Don't Look Back (7 page)

He hadn't been sure before, but now—something about that lazy, knowing appraisal—he was certain Griffin was gay.

Griffin said, “I think you don't like to take chances. I think you're careful and that you think before you act. You'd know enough not to knock the glass out on the wrong side of the door."

Peter grimaced. “I did knock the glass out, but it was an accident."

They reached his office as Griffin responded, “Right. But I don't think you have a lot of accidents. Which is why I have trouble with the scenario of you happening to walk down to the grotto at the exact moment thieves were yanking out that mural."

"Coincidences happen."

"Not to guys like you."

"Careful. Thoughtful. Crooked."

Griffin smiled that lazy smile again. “Anyway, that's not why I dropped by."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"I have news. Good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?"

Peter said honestly, “I don't know if I can take bad news right now."

Griffin gave him a long, unreadable look. “You have a partial alibi for the night of the robbery."

Peter sagged back against the wall. “I do?"

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised I have an alibi. I'm surprised you bothered to look for it. I didn't get the impression you had any interest in proving me innocent."

"It's not my job to
prove
anything. My job is to collect evidence and arrest the most likely suspect."

"Which you've decided is me."

Griffin stared at him for what seemed like a long time. “You think I'm being unfair to you? Trying to railroad you?"

He probably got excellent results with that intimidating stare. Peter refused to be intimidated. “I don't know. You seem to have your mind made up about me."

"I consider myself a pretty good judge of character."

"And you think I'm a thief?"

He was surprised when Griffin didn't immediately answer.

After a pause, Peter asked, “What's my alibi?"

"You were at Griffith Park horseback riding with friends who you later went to dinner with at Viva Fresh Mexican restaurant. Apparently that's how you spend all your Thursday evenings.” He managed to make it sound like the kind of lame-ass thing Peter
would
do.

The relief was considerable. Except ... the look on Griffin's face was not reassuring. In fact, if it weren't so unbelievable, he'd have said Griffin looked slightly sorry for him.

He made himself ask. “So what's the bad news?"

"Donald Herschel, a local pawnshop dealer, identified you as the man who's been coming in for the past twelve months selling items that showed up on the police report you filed."

A perfect and utter stillness gripped Peter. Somewhere, a long way off—possibly in another lifetime—he could hear that kid in the main exhibit room squawking like a frightened bird. Farther in the distance, a phone was ringing, muted and musical.

His lips felt stiff as he said, “It's not true."

Griffin simply looked at him.

Peter was shaking his head, denying it, denying the panic that was threatening to close him down. “There's some mistake."

"Maybe. He picked you out of a photo lineup, but we'd like to see how he does with the real thing."

"The real thing,” Peter repeated numbly. “A-a lineup, you mean?"

"Right."

He swallowed hard. His throat felt fossilized.

"At a police station."

"Yep."

Peter couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from Griffin's. He said finally, dully, “I need to get a lawyer, don't I?"

Griffin eyed him dispassionately for what felt like a very long time. “Yes,” he said. “You do."

Time flew. Not because Peter was having fun. Not even because he was busy, though he worked through the morning and afternoon. Whether he truly accomplished anything was debatable.

After Griffin left, Peter phoned a lawyer friend who recommended another lawyer who then referred him to a criminal lawyer. Peter set up an appointment with the criminal lawyer for the following morning, which was the soonest he could get—although the lawyer assured him that if Peter was arrested, he'd be there to bail him out before his mug shot was dry.

Far from reassuring Peter, this brought home to him the fact that he was probably going to be arrested—and that he had nothing to make bail with. He earned a very modest income. It was sufficient to his needs, mostly because his living expenses—rent and utilities—were covered by Constantine House. He owned no property—unless someone was in the market for a neurotic ex-racehorse—and there was less than four thousand dollars in his checking account.

Peter thanked Mr. Stephenson of Stephenson and Crane Law Offices, hung up the phone, and made straight for the men's room, where he spent the next three and a half minutes having dry heaves.

