Midnight Betrayal (6 page)

“We’re looking for a young woman.” Jackson pulled a photo from the chest pocket of his jacket and handed it to Conor. It was a snapshot of Zoe. “Have you seen her?”

“Yes. Her name is Zoe. She was in the bar last night. Her boyfriend got drunk and started pushing her around. I had to bounce him.”

“What did Zoe do?”

“She couldn’t get ahold of her roommate for a ride, so I drove her down to the subway station.” Conor paused, still kicking himself for not taking her all the way home. “It was late. I didn’t want her to walk alone.”

Jackson took notes. “Which station did you drop her at?”

“Pattison Ave.”

“She didn’t indicate that she was going anywhere else?”

Conor thought back, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. She said she was going home.”

“I assume you have surveillance cameras in the barroom?”

“We do.”

“Could we have a copy of last night’s tape?”

“Of course,” Conor said. “I can have that for you in about an hour.”

“I’ll send someone over to pick it up.” Jackson stood. “Thanks for your help.”

The cops left, and Conor went back to the bar.

Pat popped the tops off two bottles of Heineken and served them to a couple of guys on the other side of the bar. Turning to Conor, he wiped his hands on his black apron. “Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“It’s a long story.” Conor filled him in.

Pat frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No. It doesn’t.” The police interview had been quick and painless, but Conor had a nagging feeling in his gut that they’d be back.

“Your curator is hot, though. So the day wasn’t a total loss.”

“She’s not
my
curator.”

Pat shrugged. Under the concern, a spark of humor glinted in his eyes. “If you say so.”

Ignoring his brother, Conor went back to the office to copy the previous night’s surveillance footage. Despite his protest, seeing Louisa had revved him. But the simultaneous disappearances of the replica knife and two young women tainted his pleasure. There were too many twisted connections in the events with Louisa, her intern, and the museum for Conor’s comfort. Something was brewing.

7

Though no one had noticed her slightly extended lunch, Louisa stayed an extra half hour to make up for the lost time. Walking home on Eighteenth Street, she turned right onto Walnut into Rittenhouse Square. Her phone buzzed, and she fished it out of her purse. Her father? Though they spoke once a week, she always initiated the calls. She couldn’t even remember the last time
he’d
phoned
her
. Something must be wrong.

She answered, crossing the street and entering the park. “Daddy?”

“Louisa.” Her father sounded nervous—and more importantly—sober. Since her mother’s death, if Wade Hancock wasn’t working, he was numbing his pain with scotch.

Heart attack and accident scenarios rolled through her mind. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He hesitated. “I just wanted to talk to you and let you know I’ll be coming to the States for the holidays. I’m thinking of staying for a while.”

“You’re going back to Maine?”

“Why would I go to Maine when you’re in Philadelphia?” he asked. “Anyway, I called to see if I should arrange hotel accommodations”—he paused, nerves hitching in his breath—“or if you might have room for me there.”

Shock silenced her for a minute.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m here. Is there something wrong, Daddy?”
Oh my God
. He must be sick. Or dying. Had his liver finally given out under the onslaught of alcohol?

“I’d rather talk in person,” he said. “I haven’t been to your new apartment. I didn’t know how big it is.”

“Of course you can stay with me. I have plenty of room.” She’d chosen the larger available condo based on the premium views. That way, in case her new plan to be more social didn’t work out and she was sitting home alone, at least she’d have something to look at. Thank goodness.

“Great. I’ll e-mail you my itinerary.” Relief edged his voice, and something else she couldn’t identify over the four thousand miles, and the equally large span of grief, that separated them. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

He ended the call.

A stranger’s arm bumped her, and Louisa realized she’d stopped in the center of the path. Around her, the park teemed with activity. The trees and shrubs gleamed green, the setting sun catching the sporadic gold of leaves just beginning to turn. She rarely saw her father, but knowing he was out there gave her a connection to someone, no matter how thin. Despite the steady stream of pedestrians, she’d never felt more alone.

