Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas

by Lanyon, Josh

  A robbery. Like…a mugging? He couldn’t seem to remember, although it didn’t seem like the kind of thing one would forget. It was all very bewildering. He wanted to go back to sleep.

  “I don’t remember,” he said, and his eyelids drifted shut.

  The next time he opened his eyes, the bull—the cop—was back.

  The thin mouth curled into an unfriendly smile. “Well, Peter, we meet again.”

  “Yes,” Peter said, trying to focus. His vision was off. “Do I know you?”

  There was silence. The gray-blue eyes—which looked more gray than blue—narrowed. “Are you saying you don’t?”

  Peter’s heart began to pound. “No.”

  “No…?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  Another silence. Another smile—a rather cynical one. “Is that so?”

  “Should I?” Peter managed. His temples were now starting to pound in time with his heart. All at once he felt very ill.

  “What do you remember?”

  “I…” Peter stopped. He had the sensation of sand sucking away beneath his feet. “Who are you?” His voice sounded faint even to himself.

  The other laughed, and then the dark face re-formed itself into a sneer. “Honest to God. You’ve got to be kidding. You’re not seriously going to try and pull that?”

  Peter stared at him; he couldn’t think of anything to say even if he could have forced words out over his rising panic. This couldn’t be happening. This… Something was wrong. And he could not let this guy, whoever he was, know how very wrong things were—that much he knew instinctively.

  “I think you should go,” he said.

  “Oh, you do?” Unimpressed, the cool eyes studied him. “Why? If you don’t know who I am?”

  Peter said honestly, “Because I don’t like you.”

  Another one of those hard laughs. “I see you do remember something. What else do you remember?”

  Peter opened his mouth. Nothing came to him. This was impossible.

  Wait. He knew…the nurse had called him “Mr. Killian” and this asshole had called him “Peter.” And the doctor had said…something about a mugging.

  “It’s… I know who I am. But…some…details are…vague.”

  “How convenient.” Unfriendly mockery. “Well, let me refresh your memory. I’m Detective Michael Griffin. LAPD Robbery and Homicide Division.” Griffin pulled a flat wallet thing out of his jacket and flashed a very large, very official-looking badge in front of Peter’s nose.

  Peter narrowed his eyes. This made sense up to a point. He had been knocked out—in a robbery—so it was reasonable that the police would interview him. Right? But Detective Griffin was acting like Peter was the criminal, and clearly they had some kind of history.

  And that was very hard to believe. Peter doubtfully studied Griffin’s face. Peter was a law-abiding person. He knew that about himself. He had no doubt whatsoever on that score. Maybe he couldn’t remember everything, but he knew he was not the kind of person who got into trouble with the law.

  Right?

  And anything else was out of the question.

  Ah. So that was an additional something he now knew about himself. He liked guys. He was…gay. And comfortable with the idea.

  But maybe Griffin didn’t like guys who liked guys? Maybe that was the problem with Michael Griffin. Although how would he know about Peter’s sexual preferences? Peter couldn’t imagine him confiding such a thing to…well, really to anyone. Nor did Griffin seem like the kind of guy anyone would want to confide in. Even had he been Peter’s type. Which he wasn’t. Peter couldn’t quite remember what his type was, but he was quite sure Griffin was not it.

  “Is your memory coming back?” Griffin inquired.

  “I was knocked out.”

  “Oh right. And now you have amnesia. That’s the story?”

  Griffin did not like him either. That was clear. And Peter did not feel well enough to deal with it. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Said, “Can we…talk about it later?”

  “You’re not curious about what happened to you? I’d think you’d be very curious…since you can’t remember anything, right?”

  Peter watched him. “I was mugged?”

  “Try again.”

  Peter tried again. “I was…robbed.” Griffin was from robbery and homicide, so that was a safe bet.

  His thinking processes must have been transparent, because Griffin said slowly, “You’re guessing. Or you’re pretending to guess.”

  God. This asshole was too much. Peter closed his eyes. He couldn’t deal with this right now.

