Midnight Betrayal (14 page)

No point looking for clean clothes. From what he could see through the open bedroom door, the contents of his closet had been shredded. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to call the police. Then he remembered there were two cops downstairs.

Shock gave way to relief that Kirra hadn’t been inside the apartment when the looters had broken in.

The odor overwhelmed his nostrils. He went back outside and jogged down the stairs. The streetlight cast deep shadows over the alley.

Two forms stepped out of the darkness behind the Dumpster. Conor recognized one of them as the kid from Monday night. He scanned the alley. Of course, the cops who’d tailed him all day were nowhere in sight. Surely they’d notice when he didn’t come back.

Anger simmered in Conor’s belly. “Did you destroy my place?”

His answer was a whir of a revolver cylinder spinning. The metallic sound echoed between the brick buildings. “I know you got my dog.”

Well, that wasn’t good. One kid with a knife he’d handled. Two kids with a gun was a whole different story. The .38 in the kid’s small hand looked like a cannon.

The friend stepped sideways. Conor mirrored him, keeping the wall at his back. There was no way he’d let these kids flank him.

“I’m not leaving without my property.” Kid number one raised the gun, turned it on its side, and pointed the muzzle at Conor’s face gangsta style.

“Really?” Conor kept one eye on the gun and the other on the buddy. Was the friend armed? His eyes adjusted to the fading light. The pair pressed closer. They sported matching tattoos on their necks, some sort of spider encircled with words in Spanish. Great. Gang tats. He’d pissed off a junior gangbanger, and the irony of all ironies had to be that this little scumbag was Conor’s alibi for Zoe’s disappearance.

Way. To. Go.

“I don’t have your dog,” Conor said.

Kirra was at Louisa’s apartment, where these two scumbags wouldn’t get past the lobby. Thank God. If Louisa had been here tonight, Conor had no doubt these two would have raped and killed her. The bar was noisy on Friday nights, and with the volume of the band earlier, Conor hadn’t heard them busting up his furniture. Would he have heard a woman scream? Probably not.

“You’re a fucking liar,” the kid snapped.

Where were the cops? They should come looking for him if he was gone more than a couple of minutes.

“There are thousands of pit bulls in this city. Why don’t you just go find another one?”

“It’s a matter of principal. If I let one person take what’s mine, word gets out.” The kid’s statement was 100 percent bullshit. There was something he wasn’t saying. “A man has to protect what’s his.”

The
man
was about fifteen. Conor searched the kid’s face. The eyes that stared back were cold, dark, and mean. Nope. No compassion there. This kid would kill him without remorse. He’d have no trouble pulling the trigger and watching the bullet rip through Conor’s head. These two would go through Conor’s pockets and use his cash to hit Popeye’s on the way home for a chicken sandwich.

Sweat broke out between Conor’s shoulder blades and dripped down his back. His alibi was the least of his worries. “There are better ways to make a buck. I could give you a job.” But he knew the answer to his question before disgust uglied up the kid’s already busted face.

“What, you want me to wash dishes or some shit?”

“It’s honest work.” Conor had washed plenty of dishes and worse.

“Fuck you. I ain’t cleaning up nobody else’s mess.” The kid pulled back the hammer. The click was as loud as a firecracker and sent a wave of bowel-loosening fear ripping through Conor. His pulse jumped. The door behind him opened, and he caught a glimpse of the cops. The kid’s eyes widened. He pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand, the bullet ricocheting off the steel door and hitting the back of the building. Pieces of brick scattered. The cops ducked behind the door. Conor dove to the asphalt and covered his head with his arms. He heard the slap of feet running away.

The cops came out from behind the door, guns drawn. They swept the narrow space.

Still prone, Conor pointed down the alley to the exit one block over on Johnston Street. “They went that way.”

The cops ran down the alley. Conor got to his feet and brushed the dirt off his jeans. He picked a few bits of gravel out of the skin on his arm.

A black-and-white pulled in. Conor’s friend since high school, Officer Terry Moran, got out. “I got a report of a shooting. What the hell is going on?”

Conor’s heart recovered. “Thanks, man, but you missed all the action.” He gave Terry a rundown and a description of the teenagers. “Be great if you could find him. He’s my alibi.”

“About that.” Terry leaned closer. “Let me get this description out, call a crime scene tech to go over your apartment, and talk with those two. Then we need to talk.”

The plainclothes cops returned. “They’re gone.”

