this morning that she’d had “words” with Detective Devane. Now, by the momentary awkwardness in the silence between them, Stevie didn’t doubt the content of those words.
“Ms. Falcioni, we have a few questions we need to ask you about Friday night…”
SHE TOLD the detectives everything she remembered—the drive to the warehouse because she’d forgotten her bag, going upstairs to Gary’s office, seeing his body on the floor, and then the man who attacked her.
“So this guy with the fire extinguisher,” Devane asked a second time, “before he took a swing at you, did you get a good look at him?”
Stevie shook her head. “Not really. I had just stepped into the office when he came at me. It was only a split second.”
“So how would you describe him, then?”
“I really can’t be sure. He was tall, over six feet, I’d guess. Average build. Dark hair, dark eyes.”
“And you say there was blood on his hands?”
“Yes. On his gloves.”
“But nothing else? Do you remember any distinguishing features?”
Again Stevie shook her head. She’d racked her brains, sifting through the hazy and disjointed memories of that night, but the only image she’d been able to conjure up of the man was based on that one instant when she’d stepped into the office and seen him about to swing the fire extinguisher at her.
Dr. Sterling had tried to assure Stevie that, given time, further memory of that night could return. She was likely experiencing a type of selective amnesia—blocking out certain details of the attack that were too frightening for her to deal with—and she might never recall every second of that night.
“No, Detective, I can’t remember any distinguishing features.”
“Ms. Falcioni, do you think you got a good enough look at this guy that you might be able to, say, pick him out of a lineup?”
Stevie let out a short laugh, a combination of wry amusement and resentment curling the corners of her lips as she shook her head. “Under the circumstances, Detective, I think I’d have to say no to the lineup.”
“What I mean is—” he stumbled with his words “—perhaps, when your sight returns, do you think you might be able to?”
“If my sight returns, yes, maybe I’d be able to ID him for
you. But I can’t make any promises.”
“Fine. That’s all I’m asking. And in the meantime, you might remember something else about this man.”
Stevie heard the detective moving around the room. She tried to follow his path by the sound of his tread and the soft rustle of paper as he leafed through his notebook. But when he finally spoke again, his voice came from the far left, instead of in front of her where she’d expected him to be. Stevie shifted uneasily in the chair and massaged her temple. The painkiller was wearing off.
“The man who brought you in the other night,” Devane was saying, “he told the attending physician that you fell. Do you remember falling?”
“Like I said before, Detective, all I remember is running along the catwalk away from Gary’s office.”
“So this man, he was chasing you?”
“Yes.” Impatience and exhaustion sharpened her tone. How many times would she have to answer the same questions? “Yes, I’d assume he was chasing me. And then…I think he grabbed me. That’s it. I can’t tell you if he hit me, or I fell, or what happened. I’m sorry. I just can’t remember.”
“And what about Mr. Palmer? You were at the warehouse for a few hours earlier in the day, doing a photo shoot, right?”
“Yes. Both Paige and I and our hired crew.”
“Did you speak with Mr. Palmer then?”
“Yes, a couple of times.”
“And did he seem out of sorts at all?”
Throughout the night as Stevie had lain awake, wishing for sleep, she’d thought a lot about Gary and the last time she’d spoken to him. She remembered how, shortly after the Nikon jammed, Gary had come out of his office. He’d crossed the loading area to where she worked and told her that he was going out for a bit, that if anyone needed him he’d be back in twenty minutes. He had seemed “out of sorts.” Preoccupied, almost nervous. And when he headed to the side door, Stevie noticed how he’d glanced over his shoulder a couple of times.
“Was there anything unusual about his behavior, Ms. Falcioni?”
Stevie nodded, recalling how later she’d gone up to see Gary. “When I stopped in his office after the shoot was done, he practically jumped out of his skin. I asked if there was anything wrong, but he said he was just tired.”
She could still picture how his exhausted smile had done little to mask his obvious anxiety. “But looking back now, I don’t know, it almost seemed as though Gary had known something was going to happen.”
“And did you talk about anything that last time you saw Mr. Palmer?”
“No, not really,” she replied. “I think I suggested he take a holiday or something.”
“And what was his response?”
“He said he couldn’t leave the business, that there was too much going on. And then I suggested he get Allister to handle things for a while.”
“So you know Allister Quaid?”
Stevie shook her head. “No, not personally. I know of him through Gary, that’s all. I know they were friends since childhood and that he’s been helping out with the company for the past few months. But I haven’t met him.”
There was a long lull. Paige, apparently recognizing Stevie’s fatigue, placed one hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle rub. Stevie wondered if Paige made some sort of gesture to the detectives, because Devane suddenly cleared his throat and said, “Well, Ms. Falcioni, thank you for your time. Here’s my card. I guess your friend here can…” He didn’t bother to finish. “If you remember anything else, any other details, you’ll be sure to call me?”
Stevie reached out and accepted the card that Devane slipped into her hand. She fingered the embossed surface.
“I will, Detective.”
“Very good.”
She heard them walk to the door, heard it swing open to the clamor of the corridor, and then there was Devane’s voice again.
“One more thing, Ms. Falcioni. About Mr. Palmer…did he by chance give you anything? A package perhaps?”
“A package?”
“Yeah. Or maybe an envelope? For safekeeping?”
“No, Detective.” Stevie shook her head, puzzled by this shift in Devane’s questioning. “Gary didn’t give me anything. Does this have something to do with his death?”
“No, probably not. It’s just that with Mr. Palmer’s office being ransacked and then the break-in of your studio later that night…well, it’s probably just coincidence, you know? I was only wondering. Thanks again for your time, Ms. Falcioni. We’ll be in touch.”
As the door swung lazily in its frame, Stevie wondered if her expression reflected her confusion at Detective Devane’s parting question. A package? Safekeeping? Was there some connection between Gary’s murder and the studio break-in, after all?
And for the first time, Stevie realized how distant she and Gary had become. What had he been into? What was Devane looking for? And was it the reason Gary had been killed?