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…”
“Where is the package?”
“Safe…”
“Where, Gary? Where is it safe?”
“Stevie.”
“Stevie who?”
“Fal…Falcioni.”
“The photographer? Your friend the photographer?”
Gary nodded.
“She has them? She has the coins?”
This time when Gary shook his head, it was followed by a rattling gasp. “You have…to…to get…Stevie, Al. And tell…Barb…I love her. Tell her…for me, will you?”
And then, with one final shuddering breath, he was gone. Allister felt his body slacken. His eyes, suddenly vacant, gazed upward. In the silence of the warehouse, Allister held the man who had been his dearest friend, the man who had always been there for him. And yet, when Gary had needed Allister…
No, he thought, as he gently eased Gary to the floor again. No, he couldn’t think about the way things might have been. How if he’d forced Gary to hand over Bainbridge’s package, or if he’d gone to check the shipment this morning, instead of waiting until tonight, his friend might still be alive. There were other factors to consider now. Like Edward Bainbridge.
From what Allister remembered, the coin collection, with an estimated value in the seven figures, had been stolen from a touring exhibit hosted by the Danby Museum in the spring. Definitely the kind of job that had Bainbridge written all over it. No doubt the collector had a buyer in mind and had hoped to use Gary to ship the stolen goods for him.
But why kill Gary? It didn’t make sense. Not unless Bainbridge had found out that Gary knew the shipment’s contents. Not unless Gary had tried to blackmail Bainbridge.
Allister stood, his gaze surveying the destruction of the office. There wasn’t time to sift through it for clues. Six years ago Bainbridge had successfully framed him. Allister couldn’t take any chances. He had to assume that this time, too, the collector had something similar in mind.
But this time it was murder.
He had to get out. If, as he’d always suspected, Bainbridge had connections on the Danby police force, Allister had to get as far away from the warehouse as possible. Until he knew what Bainbridge was up to, he couldn’t risk being placed at the scene. Gary was dead because of the stolen coins. Once the police put the pieces together, with Allister’s record, he was sure to be their prime suspect.
Allister stumbled toward the door. He’d get back in the Explorer and drive to his apartment. He would tell the police that he’d spent the night in front of the TV. It would be easy enough to check the local listings and make up an alibi.
But halfway to the door, Allister stopped.
He couldn’t do it. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, imagining that when he opened them, none of this had happened. But when he did, all he saw was Gary’s blood. On his shirt. On his gloves.
No, he couldn’t just leave his friend lying there on the floor. And what about Barb? What on earth was he going to tell Barb?
Then above his own hammering heart, Allister heard a distant footfall—boots against the concrete of the main floor, slow and assured. As he stood in the middle of the office listening, he could think of only one person who would be lurking in the warehouse this late at night—the man who had killed Gary. Maybe he was searching for the package now, checking the aisles and the bins. Maybe he’d heard Allister come in.
And maybe he was coming back up to the office.
There was no time to think. Allister moved on instinct now, instinct and adrenaline. He scanned the office until he saw the heavy fire extinguisher mounted by the door. Certainly not his weapon of choice, he thought as he grappled with the clips, but it would have to do.
STEVIE WALKED through the warehouse toward the area she’d been shooting in earlier, searching for her bag. The old building creaked and groaned under the force of the storm outside.
In the main loading area, the rough stonework and massive timbers attested to the original function of the structure. The building had serviced Danby for decades as a mill before it had been shut down. Years later, after Gary had bought and converted it, some of its authentic charm remained. And it was that charm that had been the deciding factor in choosing it as the backdrop for the Armatrading shoot.
Luckily, when Stevie had arranged to meet with Gary for coffee only two weeks ago to ask him, he’d been more than willing to grant her access to the building. It had been the first time she and Gary had seen each other in months. She’d apologized for that, and also for the fact that it took a photo shoot to bring them together again.
She’d first met Gary at college when he’d briefly dated her roommate. But for some reason, Stevie had clicked better with him than her roommate had, and they’d been fast friends ever since. After obtaining their respective