Midnight Betrayal (4 page)

“Hey.” The kid shuffled into the light. Under a black zip-up hoodie, he wore a wifebeater, saggy jeans, and Air Jordans. “You seen a gray dog?”

The kid didn’t look familiar, but the mean glint in his eyes—and the condition of the dog upstairs—set Conor on edge. He shook his head and lied. “Sorry, no.”

The teen postured, spreading his arms at his sides, puffing out his chest, and leaning his upper body toward Conor rooster-fashion. “Guy across the street says he saw a gray dog come down this alley.”

“So?”

The kid’s attention drifted up the stairwell and landed on the door to Conor’s apartment. Under the roof overhang, the steps were dry. Red spots dotted the wood. “You got blood on your hand.”

“Rough night.” Conor took a step forward.

“I don’t let people take what’s mine.” The kid hesitated, obviously surprised when Conor didn’t back off. The teen couldn’t be from the neighborhood or he’d have known better.

“Look, kid. This isn’t a good idea,” Conor said.

“That’s not the way I see it.” The kid shook water from his face. “I want my dog, and you’re a fucking liar.” He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked his wrist. The blade clicked open, the metal shining in the yellow light.

Tonight it seemed stupidity and youth were eternal soul mates.

“You’re making a mistake.” Conor raised his open hands in front of his chest. Talk about idiotic. He’d done some ridiculous things in his life, but risking a knife in the gut for a dog had to top the list.

“Fuck you. You’re the one making a mistake, stealing my dog. I’m gonna cut you. Then I’m going upstairs to see your old lady.” He made a thrusting motion with his pelvis. The kid couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and his baby face made the gesture more vulgar.

He lunged with the knife, right at Conor’s face. Expecting a chest or belly attack, Conor’s parry was a fraction of a second slow. The knife point grazed his cheek as he jerked his head out of the way. He grabbed the kid’s wrist and twisted it backward. Then he plowed a hard right cross into the teen’s nose. The kid’s head snapped back. He dropped the blade and ass-planted in a puddle. Blood spurted from his nose and soaked the front of his white tank.

Conor shook his hand. His already-bruised knuckles smarted, he had spatters of blood on his shirt, and his face stung. “Get out of here. Next time I see you, I’m calling the cops.”

“You’ll be sorry for that.” Holding one hand to his face, the kid snatched his knife from the pavement and got to his feet. “I’m not afraid of the fucking cops. I’ll be back.”

“What you need to do is go home, ice your face, and reevaluate your life.”

The kid flipped him a bloody middle finger as he staggered away. Conor waited until the teen had disappeared from the alley. He went in the back door and detoured to the supply closet for the first-aid kit. He should call the cops and fill out a report. But the kid was long gone, and Conor hated paperwork. Besides, there was always the slim possibility this young teen would actually learn a lesson. The pope was tweeting. Anything could happen.

Back upstairs, he used an antiseptic wipe on the tiny nick on his cheekbone.
Damn. That had been close.
He settled on the floor next to the dog. “Don’t bite me, OK?”

The dog trembled and looked away as he dried her coat and cleaned the dirt from her wounds.

“I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.”

Sensing the worst was over, the dog stretched out on her belly, nose resting on her outstretched paws. She blinked up at him with dark, liquid eyes. Conor packed up his first-aid supplies and washed his hands. “You won’t destroy the place, will you?”

Not that there was much to destroy. Conor lived a spartan life. He’d never been one to accumulate stuff. His younger brother, Danny, had moved out last spring, leaving the place emptier than ever. But the dog seemed content.

“Are you hungry?” A few slices of cheese didn’t seem like enough for a dog of her size. He pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge and scrambled a half dozen. While they cooled, he checked the dog’s cuts. “Better. Most of them aren’t bleeding anymore.”

He served up dinner. The dog shuffled over, sniffed, and nibbled at the food while keeping one skittish eye fixed on Conor. Maybe she’d eat when she relaxed.

“Maybe I should block you in here for the night.” Not that he thought the dog would hurt him. In general, pit bulls didn’t deserve the bad reputation they’d acquired, and this one acted downright submissive. No doubt she’d been on the losing end of whatever fight she’d been forced into. But the dog probably had fleas.

