Midnight Betrayal (7 page)

A uniformed cop led Conor into a small interview room at the police station and locked him inside. He paced the linoleum for a few minutes, then dropped into a metal chair. He propped his elbows on the stainless-steel table and let his head fall into his hands.

His entire body felt like someone had beaten him with a stick. He’d spent the last hour perched on the edge of a metal bunk, staring at the moldy walls of a holding cell. With no empty interview rooms, he’d been briefly caged with two drunks, a couple of gangbangers, and one seriously crazy fucker who sat in the middle of the floor and banged his forehead on the concrete. The single toilet was clogged. Obvious stains covered the floors. The odors of vomit, human waste, and sweaty bodies were permanently infused into his nostrils.

When he got home, he was going to delouse himself. With bleach. His clothes were going directly into the Dumpster. He refused to think of spending the next twenty years of his life in a cinderblock-and-steel tomb. It couldn’t happen.

The small interview room had no windows and no clock, but it was a vast improvement. Conor shifted his weight, then sat up and rolled his shoulders. His decision to wait for an attorney had slowed the entire process. They hadn’t said anything, but that announcement had probably solidified his guilt in the cops’ eyes, but he could practically see the railroad tracks spanning his body. There was no way he was talking to Jackson or anyone else without a lawyer in the room. His younger brother had gotten in enough trouble in his youth. Conor had learned the basics of the legal system keeping Danny out of juvenile detention.

The door swung open, and a thin, blond man strode in. Gold cuff links winked in the glare of the overhead light as he held out a hand. “Damian Grant. I’m your attorney.”

Conor shook it. Everything about the young lawyer, from his short, edgy haircut to his slim suit pants, looked expensive. Where had Pat found this guy? “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s my job. Right now, I need you to tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Panic sliced through the numb sensation in Conor’s gut as he related the events of the night Zoe disappeared. “The police will investigate. They’ll find whoever’s responsible, right?”

“You’ve been watching too much TV.” Damian slid into the seat opposite Conor, linked his fingers, and leaned on his forearms. The gel on his wavy hair gleamed in the light. “There are several extenuating factors in this investigation. First of all, the police would love to find this girl alive. Every minute she is still missing decreases the chances of that happening. They already have one dead girl. They don’t want another. Secondly, if you’re here, then they think you’re responsible.”

Conor opened his mouth to protest, but Damian cut him off with a raised palm. “I know. You’re innocent. Let me finish. As always, political issues come into play as well. Jackson wants to close this case as quickly as possible. His boss is breathing down his neck. The captain wants to be mayor, and a string of murdered college girls isn’t on the road to office.

“Lastly, the university’s board members will apply their own pressure. Parents don’t want to send their little girls off to a college where they won’t be safe. This girl is pretty and young. They’re going to trot out her fucking baby pictures for the media. Grade-school snapshots of Zoe Finch in pigtails will be all over the news and Internet. Her parents will go on the nightly news to plead for their daughter’s return. You, on the other hand, had better never have been convicted of so much as a parking ticket. The media will find the worst shots of you possible to bombard the public. If there’s anything resembling a mug shot anywhere in the universe, they will find it.”

“This is all wrong.”

“Conor, snap out of it. This is real. You are caught in the middle of an emotionally volatile situation. You have to deal with it. The detectives will be in here any minute. Answer their questions as succinctly as possible. If I think a question is loaded, I’ll stop you from answering. Don’t volunteer information. Do not refer to this girl in the past tense. Not even once. As far as you know, she is alive and well and spent the night at a friend’s beach house. And Conor, pay attention, because the questions they ask will tell us about the evidence they’ve found.”

Light-headed, Conor dropped his head into his hands. Blood rushed in his ears.

The door opened, and Detectives Jackson and Ianelli came in. Damian moved to the chair next to Conor, leaving the cops to sit across the table.

Damian held up a hand. “Before we get started, Mr. Sullivan needs a glass of water.”

