Midnight Betrayal (23 page)

While he waited for the file to load, he browsed the rest of the files, stopping on one titled ID1. Knowing what he’d see, Conor opened the file. The bed was empty, but not for long. Professor English backed Isa Dumont to his bed and began taking off her clothes. The professor was two for three. If Conor kept looking, would he find a video of English with Zoe? He attached the second video file and hit
UPLOAD
.

Footsteps on the floorboards upstairs startled him.
Come on. Come on.
The upload bar turned green. He clicked
SEND
, closed the windows he’d opened, and lowered the laptop’s lid. Footsteps thudded above his head. Grabbing his backpack, he checked the peephole. The porch was empty. Once outside, he slung the mostly empty backpack over his shoulder and crossed the street to the bus stop. The morning was cool but clear. The scent of damp, molding leaves filled the air and discoveries filled Conor’s head.

A guy emerged from Heath’s place, locked the door, and set off down the walk toward campus. Close one.

A horn gave two short beeps next to him. A dark sedan parked at the curb. Damn. Cops.

For a day that had started out pretty damned good, it sure had gone to hell in a hurry.

“Hey, Sullivan,” Jackson said out the lowered window. “How about going for a little ride?”

“I’m kind of short on time,” Conor answered. “How about a rain check?”

Jackson’s eyes narrowed with impatience. “Get in the car.”

Conor sighed. The cops hadn’t immediately arrested him. Why not? Curious, he opened the rear door, tossed his backpack onto the seat, and climbed in after it. “So, what’s up?”

Behind the wheel, Ianelli pulled into the street. He made a right-hand turn and drove away from the residential blocks. One thing about Philadelphia, you didn’t have to drive far to go from a decent neighborhood to a rat hole. Six blocks away, the renovated row homes were replaced by boarded-up hovels. The decorating committee was big on spray cans, sledgehammers, and fire.

Ianelli eased to the curb. “I think we should be asking you that question.” The cop met Conor’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Since we just watched you come out of Heath Yeager’s apartment.”

“Yeah. He wasn’t home.” Conor spoke the truth without hesitation. No need to elaborate.

“Enough with the games.” Jackson turned and spoke through the cage separating the front and back seat. “We have you cold on breaking and entering. Tell me, why did you search Heath’s place, and what did you find?”

“Technically, I didn’t break in.” Conor put a hand on his chest. “Are you asking for my help?”

Ianelli turned around. “Asking? No, we ain’t asking.”

Conor sized up the cops. Were they backing off him as a suspect? Or was this a trick of some sort? “Heath has been blackmailing someone at the university.” It wasn’t like Conor didn’t want the cops to know. He’d e-mailed them the files. He just hated to be bullied.

Jackson’s eyes brightened like a gutter rat that just caught sight of a discarded burger.

Ianelli didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Who?”

Conor waited a beat. “Professor Xavier English.”

“What’d he do?” Ianelli asked, his dark eyes glittering with interest.

Conor spilled the rest about the videos of the professor with Riki and Isa. “I’m no expert, but the girls didn’t seem to know they were being taped, and English looked right at the camera.”

“So how did Heath get the copies?” Jackson asked.

Conor lifted a
no idea
shoulder. “You’ll have to ask Heath.”

Jackson chewed his lip in silence.

“Is sex with a student worth paying a blackmailer?” Ianelli mused.

“I’d think it could cost him his job,” Conor said. “But one of those students has been murdered, and another has disappeared.
That
is worth paying someone to keep quiet.”

“You didn’t get a copy of those videos, did you?” Jackson asked.

“It’s your lucky day.” Conor grinned. “Check your e-mail.”

29

Louisa walked into the museum, late, in a daze. Conor had walked her to the front door and made her promise to call the hotel’s town car at the end of the day. She checked in at the security desk. The security guard requested secondary identification, and Louisa dug her driver’s license out of her wallet. In the wide corridor that divided the museum, an extra guard stood at attention, his eyes scanning the visitors.

In her office, she plunked her purse down on the blotter and sank into her chair. Out of habit, and because she needed to
do
something, Louisa booted up her computer. The monitor was off angle. Bumped by the cleaners while dusting her desk? She adjusted the tilt. When the screen came to life, an annoying window announced her operating system had crashed.

Louisa reached for her phone, stopping with her hand halfway across the desk. She was going to call Zoe—her go-to computer geek when she didn’t want to wait for a visit from the museum computer tech—but Zoe was gone. Louisa pressed a fist to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. It took several minutes to regain control. With no energy to deal with the computer, she simply turned it off. She’d put in a request to tech support later.

April came in, closing the door behind her. “Did you hear about Isa?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe it.” April dropped into the guest chair facing the desk. Her eyes were glazed, her usually chipper attitude deflated with shock. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the desk and tipped her forehead into her hands. “Riki, Zoe, Isa . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Louisa reached across the desk and grasped April’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe Zoe is dead.” A small sob squeaked from April’s chest.

