Don't Look Back (13 page)

Mr. Stephenson's mouth was still open when Peter closed the door to his office.

He drove back to Constantine House and parked in front of the bungalow. Inside, everything looked perfectly normal—barring the broken window in the kitchen and the bullet holes and knocked-over furniture in the bedroom.

Peter quickly packed a couple of changes of clothing and a few other things he would need for the next few days—hoping that Mike would be agreeable to his staying on for that long. He pulled open his underwear drawer, lifted up a stack of undershirts, and spotted what at first looked like an enameled teacup with varicolored stylized flowers, mushrooms, and foliage on a cream and dark blue background.

Finally, he picked up the silver-gilt and cloisonné enamel tea glass holder by its scroll handle. His hand began to shake and he had to set the cup down. He had noticed its absence from the museum collection several months ago. One of the first items that he had noticed missing, in fact. It wasn't in the same class as the stolen jade or the mural that had been removed from the grotto, but it was a nice piece of work and worth three to four thousand dollars. It was also an easily recognizable piece bearing the stamp of the 20th Artel and town mark for Moscow. No wonder Cole and Herschel had thought better of trying to move it right away.

Peter could just about hear the reverberation of the prison door clanging shut behind him.

Any minute now the cops were going to show up with their search warrants and a list of all the items missing from the museum. How many other items from Constantine House were salted in here among the items rightly kept at the bungalow?

He needed to act quickly. Alarmingly, the only thing he could think of was calling Mike, and after a brief struggle with himself, that was exactly what he did.

Mike picked up on the second ring and Peter barely waited for him to identify himself before saying, “Are you someplace you can talk?"

"Yeah. Listen. Bad news. We didn't find the gun at Herschel's. We're going through his records now. Maybe something will turn up, but—"

"It's worse than that. I think my lawyer has been bought off. I've been advised to plead guilty in order to receive a lesser sentence. It's like ... they already have me convicted."

"You're not going to jail.” Mike sounded so definite, Peter felt a flicker of hope.

"Mike, it gets worse. I stopped at the bungalow to pack a few things, and I-I found a cloisonné glass holder—one of the items I originally reported missing to you."

There was dead silence on the other end of the line.

"I don't know what to do. Should I...? What should I do? Someone's going to show up here with a search warrant."

"Yeah. The search warrant has already been issued."

"Oh God. Should I call someone? Report finding it?"

"You've called me."

"I know. But..."

Mike said brusquely, “Look, I'll handle it."

"How?"

"I'll tell you about it when I get home."

"That's another thing.” This was the hard part. Peter sucked in a deep breath. “I can't go back to your place. I ... How can I? This ... conspiracy is going to drag you down too. You can't be seen to have a personal connection with me. You know what that could mean. You could ruin your career. You could lose your job."

There was silence. Mike said crisply, “We'll talk when I get home."

"Mike—"

"Listen. I think you're worth the risk, all right? Now go back to my place and try to keep a low profile."

It was hard to speak around the tightness in his throat. “You ... don't have to do this."

"I know. I want to. So stop worrying. I'll see you tonight."

Mike disconnected.

[Back to Table of Contents]

By the time Mike made it home, Peter was just about climbing the walls. He transferred his attentions happily to Mike.

"Nice to see you too,” Mike said, breaking from the kiss long enough to dump a bag of Chinese takeout on the floor near the door. He turned back to Peter, who slipped his arms around his neck. Mike slid his free hand down the back of Peter's trousers, his bare hand palming and kneading Peter's ass, drawing him even closer.

"I've got a plan,” Mike said between frantic, hungry kisses.

"Me too."

Mike maneuvered them toward the sofa. The arm hit Peter beneath his butt, and they fell backward onto the cushions—and then onto the floor.

"Ouch."

"Sorry,” Mike gasped.

"This is beginning to be a habit..."

"That a problem for you?"

Peter raised his head and met Mike's glinting gaze. He shook his head.

"Good.” Mike kissed him again.

