Don't Look Back (8 page)

"Are you trying to tell me that I've been in here before?"

"Are you trying to tell me you haven't?” Herschel laughed again and nodded at the security camera in the corner over the counter. “It's a little late for that."

Peter gazed into the security camera. He hadn't expected that, but ... it didn't change anything. He knew he had not stolen from the museum or tried to pawn his ill-gotten booty. “You have me confused with someone else."

"No I don't. And I'll tell you now what I told you the last time you brought that junk in here. I don't deal in stolen property and I don't deal with crooks. Now get out of my store. I'm calling the cops."

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"
Why
?” Griffin asked when Peter opened his front door later that same evening.

Peter repeated warily, “Why?"

Griffin moved forward and Peter stepped back, allowing the detective into the bungalow. It wasn't as though he had much choice. Griffin was bullying his way inside whether Peter wanted it or not. He jabbed his finger in Peter's chest, emphasizing his point with each poke.

"You know something, Killian, you really are pretty stupid. Cute, in a stick-up-the-ass kind of way, but stone stupid.” Peter opened his mouth but didn't get a chance to speak as the cop continued, “Why the fuck would you confront a witness in the case being built against you?"

Peter halted his retreat. “For that reason. Because you're building a case against me and it's a goddamned lie. And I don't care how many fake witnesses you come up with—"

"You think I'm
manufacturing
evidence against you?” If Griffin had looked furious before, he looked combustible now. “Are you nuts? If I was manufacturing evidence against you, do you think I'd have told you we had a witness who could link you to the property stolen from the museum?"

"What the hell did you tell me for if you didn't want me to do anything about it?"

Peter knew that wasn't a reasonable question, so he was astonished when Griffin roared, “So you could hire a lawyer. So you wouldn't be broadsided."

"Why the hell would you care? You've been trying to stick me with this from the beginning."

"You know why! So quit feeding me that horseshit about not remembering."

"I
don't
remember!” What the hell were they yelling about? Peter wasn't completely sure. He only knew that the level of anger—on both sides—didn't make sense.

Maybe Griffin had the same thought, because all at once he was ice-cold.

"I don't know if I feel sorry for you or I'm actually a little glad to see you get what you deserve. You want to stick to that idiot story, go right ahead. But I've got to tell you, that amnesia bullshit might work in those romance novels you're so fond of, but it's not going to fly in real life. Whatever the hell it is you're hiding, you better give it up and come clean. Or you're going to wind up in prison."

And on that note, Griffin wheeled away and slammed out of the house, leaving Peter gaping after him.

The door Griffin had banged shut drifted open again. Peter closed it absently, thinking hard.

Every encounter with Griffin seemed to indicate that he and Peter had had some previous interaction—and it had to be something more intimate than Peter reporting museum thefts, given the detective's level of hostility. Peter put a hand to his chest where Griffin had poked him. Even that, that level of physicality, seemed indicative of a more personal relationship. And that comment about romance novels. How in the hell could Griffin possibly know he read romance novels?

Unless the police
had
searched his bungalow while he'd been in the hospital? But Griffin had said no, and why should he lie about it? He was blunt enough about everything else.

Yet another mystery, but this one niggled at him.

Unable to relax, Peter prowled around the bungalow for a time, before deciding to go up to the museum and retrieve his laptop. If nothing else, he could catch up on some e-mail.

Crickets chirped in loud chorus as he crossed the otherwise silent garden. The scent of flowers hung in the still-warm air.

Peter unlocked the back door of the museum and let himself inside, punching the security code in. In the eerie green glow of the emergency lights, the museum looked even more macabre than usual as he walked quietly down the hallway past the exhibits to his office.

He put his laptop in its case, locked his office, and returned to the main hall, his footsteps echoing emptily.

Before he reset the security code he paused, listening. All was quiet. What was he expecting to hear?

Peter left the museum and made his way quickly across the garden back to his bungalow.

He reheated another portion of chicken rice casserole and settled down at the desk in his study to work but instead found himself listing out all the possible suspects in the museum thefts.