“OK, then I’m going to bed. You stay here in the kitchen.” He blocked the doorway with a low bookcase. “Don’t give me that face. You’re fed, and you have a roof over your head. You should be happy.”

He stripped off his clothes and took a quick shower. As he eased onto the bed, he checked his phone on his nightstand. No call from Zoe. Maybe she wouldn’t even bother. Maybe she’d just toss his card in the nearest trash can. A faint whine sounded from the kitchen. Conor rolled over and pulled the pillow over his ear. Would the teen with the knife be back, or would he write off the dog and pick up another, since there was no shortage of stray pit bulls in the city?

Tonight had been a disaster. He’d had to intervene between the girl and her drunken boyfriend, but risking his life for a stray dog hadn’t been his smartest move.

He must have dozed off, because a shift in the mattress startled him awake. A hot waft of air crossed his face. Wait. Half-asleep, confusion ruled. He’d driven the brunette home, right?

He rolled over. Three inches from his nose, the skinny dog stared down at him, panting.

“You were supposed to sleep in the kitchen. Guess my barricade wasn’t high enough.”

His phone vibrated on the nightstand. He picked it up and read the unfamiliar number on the screen. Zoe? “Hello.”

“Um, I’m almost at my place. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The line went dead. Conor set it back on the nightstand, relieved. He hadn’t thought she’d actually call.

The dog licked his face. He put a hand up and scratched behind one of her missing ears. A scab had opened up on the side of her face during the night, and blood matted the fur under her eye. “You’re not the kind of girl I usually go for, but I guess we have that rough-around-the-edges thing in common.”

The stub of her tail swept back and forth across the sheets. She moved to the other side of his king-size bed, turned around three times, and curled up with her head on his extra pillow.

“Ah, the hell with it.” Reaching across the bed, he rested a hand on the dog’s side. She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes, her protruding ribs rising and falling under his bruised fingers. He’d avoided two potentially dangerous situations tonight. Risking a few fleas seemed minor in comparison. One of these days, his hero complex was going to get him in trouble.

4

My mother always justified my curfew by saying nothing good ever happened after midnight. A clichéd but accurate statement. Take tonight. I knew what was going to happen, but the slim brunette on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched against the October rain, didn’t know that her life was nearly over.

I pulled up to the curb, lowered the passenger window, and leaned across the seat. “Need a ride?”

Startled, she pivoted, bending at the waist to look into the car. Recognition crossed her face. “OK.”

She got into the car—and sealed her fate.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Home,” she said.

“I have to make a stop to pick up some weed.” I made a right. “Want to come along?”

“Sure.”

I knew she would. We’d gotten high together the week before.

I drove to the carefully selected location, a brick row home in North Kensington. The units on either side had been demolished. This one should have been razed as well. Its blackened brick exterior flaked. Tall weeds and strewn garbage covered the yard. Before stopping, I cruised the neighborhood. The surrounding blocks were more of a war zone than a place where people lived. I checked the dark street in both directions. There was no one in sight. Below evenly spaced streetlamps, yellow puddles of light glittered on wet blacktop. Drizzle coated my windshield in a light but continuous film.

So far, so good.

I parked at the curb, not worried about the car being seen. The vehicle was a nondescript sedan, and I changed the license plates often, picking from a pool of stolen plates accumulated just for the purpose. Flipping up the hood of my jacket and tugging on gloves, I reached for the door handle.

She hesitated, her eyes sweeping the darkness. “Are you sure this is safe?”

I shrugged. “I’ve picked up stuff here before, and there isn’t anybody around who looks dangerous.”

Except me.

Still she didn’t move.

“Fine. Wait out here all by yourself if you want. I’m going inside.” I got out of the car. As I predicted, the girl was beside me in a few seconds.

She followed me up the cement steps. On a nearby street, dogs barked over the soft patter of rain. Other than the distant wail of a siren, the neighborhood was quiet. No one here wanted to draw attention to what he was doing. On the crumbling stoop, I nudged the sagging door open with my foot and eased into the dark interior. The floorboards in the center of the living room had collapsed into the basement, but the biggest risk here was that someone else had decided to use this particular abandoned building for his own nefarious purposes.