When he'd recovered sufficiently, he returned to his office and tried to work, but the struggle to concentrate was exhausting. Given the gaps in his memory, it would have been exhausting anyway. But silent panic was now his constant companion—practically a second presence in his office.

He was so anxious about the impending police lineup—and this lunatic pawnshop dealer who had misidentified him—that he had little energy to worry about the meeting with the board of trustees scheduled for that afternoon.

It was almost a shock when he looked at the clock and saw that it was 4:02.

Mary had not told him the trustees had arrived. He wondered with a surge of hope whether the meeting had been postponed, but when he walked down the hall to the conference room—formerly the mansion's dining room—he found the three trustees were not only already there, they were beginning to check their watches.

Sally Orchard was a heavyset, middle-aged woman who made a point of doing nothing with her hair or clothes. If she had ever worn makeup, it would have been in the interest of scaring little children on Halloween. Peter could remember a series of long and silly skirmishes with her on a variety of petty issues over everything from the museum electrical bills to a personal parking space for Sally.

Dennis Montero—one of the four people who had access to the museum security code—was a small, portly man who vaguely resembled a pig. Not an ugly pig. A cute, roly-poly, piggy-bank kind of pig. Peter had always got on well with Dennis, and Dennis smiled in greeting—and then looked guilty—as Peter entered the room.

Peter barely registered the other two, his attention being focused on Cole, who had apparently been trying to find him.

"There you are!” Cole was smiling, his blue eyes warm but troubled.

"Sorry. I lost track of time."

Sally sniffed disapprovingly. Cole said, “We understand you're busy. Have a seat, Peter."

Peter took a seat at the long dark dining table that now served as conference table. Sally was clicking down the meeting's minutes on her laptop.

Cole cleared his throat. “First of all,” he said, “the board wants to make it very clear that we're pleased with your work at Constantine House. Your knowledge and ability is unquestioned. Your energy and enthusiasm for working with the public has been instrumental in bringing the museum out of the red. I think we'd all agree with that."

Cole looked pointedly at Sally, who sniffed noncommittally and continued typing on her laptop.

Peter managed to find words in the dry desert of his mouth. “Thank you."

"However"—Cole stared at the file before him as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world—"the past week has brought to light some disturbing ... information."

"I'm not stealing from the museum,” Peter said. It came out more harshly than he intended, and Dennis jumped.

"No one's suggesting ... That is..."

Cole looked at Sally, who raised her head from her laptop and said in that heavy, pompous way, “I think if you'll look at this objectively for a moment, Killian, you'll agree that we have no choice but to suspend you pending the outcome of the police investigation."

Peter looked at Cole. Cole seemed unable to hold his gaze, his own eyes dark with emotion.

"It's hard for me to look at it objectively,” Peter said. “I know I'm innocent of any wrongdoing. I'm the one who went to the police a year ago. No one would have been aware of the thefts if I hadn't brought them to the attention of the police."

"That's not true,” Sally said. “The thefts were bound to be discovered eventually. It's probable"—she corrected herself—"it's
possible
that you hoped to shift any suspicion from yourself by bringing the matter to the attention of the police. After all, the investigation didn't go anywhere."

"So the failure of the police is my fault too?"

Cole said quietly, “Peter, this isn't easy for any of us."

Peter stared at him in disbelief. “No, but I think we can agree that it's a hell of a lot less easy for me."

Cole's face tightened, and Peter caught himself before he said anything else. This wasn't helping; it was probably making it worse. And maybe Cole didn't realize how personal this betrayal felt, although he'd have to be pretty stupid not to. But maybe he was stupid. Maybe that was one of the things Peter had forgotten.

For all he knew, this was just an excuse for the board of trustees to get rid of him. He remembered what Griffin had said about there being discussion of terminating his contract with the museum. So maybe this was so much smoke screen, and the bottom line was, he was out regardless of what the police found or didn't find.