She moved to a nearby bench and dropped onto the seat. Suddenly, she had no desire to go back to her huge, empty apartment and stare out the glass at the bustle of life she never quite felt part of. Her phone vibrated in her clenched fingers. Almost afraid to see her father’s number and hear the bad news she knew was coming, she read the caller ID.

Conor.

“Come see me,” he said. “I’ll tell you what the cops wanted.”

“You could tell me now,” she offered.

“I’ll tell you in person.”

“All right,” she said with no hesitation. Despite reservations about renewing their involvement, she was curious about the policemen’s visit to the bar. She hadn’t heard from the detectives. Had Conor learned anything about Zoe’s case? But she couldn’t fool herself. Her concern for Zoe wasn’t the only reason she ended the call, walked to the garage, and retrieved her car.

The sound of his voice eased her loneliness.

Sullivan’s bustled at happy hour. Louisa threaded her way through the tables and clusters of patrons. Laughter and conversation buzzed around her. Pat and Conor worked the bar. Pat smiled at her and gave his brother’s arm an elbow nudge. Conor’s eyes brightened when he saw her walking toward him. He set a tumbler of clear liquid on a cocktail napkin, tossed in a lime wedge, and slid it across the bar to a customer. He motioned her toward a stool at the rear of the bar. A bearded man of about thirty on the next seat looked her up and down. Conor narrowed his eyes at the man until he shrugged and turned back to his buddy.

Conor leaned over the bar. “Hi there, what can I get you?”

“Club soda.” She claimed the stool, the snugness of her skirt making the effort more of an undignified hop than the smooth slide she’d intended.

“Are you sure? We have a decent wine list and a few really good craft beers.”

“Club soda is fine.”

He reached for a glass. “Everything all right? I mean, except for your missing friend.”

She nodded, unwilling and unable to articulate her distress over her father’s call.

Setting her soda on a napkin in front of her, he scanned her face. “Dinner?”

“No, thank you.”

He frowned. His attention flickered to another customer. “I’ll be back. The crowd’ll thin in an hour or so. Then we’ll have some time to talk. Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat while you wait?”

“I’m OK.” She watched him and sipped her soda. She envied his ease with people, the comfortable way he conversed as he worked. People responded to him. Women flirted. Men joked.

A petite but voluptuous young waitress set a plate in front of Louisa.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t order anything,” she protested.

The waitress shrugged. “Conor said to bring you a club sandwich.”

She turned to catch his gaze, but he ignored her, seemingly on purpose.

She hadn’t wanted food, but the scents of french fries and bacon tantalized her nostrils. She ate a fry, then another, then bit into the sandwich. Her mouth was full when Conor drifted over and refilled her glass.
He’d timed that well.
He glanced at the plate, gave her a know-it-all smirk, and sauntered away.

By seven thirty, the work crowd had thinned. The bar was still busy, but the waitress’s trips back and forth to the kitchen slowed. Sports fans clustered around the hockey game that played on hanging TVs.

Conor propped an elbow on the bar and rested his chin in one palm. “So how was your day?”

The indelicate snort that burst from her lips shocked her. She covered her mouth with a knuckle. “Long. Yours?”

He gave her a small, wry smile. “Same here.”

She was tempted to tell him about her father’s call. What would it be like to have someone to confide in at the end of the day? But she couldn’t get the words out. Face it. Sharing her emotions was a new endeavor. She’d have to start slowly. “How did it go with the police?”

He lifted a shoulder. “OK, I guess. They weren’t here long. Asked for a copy of the surveillance tapes and left.”

“Is that good?”

“Beats me.” But suspicion lingered in his eyes. “You didn’t hear from them?”

“No. I haven’t heard anything about Zoe.” She chewed her lip. “God, I hope she’s all right.”

Conor reached across the bar and rested his hand over hers. “I know.”

A shadow fell across Louisa. Conor straightened. She twisted on the stool. Detectives Jackson and Ianelli were behind her.