Ianelli slipped out the door. He returned in a couple of minutes and set a paper cup in front of Conor.

He drank the cool liquid and used the minute to get his shit together. They read him his Miranda rights and handed him a paper to sign confirming he understood them.

Jackson rested his forearms on the table. “Let’s start with a recap of Monday night.”

“You have the surveillance video,” Conor said.

Jackson nodded. “We’d like to hear what happened in your words.”

“A group of Flyers fans came in after the game. One girl and four guys. The guys were drinking pretty hard. One of the guys grabs his girl. She protests, but he won’t let her go. I interceded. The guy took a swing at me, so I popped him. Then I bounced him. The other three guys took him and left. The girl stayed behind. I offered to call her a cab. She declined, saying she’d call her roommate for a ride, but when closing time came, she was still there. I asked her how she was getting home, and she said the subway. I locked up, gave her a ride to the station, and went home.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

The cop stared. “Why did you give her a ride to the station? It’s only a few blocks from your bar.”

“I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the girl,” Conor said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

Jackson pounced. “Why would you think anything bad would happen to her?”

But the damage was done. “My little sister was attacked in a parking garage when she was in college. So I’m well aware that this city isn’t as safe as it should be. Young girls shouldn’t trust anybody.”

The cop stared. Conor stared back.

Jackson switched gears. “How’d you get that scratch on your face?”

Oh shit
. Conor had forgotten about that. “After I got home, I found an injured pit bull in the alley behind the bar. A kid came looking for her. Considering she looked like she’d been in a dogfight, I declined to give her back. He pulled a knife on me. I disarmed him, but he managed to nick my face.”

Jackson tilted his head. “What happened to him?”

“I punched him in the nose, and he left.”

“Two fights in one night?” Jackson’s brow rose. “Do you have a history of violent behavior, Conor?”

The question felt loaded, and Conor didn’t respond.

Damian cut in. “Both the incidents my client described were clearly self-defense.”

Jackson nodded. “But you were a fighter at one time?”

“Amateur boxer,” Conor clarified. “But I’ve been out of that for years.”

“Detective,” Damian said. “I don’t see how my client’s sporting activity is in any way related to the events of Monday night.”

“She called your cell,” Jackson said.

“I asked her to call me when she got home,” Conor answered.

“Let me summarize the situation for you.” Detective Jackson raised a fist. “You were the last person to be seen with Zoe Finch. We have a witness who saw an altercation between you two in front of the station. The transit surveillance videos do not show Zoe entering the station. You have a scratch on your face. The last call on Zoe’s phone records is to your cell.” He ticked off each point by extending a finger until he ran out of digits.

Altercation? Oh no. Someone had seen him startle Zoe with that tap on the shoulder and misinterpreted the act.

Damian waved a hand in the air. “All of that evidence is circumstantial.”

Ianelli didn’t blink. “Now let’s get down to what was seized during the search. We found a bloody T-shirt in your hamper and long dark hairs both in your car and in your apartment. Was Zoe in your apartment, Conor?”

Conor reeled. How could this be happening? His voice sounded far away when he answered. “Just for a minute. I had to run up to get my keys. It was raining, so she followed me.”

No one spoke for two long breaths.

“Did you hurt Zoe Finch?” Jackson shot questions at him rapid-fire. “What did you do with her, Conor? Is she still alive?”

“I didn’t hurt anybody. The blood on my shirt is from the kid who attacked me.”

“How do you know Riki LaSanta?”

“I didn’t.” Conor leaned forward to press the pads of his fingertips to his throbbing eyes. “Louisa told me about her today. That’s the first time I heard her name.”

“Why were you at the museum three weeks ago?”

Conor lifted his head.

Jackson’s smile was predatory. “We spotted you on the surveillance videos at the museum.”

“I’d read that Louisa had taken a job there. I thought about asking for her, but I changed my mind.” Conor scrubbed his face with both hands. He wouldn’t buy his own lame story.

