Male/Male Mystery and Suspense Box Set: 6 Novellas

by Lanyon, Josh

  He thought his attacker must have cut the phone line, and then he remembered that he had taken the phone off the hook before bed.

  Legs wobbling, he went downstairs, replaced the phone, and called 911.

  Chapter Eight

  “That is a beaut of a shiner,” a familiar voice said admiringly. “What’s the other guy look like?”

  Peter looked up from the earnest face of the young female cop taking his statement. Michael Griffin stood beside the kitchen table, his blue eyes taking in Peter’s battered face.

  Peter held an ice pack to his right eye, swollen and already darkening. In addition to the black eye, he had a bruise on his jaw—as well as other less visible parts of his anatomy—a chipped molar where his teeth had collided, and two sets of scraped and bloodied knuckles.

  He said bitterly, “What makes you think there was another guy? Maybe I did this shaving.”

  Griffin gave a harsh laugh, but it was a sore spot with Peter. The crime scene personnel currently wandering around the bungalow had been unable to find where his assailant had broken in. The window of the kitchen door was still boarded up and no other windows had been broken. Nor had either of the locks on the doors of the house been picked or broken.

  No one actually came right out and accused Peter of rigging the whole thing, but the fact that he was the primary suspect in the theft of a very valuable painting was obviously being taken into account.

  Griffin flashed his ID to the female officer. “Thanks. I’ll take it from here. This is part of my ongoing investigation.”

  She slid out of the breakfast nook, leaving her notes, and Griffin slid in to take her place. He eyed Peter unsmilingly, “You okay?”

  “Great.”

  “I’m serious. Do you need medical attention?”

  Peter shook his head.

  “Okay. So what happened?”

  So much for sympathy. Not that Peter expected it—although, knowing what he now did about their former relationship, maybe he was unconsciously looking for some sign…but there was nothing. He nodded—gingerly—at the uniformed cop who was disappearing into the other room, and Griffin said, “I know. Let’s hear it again.”

  Peter told it all again. How he had woken out of a sound sleep to find someone in his bedroom and twenty seconds later found himself fighting for his life.

  “What woke you?” Griffin asked, watching him closely.

  “I don’t know. Or at least I don’t remember. It happened so fast. I was only half awake.”

  “What made you roll out of the way of those bullets?”

  So Griffin had already been upstairs, already heard what the investigating officers had to say. This was probably just a formality. He already thought he knew everything he needed to.

  Peter said wearily, “I honestly don’t know. There was a shadow over me, and I just…jumped out of the way at the same time he started firing.” He added without heat, “I know you don’t believe me. I know you all think this is part of some involved cover story.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You don’t have to.” He stared through his good eye at Griffin. It was so weird knowing what he now knew. He wished…he wished he could remember their former relationship. He wished Griffin didn’t hate him so much.

  Not that Griffin was acting like he hated him. Tonight he was all business, cool and professional.

  “They can’t find how he broke in,” Peter said.

  “Maybe he didn’t break in.”

  “Yes, that has already been suggested.”

  Griffin offered the wolfish grin. “Has it? That’s not what I mean, though. I don’t think you’re stupid enough to imagine something like this would work to divert suspicion from you for the theft of the mural.”

  “And yet you think I’m stupid enough to steal from the museum and then report it to the cops.”

  Griffin’s gaze held his own. “No. I don’t, frankly.”

  Peter sat up a little straighter. “You don’t?”

  “No.” Griffin added, “That doesn’t mean that having gone to the police about the thefts—establishing a precedent—you couldn’t have arranged to have the mural stolen in an attempt to make it look like part of the same pattern. This was a very different kind of crime. The earlier thefts were all small items easily pilfered. Taking the mural required planning and a partner.”

  Peter gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

  Griffin eyed him for an assessing interim. “But I don’t believe you were involved in that either.”

  “You don’t.”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you think is going on?”

  “I think someone wants you dead, Peter.”

  Peter opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of what he wanted to say. The truth was, as shocking as it was to hear it aloud, he had already figured that much out.

  Griffin was watching Peter’s face as he continued, “Either because this someone thinks you know something, or because it’s too obvious you don’t know anything and will make a better scapegoat dead than alive.” He glanced over the uniformed officer’s notes. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  Griffin was thorough, no doubt about it. By the time he had finished reviewing Peter’s account of the night’s events, the crime scene personnel had cleared out and the windows were growing light. Peter’s bruised and pummeled body was beginning to ache. He hurt from his face to his left foot—where he’d accidentally kicked the dresser while he’d been wrestling on the floor. He was so tired he could barely concentrate—but no way was he going to spend the rest of the night in the bungalow, and he said so to Griffin as he at last concluded their interview and rose.

  “Where do you plan on going?”

  “A hotel.”

  Griffin was staring at him, his expression unreadable. “What hotel?”

  “I don’t know. Wherever I can get in this time of night.” He glanced at the window. “Morning.”

  Griffin said, “I’ll make a phone call and get you booked into the Best Western.”