  Silence.

  When the silence stretched—when Griffin didn’t go away—Peter opened his eyes and surprised an odd expression on the detective’s face. Mostly suspicion, or maybe wariness, but there was some other emotion that Peter couldn’t read. It vanished the moment Griffin saw that Peter’s eyes were open.

  “Why don’t I help you out with a few points? Your name’s Peter Killian. You don’t like to be called ‘Pete.’ You’re thirty-five years old, unmarried, a native Angeleno. You’re the curator at Constantine House. Is this ringing any bells?”

  Peter licked his lips. There was a horrible taste in his mouth and his head was pounding sickly. He knew he didn’t want to hear anything more. He knew he needed to.

  “You’ve been curator there for a little over three years—during which time the museum has lost slightly over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of antiquities and art objects.”

  Griffin paused politely. Peter moved his head in slight negation. He couldn’t have spoken even if he’d known what to say. His heart was thudding as though he’d found himself cornered by an attack dog—which was kind of how he felt. Griffin wasn’t quite baring his teeth, but somehow the effect was the same.

  “Two nights ago, for reasons known only to you, you went down to the grotto in the back of the museum garden and, to all appearances, surprised thieves in the process of removing a priceless, tenth-century painted mural.”

  Tenth century. A very bad year—all one hundred of them. The “Leaden Century” as described by Cardinal Baronius. The darkest of the Dark Ages.

  “What was a priceless artifact doing in a grotto in the back of a garden?”

  Griffin ignored that feeble protest. “Apparently, you were struck over the head and left unconscious while the thieves made off with the wall painting—at which point you regained consciousness, made your way back to the museum, and triggered the alarms by not disarming the security system when you let yourself inside the back door.”

  As Griffin spoke, Peter had a dizzying and fleeting impression of images. A small cave…flashing shadows…voices echoing in argument…the delicate lines and muted colors of a painting…two riders on horseback…Chinese, yes. A tomb painting…yes. He did remember…

  He remembered…something.

  It took a few seconds to absorb the implications of Griffin’s flat pronouncement.

  “You don’t think that’s what happened?”

  “I think it’s convenient. Like your amnesia.”

  Peter let that sink in too. He had the disconcerting sensation of trying to feel his way through smoke.

  “You think I was involved in the robbery?” he managed at last.

  “Were you?”

  “No! Of course not.”

  “I thought you couldn’t remember?”

  Peter tried to sit up. Not a good idea. Quite a bad idea, actually. Despite the railing, he nearly overturned right out of the narrow hospital bed. His stomach overturned too as his brain seemed to slam the roof of his skull. Dimly, he was aware of Griffin grabbing him and putting him back against the pillows. Griffin said something to him, but he couldn’t make it out. Maybe Griffin rang for help, because he could hear a buzzer going off. Peter felt sick and woozy and cold all the way through. He needed to make Griffin understand, needed to convince him, and he already knew that was going to be a hopeless cause. Griffin’s mind was made u
p. He believed Peter was guilty.

  Then the room was full of people. There seemed to be a lot of noise and activity. Somewhere behind the wall of sound, he could hear Detective Griffin protesting—and being overridden. Peter put a hand to his head, touching some kind of bandage; his skull felt like it was about to split in half. Someone leaned over him; there was a pinch in his arm, and suddenly the commotion faded out.

  It was quiet again. Warm. Dark. A black tide rushed toward him and he stepped out to meet it.

  * * * * *

  Mouths locked, their cocks awkward, poking, stiff as they moved against each other. A slow wriggle that turned into humping—uncomfortable, embarrassing—but then slowly, rhythmically finding themselves in step, moving faster, faster, picking up a frantic kind of speed. No longer awkward or strange, just give-and-take, a lovely reciprocity. He could hear the hard, steady pounding of the heart beating against his own. A husky voice speaking against his ear… The words were lost. But that was all right. Even without the words, this was what he had been waiting for, what he had wanted for so long.

  Why had he been afraid of this? Why had he thought this wasn’t possible?