“Why?” Jackson leaned in.

“I don’t know,” Conor answered flatly. That was the honest truth.

“
How did you know Dr. Hancock had been hired by the museum? I doubt an assistant curator made the Lifestyle section of the
Inquirer
.”

Conor sighed. “I googled her.”

“How often did you perform Internet searches on Dr. Hancock?”

“A few times since I met her last spring.” Conor answered.

“Why?”

Conor chose his words carefully.
I couldn’t get her out of my head
made him sound like a stalker. “I was curious.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.” Conor was not admitting he had a
thing
for Louisa. The cops would no doubt turn his attraction for her into something perverted.

“I’m surprised. You have nice, neat answers for everything else.” Jackson gestured with his cup. “Almost like you planned every detail.”

Conor groaned.

“Detective, my client has answered every question you’ve asked him.” Damian pressed his forefinger into the table. “Are you prepared to charge him with a crime?”

Jackson scowled but didn’t answer his question. Instead, he reached into his file and slid a photo onto the table. For the first few seconds, Conor’s eyes and brain refused to register what he was seeing. But the image clarified all too quickly: a charred body. Conor closed his eyes, but it was too late. He couldn’t unsee the horror on the stainless-steel table that had once been a young girl. It took all his strength not to hurl everything he’d eaten in the past three weeks onto the floor.

Louisa had mentioned the picture at the bar earlier. He knew it was going to be disturbing, and he was even sorrier that she had seen it.

“What the hell?” Damian’s palms hit the table. “Was that really necessary?”

Conor rested his head in his hands. Damian pushed the water cup at him, but Conor shook his head.

“That’s it. My client is done answering questions. Unless you’re prepared to charge him with a crime, we’re leaving.”

Conor agreed. He was done answering questions. If the detectives thought he could do what had been done to that young woman, it was hopeless to try and convince them otherwise.

The cords of Jackson’s neck went tight as steel cables, and his lips compressed into a bloodless line.

Ianelli stood up. “Your client will have to sit tight for a few more minutes.” He left the room. Jackson followed without speaking.

“Just breathe for a minute. I didn’t even get a good look at the picture, and I nearly lost it.” Damian put a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “On the bright side, if I hadn’t already been convinced of your innocence, your reaction sealed the deal for me.”

Conor raised his head. Acid burned up the back of his throat into his nasal passages. He needed to get out of this claustrophobic room. But the holding cell had been worse. What were they going to do with him?

Damian leaned close to his ear. “They’re obviously checking with the DA to see if he’s willing to file charges.”

“Will he?”

“Frankly, Conor, it could go either way. They’ve gathered the perfect storm of circumstantial evidence.”

9

Louisa found a metered parking spot across the street from the museum. The exterior design of the Livingston Museum mirrored the exhibits within. Renovations over the years had given the old building a modern flare, a slide down the timeline of history from present to past.

The streetlight behind her reflected on the dark glass, casting her own image back at her. It was past closing time. She stepped closer and shielded her eyes with her cupped hands. She couldn’t see any movement inside. But she knew people were in there. The night security guard would be on duty. He was likely making his rounds. The cleaners worked at least until midnight. She didn’t have a key to the front door, and there was no one in sight. Heels ringing on the concrete, she slipped down the narrow alley that led to the rear of the building. She pulled her key ring from her purse and opened the back door. In the corridor, a tiny green light on the alarm panel blinked. She swiped her card through the reader and entered the four-digit security code, and the light stilled.

She flipped on the light switch in the rear corridor. The floor gleamed with fresh wax. The faint hum of a floor cleaning machine placed the cleaning crew in the exhibit part of the museum. She walked down the hall.

Why was she here?

Because she couldn’t go home. Once she’d left the police station, she’d thought of one other spot the knife could have been placed by accident. If she could just find the reproduction, the museum could be absolved. She could be absolved.