“Meet you inside.” Conor went in the back door. Customers gawked and gossiped at the police activity. Conor detoured to the bar. With shaky hands he grabbed the bottle of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich. For the first time ever, he broke his own rule about not drinking while working. Having a gun pointed in the dead center of his face justified the one-time exception.

“Oh my God. Are you all right?” Jaynie hugged him.

“You’re going to spill that.” Ernie took the bottle from Conor’s hand and poured him a short glass. “All this over a dog? It doesn’t make sense.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Conor sipped. The single malt heated his throat and cleared his sinus passages. As a side benny, it also wiped the nasty stench from his nostrils. “I have to go talk to Terry. I’ll fill you in when I’m done.”

Terry was waiting for him in the office. Conor closed the door. “Where are your pals?”

“Outside. I told them I’d get your statement. Since we know each other, I’ll stay away from any evidence. They’re calling Detective Jackson.”

“Oh goody. Hold on a second then.” Conor picked up his cell and called Damian, who promised to drive over. Conor set his phone down and gestured with his glass to Terry. “OK. Go.”

Terry pulled out a small notebook. “Let’s get your statement for tonight out of the way.”

Conor slid into his dad’s chair and gave him the details.

“I’ll write this up and bring a report by tomorrow for you to sign.” Terry closed his notebook. “I want you to look at mug shots too. Chances are these scumbags have been arrested before.”

“Great.” Conor took a long pull of scotch, letting the fiery liquid numb a path through his gut.

“Now about that missing girl.” Terry sat forward and leaned his forearms on his thighs.

Conor leaned forward and rubbed his forehead. “You know I didn’t have anything to do with the girl’s disappearance.”

“Damned straight, but what I know doesn’t mean squat. Detective Jackson is seriously jonesing for you on this case.” Terry rubbed both hands down his face. “I wish I knew why.”

“Me too.” Conor leaned back in the chair.

“Jackson pulled me out into the parking lot to ask me if I had any dirt on you.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“What do you think I told him? That you’re a serial killer?” Terry rolled his eyes. “I told him I’ve known you since high school, and you wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“And?” Conor took another small sip.

Terry’s grim face wasn’t promising. “They have a shitload of circumstantial evidence on you.”

“I’m afraid they aren’t even looking for anyone else.” Conor tossed the rest of the scotch back. “I’m going to have to find this girl myself.”

“You aren’t without friends at the precinct,” Terry said. “But this case goes beyond us.”

“I know there isn’t anything you can do.” Nerves steadied, Conor stood. “I need to get back to work. We’re shorthanded tonight.”

“Watch your back, Conor.” Terry pointed at him with his pen. “I’m serious. Jackson’s got a rep as a determined motherfucker. Don’t get in his way.”

Conor ushered his friend out of the office. “I’m not arguing, but if I don’t find out who did it, I’m still the number-one suspect.”

Both Damian and Jackson arrived within the next half hour. They all went out back, where Jackson viewed the damage to Conor’s apartment and reviewed his statement. Standing in the alley, Conor watched a uniform with a camera jog up the steps and enter his apartment.

Jackson squinted at Conor. “Did you set this up?”

Conor leaned against the brick and crossed his arms over his chest. Following the warm trail of scotch, anger was burning a path through his chest.

“You know that isn’t true,” Damian said. “Mr. Sullivan has been under police surveillance 24/7 since Monday night.”

Jackson frowned. “I’m not convinced. Maybe you hired someone else to do it. You’re a smart guy. There are ways.”

Terry was right. Jackson was one determined motherfucker.

“This is ridiculous. Conor, don’t answer any more questions,” Damian retorted. His phone chirped. “Excuse me.” He stepped away and glanced at the screen. “Louisa?” He stilled. “What’s wrong?” Concern sharpened his voice. “I’ll be right there.”

Conor pushed off the wall. “What?”

“There’s been an accident.” Damian raised a hand. “She’s OK. She just needs a ride home from the ER.”

“What the—?” Conor was already moving.

“Conor, she didn’t call you. She called me.” Damian’s palm hit him square in the chest. “I’ll take her home. She said it was all scrapes and bruises. You need to stay here until they’re done with you.” He nodded toward Conor’s apartment, where a couple of cops were taking photos and detailing the damage. “I’ll call you. Or better yet, come to Louisa’s when you’re done.”

Damian and Jackson went to their cars, leaving Conor to watch over his ruined apartment and think about Louisa injured, hurt, frightened, and choosing to call Damian instead of him.

