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 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?"
"I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd planted some items in your bungalow to make it look like your accomplices double-crossed you—or feared you were double-crossing them. I can't say I expected them to try to take you out."
Peter rose again, brushing against the coffee table as he went to the window, staring out.
He didn't want to believe it, but ... too much of it made sense.
He remembered telling Cole his memory was coming back, and Cole had immediately arranged for a
"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 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?"
"I wouldn't have been surprised if they'd planted some items in your bungalow to make it look like your accomplices double-crossed you—or feared you were double-crossing them. I can't say I expected them to try to take you out."
Peter rose again, brushing against the coffee table as he went to the window, staring out.
He didn't want to believe it, but ... too much of it made sense.
He remembered telling Cole his memory was coming back, and Cole had immediately arranged for a
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