Poor Riki’s death wouldn’t be her fault. She wouldn’t lose her job—and disappoint her father again. All she had to do was find the knife and prove it wasn’t the murder weapon.

She bypassed her office, then stopped. A light shone from under her door. Puzzled, she checked the doorknob. Locked. She took out her key and went inside. Nothing seemed amiss. The janitor must have forgotten to turn off the light. She switched it off, locked up, and went back into the hall. At the end of the corridor, the elevators banked the left wall.

Louisa and April had double-checked the entire
Celtic Warrior
exhibit. Other curatorial staff had been asked to inventory the other museum collections, and Director Cusack had assigned the search of miscellaneous prop and costume rooms to office employees. She was sure the office workers had done their best, but the extra storage room was the junk drawer of the museum. A second search couldn’t hurt.

She scanned the packed shelves. Everything from fake rocks to urns to rubber insects was stored up here. Props supplied the details that brought the past to life. Could someone have put the replica knife up here? She sighed. In the back of the room were drawer units to hold smaller pieces. Shelves and drawers were labeled and ordered alphabetically. But she was looking for a misplaced item. It could be anywhere.

She started searching nearest the door, moving methodically from bottom to top, left to right. The shelving units contained the larger pieces, and she moved through them steadily with no sign of the missing knife. Something glittered at the back of a shelf. On her knees, she brushed the fronds of an artificial fern aside. Not the knife. Just a small gold-toned pedestal that might be used to display a piece of pottery or a sculpture. She sat on a step stool, took off a shoe, and rubbed her aching toes. She should have stopped at home to change before beginning her search. But she’d been consumed by the thought that the knife could still be here somewhere.

She’d need to leave soon, though. The dog would have to be walked.

She pulled her phone from her purse and checked the display. She’d been searching the museum for hours. She’d missed a call from Damian, but he’d sent a text:
CONOR BEING RELEASED. CALL U TOMORROW.

What did that mean? Were the police charging him? Did he have to post bail?

She dialed Damian back, but the call went to voice mail. She left a message.

A metallic ping rang through the room. Louisa’s head swiveled toward the open door, hidden behind the tall rows of shelves. A musket ball rolled past the aisle. Her heart skipped. Had her search knocked the small metal ball from its container? Slipping off her remaining pump, she climbed to her feet, heels dangling from her fingertips. The lights went out, leaving the windowless room black.

She froze.

The lights were on an energy-saving motion timer. Had she been too still?

Fabric rustled in the hallway. One of the cleaning staff? Another employee? She hadn’t seen anyone else when she’d come in, but that didn’t mean another curator hadn’t decided to put in some overtime. Every department head wanted his or her exhibit to be perfect for the fund-raiser on Saturday night.

She opened her mouth to call out, then closed it, instinct and fear constricting her voice box.

She was being ridiculous. There were a number of people in the building at night, including cleaning and security staff, but seeing those pictures of Riki had sent her imagination into overdrive. Regardless, it was time to go.

Her grip tensed on her phone. She pointed it at the floor and sidled toward the door. Her elbow bumped something solid. She whirled. A face and bald head stared back at her. Louisa staggered backward, terror clogging her throat, locking her scream behind her sternum. She tripped and fell on her butt. Primal fear sent her bare feet out into a solid kick. The figure toppled, landing on top of her. She pushed at it. Her hands encountered plastic instead of skin or fabric.

A mannequin.

She shoved it away and skittered backward, crab-fashion. Panting, she pressed a hand to her chest. Beneath her breastbone, her heart banged against her palm, and her lungs worked like bellows. Facedown on the linoleum, the mannequin’s arms were bent at grotesque, unnatural angles. Louisa climbed to her feet. She stepped around the figure and crept to the door, as if it were possible that anyone on the floor hadn’t heard the scuffle.

She was acting like a child who’d imagined a monster under her bed.

