Don't Look Back (3 page)

This was his home. Presumably, it reflected his taste to some extent. It seemed comfortable, pleasant enough—immaculate. Not so much as a newspaper on a table or a coffee mug in the sink disturbed the magazine layout perfection. Was that because he was a neat freak or because someone had tidied up before he got out of the hospital?

Studying the dust-free tabletop, he wondered if the police had searched his home. If so, there was no sign, no spilled fingerprint powder, no emptied drawers or ransacked cabinets. But perhaps he had his friends to thank for that.

At the foot of the staircase was a framed picture of the house floor plan and next to that a framed black-and-white picture of the original house in 1908. The bungalow didn't look much different now, although the plants in the garden were much larger. He examined the floor plan. Four rooms on the first floor: dining room, living room, study, kitchen. Two bedrooms upstairs. It was like a doll's house.

Or a diorama. He went upstairs, unbuttoning his shirt. His bedroom was as clean and impersonal as the rest of the house. A brass bed, ceiling fan with etched globe lights, a folding floor screen featuring a doubtful frog gazing up at a bland heron. Again, not so much as a stray shoe or comb marred the perfection.

He tossed the shirt into the laundry, opened the closet, and blinked. His clothes hung in two neatly laundered and pressed rows—grouped by style and color. Could he really be this organized? It didn't seem ... natural.

He selected a brown polo shirt and a pair of stone-colored chinos. He didn't appear to own a pair of simple Levi's.

The window across from the bed looked out toward Constantine House, the half-raised blinds knocking gently in the breeze. Through the open window, he glimpsed the ornate chimneys and gables of the main house behind the purple blossoms of the jacaranda.

All at once Peter felt very tired ... deflated. The bed looked comfortable, and he thought briefly about lying down. There was so much to absorb, and none of it made sense. Or at least, nothing he learned made him feel better. None of it made him feel like ... himself. Whoever that was.

Turning from the temptation of the bed, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the dresser. He stared in fascination. If he'd expected some kind of surprised recognition now that he was on his home turf again, he was doomed to disappointment. If anything ... he kept expecting someone younger. Taller. Just ... different. Why? What could that possibly mean?

What he saw was a man a little above average height, decent build, brown wavy hair cut short, green eyes. He looked ... ordinary. Like anyone, only ... primmer. Yes. Like a librarian. Like the kind of librarian who only existed in movies. He hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected to look ... so
neat
. Well, he did need a shave, but ... he was so ... conservative-looking. Was that who he was? He didn't
feel
that ... controlled.

He pushed the oval swivel mirror away and went downstairs. In the living room, he paused to examine the array of tastefully framed photographs on polished tabletops. Who the hell
were
all these people?

Roma and Jessica were talking quietly. They broke off when they spotted him.

"Everything all right?” Roma asked too cheerfully.

"I ... Yeah."

He could feel them making the effort not to look at each other. Jessica said, “There's chicken and wild rice casserole in the fridge. All you have to do is heat it."

"Thanks.” He gazed at them rather helplessly. “Look, it's weird, I know. But there are some photos in the living room. Would you be able to tell me who the people in the photographs are?"

"Of course!” Roma said quickly. “I think we know most of your friends."

He followed them to the living room. Jessica picked up the largest frame, a formal photograph of a couple in outdated wedding clothes.

"Those were your parents,” Roma said. Apologetically, she added, “They're no longer alive."

Breaking it gently. But he already knew that. He'd got that much in the hospital. No siblings either.

And so it went. “
This is Ray Stevens and Paul Cheney at Alpine Village Oktoberfest. This is Bob Rodriguez, Jess, me, and you at the Abbot Kinney Festival two years ago. This is...
"

With the exception of Jessica and Roma, he didn't recognize anyone. And yet, nothing rang false. The names were even vaguely familiar—as though these were people he had known a long time ago but couldn't quite put a face or voice to.

What did it mean? Did he really not want to remember?

Roma picked up another photo and offered it. “This is Sortilege.” It was a photo of him and a horse. A big, black, ugly thoroughbred. “He's yours."

"He's my what?"