  As gallant gestures went, it wasn’t much, but tiredness and pain had lowered Peter’s resistance and he was grateful for any sign of kindness. “Thanks.”

  Griffin brushed it off uncomfortably.

  Peter blurted, “I remember, Mike.”

  Griffin looked guarded, wary. “Oh yeah? What is it you remember?”

  Peter met his gaze straight on. “Not everything. But I know we started seeing each other after I reported the museum thefts. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Because we shouldn’t have been seeing each other,” Griffin replied shortly. “I crossed more than a couple of professional lines when we started going out. You want the truth? I thought you were pretending you didn’t remember about us for your own reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  Griffin raised a shoulder in a kind of who-knows-with-you gesture.

  “Why did you…? Is that why you broke it off? Because it was a violation of professional ethics?”

  Griffin’s face tightened. “I thought you said you remembered?”

  Peter admitted, “It’s more that I finally managed to put two and two together. I don’t remember…” He couldn’t seem to look away from Mike’s blue, blue eyes. Hot color flooded his face as he got out, “I’ve been having these dreams…and I think they’re about you.”

  “You think?”

  Peter said, “I know it sounds idiotic, but…the doctors were right. I think I didn’t remember because I didn’t want to—because it was painful. I’ve been taking a prescription for anxiety and depression since December.”

  There was a funny break.

  Mike’s brows drew together. “You’re on antidepressants?”

  “I quit taking them after I got out of the hospital.”

  “Hell. You’re not supposed to just stop taking that stuff, you know. If someone gets hold of that information…your credibility could be further damaged.”

  “I know.
Judging by the number of pills in the bottle, I think I was in the process of weaning myself off them. Anyway, the point is, a couple of friends told me that after we broke up, I was pretty depressed.”

  Mike was still eyeing him skeptically, but something had changed in his face. Some of the hardness had gone.

  “And those dreams… I kept telling myself they were of Cole. Even in my dream I kept telling myself they were of Cole, but I couldn’t see my…my lover’s face. I guess my subconscious was trying to show me that it wasn’t Cole I was with. Once I realized”—his color heightened, but he said it anyway—“the dreams are of you, yeah. Why did you break it off with me?”

  Surprisingly, there was color in Mike’s face too. He said, “If you’re really not planning to stay here for what’s left of the night—and I wouldn’t, if I was you—let’s go back to my place. We can talk without getting interrupted. I have to be at the station later in the morning, but you can stay there and sleep without worrying about anyone breaking in and trying to cap you again.”

  As invitations went… Well, at least it was an invitation, and the best one Peter had had in a long time.

  * * * * *

  Mike lived in a condo in Flintridge. On the outside it was just an innocuous, pink stucco, two-story building, and Peter was too tired to pay much attention as he followed Mike upstairs.

  He remembered the inside, though—or at least it felt familiar. But maybe because it was pretty much a generic bachelor pad: comfortable furniture, plasma TV, and an impressive stereo system. There was a large tank of tropical fish against one wall and a couple of nice oils of the ocean on the other.

  “You want a beer?”

  Peter shook his head, watching without interest as Mike disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared a few moments later and sat on the other end of the sofa. He took a long swallow of beer from the bottle and sighed appreciatively. “Man, it’s good to be home.”

  Yes. It must be nice. Peter didn’t think he would know that feeling again until he finally regained his memory.

  He said, “So what made you change your mind?”

  Mike raised a lazy eyebrow. “About what?”

  “You don’t think I’m guilty anymore? In the hospital you acted like you thought I was guilty.”

  Mike took another swig of beer and seemed to consider the question. “I’m not going to pretend. I’d have been happy if you were guilty. I was mad as hell at you. At the way things ended between us.”

  Peter tried to take this in. “But you ended them.”

  “Yeah. I did.” Mike seemed to weigh his words. “I liked you a lot, Peter. I thought… Well, it doesn’t matter. But before long it was obvious it wasn’t going anywhere, and that it never would so long as Cole was part of your life.”

  “There wasn’t anything between Cole and me. Cole said himself—”

  “I don’t know what Cole told you, and maybe you weren’t sleeping together, but he had you on a very short leash. You’ve been infatuated with him since college, and from what I could see, he liked and encouraged that.”

  Peter was shaking his head, rejecting this. “He’s married.”

  Mike said dryly, “I know all about Cole’s marriage. I heard about it in detail from you. The third time you broke a date with me to go listen to Cole whine about his marriage was when I told you I’d had enough. That you were going to have to decide whether you wanted a relationship with me or with Cole. You chose Cole.”

  “I…chose Cole?”

  Mike said wearily, “Not in so many words. Your argument was that you weren’t going to be handed any ultimatums. And my argument was I wanted a real relationship with you—or to at least to explore the possibilities of having one—but that I didn’t want to work around Cole’s schedule.”

  Peter said slowly, “But if Cole was going through a bad time…”

  “Yep,” Mike said curtly. “I wasn’t very sympathetic, and I’m still not. I think Cole Constantine is a user and a manipulator. And probably a closet case. I think he married Angela Rowland for money, and I think he got what he paid for. I told you then and I’m telling you now, he’s bad news.”