I switched on my flashlight and gave the space a quick sweep. Dirt, rodent droppings, and pieces of bricks littered the interior. “All clear. I’m sure he’ll be here in a minute. Stay on the edges of the room.”

Gaze darting into the shadows, she went to the boarded-up window and peered through a gap between the sheets of plywood.

“No one will bother us here.” I was the only thing she had to fear.

Still staring out the gap, she hugged her torso, rubbing her biceps. “Will this take long?”

“No. Not long at all.” I walked up behind her and put one hand in my pocket. Pressing the button on my homemade stun gun, I gave it a few seconds to charge before pulling it out. The wires hit her skin with the soft blue pop of electricity. Her body jolted and collapsed to the floor, stiff-legged. I grabbed her ankles and dragged her down the stairwell into the basement, her body thudding on the old wooden steps. I dragged her into place and rolled her onto her side. Zip ties secured her hands behind her back. Another set bound her ankles. I connected both with a fat nylon rope to the water pipe that ran through the wall and down into the basement. Its foundation was solid. I’d already checked. She wouldn’t be able to pull it loose.

As her body stopped twitching, I slapped a long piece of duct tape over her mouth. Even on this bombed-out block, a woman screaming was bound to attract attention. I couldn’t have that.

I’d been watching this building for weeks and felt reasonably certain no one would be tempted to use it for anything. Even the crack addicts recognized the structural risks. But to be on the safe side, I rigged a trip wire and an explosive surprise on the basement stairwell. If anyone went down into the cellar—
kaboom
—no witnesses.

“I’ll be back.” I went outside. I’d let her marinate in fear for a few days, like an alligator stuffs large prey under a submerged log to soften underwater. Consistency was important, as was sticking as closely as possible to my plan. Plus, I’d prefer the effects of the stun gun to wear off before I killed her. This time, I wanted the culmination of my plan to be less of a disappointment and more of a proper climax.

5

It was eleven o’clock before Conor ducked his head under the shower spray. Lathering up, he examined his black-and-blue fingers. A hard hour on the heavy bag this morning hadn’t helped his bruised knuckles, even in heavy boxing gloves.

But the gym had been exactly what his soul had needed. There were no TVs at his gym. No fancy cardio machines. Just the thump of mitts on pads, the yelling of trainers, the grunts of physical exertion, broken up with the occasional metallic clang of weights stacked on a barbell. Conor’s gym was full of hard-core fighters, and it was perfect for working out his frustrations—or punishing himself. No more fighting for him though. It was a young man’s sport, and Conor had seen too many boxers with permanent brain damage. A human skull could only take so much abuse.

He should have ignored the young brunette—and the whimpering dog in the alley—last night. He needed to learn to mind his own damned business instead of honing in on the defenseless like a GPS tracker.

What if that dumbass kid had a gun?

He dragged his sorry butt out of the shower and toweled off, ignoring the ache in his abused muscles. Of course he’d been unable to dump the dog at the pound. He’d dropped her off at the vet earlier that morning. Now his apartment felt so empty, it practically echoed. Conor dressed in a T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Time to go downstairs to work.

Sullivan’s had occupied a corner in South Philadelphia for over three decades. The bar was established and run by his parents until they’d been killed in a car accident when Conor was twenty. With Danny and Jayne both in junior high when it happened, Pat and Conor had spent the next ten years struggling to raise their young siblings and keeping the bar afloat. Things had gotten rocky again when Danny came home from Iraq two years ago with PTSD. His medical bills had nearly bankrupted them. They’d gotten through some more tough patches, like the deranged killer in Maine who had targeted Jayne and, later, Danny’s fiancée. But things were smoothing out again. The Sullivans were a resilient bunch.

The kitchen staff was gearing up for the lunch crowd. His older brother, Pat, was behind the bar with a clipboard, taking inventory. In the light streaming through the plate glass that fronted the bar, Conor could see a few white hairs threaded through Pat’s once solid-red head.

He smoothed his features. “Sorry I’m late.”

All four of the Sullivan siblings had inherited their dad’s distinctive turquoise eyes. This morning, Pat’s saw right through Conor’s game face. “Rough night?”

Putting an arm across his chest, he stretched his too-tight triceps. “You wouldn’t believe it. How’s your back?”