Maybe one of the cleaning staff had simply turned out the light on their way out. Except she hadn’t seen or heard anyone on the third floor in the time she’d been here. Had she been so absorbed in her search she didn’t hear another person? It wouldn’t be the first time that work had drowned out the normal sounds around her. She tended to hyperfocus on a task.

But the primitive warning wouldn’t fade. She clenched clammy fingers around her phone and peered out of the storage room. She saw no one in the small beam of light. The corridor light switch was at the end of the hall, near the doors that led to the elevators and stairwell. All the doors on either side of the hall were dark and closed, just as they’d been when she went into the prop room. But none of them were locked. Anyone could be inside.

She moved faster, her imagination conjuring images of hands reaching out to grab her. By the time she reached the stairwell, she was nearly running. She paused at the door. Something whispered behind her, another soft brush of fabric on fabric. Louisa pushed through the door into the stairwell. She switched on the light and ran down two flights of stairs, bursting into the first-floor hallway sweaty and breathless. The hum of a machine drew her to the main corridor. A janitor pushed a floor cleaner slowly across the tiles, the path behind his machine clean and shiny with moisture. Glancing at the shoes in her hand, he raised a brow. She smiled and stopped to put on her heels.

Trekking down the main corridor, she spotted the security guard behind the reception desk near the front door.

The guard raised his gaze from his paperback. “Dr. Hancock.” He greeted her in his slight Slavic accent and a curt nod of his white-haired head. “Is everything all right?”

“Good evening, Serge.” Louisa took a deliberate breath to slow her racing pulse. “Are any of the other curators here tonight?”

He squinted. His head tilted as he studied her. “I haven’t seen anyone come in, but then, I didn’t know you were here. I was making my rounds until a few minutes ago.”

“You weren’t here when I came in,” she admitted. “I used the back door.”

“What is wrong?”

“I thought I heard someone on the third floor.”

“Probably the cleaners. Dr. Cusack is also here.” Standing with a wince, he came out from behind the desk, his posture painful and bent with arthritis.

Cusack didn’t frequent the storage rooms.

Serge cracked his neck. “Why don’t I go up and take a look?”

“I’d appreciate that.”

She followed him to the rear corridor. They passed the public restroom. A janitorial cart propped the door open. The sound of running water echoed on tile and steel. Serge’s jerky gait covered ground faster than Louisa expected, but he chose the elevators over the stairs.

On the third floor, he flipped on the hall lights. They moved from room to room in a cursory inspection. Thirty minutes later, after finding no one and nothing suspicious, Serge turned off the last light, and they returned to the elevator.

“Probably one of the cleaners,” he said. “Or a rat.”

Louisa hadn’t thought of vermin when she’d been kneeling on the floor. The thought lifted the hairs on the back of her neck, and she suddenly wanted to go home. “Thank you, Serge.”

“Anytime, Dr. Hancock.” His spine bent in a curt bow. “Next time you need to wander around the museum at night, I’d be happy to accompany you. This building is frightening in the dark.”

The elevator stopped, and they got out. Serge paused, staring at the end of the long hallway where a light shone from under her boss’s door. He clucked his tongue. “You all work too much.”

She smiled at Serge. “We’re just trying to get ready for the big fund-raiser on Saturday night.” Which sounded like a good reason for her to be in the museum late as well. But Director Cusack didn’t do much of the actual physical work anymore. His job was more administrative, political even. She supposed he had plenty of last-minute details to organize for the big event.

“Do you need to see Dr. Cusack, or are you leaving?” Serge asked.

“I’m going home.” She had no desire to explain her presence to the director. “I’m sure Dr. Cusack is here late so he can get work done undisturbed.” Which could actually be true.

“Good. You look tired.” Serge walked her to the front door and let her out.

Louisa hurried to her car and drove to the Rittenhouse. She’d had enough wandering around in the dark for one night. Despite evidence to the contrary, her nerves were still convinced she’d been in danger.