Tonight, Louisa was in an accident, and Conor’s place was trashed. How could either or both of these events be tied to Zoe’s disappearance?

He looked down at his cell. Zoe had been missing for nearly four entire days.

19

Horns blared and tires squealed. Louisa’s knees skidded on the pavement. A loud bang and crash sounded close by. Then another. She lay in the street, her face burning. The smells of burnt rubber, tar, and diesel exhaust filled her nose.

“Miss?” She blinked hard. Her vision sharpened. She rolled onto her back. A circle of faces looked down at her.

A cop knelt next to her. “Don’t move. An ambulance is on the way.”

But his eyes were scanning the crowd, not Louisa.

She swallowed and cleared her throat. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

“You took a pretty hard tumble.” The cop loomed over her. “I want you to get checked out.”

Another policeman cleared the crowd. “All right, everyone. Move along. Show’s over. Give the lady some room to breathe.”

Beyond him, the bus that nearly hit her had swerved up over the curb and hit a streetlight. In the street lane next to her, a Tastykake delivery truck had rear-ended a taxi. Both southbound lanes of Broad Street were effectively blocked.

“Was anyone else hurt?” She struggled to sit up, bringing her splayed legs into a more ladylike position. Her dress was hiked up nearly to her crotch. She tugged at her hem as dizziness whirled in her head.

“Except for your fall, I don’t think so. We got lucky.”

“I didn’t fall.”

The cop frowned.

Her head settled, and Louisa surveyed the damage. The skin of both knees was torn, bleeding, and coated with dirt. She raised her hands. Abrasions on her palms didn’t match the size of those on her knees, but they were just as filthy. As if seeing the injuries prompted her brain to recognize them, the first echoes of pain pulsed through her legs and hands. Her face throbbed. She touched her chin. Her fingers came away covered in blood. All in all, her wounds appeared superficial, messy but not serious.

“I doubt anything is broken.” She stirred, absorbing the humiliating stares of onlookers. “I should get up.”

Her purse and cell phone had skittered across the street. The cop handed both items to her. He put a hand on her forearm. “Here comes the ambulance. Better safe than sorry.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

An ambulance pulled up. With a surge of whole-body ache that suggested her brain hadn’t yet processed all her physical damage, Louisa was transferred to a gurney and loaded into the back.

Two hours later, the ER physician confirmed her injuries were minor. Distracted and hurried, he scribbled on her chart. “The nurse will be in with discharge papers in a few minutes. Do you have a ride home?”

“I called a friend.” Damian was on his way. She’d also called the hotel and asked Gerome to walk Kirra.

“Keep the abrasions clean. Ice will help any swelling. You can take ibuprofen for pain.” And he was gone.

Sitting on the gurney, she ran a finger over a scratch on the silver case of her cell phone. The night didn’t seem real.

“Dr. Hancock.”

She startled at the familiar voice. “Yes.”

Detective Jackson parted the privacy curtain.

Why was he here?

“I heard about your nosedive into Broad Street. Traffic was backed up for an hour.” He took a few steps to stand next to the bed. Instead of a suit, he was dressed in jeans and a loose blue sweater that didn’t quite conceal the bulge of his weapon at his hip. Was he off duty? The mocha tint of his skin didn’t completely camouflage dark smudges under his eyes. Perhaps he didn’t take much time off in the middle of an urgent case.

His gaze moved over her, pausing on the gauze taped to her hands, knees, and chin.

She rubbed her temple with her fingertips.

“What happened?” Jackson’s voice was less hostile than it had been in the police station. Was his change of tone part of an attempt to gain her confidence, or was he sincere?

“I felt a hand push into my back, but I hoped someone knocked into me by accident. The sidewalk was very crowded.”

“Maybe.” Jackson shrugged. “But maybe not. There’s already one museum employee dead and another missing. I think you should be more careful.”

“I wasn’t expecting hailing a cab to be dangerous.”

Jackson changed his angle. “I know you went to talk to Heath Yeager the other day.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m afraid for Zoe.” Louisa met his flat gaze. “Are you making any progress on her case?”

“Some.”

Which told her nothing.

Movement on the other side of the curtain interrupted the interview.

“Louisa!” A male voice sent a wave of sickening panic through Louisa. The curtain parted again, and Blaine stepped through. “Oh my God. I saw them load you into the ambulance, but no one would tell me where they took you.”

He moved closer.

