so you got here at seven-thirty and found…what?”
Simon teetered on the edge of self-revelation, an enormous chasm that yawned at his feet and threatened to swallow him.
He took a step back. “Everything must have been in order then. I know I made dinner.” There had been dishes in the dishwasher the next morning and fresh vegetables in the stainless-steel refrigerator.
“And then?”
“I went down to the lab.”
“Did you have a reason?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did something attract your attention?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his teeth on the thin edge of desperation he heard fracturing his voice. “I don’t think so. I may simply have intended to get some work done after dinner.”
“‘May have.’”
“My company—Lumen Corp—has several new projects in development. Laser research.” He could say that with some certainty now. He’d spent hours yesterday fighting off pain and despair, searching for clues on the Internet and in the house, struggling to make sense of the equipment and files downstairs. The scope of his loss still stunned him. He needed to trust her, to tell her exactly how serious his situation was. But pride and panic constricted his chest and tightened his throat. “I must have been working on one of them when I was interrupted.”
“‘Interrupted,’” she repeated without inflection.
It wasn’t quite a question. It stopped short of actual challenge. But he was insecure enough to bristle. “I presume so.”
He was relieved when she appeared to let it go. “Okay. So, you were downstairs working in your lab and…what happened?”
His brief relief evaporated. “That’s the problem. I don’t know. I must have lost consciousness when I was attacked. When I came to, I was staring up at the ceiling with a bump on my head and a whopping big headache.”
“Mr. Ford.” Her voice was soothing. Her eyes were sharp. “Is it possible you fell? It was late. You mentioned you’d had a meal, maybe some wine…”
Simon’s hands curled into fists. If he shouted at her, she’d really think he was a nut job. “The bump is on the side of my skull, Detective.” He slid his fingers into the hair above his ear to show her. “I was lying on my back.”
“But you don’t remember how you got there.”
“No.” He couldn’t delay confession any longer. He drew another deep breath. “I don’t remember anything around the time of the attack.”
He didn’t remember anything, period.
Oh, he had some basic stuff down. He could dress and feed himself, turn on the lights and dishwasher. If he didn’t stop to analyze how he did it, he could even operate the TV and computer.
But he had no knowledge of who he was or what he did or how the hell he was supposed to continue doing it.
The detective blinked, once. “You mean you have amnesia?”
She didn’t believe him. “Amnesia can be a product of head trauma,” Simon said stiffly.
“Is that what your doctor told you?”
“No. I looked it up on the Internet.”
His computer, thank God, had been up and running when he’d searched his office. He hadn’t dared to turn it off, since he had no idea if his files were password protected.
She laid her pen flat on her notebook. “Mr. Ford, I’ll be happy to take your statement. I can take a look around, talk to your security people, check for signs of forced entry. You have surveillance cameras, right? But I really think you need to see a doctor.”
She didn’t understand.
He hadn’t explained himself clearly.
Frustration made him abrupt. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“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