Still, he couldn't help saying, “Everyone seems to forget that I was attacked and injured during the robbery. If I was in on it, that wasn't a very good plan."

"You weren't killed, though,” Sally pointed out. She'd have been a hit with the Salem witch trials, Peter reflected.

"I see. So you think I'd risk brain damage to try and cover my tracks, is that it?"

"No one thinks that,” Cole said, although it was obvious from Sally's expression that, that was exactly what she thought. “This isn't a trial or a board of inquiry or anything like that. We're just taking the normal steps any organization in our position would take. As soon as you're exonerated, you'll be reinstated, of course."

Sally clicked busily away at her laptop without comment. Dennis was looking at his watch.

Peter said tersely, “Very well. I'll abide by your decision."

Not that he had any choice, but the other three looked various shades of relieved.

They began gathering up their notes and paper cups, and Peter stood motionless, wondering if he was supposed to hand over his keys. Probably, since he was suspected of ripping off his own museum, but he was not going to volunteer, and apparently none of them thought of it—or if they did, had the guts to ask him for the keys flat out.

He turned and left the conference room. He could hear the murmur of their voices before he was halfway down the hall.

"I'm so glad you called!” Roma screamed over the roar of wind as they tore down Sunset Boulevard, weaving in and out of rush-hour traffic. “We've been thinking about you."

Jessica, her hand to her tiger-framed glasses to keep them from blowing away in the gale-force breeze, nodded eager agreement.

"Thanks for doing this. I appreciate it,” Peter said. “I didn't know who else to call."

"We'd have killed you if you called anyone else,” Roma cried. “This is so much fun. Such a great idea!"

Peter smiled weakly. He didn't know if it was a great idea or not, but at least it was an idea—so far the only one that had occurred to him. Whoever this Donald Herschel was, this pawnshop dealer who Detective Griffin claimed had identified Peter as the seller of stolen goods, he clearly had Peter mixed up with someone else. Photos weren't reliable. And inevitably Herschel would be trying to match the Peter of the physical lineup with the photo he'd seen. But if presented with the living, breathing Peter, surely he'd see his mistake?

And if he didn't?

Well, if nothing else, Peter wanted a look at
him
. Maybe Herschel was someone he'd had some dealings with through the museum? Someone who had a grudge against him or the museum? As far-fetched as that seemed, it wasn't as far-fetched as the idea that Peter would be fencing stolen articles from Constantine House.

It hadn't taken him long to track the pawnshop down through the Internet. Sunset Boulevard Jewelry and Loan, proprietor: Donald Herschel. Hours: ten thirty a.m. to eight p.m.

With some fancy maneuvering, Roma managed to secure a parking space on the crowded street. She and Jessica went inside to pretend to browse as they'd discussed on the drive over.

Peter waited in the car, giving them time to position themselves. The shop was quite a bit larger than he'd expected. It looked successful and busy.

He looked at his watch and got out of the car, crossing the street.

As he was buzzed inside the security door it occurred to him that in an operation of this size, Herschel might not be there. He'd been expecting a little hole-in-the-wall with an aged Shylock, jeweler's loupe at ready, waiting behind a battered front desk.

The reality was a large, well-lit shop stuffed with everything from televisions to musical instruments. An assortment of rifles and handguns were locked in cabinets along one wall. There was an enormous glass case of jewelry in the front of the shop. Jessica and Roma were talking to a slender young man about a man-sized harp—somewhere an angel was apparently in hock.

Another man stood behind the counter. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had long dark hair, thinning on top and a full, dark beard. His automatic smile of welcome died at the sight of Peter walking down the center aisle.

"What are you doing here?” he demanded.

"Donald Herschel?"

"You know damn well who I am. What are you trying to pull?"

"I'm not trying to pull anything. I want to know why you lied to the police."

"Lied to the police!” Herschel laughed. “You're kidding me, right?"

Peter glanced at Roma and Jessica, who were watching with dismay. Definitely not going the way any of them had hoped.