  “And you couldn’t—”

  “No, I couldn’t. Like I said, I had feelings for you.”

  Peter said resentfully, “You sure didn’t have trouble closing the door on me.”

  “You have no idea how I felt. You didn’t make any attempt to find out. You chose Cole, and that was that.”

  “I think six months of Zoloft says otherwise.”

  After a hesitation, Mike said, “Obviously, I didn’t know that. I still don’t. That is, you might have been taking antidepressants for a lot of other reasons.”

  But Peter was pretty sure, even if the details were still fuzzy, that the tension of trying to balance his changing feelings for Cole—his growing disillusionment and fear that he was indeed being manipulated—and losing Mike, who he knew, even without his complete memory, had been special, someone he could have really cared for, was the explanation for his turning to chemical relief.

  He rubbed his aching temples, and Mike said gruffly, “Why don’t you get some rest. We’ll talk when I get home tonight.”

  Peter raised his head, scowling. “Sleep? You think I can sleep? My life is a train wreck.” He gave a sour laugh. “I’ve lost my job, I’m being kicked out of my home, and I’ve been arrested for grand theft and charged with a felony. I’m probably going to go to prison—if someone doesn’t kill me first. How am I supposed to sleep?”

  “What’s the alternative? A thirty-day supply of NoDoz?”

  “You’re all heart.”

  Mike sighed. “What do you want from me? You’re in deep shit. And if I tell you who I think is responsible for it, you’re not going to be happy.”

  Peter stared. “You think Cole is responsible for my being arrested?”

  “I think Cole has been stealing from his granddaddy’s house of horrors for some time now. And so do you, I suspect, which is why after initiating an investigation, you suddenly got cold feet. For the record? It’s another thing we argued about.” He added, “Which is why I thought you might be faking amnesia. I thought you might be trying to protect Cole.”

  “Faking amnesia. You honestly thought I might fake amnesia?”

  A flicker of self-consciousness crossed Mike’s face, but he said, “And if you were trying to protect Cole, I thought that putting pressure on you, making you think you were a suspect, might get you to crack.”

  “You deliberately let me think I was a suspect?”

  “Unfortunately, my plan backfired.”

  “You’re quite a bastard,” Peter said civilly.

  “I never said I wasn’t. But I’m not as big a bastard as your best buddy Cole who, I think, hired someone to try and kill you last night.”

  “No. No way.”

  “I don’t think he’d have the balls to do it himself.”

  Peter stood up. “Cole did not break into my house. He did not hire someone else to break in. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

  Mike was unmoved. “Here’s what I think is going on. I think you walked in on the middle of Cole and an accomplice carting off that mural. I think that’s why you don’t want to remember what you saw.”

  “If that were true”—Peter swallowed, and the persistent ache in his temples turned into a sick, heavy thudding behind his eyes—“then you think Cole or this accomplice attacked me. Why wouldn’t he just kill me then? Why would he wait to have to hire someone?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know for sure what you saw. Maybe he was a little squeamish. Maybe he’s even a little fond of you. But he’s not fonder of you than he is of himself. I think he began to worry about you getting your memory back. Or maybe it’s more that he saw—or believed he saw—you were becoming the focus of our investigation, and he decided to set you up.”

  “By killing me? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose?”

  Griffin said calmly, “I think
there’s been an ongoing difference of opinion on what to do about you.”

  “Between who?”

  “Cole and his accomplice.”

  “Who’s this accomplice?”

  Mike said nothing.

  Peter dropped back down on the couch. “Well? You’ve told me this much. Go ahead and hit me with it.”

  “I think it ought to be pretty obvious.”

  Peter fell silent, thinking. He was so god-awful tired. It was difficult to string sentences together. Let alone actually think before he spoke.

  “Come on,” Mike said. “Use your head. Where did the real evidence against you come from?”

  Peter said slowly, “Herschel. The guy who picked me out of a lineup. The guy who claimed I approached him trying to sell stolen goods.”

  Mike didn’t agree or disagree. “See, the problem with Herschel’s story is, if it’s not true…then what does he have to gain by such a lie? It could be Cole is paying him to frame you, but the fact that he coincidentally owns a pawnshop—and has more than a few unsavory connections—leads us to speculate that his motive is a little more personal. Like a useful cover story for himself.”

  “Cole is working with Herschel?”

  “We began to look at Mr. Herschel more closely when he couldn’t come up with the surveillance tape of you that he originally claimed he had. His story was they reuse the old tapes, which is common enough, but claiming he had it and then backtracking aroused suspicion—especially since I was pretty sure you weren’t stealing from the museum.”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “What do you want?” Mike said irritably. “I didn’t think you were guilty. But I’ve been wrong before.”

  Peter continued to work it out. Reluctantly, he said at last, “And the reason Herschel didn’t have to break in tonight was because Cole gave him the key to my place?”