Virginia Kantra - Stolen Memory

“Excuse me?”

“I told you, my company is in the process of launching new laser technology. I can’t have my competitors—I can’t have people in my own company—thinking I’ve lost it.”

“But doctor/patient privilege—”

“It would still get out I’d seen a doctor. Someone is bound to ask why. I can’t afford any weakness.”

“Why not?”

She probably thought the bump on the head had made him paranoid. But he wasn’t. He knew he wasn’t. He felt the sharp certainty of threat, the only tangible guidepost in the fog that was his brain.

And he couldn’t explain that to her without sounding even more crazy.

“Look,” he said, using really basic concepts and small words she could understand, “Wednesday night somebody got into my lab and hit me over the head and robbed me.”

“You were robbed.”

She was doing that echo thing again.

Simon set his jaw. “Yes.”

“Are you sure? I mean, if you can’t remember…”

“The safe was open,” he snapped.

Now—finally!—she picked up her pen. “And do you have a record of the safe’s contents?” she asked, still plainly humoring him.

“There’s got to be a list somewhere.” His notes were precise and methodical. His desk was ruthlessly systematized, his bedroom uncluttered. Everything he’d seen pointed to his being an orderly, organized, painstaking individual. He must have kept an inventory of something as important as the contents of his safe. He just hadn’t found it yet.

“It would help if you could locate it,” said the detective practically. “Where was your security guard during this attack and robbery?”

He stared at her.

“You said he came up with you from Chicago,” she reminded him gently. “He showed me in. Mr. Quinn?”

Simon shook his head, forgetting his resolution to avoid sudden movements. Pain momentarily grayed his vision and robbed him of breath.

When he could speak again, he said, “Not Quinn. Quinn Brown is my household manager. Apparently he was visiting his daughter for a few days. He arrived yesterday.”

Simon calculated he’d been alone at that point for almost twenty-four hours and conscious for five or six. He hadn’t recognized his employee’s face. He hadn’t recognized his own name, either, when Quinn had called him, except that it had appeared on the various notes and papers he’d found.

It had been a relief, he remembered, to realize that it was his name, that this must be his house.

Some sense of self-preservation, a horror of weakness or perception of danger, had kept him from confessing his confusion and utter helplessness to his household manager.

The same instinct made him cautious now.

“The guard was supposed to stay at the house until Quinn returned. But when Quinn came to work, no one was here.”

Detective Baker frowned. “Except you.”

Simon inclined his head in careful acknowledgment. “Except me.”

She tapped her pen on her notebook. “Doors and windows?”

At least she appeared to be taking him seriously. “Locked. And the security system in the house was on.”

“The safe?”

“Open. Either someone else knew the combination—which seems unlikely—or I opened it myself. I could have been putting away my notes for the day when I was interrupted.”

“I’ll take a look at it,” she said. “This other guard—have you tried to reach him? Who’s in charge of your company security?”

He didn’t know. “I thought it best to contact the police.”

She caught his implication immediately. “You think it was an inside job.”

Simon was grateful for her quick understanding. But he didn’t answer her directly. “I don’t know.”

“Isn’t there anyone you can trust?”

He didn’t know that either. He’d searched the office and the master bedroom for clues. Nothing. On his dresser sat a framed photo of a teenage girl with a row of silver earrings whose eyes were the same shape as the ones he saw in his mirror. His daughter? But then why didn’t she live with him? There were several bedrooms upstairs, but no magazines, no makeup, no feminine clutter. Only a bikini, forgotten in the back of a drawer, and some half-empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner stashed under a sink suggested he sometimes had visitors.

His apparent isolation was frightening. He must have friends and family. Perhaps a woman? But they had left no trace in his life.

What kind of a man was he?

The detective was still waiting for his answer, watching him with what was certainly only professional concern in her eyes. Or impatience.

Isn’t there anyone you can trust?

He wanted to trust her. But was that because she was trustworthy or because he was desperate for connection, eager to imprint on the first person he saw like a baby duck? The idea revolted him.

“That’s what we need to find out,” he said.

She tilted her head. “That’s going to be tough if you can’t remember who attacked you.”

Even tougher if he didn’t tell her the whole truth. But how could he?

“Amnesia is usually a temporary condition,” he offered instead.

“How temporary?”

She was persistent. He admired that, even if it was inconvenient. He shrugged. “A few seconds to a few weeks. I have been able to recall everything since I regained consciousness. My short-term memory is unaffected.”

“Great. So if I come back tomorrow you’ll recognize me.”

Startled, he met her gaze. Her mouth indented at the corners. She was joking, he realized in relief. He smiled back cautiously.

“So, this guard, the one who came with you from Chicago…” Detective Baker flipped a page in her notebook, all business again. “What was his name?”

“Swirsky.” It had meant nothing to him when Quinn had told him. “Pete Swirsky.”

Her notebook slid from her knee and hit the floor with a crack. She leaned forward to pick it up. When she straightened at last, her face was a deep, unbecoming red.

“Is anything the matter?” Simon asked.

“I… No, I…” She fussed with the crumpled pages on her lap. “Sorry.”

He sat back, fascinated by the sudden change in her demeanor. “Take your time.”

“I’m fine,” she said, a little too sharply. “He’s missing, you said?”

“He wasn’t here when Quinn returned. I don’t know when—or how—he left.”

“Have to be by boat. Someone may have seen him. Anyway, since he works for you it shouldn’t be much trouble to track him down.” Her voice was brisk and practical. But her fingers, as she smoothed the pages of her notebook, trembled slightly. “In the meantime, I’ll need a statement from Mr. Brown and a look at your lab. Has anyone been in there since your…accident?”

Accident? How about “attack”? Or “assault”? Some other a-word that indicated she’d accepted his story.

But maybe he was hoping for too much. At least she was going to investigate.

Which raised another problem.

“As far as I know, I’m the only one with any reason to go in there.”

Her brows flicked up. “Really? Who mops your floors?”

He didn’t know. “A cleaning service?”

“Right.” She made another note. “I’ll talk to Mr. Brown.”

Despite her lack of inflection, Simon felt dismissed. Disparaged. Why? Because his memory loss made him useless to her? Or because he hadn’t considered something so basic as the people who must work for him?

“What will you tell him?” he asked.

“I’ll want to know who cleans for you. What their schedule is, if they have keys to the house and the lab. Stuff like that.”

“I meant, what are you going to tell him about me?”

“About your memory loss.”