—connect him to Palmer and that shipment.

No, he’d have to assume the worst. He’d have to get the camera and the film. Cover his tracks. Look out for himself. But right now he had to call Bainbridge. First the coins, then Gary Palmer.

After that, he’d take care of the photographer and her film.

CHAPTER ONE

THE EVENING NEWS had forecast only the possibility of snow. “A mild disturbance from the north,” the weatherman had warned, “bringing with it lower-than-seasonal temperatures and a twenty percent chance of precipitation.” That was three hours ago.

Now, as Allister Quaid grasped the handrail of the warehouse door with gloved hands, he wrenched it closed against the tornado of blinding snow. He dusted off his leather bomber jacket and jeans, and knocked the snow from his runners.

He’d driven his Explorer around to the back of Palmer Storage and Shipping before remembering that Gary had given him keys for the side entrance only. It had been a short run through the mounting storm; even so, his hair was wet and he shivered with chill as he headed to the cavernous loading area.

The dimmed lighting far overhead did little to dispel the shadows in the labyrinth of corridors, and for a moment Allister was reminded of a carnival funhouse. At the mouth of the loading area, he stopped and reached into the pocket in the thin lining of his jacket. From it, he withdrew a crumpled shipping order—the order he’d found on Gary’s desk just this morning.

He unfolded the carbon and tilted it to catch the light. If it hadn’t been for the company name at the top, Allister wouldn’t have looked twice at the form. And the vehement argument that followed between him and his best friend wouldn’t have happened.

At ten this morning Allister had gone up to Gary’s office to ask about a late delivery. His friend had been on the phone. He’d waved Allister in and given him one of his boyish grins, and it was while he waited that Allister saw the shipping order with “Raven Antiques” scribbled at the top in Gary’s left-handed scrawl.

Allister could still picture the look on Gary’s face when he’d hung up the phone and met his gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Gary had admitted, reaching across the desk for the pink form.

But Allister snatched it up first.

“Al, come on. I can explain if you’d just—”

“Explain what? You know who this is, don’t you?” The thin paper had crumpled in the fierceness of Allister’s grip.

“Yeah, yeah. So I’m taking care of a shipment for Edward Bainbridge. It’s what I do, Allister. I ship things.”

“It’s Edward Bainbridge, Gary. Dammit, you know 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 another job so that they could begin work on today’s. Whatever film was in the Nikon, if it was salvageable, needed to be developed tonight along with the rest. Brian Armatrading, the man behind the contract, was due at the studio at ten tomorrow morning to check the work they’d done for his summer line of clothing.

He wanted something innovative, something young and fresh, he’d told Stevie within minutes of breezing into Images, Stevie’s studio-apartment, two weeks ago. She and Paige had been booked solid with other jobs, but they’d have been fools not to shelve everything in favor of Armatrading’s offer. This one was big. This was the contract that could quite conceivably boost Stevie’s career to a level she’d hardly dared imagine.

When she’d signed her first free-lance photography contract ten years ago for a meager $135, Stevie hadn’t imagined it could lead to anything like a full-time career, let alone something as potentially lucrative as shooting an entire line of Armatrading fashions.

Ever since her father had given her that old Leica camera for her tenth birthday, photography had been her absolute passion. She’d lived her life through the dingy viewfinder of that battered camera and the many others that followed. Over the past few years, Stevie’s reputation soared with the phenomenal success of Images, and she considered herself truly blessed to be doing what she loved most in life.

Battling a winter storm for the sake of some jammed film in an aging Nikon, this she could have lived without. Stevie groped for the Volvo’s door handle. As she stepped from the car, a gust of frigid air sucked the breath from her lungs, and sharp pellets of snow stabbed her exposed skin. Stevie pulled up the collar of her coat and raced for the warehouse door.

“GARY? GARY!”

In his frantic dash across the ransacked office, Allister stumbled once, banging his shin on the chrome leg of a toppled chair. He ignored the pain as he forced his way behind the desk to where Gary lay in a crumpled heap amidst scattered file folders.

“Gary!”

He heard a quiet moan, and one shaky hand reached toward him from behind the desk. Fear seizing him, Allister shoved the office chair aside. When he looked down into the bloodied face that gazed up at him, he hardly recognized his friend.

“Oh, God, Gary.” He knelt beside him. “What the hell happened?”

Gary tried to push himself up, but the effort was futile and he moaned weakly. Going against what little first aid he knew, Allister grasped Gary’s shoulders and eased his head onto his lap.

He hadn’t imagined that one person could bleed so much. The front of Gary’s denim shirt was soaked, and his blond hair was matted to his head. But it was his face that appeared to have taken the most abuse. A two-inch gash above his right eye still flowed freely, and Allister couldn’t tell if the blood that Gary choked on came from the split in his lip or from internal injuries. Fear coiling in his stomach, he suspected the latter.

Allister scanned the debris for the phone. But it, too, had been smashed into shards.

“Gary, I have to get you an ambulance. I’m—”

“No.” Gary’s head wobbled to one side in feeble protest. “No,” he muttered again, his voice a strained whisper between weak coughs.

“Gary, you’re bleeding.”

“No, Al…listen. You have to listen—to me.” His hand shook as he reached past Allister’s open jacket and clutched his shirt with bloodied fingers.

He was dying. He knew it and Allister knew it. He could feel the life slipping from Gary’s battered body as he cradled his friend’s head in his lap and held his weakening gaze.

“You—you were right, Al,” Gary said, each word, each syllable, wrenched with pain. “I should…have listened to you. You…warned me.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, Allister kept thinking even as Gary struggled for breath. This kind of brutality—it wasn’t the way it was supposed to end.

“Al, listen to me. I—”

“It’s Bainbridge, isn’t it, Gary? It’s Bainbridge who’s done this.”

Gary gave a single nod, swallowed hard, then coughed again. His hand sought Allister’s. His grip was weak through the thin leather of Allister’s glove.

“It’s the shipment, right, Gary? Bainbridge’s shipment. What’s in the package? What’s he dealing?”

“Coins. It’s…coins.”

Allister shook his head. “Coins? I don’t understand.”

“From the museum… the collection… remember?”

Allister was still shaking his head, trying to put the pieces together. “The burglary? Back in May? That was Bainbridge?”

Gary nodded feebly, and then his eyes closed.

“Gary, no! Stay with me, you hear?” Allister’s fear rose again, and finally his friend’s eyes flickered open.

“Where are the coins now, Gary?”

Allister wondered if his friend even heard the question through his pain.

“Where are the coins? Does Bainbridge have the coins?”

Gary shook his head. “No…”