Pat grinned. At forty, two years older than Conor, half of his brother’s life had been nothing but hard work and responsibility, but Pat’s sense of humor was as solid as the inch-thick oak bar that wrapped around them. “Feels like someone used me as a trampoline while I slept.”

“Hey, in your house, that’s a real possibility.”

Pat’s three kids ranged in age from four to nine, and they were a wild bunch, true Sullivans down to their pint-size souls.

“No kidding.” Pat laughed. “But next time I decide to break up a concrete patio solo, remind me that my back is too old for heavy labor.”

“Will do.”

Pat counted bottles of Absolut and wrote a number on his sheet. Conor pitched in, and together, they finished taking inventory. The bell on the door jingled.

“And here comes the lunch crowd,” Pat said.

They spent the next couple of hours serving sandwiches. At night, orders of beer and wings ruled, but the lunch crowd preferred french fries and burgers. The crowd thinned to stragglers around two o’clock.

“Well, look at that.”

Hefting a new case of beer, Conor paused, tracking Pat’s gaze to the door. In the dim entryway, a slim blonde smoothed a hand over her sleek, fancy updo.

Oh, snap.

Conor wouldn’t have been more shocked if the pope walked through the door and ordered a boilermaker. Louisa Hancock, PhD, didn’t belong in his bar or his life, regardless of how many times she’d sneaked into his thoughts—and dreams—over the past six months. Besides her cool and prickly nature, which he perversely found to be a huge turn-on, he and Louisa were as different as NASCAR and yacht racing.

But she was here. In his bar. Every perfect, polished inch of her, as if his earlier thoughts had conjured her.

Like the first time they’d met, she was dressed in a conservative suit. The feminine cut of her skirt was just snug enough to give him plenty of ideas, and the silky drape of the fabric made him wonder if she wore fancy lingerie underneath. The less she showed, the more his hopeless imagination ran with the images. Where were the glasses that gave her that hot librarian look?

“Earth to Conor.” Pat nudged him, whispering, “Who is that?”

“That is the museum curator I met in Maine when I was helping Danny out.”

“She doesn’t look much like a curator.”

“No shit.” Conor dumped the beer on the counter.

Pat poked him in the back. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go see the lady.”

“Going.” Conor dusted his hands on his jeans. “You got the bar covered for now?” he asked.

Pat motioned to the nearly empty barroom. “You’re joking, right?” He nodded toward Louisa. “Get the hell over there and talk to her.”

Without further urging, Conor crossed the worn, old floor in a few long strides. Wishing he’d taken the time to shave this morning, or even yesterday morning, he held out a hand. “Louisa, it’s nice to see you.”

Sure, he’d known she’d moved to Philly.

Not that he was keeping track of her.

OK. He
had
been keeping track of her.
Ugh.
He even went to the Livingston Museum a few weeks ago, but he’d left without asking to see her. They had nothing in common, and despite the fun he’d had teasing the hell out of her, his acute and inexplicable attraction to Louisa was irritating.

Close-up, she wasn’t quite as perfectly presented as usual. A few locks had escaped the uptight bun his fingers always itched to unravel. What would she look like with all that hair down, tumbling over her shoulders?

“Louisa?”

Conor’s voice yanked Louisa from her daze. She blinked. Perhaps coming here was a mistake. She’d underestimated the impact seeing him would have on her. Maybe it was the strange and terrible circumstances that had first put them together in Maine, or the uncomfortably similar connection that had brought her here today, but Conor Sullivan had unsettled her from the moment she first saw him. She looked away.

Louisa studied the tavern, taking a few seconds to rein in her composure. Deeper than it appeared from the street, the interior of Sullivan’s was dominated by a rectangular bar. Three flat-screen TVs, tuned to different muted sporting events, hung from the walls. A few dozen tables and booths crowded most of the remaining area. A scratched and dented piano occupied the far corner. Duct-taped to the floor, electrical cords snaked across the ten-by-ten empty space next to it. They likely hosted a band on busy nights.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lovely lady?” a deep voice asked.

Conor led her to the bar and introduced the burly redheaded bartender as his older brother, Pat. She knew he had a younger brother and sister as well. Louisa gave Pat a distracted smile and said, “Hello.”