Jackson presented Conor with a stack of folded papers. “Conor Sullivan, we have a search warrant for the bar, your apartment, and your car. We’re also taking you to the police station for questioning.”

They couldn’t think he . . .

But Conor could see in Jackson’s eyes that they did.

Conor was a suspect. They thought he did something to Zoe.

He focused on the senior detective, meeting his shrewd brown eyes with a direct stare.

The cop motioned to the uniforms behind him. “Get started.” More cops flooded into the bar. Jackson turned to Conor. “We’ll need the keys to your apartment and car.”

Conor flipped through the search warrant. There was a basic description of Zoe.
Fingerprints,
blood, fibers, DNA, weapons, other trace evidence, weapons,
the list went on. He skimmed through the legalese. In summary, the cops were looking for Zoe or evidence that might lead to a possible suspect in her abduction. Seeing no options, he handed the keys over.

“Before you go into the apartment, I’d like to get my dog out,” Conor said. “I haven’t had her long. I’m not sure if she’ll bite if she feels threatened.” He doubted it, but he didn’t want her frightened.

The cop nodded.

Conor turned to Louisa. “Would you hold on to her? Pat can’t take her to his house.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Dr. Hancock.” Jackson’s gaze darted between Conor and Louisa with suspicion.

Pat hurried over. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’d be best to close up.” Conor walked toward the back door with Jackson right on his tail. Upstairs, the cop watched him open his door, grab the leash, and snap it to the dog’s collar. He led her downstairs and handed the leash to Louisa. “Thank you.”

The dog cowered against Louisa’s calves.

Jackson pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket. “Now we’re going to the police station.”

Conor swallowed his shock and found his voice. “Would you find me a lawyer, Pat?”

White-faced, Pat pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Jaynie. Maybe Reed can help.”

Jayne’s fiancé was a former cop.

The cop pushed Conor through the doorway by the elbow and paraded him through the bar.

The cop marched him out onto the sidewalk. A patrol cruiser was double-parked next to an unmarked car at the curb. Three more vehicles lined up behind them. Jackson steered him toward the black-and-white. Two uniforms waited by the vehicle. The cop shoved his head down, and Conor dropped onto the seat with an awkward side shuffle.

He looked out the window. Pat was standing in the doorway, cell phone against his ear, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Louisa, and everyone else who’d been in the bar, clustered behind him. Humiliation buddied up to Conor’s discomfort.

The car smelled like the cold, stale grease of fast food. A wire cage separated the front and back seats. Conor was enveloped with a surreal sense of claustrophobia.

What could the police possibly have discovered?

8

Stunned into paralysis, Louisa stared out the glass doors.

The police took Conor? That was impossible. She couldn’t believe he would have hurt Zoe, not after the lengths he’d gone to in Maine to stop a killer, not after he’d rescued the dog and stepped in to defend Zoe the night before. She’d witnessed his devotion to his family.

Also, Conor was an intelligent man. The police found something in their search. If he
had
committed a crime, he wouldn’t have left evidence in his apartment.

“What just happened?” Pat was standing in front of her, his jaw hanging open, his face shockingly pale.

Alarmed, she went to his side. The dog stayed close. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out.”

“I know my brother. The last thing on earth that Conor would do is hurt a young girl.” Pat scrubbed his red buzz cut with a huge, shaking palm, his eyes confused. “This can’t be happening.”

“Maybe you should sit down.”

Pat didn’t move. She wasn’t sure he even heard her. His face was drawn as if he’d aged ten years in the last ten minutes. Louisa took his thick biceps in her hands, steered him to a table, and backed him into a chair. “Sit.”

His legs folded obediently. The chair creaked.

“Dr. Hancock?” Detective Jackson summoned her from the open door. The triumph in his eyes sent a wave of anger rushing through her. Zoe was missing, and the police were pursuing the wrong person.

Louisa lifted her chin and steeled her spine. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Detective.”

His eyes narrowed. She turned back to Pat. “Do you have a lawyer?”