  “Cole?”

  He woke, startled, to sterile silence. Had he spoken aloud?

  “So, Professor Peabody, I guess your memory is coming back?”

  Professor Peabody? He opened his eyes.

  Blue sky and clouds. That was nice. Strange but nice. Ah. Fluorescent lights behind decorative diffuser panels. He turned his head—very carefully. Medical paraphernalia…and a face he’d hoped he’d dreamed up. Although…given his most recent dreams, maybe not.

  Detective Griffin was at his bedside once more, faithful as any lover. Well, he’d known that reprieve couldn’t last. Griffin had been a no-show yesterday evening, but here he was bright and early, as though standing in for Peter’s nearest and dearest. That was unsettling, now that Peter thought about it.

  “Why isn’t anyone here?” Peter asked.

  “I’ll try not to take that personally.”

  “I mean…my…”

  “Your?”

  But Peter had already figured it out. There wasn’t anyone. No family. Friends… He looked doubtfully at Griffin. Those blue-gray eyes that didn’t seem to miss anything. Even if Peter had a crowd of friends queuing up outside the room, Griffin would not be letting them in till he got whatever it was he wanted from Peter.

  Which was what? A confession of guilt?

  When Peter didn’t speak, Griffin said, “I guess you’re wondering where Cole is?”

  “Cole?”

  The flash of impatience was almost concealed. Not quite. “You woke up asking for him. Now you’re pretending you don’t know who he is?”

  He had to tread warily here. “I was half-asleep.”

  “You’re trying to tell me you don’t remember Cole?”

  Cole. Did he know who Cole was? He couldn’t picture him. And yet the name seemed imprinted on his consciousness. Too important to forget.

  And yet he had forgotten.

  Peter’s stomach knotted with tension. He was sliding out onto some very thin ice; he could feel the chill. What division did Griffin work for? Robbery and…homicide? Was that what he’d said? Peter couldn’t remember. But there was something about Cole. He could feel it. Something bad. Something too painful to bear.

  “Who is he?”

  “Cole Constantine? He’s the great-great-grandson of MacBride Constantine.”

  Peter must have looked blank, because Griffin’s sarcastic mouth quirked and he said, “Captain MacBride Constantine. The founder of Constantine House. The salty old sea dog who ripped off all those treasures from foreign climes and dragged them home to Southern California.”

  “What is Cole to me?”

  Griffin’s slanted eyebrows rose. “Good question. For one thing, he’s your employer. Well, one of them. He’s on the trustee committee for the museum. And”—he seemed to be scanning Peter’s face closely—“you were college roommates and best friends.”

  “What else?”

  “You tell me.”

  Peter stared. Griffin had a thin, cruel face, he thought. His eyes were wintry, like old ice.

  “Has something happened to him?”

  “Like what?”

  The tension knotting Peter’s muscles seemed to wrench tighter. He was afraid now—starting to shake with it.

  “Like…something bad.” He blurted, “Is he dead?”

  Griffin laughed. “Worse than that. He’s married.”

  Chapter Two

  “You really don’t remember anything?” Roma shouted.

  She was a small, slim woman of about forty with hazel eyes and dark hair cut in what they used to call a pixie. Apparently, she and Peter were great friends; she had turned up at the hospital to collect him and was now flying him home in her green vintage MG. She drove well, if terrifyingly fast.

  He hedged, calling over the rush of wind, “It’s coming back.”

  “But you remember me?”

  “Sort of.”

  Not really, if he was brutally honest. He had been relieved to find that he did apparently have friends. His hospital stay, though relatively brief, had been lonely and nerve-racking till Roma had shown up claiming long acquaintance. He had to take her word for it. He liked her, though. Liked her directness, liked her easy acceptance of his plight. He could believe they were friends even if he couldn’t recall that friendship.

  She laughed now at his obvious discomfort. “In that case, I guess your trust is flattering.” She spared him a glance—Peter wished she wouldn’t, given the bat-out-of-hell speed they were traveling at down the 210. Having just escaped the hospital, he definitely didn’t want to wind up there again anytime soon. So there was something else he now knew about himself. He didn’t like taking chances.