"Your horse. You stable him down at Griffith Park."

Jessica said, “He was a racehorse, but he couldn't run when people were watching him."

Peter laughed.

"Seriously. He was like a rocket on the track—provided the stands were empty."

"He has issues,” agreed Roma. “So you bought him."

"How could I afford an ex-racehorse?"

Roma shrugged. “You knew his owner. You were at USC together.” Her gaze was curious. “You belong to some private riding group. You meet every Thursday evening down at Griffith Park for a sunset ride, and then you wind up at a Mexican restaurant for chips and margaritas."

He closed his eyes, trying to picture it—feel it. Nothing.
Nada.

When he opened his eyes, they were watching him anxiously. He nodded at the photo of a younger version of himself and a tall blond man of about the same age.

"That's Cole,” Roma said without inflection.

So
that
was Cole. He stared, fascinated. Cole was handsome, no argument there. Like the leading man in a glitzy soap opera. He had a wonderful smile, wide and warm. Peter felt zero gazing at that white flash of teeth.

"And he's an old friend?"

Did she hesitate? “That's right. You roomed together at USC. He helped you get this job."

"And he's MacBride Constantine's great-great-grandson?"

"Yep."

He wasn't wrong. Roma's voice was brisk and colorless. Either she didn't like Cole or she didn't like ... the way he felt about Cole.

How
did
he feel about Cole? Why couldn't he feel anything? How long was this emotional blackout going to last?

"And he's on the museum board of directors?"

"Right."

She didn't like Cole. He had been right, even if he wasn't sure how. “And Cole and I are ... close?"

She certainly hesitated then. “At one time. I don't know how things are now. You don't talk a lot about him.” She added, “But then you never did."

Peter bit his lip, thinking. “Was I...? Am I seeing anyone? At all?” It was the
at all
that probably gave him away. It was pretty obvious he wasn't seeing anyone on a regular basis, since no one had turned up at the hospital to hold his hand.

"Not steadily. You go out with friends. You have an active social life."

What did that mean? Book clubs and blind dates?

Jessica volunteered, “You signed up for one of those dating services. Match.com, I think."

"I ... did."

"You go out a lot. Though usually not more than once with the same guy."

He absorbed that slowly.

"That's your choice, mostly,” Roma put in.

He had the feeling she was trying to tell him something about himself, but he couldn't for the life of him think what it was. That he was hard to please? Hard to get along with? A workaholic? His life sounded ... lonely. It felt lonely.

He looked at the other photos. Mostly group pictures. Cole—an adult Cole—was in a couple of those groups.

His face must have revealed some of what he was feeling, though he thought he was hiding it well enough. “You should lie down, Peter,” Jessica said, putting a hand on his arm.

"Yes,” Roma agreed. “You're supposed to get a lot of rest.” She patted him too. Apparently he was making them nervous. They were going to begin fluttering in a minute.

"And after you've rested, you can have a nice supper and..."

"And an early night,” Roma concluded.

They were trying to help obviously. Not their fault that he was feeling worse with every kind word.

"Yes, I will.” He gathered energy for the social ritual, thanking them for everything—uncomfortably aware that there was probably more to thank them for than he knew. He promised to rest and eat and thanked them some more, ushering them gently toward the front door and then out to the tidy front garden.

"Call if you need anything,” Roma told him.

"Are you sure you want to stay here on your own tonight?” Jessica worried. “We've got plenty of room, you know."

Roma said quickly, “That's an idea."

And it was. A bad one. “I'm sure,” Peter said. “I'm fine. I'm looking forward to—I just need a little time on my own."

They appeared sympathetic and uneasy, but they went—reluctantly—with many admonitions to take it easy and not worry and rest and eat.

At last they had tucked themselves into Roma's MG and were speeding away as though auditioning for stunt drivers in an action flick.

Peter watched them go, and when they were out of sight, he found his keys and went out through the garden, walking slowly up to the main house.