First on his list was Mary Montero. But that was mostly because he didn't care for the kid. As criminal masterminds went, she'd probably be too busy filing her nails. Granted, she was at the museum all day and certainly had access to the exhibits. Furthermore, her father, Dennis Montero, was one of the only people with the after-hours access code to the museum, which meant—at least in theory—that Mary had access to the code as well. But the first thefts had occurred before Mary was working in the museum.

Dennis Montero. Well, Peter had always pegged him as indolent and affable. The Monteros appeared to be affluent, though who knew about the financial details of other people's lives. The Monteros could be struggling beneath the comfortable country-club surface. Even so it was difficult to picture Dennis down in the grotto dirtying his own hands. He'd definitely subcontract his life of crime.

Donnelly, the night watchman, certainly had access to the museum and grounds. He might be hard up for money; Peter didn't know him well enough to speculate, let alone draw conclusions, there. The old fellow had always appeared to enjoy his job for whatever that was worth. Apparently not much since Peter had loved his job too, but the police still viewed him as viable suspect.

Cole ... Well, that was ridiculous. However, for the sake of argument ... yes, once upon a time Cole had been hard up for money—relatively speaking—but all that had changed when he wed Angie. Angie Rowland was a very wealthy young woman. It seemed pretty unlikely Cole would have to resort to stealing from his own museum.

Anyway, it didn't have to be anyone with after-hours access to the museum—nor anyone on staff or working at Constantine House in any capacity. The theft of the wall mural could have been pulled off by professional art thieves, and the pilfering from the museum could possibly be occurring during business hours. Granted, it wasn't probable, but it was possible.

Clearly it wasn't what Detective Griffin thought. But Griffin...

Peter kept coming back to that crack about romance novels. How
did
Griffin know that?

It was about ten o'clock when the doorbell rang. Peter rose from his desk and went to peer through the peephole in the front door.

Cole.

Briefly he considered telling him to get lost, but not only was Cole technically still his employer, Peter felt a bitter curiosity as to what Cole thought he could possibly say.

He turned the lock and opened the door. Cole stepped inside.

"We have to talk."

Peter moved aside and Cole brushed past him. He smelled of aftershave—Armani Code—and, very faintly, whiskey.

Inside, Cole looked around narrowly; did he think Peter might have stolen items from the museum lying about the bungalow? He looked haggard as his eyes met Peter's.

Peter folded his arms across his chest. “What did you want to talk about?"

He could hear the coldness in his voice and could tell from Cole's wince that he heard it too.

"If you think I'm happy about what happened today, you're wrong."

"I don't think you're happy. But you sure as hell didn't lift a finger to stop it."

"How could I?"

How couldn't you? Peter thought, but Cole sounded genuinely pained, so he said wearily, “Look, I don't want to fight with you."

"That's the last thing I want either."

"Would you like a drink?"

Cole nodded distractedly. “Thanks."

Peter went to the liquor cabinet, realizing as he did so that he knew what Cole drank—two fingers of Johnny Walker Black Label on the rocks—and he also knew that he would find a bottle in his liquor cabinet, where he kept it in hope that Cole might drop by.

He poured two drinks and carried them into the living room. Cole was still standing, gazing down at the collection of photos as though looking for answers in those freeze-framed faces.

Peter handed him his drink, their fingers brushed. Cole tossed the whiskey back in two long swallows.

"Again?"

Cole moved his head in the negative. He turned the glass nervously in his hand. “Are you still...? Do you still really not remember anything?"

"You don't believe me, do you?” Peter studied him curiously. Why would Cole think him capable of making something like this up?

"You were ... You've been very ... unhappy."

"Unhappy enough to turn to a life of crime?"

"Of course not."

"Then what are you talking about? What am I so unhappy about?"

Cole said awkwardly, “I suppose a number of things in your life didn't turn out the way you wanted."

Wasn't that true of everyone to a degree? Was Cole suggesting that Peter didn't want to remember because he was unhappy and disappointed? About ... what?