  “Anything you want to stop for on the way? Jessica is stocking the pantry for you, so you’ll be set for the next few days.”

  Jessica, he had already gathered, was Roma’s partner. He had no recollection of her either. He had no recollection of anyone, though there was no organic reason for this lapse according to the doctors. He remembered the year, the month, and who was president. He remembered who won the fourth round at Wimbledon; he remembered seeing Duplicity—although he couldn’t remember the circumstances of seeing the film. He remembered the Art Loss Register.

  He remembered pretty much everything, provided it had no personal connection to himself. Which indicated, according to the hospital’s resident psychiatrist, that his memory loss was psychosomatic. Amnesia, as it turned out, pretty much only happened in books and movies. If Peter wasn’t remembering, it was because he didn’t want to remember.

  Either that or, as Detective Mike Griffin suggested, Peter was faking.

  “I just want to get home,” Peter answered. He had no appetite. The hot summer wind blowing against his face was making his head hurt, although he should have been sufficiently medicated.

  “Coming right up!” Roma pressed the gas and Peter closed his eyes.

  Constantine House was located in La Cañada, at the junction between the 210 and 2 freeways. Built in 1880 by retired sea captain MacBride Constantine, the Victorian mansion overlooked ten acres of live-oak forest and a series of carefully cultivated gardens.

  Peter had been hoping that his first sight of the house might trigger his memories, but though he recognized that it was a charming architectural hodgepodge of styles and influences, it did not resonate with him personally. It might have been the first time he laid eyes on the ornate brick chimneys, fish-scale shingles, stained-glass windows, curved wood brackets, and corner turret crowned with an enormous copper fleur-de-lis that defined the grand old Victorian.

  “I don’t live there, do I?” he asked as the MG wound up the camellia-lined drive.

  Roma shook her head. “You live in a cottage in the back. Did you want to stop?”

  He should, of course. He should go straight to the m
useum. At the very least, he needed to know what was going on with the investigation from the perspective of the other victims, but even more than information, he craved silence, privacy. He’d been under a magnifying glass from the moment he recovered consciousness, and he already knew enough about himself to know that he was not comfortable with this much attention.

  “I’ll see how I feel later.”

  Roma nodded and they sped past the pastel-colored house with the colored windows shining like jewels in the bright sunlight. With the jacaranda trees in full purple blossom, it looked like a fantasy landscape.

  It seemed strangely unpopulated too.

  “Is the museum open?”

  Roma replied, “Nine to five, every day except Christmas. Parking two dollars.”

  “Is it closed while the police are investigating the robbery?”

  “Not that I know of.” She shot him a quizzical look.

  “It seems a little…deserted.”

  “It’s not exactly Disneyland, you know.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Was the museum a fiscally sound enterprise? He had to wonder.

  The drive wound behind the mansion, past the statuary and “ancient” garden and boxwood maze. Roma turned off from the main drive and headed down a small side road. Peter sighted a diminutive two-story California bungalow built in the Craftsman style: dark wood shingles and multipaned windows, sloping roof, pale stone chimney, tapered porch posts.

  “Here we are. Not a scratch on you. Well, at least no more scratches than you left the hospital with.” Roma pulled to a neat stop on the half-moon drive in front of the house and grinned at him.

  “Thanks. Really. I appreciate it. I’m just feeling a little…”

  “Fragile?” She patted his knee and then opened her door.

  Peter followed her more slowly up the stone stairs. The front door was unlocked, and they went inside the bungalow.

  His immediate impression was of lemon oil and fresh flowers. The door opened onto a small living room with a hardwood floor, coffered ceiling, and a large stone fireplace. The furniture was tasteful and comfortable. Earth tones and cherrywood. Botanical prints were artfully arranged on one wall. There were a number of silver-framed photos on the low credenza. Peter recognized Roma among the other strangers captured for posterity.