A portrait of Captain MacBride Constantine hung in the entrance hall of Constantine House. At the time of his portrait sitting, the captain had been in his sixties. He'd been around the world several times—and it appeared to have been lousy weather all the way. Beneath the captain's cap, pale blue eyes stared down any landlubber who thought he was getting into the museum without the price of an admission ticket. The snowy hair and long white beard, the ruddy cheeks and small mouth, gave the old man the appearance of a piratical Santa.

Beneath the portrait was a reception desk, and at the reception desk sat a girl scowling at the phone ringing in front of her.

She was about twenty and petite. Her hair was cut in a glossy black bob and her eyes were large and blue. She looked like something crafted in a Dutch toy shop ... too perfect to be real. Like a little doll.

As Peter watched her make a petulant snatch for the phone, her name came to him. Mary. He felt a rush of relief. It was coming back. His memory was sluggishly starting to fill in the blanks. Mary Montero.

Mary, Mary Quite Contrary
. He didn't care for her, but she was the daughter of one of the trustee members. Dennis Montero. Mary had been hired as an intern for the summer, but that had been a washout and Peter had relegated her to answering phones and filing.

It was not a popular decision.

Catching Peter's approach out of the corner of her eye, Mary glanced up. She looked startled to see him. And none too thrilled.

He managed a perfunctory smile and a “carry on” nod, as he continued to his office—and that was the second flash of memory. He remembered where his office was.

Or maybe it was just common sense, because there weren't a lot of options. The bottom floors of the old mansion had been converted to exhibit rooms, and they were stuffed with ... well, junk.

A lot of junk. Some of it relatively valuable, like the collection of jade trinkets, some of it, like the mummified crocodile, more appropriate for a white elephant sale.

He turned left at the marble statue of Kwan Yin. He passed a carefully preserved eight-feet-long giant squid, a battered mummy case, and a collection of Alutiiq masks.

It was not your ordinary Los Angeles cultural attraction, certainly. Although it seemed an accurate representation of the mess his life was currently in.

Peter turned down another hall decorated—if one was willing to use the term loosely—with a series of grim paintings by a contemporary of Hans Holbein the Younger who made Hans's work look like the stuff of Thomas Kincaid.

His office—PETER KILLIAN was blazoned on a small brass plaque beside the door—was at the end of the hall. The door was not locked. Had he left it unlocked or had the police invaded his sanctum? Given the instinctive unease he felt on finding it unlocked, he suspected it was not usual for him to leave his door open. It was a good bet the police had been there before him.

Pushing open the door, he found himself looking into a large and lovely sitting room that had been converted into an office. And a nice office at that. The furniture was antique but comfortable. Large windows overlooked the camellia garden.

He knew, without having to look, that beyond the camellias was a small grassy knoll. Stone steps built into the hillside led down to the grotto, which had once housed the Chinese wall mural.

A strange feeling swept over him and he reached for the desk chair, sitting down heavily.

After a few seconds he felt better and looked around. On the walls were several large photos of people he didn't recognize. Taken at museum functions, he guessed, judging by his own smiling presence in several pictures.

His gaze fell on the desk before him, taking in the old-fashioned bronze desk set, which included an inkwell. Surely he was not some kind of crank who wrote letters by quill pen? But no, his laptop sat right there in the middle of the cleared desk.

He stared at it for some time, feeling vaguely queasy. Not that he would be stupid enough to have anything on his laptop he shouldn't, but ... it still gave him a weird sensation to think anyone—or everyone—had had access to his private communications for the past three days.

After a moment or two he moved to open a desk drawer and found it locked. He checked his key ring and the key was there. He unlocked the desk and found everything in its place. If the police had searched his office, they had been discreet about it.

Removing an ebony letter opener, he began to go slowly through his mail.

There were a couple of résumés, an invitation to a charity function at the Getty, a notice of an art gallery exhibition—and a ton of junk mail that Ms. Montero was supposed to weed out for him.

He tossed the mail back into his tray to deal with when he felt more on the ball and began to go through his desk drawers in earnest. Surely something here would trigger a few recollections or at least supply an answer or two. He came across a foldout brochure for the museum. It looked fairly old—and, as surmised, the date was 1997. Well before his time. There was a small colored photo of the grotto at the bottom of the garden. He could just make out the faded tints of the stolen mural in the background.