Free Don't Look Back by Josh Lanyon

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