He frowned at her. “We haven’t needed that kind of lawyer in ten years, not since Danny was young. My sister’s husband might be able to help, but they didn’t answer their phones.”

“We’ll take up a collection for a retainer,” a man’s voice said.

Louisa startled. She’d been so focused on the situation that she hadn’t noticed the bar’s handful of customers gathering around them. Voices murmured, and heads nodded in agreement.

She turned her attention back to Pat. “I know someone who might be able to help.”

“Thank you.”

The small crowd filled in the space, surrounding Pat with support and emphasizing her own solitude, while Jackson waited in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his stare impatient.

“What’s the best number to reach you?” she asked Pat.

“I got it.” Another customer wrote on a cocktail napkin. “Here’s Pat’s cell number.”

These people weren’t just the Sullivans’ customers. They were friends and neighbors. How did it feel to have a group of people who would stand by one’s side? The intimacy spotlighted her outsider status, but then she should be used to being alone.

“I’ll call you when I know something.” Looping the leash over her wrist, she went back to the barstool for her jacket and purse.

At the exit, Louisa stopped for a deep breath before walking out onto the sidewalk. The balmy day had turned cool and damp.

Detective Jackson was waiting at the curb, his foot tapping on the cement. Louisa crossed the sidewalk.

“I need you to come down to the station as well.” He gestured toward a scratched sedan with a floodlight attached to the side mirror.

“I’d prefer to drive my own car. I’m parked just down the block.”

“Parking is a hassle. It’s easier if you come with us. We’ll bring you back here afterward.” He opened the rear door.

She couldn’t make phone calls to defense attorneys from the back of the police car. Louisa gathered her nerve. “Then I’ll meet you at the police station. I need to drop the dog off at my apartment. I shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes.”

He considered her for a minute. Then he dropped his arms to his side. “Yes, ma’am.” He wasn’t pleased, but there was nothing she could do about that. She needed privacy.

She had the Rittenhouse valet hold her car while she dropped the dog at her apartment. Back in her car, she scrolled through her phone contacts for the number of the only attorney she knew in Philadelphia. Could Damian even help? He primarily worked with juveniles, which was how they’d met. Shortly after Louisa moved to town, Damian introduced himself and asked her for a donation to fund a shelter for teenagers. His sincerity had impressed her, and she agreed not only to write a check but to give her time as well, tutoring at the shelter. He answered his cell, and she was relieved when he agreed to go to the station immediately. If the case turned out to be more than he could handle, he’d give her a referral.

A half hour later, Louisa waited in a small, windowless room at the police precinct. Worried but feigning calm, she folded her hands across her lap and let her mind do the racing. Questions dominated her thoughts: Where was Conor? Why was the detective so convinced he was guilty that they searched his apartment and brought him here? What had they found?

The door opened, and Detectives Jackson and Ianelli came in.

Jackson sat across from her. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, Dr. Hancock.” He didn’t look sorry.

Ianelli took the seat next to his partner.

“How do you know Conor Sullivan?” Jackson asked.

“We’d met on one previous occasion, last spring in Maine. I consulted on a case involving Mr. Sullivan’s brother.”

Jackson’s brows lifted. “So your relationship with him is entirely professional?”

“For the most part, yes.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?” Pen in hand, Jackson tilted his head. “Because you two looked awfully friendly tonight in his bar.”

“Before today, I hadn’t seen him since last spring.”

He made a note. “Yet you moved from Maine to Philadelphia, Conor’s hometown.”

“Coincidence. The position at the Livingston Museum was the only one I could find after being let go from the museum in Maine.”

Jackson’s eyes brightened, putting her on guard. “We have proof Conor visited the museum three weeks ago. He showed up on footage from multiple security cameras.”

“I didn’t know he was there.” Had he come looking for her? The thought was a small bright spot in the bleak room.

“He hasn’t called you or kept in touch in any way? No e-mails or messages?”

Louisa shook her head. “No. We’ve had
no contact until today.”