There was mutual fumbling with buttons and zippers, a lot of flapping and kicking out of unnecessary clothes, and then they were rocking and rubbing against each other with an animal enthusiasm that most people who knew Peter would never have thought him capable of. Maybe he wasn't capable with anyone but Mike.

Mike nipped Peter's chin and then kissed him hard and wet, while Peter ground his hips against the stiff erection poking him in just about every vulnerable place of his anatomy but the one that counted.

Thrusting powerfully against Peter, Mike reached down and his fist closed around Peter's bobbing cock, pumping him with pleasurable efficiency. Peter arched his back and groaned into Mike's mouth.

The next moment he was coming in hard, creamy jerks. Mike kissed him harder as though in congratulations. He was still doing the bump and grind. Peter shivered in the aftermath, his cock giving a last spurt. Mike's hand turned gentle and soothing. His wet fingers stroked Peter's flank, and Peter shivered pleasurably.

Then, a few seconds later, Mike was coming too, and Peter felt more liquid heat splashing him from chest to belly.

They lay on the floor breathing hard. Peter asked finally, “You said you had a plan?"

Mike nodded. “Yours wasn't bad, though."

Peter huffed a laugh. Rubbed his nose. “Is that Chinese I smell?"

Mike snickered. He expelled a long breath and sat up. He was on his feet and reaching down to Peter.

"Let's eat. I'll tell you what I've got in mind."

They dished out the Chinese food in the kitchen. Spicy-hot garlic beef for Mike, and plain chicken chow mein with crispy noodles for Peter. Either that was a happy coincidence or Mike remembered what he liked, and that flattered Peter probably more than it should have.

Mike put a bottle of Tsingtao beer in front of Peter and sat down across from him. “So how is your memory now?"

Peter gave him a self-conscious smile.

Mike laughed. “I didn't mean that,” he said. “Although...” His expression softened fleetingly. “Yeah, I'd like you to remember. We had some ... times worth remembering."

And if Peter didn't wind up in a state prison, maybe they'd have more.

"It's like I've plateaued,” Peter admitted. “At first it seemed like I was going to get it all back, but ... now I think a lot of it might be gone for good. I can't seem to remember anything about last week, and I...” He gave Mike an apologetic glance. “It seems like I've blocked out everything about you."

"Well, that doesn't sound physical. Those are two completely separate chunks of time. If you're not remembering, it's because—"

"I don't want to."

Mike said with unexpected sensitivity, “Maybe you can't yet. Maybe it's more than you're ready to deal with."

Peter nodded, reaching for his beer.

"So you don't remember anything about the night the mural was stolen?"

Peter shook his head. “Every so often I get a flash ... like a series of impressions. I know I probably just walked down there for a breath of fresh air. I used to do that—sit on the stone bench near the koi pond at night and just ... watch the stars. I guess I must have heard or seen something that night, and the thieves must have seen me before I could get back up to the house."

"Who knows that? That your memory of that night is still a blank?"

"My lawyer. Pretty much everyone."

Mike seemed to consider this. “Okay. Well, here's what I want you to do. I want you to phone Cole and tell him that you've got your memory of that night back. Tell him you've remembered it all, everything."

"You're kidding. That sounds like an idea I'd come up with."

"I know,” Mike said. “That's why I think he'll believe it."

"He'll just ask me what I saw."

"It doesn't matter. You tell him that he knows damn well what you saw—and what you heard. Don't let him bully you into giving up details. Tell him you're going to the police with everything you know, unless he'll pay you one million dollars."

Peter choked on his beer. When he could breathe again, he said, “One million dollars? He'll laugh in my face."

"His old lady is worth ten times that."

Peter knew his gut reaction was not a logical one, but he heard himself protest, “That's true, but Angie controls the purse strings pretty tightly."

"I don't blame her,” Mike said dryly. “But Cole can get the money. I think you're forgetting how he supplements his income—and who his partner is."

Yes. He was still resisting believing that. Why? It was obviously true. Why was it so hard—so painful—to accept that his friendship with Cole had been mostly one-sided? That he had spent years loving and serving a dream. Or maybe he had just answered his own question.

"And after I ask him for the money, then what?"