Louisa recovered her voice. She’d also recovered from the shock of seeing him earlier. In fact, the impact with the street seemed to have knocked the self-pity right out of her. She was done with Blaine. She wouldn’t allow him to hold any more sway over her. He’d done enough damage. “Get out, Blaine.”

Resentment flickered in his eyes, and his lips compressed. “I wanted to make sure you were all right. Let me take you home. Let me take care of you.”

Louisa forgot the cop standing next to her. She forgot her injuries. The hospital cubicle faded around her. Anger and turmoil steamrolled over her physical pain. “Get out.”

Blaine smoothed out his irritation. “You aren’t well—”

Her voice rose. “Get. Out.”

“Look, buddy.” Jackson showed Blaine his badge. “The lady asked you to leave.”

Blaine gave the detective his best aristocratic glare. “I don’t think you know who you’re talking to.”

“Why don’t you educate me?” The detective was not intimidated. “Were you with Dr. Hancock this evening?”

“I was.”

The detective pulled a notebook out of his back pocket. “Your name?”

“Blaine Delancey.”

“And why were you with Dr. Hancock?”

“We were supposed to have dinner, but we had an argument. Louisa ran off. Apparently, right into traffic. She obviously needs someone to look after her.”

Argument? Ambush was a better description of the evening.

Jackson ignored Blaine’s attitude. “You didn’t see the accident?”

“No.”

“Where were you when the accident occurred?”

“On the steps outside the Ritz Carlton. I was looking for Louisa.”

Blaine had been coming after her? Had he pushed her? Louisa’s fingers tightened around her cell phone. Why would he do that? But then why would he send her a gift? Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Why wouldn’t he take no for an answer?

“You’re sure you didn’t see it happen?” Jackson’s pen hovered over the paper as he sized up both Blaine and his answers.

“Positive.” Blaine scowled at the cop.

“I’ll need your contact information,” Jackson said.

Blaine complied, crossing his arms over his chest and switching his attention to Louisa. She clutched her phone until her bruised fingers cramped, but she would not back down. Not this time. Moving to Philadelphia was her fresh start. She would not let Blaine ruin it for her.

The cop studied Blaine’s face. “The accident investigators will be checking the traffic cams on Broad Street. If we get lucky, we might have the whole thing on video.”

If Jackson was hoping that, if guilty, Blaine would flinch at this news, Louisa could have saved him the effort. Blaine was an accomplished liar.

“I’ll check in with you tomorrow, Louisa.” His nod at her was superior and arrogant. “Someday you’ll see that we were meant to be together.”

“Don’t.” Louisa clamped her molars together.

“I’m done with you now, Mr. Delancey, and it sounds like Dr. Hancock is also.” Jackson inclined his head. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

Blaine gave her an
it’s not over
look as he exited.

“Your friend’s an asshole,” Jackson said.

“He’s not my friend.”

“Yeah. I got that. You want to tell me about the argument?”

“No.” Louisa’s stomach turned at the thought of sharing her conflict with Blaine. “It’s old news.” But Blaine’s visit wasn’t. Why tonight? And what did he really want? Come to think of it, what did Aunt Margaret really want? The stunt with Blaine didn’t make sense. It had to be about money, but Louisa couldn’t see the angle.

Jackson stared, clearly not buying Louisa’s story.

She sighed. “When you have a lot of money, there are always people trying to get some of it.”

Her jaw ached from its impact with the pavement, and from the thoughts and suspicions turning in her mind. She wanted to go home, get into bed, and pull the covers over her head.

Jackson shoved the notebook and pen back in his pocket. “Do you have a ride home?”

The question surprised her. Was he offering assistance? “I called a friend.”

“Sweetie, what have you done to yourself?” Damian’s arrival ended the interview. He frowned at the cop. “How did you get here so fast?”

Jackson didn’t blink. “I can double-park.”

Louisa looked from Jackson to Damian. “Did I miss something?”

“Have you talked to Sullivan tonight?” Jackson asked.

“No. Why?” She swung her feet over the edge of the gurney.
Ouch
. “Is there something wrong?”

“He had some trouble tonight too.” Jackson watched her face. She was likely more transparent than Blaine.

“What happened?” Louisa’s gaze swung from Jackson, who wouldn’t give anything away, to Damian.

Her friend shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Conor.”

With a nod, Detective Jackson moved toward the door. “Be careful, Doctor. No more playing detective. You had a close call tonight. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”