"I don't understand. I have good friends. A job I love.” Yet as Peter said it, he remembered the Zoloft in the bathroom cabinet. Clearly something had not been right in his life.

As though reading his thoughts, Cole said, “But it wasn't enough. You were lonely."

Suddenly it was hard to meet his gaze. “Maybe."

"I'm sorry for that. Sorry if I hurt you. It wasn't intentional. You're ... you're one of my oldest ... one of my closest friends."

It had to be asked. “Is that all we are? Friends?"

The Adam's apple in Cole's throat jumped. “Yes. God. I'm sorry. But yes. We've never been anything more than friends.” He said it very firmly.

"Why are you sorry?"

Cole seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes. “Because..."

"I would have liked more?"

He nodded. “It's a long time in the past, but yes. At one time you would have liked our friendship to be more."

Peter nodded. He thought of the dreams he'd had been having. Such vivid, detailed dreams of himself and Cole. Fantasy, not memory. But very real for all that. Apparently he was a lot more of a romantic than he'd realized, carrying a torch for his best friend all these years. Romantic ... or maybe just an ass.

"I don't know why,” Cole was saying. “I've never ... had any curiosity that way. I don't know what you thought you saw."

"Neither do I.” He didn't mean it insultingly, but he could see from Cole's expression the way it sounded. “I mean ... I don't remember feeling that. I know I—It's obvious I had feelings for you at one time."

"Yes."

At one point Cole had clearly been one of the most important people in his life. Presumably someone he trusted—someone who trusted him. But that hit on the head must have knocked some sense into him.

"Was it a problem for us? My feelings for you?"

"
No
. God, no. We'd resolved all that years ago. Back in college."

"Then why do you think I was so unhappy?"

Cole looked even more uncomfortable. “It's just an impression. Things changed after my marriage last year. We weren't as close."

"Well, we wouldn't be, right?"

Cole's eyes met his. “That's true. And maybe you had come to terms with it. But you seemed distant ... worried."

"Couldn't it have had to do with the thefts at the museum?"

"Perhaps."

Perhaps?
Was it his imagination or was Cole something of a narcissist? Because somehow Peter had trouble believing—not that Cole wasn't an attractive guy; he was. But ... seeing him these past few days, as though for the first time, well, Peter really didn't feel like Cole was all that much his type.

Maybe it did have to do with that fat gold wedding band on Cole's left hand. Maybe it had to do with the fact that Cole hadn't stood up for him with the board of trustees. Or maybe his feelings for Cole had been mostly infatuation that he was finally—and high time—growing out of. Whatever it was, as Peter scrutinized the other man, he felt oddly dispassionate, even cool.

"Cole, why did you come here this evening?"

Cole didn't answer.

Peter thought he understood. “I appreciate your concern, but at this point it's up to the police."

"Yes.” Cole continued to watch him in that hard-to-decipher way.

"Or is there something else?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know.” Peter said slowly, “Detective Griffin said that there had been some discussion of replacing me at the museum before today."

"
What
?"

"He said that even before I became a suspect in the museum thefts that there was talk of terminating my contract."

"He's saying it to get a rise out of you or something. It's not true."

Peter had not thought it was true either, until he listened to Cole denying it. Then he realized that Griffin had apparently got it right. It was right there in Cole's tone. It wasn't the idea he was shocked at, it was the fact that Griffin had found out.

"I don't understand.” And despite his best effort, Peter couldn't hide his upset. “I've worked my ass off for the museum. You said yourself we're finally beginning to see a profit."

"Pete"—Cole rested his hands on Peter's shoulders—"it's not true. I don't know why he told you that, but of course it's not true."

And the more Cole denied it, the more Peter could see that it was true.

Chilled, he said, “That's good. I've been completely loyal to you and the museum. I'd be disappointed to think my loyalty wasn't returned."

Cole's hands, still resting lightly on Peter's shoulders, began to knead gently. “There's nothing for you to worry about. No one is going to disappoint you. As soon as this mess gets cleared up, you'll have your job back. Trust me."