"Tell him to bring you the cash tonight at the grotto. Nine o'clock. Tell him if he's even five minutes late, you go straight to the cops."

"Nine o'clock at the grotto? He's going to know that's a trap."

Mike said, “No. He's going to think it's exactly the kind of silly storybook plot you'd cook up. He thinks you're a fool, Peter. And he knows that you've been in love with him a long time and that—more than anything—you want to believe he cares about you too."

Peter couldn't hold Mike's gaze any longer.

"All right. I'll do it."

He could feel Mike's scrutiny. “I'm not going to lie to you. We're taking a risk here. He may just let Herschel handle it, in which case ... we're going to have a few interesting minutes keeping you alive."

"He won't do that.” Peter's tone didn't even convince
him.

"Or, if he's got balls, he'll turn you over to the cops. If he does that ... it's going to be bad. They'll have you for extortion as well as the rest of it."

"They'll have you too."

"I can take care of myself. You..."

"What option do we have?"

"We have other options,” Mike said seriously. “You could take your chances in court, for one. Most of the case against you is circumstantial. The most damning testimony is Herschel's ID, and with a little time we can throw significant doubt on his credibility as a witness."

"But in order to do that, you have to reveal your hand, don't you?"

"
Reveal my hand
?” Mike was faintly amused. “Why yes, I would. But I'm going to reveal it tonight too. That's not my main concern. My main concern is that there's a possibility that you might lose your court case and end up doing time."

Peter heard his own gulp.

"Yeah. That's my thought,” Mike said. “You won't do the kind of time you will if you're nailed for extortion as well as grand theft, but even if you just wound up in county ... no. On the other hand, we could keep digging. We could stall for a few days. You could hide out here while the investigation continues. The proof against Constantine and Herschel is there, we just have to find it."

"But if you don't find that proof ... and I go to trial and lose...” Peter closed his eyes, then opened them. “Even if I
don't
lose, I don't want to waste all those months to this. It's a nightmare having this hanging over me. You don't know. I have no place to live. No job. And what museum will hire me? How am I supposed to survive for ... however long before my trial date comes up? I'd rather do this, take this chance and maybe be able to start work on having a normal life tomorrow."

Mike said seriously, “Are you sure you can do it?"

Peter's jaw tightened. “What do you mean? You think I'll panic? I'm not a coward, Mike. And I'm not as stupid as you think, even if I have made some dumb decisions in my personal life."

Mike shook his head. “I don't think you're a coward. And I don't think you're stupid. No. We're talking about you setting up Cole Constantine. Are you sure you can handle that? Because for a very long time, Constantine's been the most important person in your life."

Peter said, “Cole stopped being the most important person in my life the day I met you."

Mike blinked.

"I know.” Peter grimaced. “More than you wanted to hear. But it's the truth. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. You did me a favor when you gave me that ultimatum, even though I didn't see it at the time. I think I had pretty well worked the truth out for myself by the time I got some sense—literally—knocked into me.” He rose. “Talking makes it harder. Let's get it over with."

"Okay. If you're sure.” Mike was still giving him a sort of quizzical look.

"I'm sure."

Mike rose and grabbed his keys from the counter. “You can't call from here. We'll have to find a phone booth."

They found a phone booth in the valley, and Peter dialed the Rowland mansion while Mike leaned against the side of the booth, head close to Peter's as he listened in.

A maid answered the phone, and Peter asked for Cole.

The maid asked who was calling. Peter looked at Mike, who nodded infinitesimally. His breath was warm against Peter's cheek, and Peter could see how long his eyelashes were.

There seemed to be a delay on the other end and then a couple of clicks. Were the police tapping Cole's phone? Or was Cole just having the call transferred to someplace where he could talk in private? Cole came on the line, and Peter almost jumped at the suddenness of that familiar voice in his ear.

"Pete, where have you been? The police are looking for you. They've found—I'm sorry, you must know that already.” Beneath the regretful warmth, Cole didn't sound sorry. He sounded edgy, a little impatient. Like Peter was a pain in the ass for not hanging around to get himself arrested. “When the police searched the bungalow this afternoon, they found a number of items missing from the museum."