Louisa squeezed her fingers and released them. “They haven’t confirmed that.”

“But it was on the news that the investigators believe the body they found could be Zoe.”

“Believing isn’t the same as knowing.” Hope was crucial. Hope kept people going. When hope died, all that was left was despair. It was coming. Louisa could feel the truth shaking her control, the tiny quakes of sadness that would fracture her denial and leave her shattered.

April’s head bobbed in a tight-lipped nod. “But Isa was taken from the library, right?”

Louisa choked on the sudden grip of grief around her throat. Even April believed Zoe was dead. She was just humoring Louisa. But what if the police were wrong? What if Zoe was out there, hurt, waiting to be rescued? Tears pressured Louisa’s eyes. She blinked them back. “Yes. The police came to my apartment this morning to . . . tell me.”

“Those poor girls.” A tear slid down April’s cheek.

Watching her gutsy assistant cry broke Louisa wide open. Tears poured down her cheeks as sorrow rattled her bones. She felt a strong arm around her shoulders. Sobbing, April stroked the back of her head. “Let it out. You’ll feel better.”

No, she wouldn’t. She couldn’t deny the fact any longer. Zoe was dead. She’d been abducted, tortured, and murdered. How could accepting
that
make her feel better?

Louisa straightened, sniffing hard. April brushed a hair from her cheek, a motherly gesture that almost made Louisa break down again. She yanked a tissue free and wiped her eyes and nose. She took three long, slow breaths and gathered her control around her like a shield. “I’m sorry.”

“No reason to be.”

“I hate being weak,” Louisa admitted, realizing too late that the admittance was in itself weakness.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” April blew her nose. “I know you’re tough. You’ve been through some rough patches, but nothing like this. You’re not a robot. Our friend was horribly murdered. Anyone who doesn’t react to that is lacking a heart. You’re not weak; you’re human.”

Louisa looked up. She wasn’t the tough one in the room. April took that credit. Living with sorrow was much harder than holding on to denial.

April pressed her fingers under her eyes. Anger glittered. “It has to be someone with the museum or university.”

“Maybe.”

“I guess there isn’t anything we can do besides spread the word for the students to stay in groups and be extra careful.” April sniffed.

“No.” Louisa had never felt so helpless. Or useless. Or disorganized. “I haven’t checked my calendar. What’s going on here today?”

“Not much. Director Cusack scheduled a staff meeting this morning before we open. Attendance is mandatory.” April’s lips flattened. “God forbid anything interferes with the museum’s schedule.”

Louisa sighed. Her sinuses throbbed. She opened her desk drawer and searched for her small bottle of ibuprofen. “Have you seen my Advil?”

“No.” April snatched a tissue from the box on Louisa’s desk and wiped her wet cheeks. “I have some in my desk.”

“Thanks.”

April plucked a few more tissues from the box and stuffed them in her pocket. “We need to get to the staff meeting anyway.”

Fifteen minutes later, two dozen employees packed the conference room, some sitting at the long table, the rest crowding behind chairs. Standing in the corner, leaning on a credenza, Louisa sipped coffee in a desperate bid to clear the sad ache behind her eyes, which three ibuprofen hadn’t alleviated. Next to her, April dabbed puffy red eyes with a folded tissue. Most of the staff wore similar tear-streaked expressions of disbelief and sorrow.

Dr. Cusack cleared his throat. Hands laced behind his back, he paced the front of the room. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about Zoe and Isa.”

A small sob punctuated his opening statement.

Cusack’s frown deepened. “I’ve decided to move the opening of the
Celtic Warrior
exhibit back to December.” His eyes sought Louisa’s. “I’m sorry, Dr. Hancock, it can’t be helped. Considering recent developments, hosting a big party would make the museum look callous, as if we didn’t care.”

Louisa tipped her head and spoke in a raspy voice. “I agree one hundred percent.” Which sounded much better than what she was actually thinking:
I couldn’t care less about the exhibit.

“We’ll be issuing a press release shortly, announcing that we’ll be moving the date in respect of the victims and their families.” Cusack’s voice faded in her ears. Something shone in his eyes. Excitement? Frustration? Louisa’s stomach pitched. Was he enthused about the prospect of more media attention, or could there be a more sinister reason behind the gleam in his eye? Or was he just frustrated and angry like the rest of the museum employees? She’d assumed Cusack hadn’t been actively involved with the interns, but perhaps her judgment had been hasty. Cusack wasn’t married. What if that cold, Teflon-like exterior was merely a cover for a sinister soul? Cusack had short, dark hair. He had access to the girls’ personnel and student records, and he was brilliant enough to pull off an intricate crime. He knew about the incident in Maine and the relationship between Conor and Louisa, something he’d deliberately kept from her.

“Lastly, we’re changing custodial services based on some nighttime thefts.” He raised a hand to halt the murmurs. “Nothing of great value to the museum is missing, but between the theft of the dagger replica and the small personal items that have disappeared in the last few weeks, the change makes sense. Your office door locks will be changed. I’ll let you know when new keys will be issued. Until then, I advise not leaving anything valuable in your offices. Any questions?”