But her attention returned immediately to Conor as if pulled by an elephant-size magnet. An ancient gray Rolling Stones T-shirt clung to his sculpted torso. Equally worn jeans and motorcycle boots showcased lean hips and long legs. She’d come here for answers, not to gawk, but the worn fabric clung to the sculpted muscles of his chest.
Look him in the eye.
She raised her gaze.

Well, that didn’t help. Under shaggy black hair, his turquoise eyes were sharp with the intelligence and humor that disconcerted her more than his impressive physical attributes. Lines fanned out from his eyes. As usual, his strong jaw was shadowed with several days’ beard growth. Did the man own a razor? The overall effect was lean, utterly masculine, and completely different from any man she’d ever known.

She blinked.

“Why don’t we sit down?” He guided her to a corner booth. “Are you hungry?” His words were serious, but his eyes were practically grinning at her. Did he find her reaction to him amusing?

“No, but thank you.” She saw the pictures of that poor girl’s corpse every time she closed her eyes. She doubted she could swallow food.

The comparison of his courteous manners against his edgy appearance threw her further off-kilter. There was an old-world, knightly honor about Conor Sullivan.

Oh Lord, all that romantic nonsense was ridiculous. An overactive imagination was a hazard of spending hours alone with artifacts and contemplating their origins. She should have pulled her nose out of her books now and then and spent more time with people in her youth.

Focus!

“Coffee, soda, beer?”

“Coffee would be fine.” She removed her jacket and slid into the booth. Bordeaux-colored leather glided smoothly under the silk of her skirt. She folded her jacket over her purse on the seat beside her.

He went into the back and returned a few minutes later with a tray. Setting the edge on the table, he transferred two thick mugs of coffee, a thermal carafe, and a small ceramic pitcher of cream to the table. He might be the owner of the bar, but he’d obviously waited plenty of tables. Setting the empty tray aside, he sank into the seat opposite her. “I want to thank you again for helping me in Maine.”

“I didn’t actually do anything, and my intentions were entirely selfish.” He’d helped her as much as she’d helped him. “I simply wanted to recover my exhibit.”

Humor glinted in eyes the color of the sunny Mediterranean. “You could just say, ‘You’re welcome.
’
”

Heat flushed her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

“What brings you here?” Conor sipped his coffee.

She added a drop of cream to her mug. “I took a job with the Livingston Museum.”

“Congratulations.” No surprise registered on his face. Had he known?

“Thank you.” Being let go still stung.

“They shouldn’t have fired you.” His head tilted. Was he reading her mind? “None of what happened was your fault.”

“It’s complicated.”

He let it go, but the tightness of his mouth suggested he didn’t want to. “How do you like your new job?”

“It’s good.” Louisa stirred her coffee. Last time he’d come to her for help, and he’d pursued her with dogged determination until she’d complied. This time she was the one who needed something from him.

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m renting a condo at the Rittenhouse.”

He whistled. “Nice.”

“It’s only temporary. I didn’t know what I wanted, and it’s convenient to work.”

He sat back and studied her, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t removed her jacket. The thin silk of her blouse wasn’t enough of a barrier. She felt almost naked under his scrutiny.

Louisa watched the swirl of cream in her coffee, but she could feel his gaze on her skin.

Conor set his mug on the table, his intense focus threatening to blank out her brain again. “So what brings you into my bar this afternoon?”

It was a good thing one of them was functioning with all his brain synapses. “I’m looking for a girl.”

Conor’s head snapped up. “A girl?”

“Yes, one of my graduate student interns at the museum didn’t show up for work today. But that’s not the whole story.” Louisa explained about Riki, the missing dagger, and the visit from the police the day before.

Conor leaned back against his booth. “I can’t believe it. Someone stole a dagger from the museum and committed murder with it.”

“That’s certainly what the evidence suggests.” Louisa set down her cup. Enough acid already churned through her stomach to dissolve metal.

“Haven’t we been here before?” His tone held no amusement.

“Unfortunately.”

Conor’s head tilted. “The situation is awful, but none of this explains why you’re here today.”

Louisa toyed with her pearls. “Zoe’s boyfriend said he left her here.”