Chairs scraped as people sensed the end and started to move.

“Then that’s all for now,” Cusack said in dismissal.

“One more thing.” Ignoring the director’s sharp glance, Louisa raised her voice. “Everyone needs to be careful. Please stick together. Don’t go anywhere alone, especially at night.”

“Yes,” Cusack interrupted. “Dr. Hancock makes excellent points. Although I’m sure the police will solve these crimes quickly, the museum has already temporarily increased security. No one will be admitted without an employee badge. Don’t be alarmed if you see additional guards patrolling the building. All employees, especially females, should ask for an escort to your car if leaving after dark and parked across the street. If you’re using public transportation, try to coordinate your commutes. Please don’t take your safety for granted. You need to be just as careful when you aren’t here. The police don’t suspect any of the girls were taken from museum grounds.”

He dismissed them with an authoritative nod.

Cusack approached, the momentary glimmer in his eye replaced with an appropriate level of solemnity. “Dr. Hancock, I hope you weren’t blindsided by the announcement.”

“Not at all. I’m relieved, in fact.” Louisa held her coffee in front of her body as a personal boundary marker. “The staff should be focused on helping the police and keeping each other safe.”

“I concur,” he said, but his stern, tight mouth said he wasn’t happy with her. “I’ll meet with the board and finalize a new date for the opening.”

“Thank you.” Louisa waited until everyone else had left the room. “Why are employees being asked to show a second piece of identification?”

Cusack stepped closer and lowered his head. “According to security records, an employee on maternity leave used her ID several times over the last few weeks. When we called her at home, she denied coming to the museum and couldn’t find her ID.”

“So someone was using her card to gain access to the museum?”

“That’s what the police think.” Cusack’s face pinched with displeasure. What were ordinarily small lapses in security were magnified in light of the three girls’ disappearances. “And Dr. Hancock?”

“Yes.”

“No more working late at night,” Dr. Cusack said, his eyes flat. “I wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger.”

Louisa took an instinctive step back at his tone. Had that been concern or a veiled threat? With an agreeable nod, she bolted for her office. Along with the weird encounter with Cusack, the morning’s interview with the detectives lingered in her mind like the taste of burnt garlic. Who might know what was going on with the case? Damian. She’d called him earlier, but he hadn’t called back with any news.

She picked up the phone and dialed Damian’s number. “Are you free for lunch?”

Over the connection, she could hear papers shuffling. “I can shift some things around. Is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m all yours,” Damian said. “How about a picnic at Logan Square? I’ll bring the food.”

Louisa hesitated. Damian favored sandwiches from the grease trucks that parked in University City, but she doubted she’d have much of an appetite. Plus, outside in the middle of the square with its geyser of a fountain, it was unlikely that anyone would overhear their conversation. “That’s great. Noon?”

“You’re on.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Let me pick you up,” Damian objected. “I don’t think anyone associated with the museum should be walking around alone.”

She hung up the phone with Damian’s warning echoing in her office. The director had sent around a press release, and using her smartphone, she busied herself sending out e-mails addressing the postponement of the exhibit opening.

At lunchtime, she picked up her purse, slipped into her jacket, and went into the outer office. April was slitting mail open with a letter opener with the efficiency of a butcher. Her eyes tracked to her monitor. Her mouth slacked open. “Oh my goodness.”

Louisa went round the desk. A banner scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
LIVE BREAKING NEWS ON THE MUSEUM MURDER.

“What happened?” April leaned over the desk.

Louisa swiveled the monitor toward her assistant and turned on the volume.

A reporter stood in front of the History Department building. “Dr. Xavier English, a history professor at Livingston University, was arrested in the museum murder.”

Louisa and April listened, slack-mouthed with shock, as the reporter summed up the case.

“I can’t believe it.” The news channel moved on to another story, and April turned off the volume.

“Me either. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

“You too.”

Louisa went to the museum foyer. Damian was waiting just outside the glass doors. A brown bag dangled from one hand. She pushed through the glass doors into the not-so-fresh city air.

He kissed her cheek. “I can’t believe Xavier was arrested.”

“Do you know what evidence they found?” They walked toward the square. In the center, the dazzling autumn sunlight turned Swann Memorial Fountain into a spectacular display of sculpture and sparkling water. Two, possibly three young women were dead. She respected Xavier. Even after his obnoxious behavior at the fund-raiser, it had never occurred to her that he could be a killer. How could she not have known?

Damian lowered his head and his voice. “Rumor has it that he was sleeping with a bunch of his students and—wait for it—making sex tapes without their knowledge.”

“That’s so . . .” Louisa searched for the right word.

“Trite? Boring? Crass?”

“Awful.” Louisa pictured young women fooled and duped by a charming professor. “They must feel so betrayed and humiliated.” She could have been one of his victims. Before being put in Conor’s path, she’d thought perhaps Xavier was working up to asking her out. She would have said yes.