“You finished college early, right, just like Zoe?” Ianelli jumped in. “Zoe is pretty smart too, isn’t she? That’s why she’s in a doctoral program at twenty-one.”

“That’s correct,” Louisa answered.

“You wrote her up for lateness.” Jackson scrutinized her through the cover of his lashes. “Aren’t you happy with her performance as your intern?”

“I didn’t have any choice. She missed a staff meeting. The director wasn’t happy.” Louisa paused. “Zoe needs to work on her time-management skills. Other than that, she’s an excellent intern. She’s ambitious, smart, and confident about her work. I’m sure she’ll be very successful.” Louisa’s breath caught. Zoe might not have a future. Louisa wiped an escaped tear from under her eye.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about Zoe? Friends or family we can check with, any particular places she liked to hang out?” Ianelli asked.

“As far as I know, she spends the majority of her time in class, the museum, and the library. Zoe’s class schedule was considered when setting her internship hours. It doesn’t allow her an abundance of leisure time.” Louisa pictured the coffee cup Zoe usually had in her hand first thing in the morning and the bag she sometimes carried in after lunch. “On her way to the museum, she often stopped at Joe’s Coffee Shop and frequented Fresh Deli at lunchtime. Both are within a block.”

Ianelli leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his round belly. “How much do you know about her social life?”

“Our relationship was primarily professional, and I’ve only been a curator here for two months. I know her parents live about an hour away and that she’s a bit shy.”

“What about boys?”

“The boy she dated the other night is the first she’s mentioned. She said he was new, so I assume they hadn’t been together long.”

Jackson lifted a page and read the underlying paper. “Let’s talk about your last job. You were fired after several artifacts were stolen and used in an elaborate murder ritual?”

“Yes.” Louisa braced herself.

“And soon after you started your new job here in Philadelphia, an intern and the dagger that killed her went missing.”

Louisa inhaled. Fresh sorrow gathered in her chest. “So you’re sure the victim is Riki? You weren’t yesterday.”

Irritation flickered in Jackson’s eyes for a nanosecond before he smoothed it away. He hadn’t meant to give that away. “DNA will take weeks to come back, but we were able to confirm her identity through medical records.”

Louisa swallowed the burn of nausea in her throat. She blocked the images of Riki’s smile and the photos of her wounds, but snatches of pictures leaked through.

Oh my God, Zoe could suffer the same fate.

Red tunneled Louisa’s vision. She closed her mouth and breathed through her nose.

Jackson leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Conor Sullivan was the last person to see Zoe alive. Are you sure you haven’t seen him since last spring?”

“Quite.” She needed to get out of this airless room, and it seemed the police were going to rehash the same material, so . . . “I’m done answering questions.”

Jackson’s jaw moved back and forth, as if he were grinding wheat to flour with his molars. “If we find out you’ve lied about your relationship with Conor Sullivan or that you’ve withheld information . . .” His partner’s hand on his forearm cut Jackson off.

“I’m leaving now.” Louisa rose, praying her legs held her frame upright. Images of Riki’s ruined body flashed in an endless reel. “If you have any more questions, I’ll need time to notify my attorney.”

If the police were interested in finding Zoe, Louisa would be the first person in line to assist them. But Jackson actually implied
she
was involved in or knew about her intern’s disappearance and Riki’s death.

“One more thing.” Ianelli frowned at his partner. “For a ritual killing, would there be some kind of complicated setup?”

“I don’t know.” Louisa gripped the edge of the table. Could Zoe still be alive? Had she been tortured? Set on fire? “Probably. The ones in Maine did. You should check with the state police detective there.”

“We already have,” Ianelli said. His dark gaze was intent on her face and seemed to recognize her distress. He stood and offered Louisa his hand. “I think we have everything we need for now. Thank you for your time. Do you need some water?”

Shaking her head, Louisa accepted his handshake. His warm palm nearly burned her icy hand. She directed her parting comment to Jackson. “I hope you’re not so focused on Conor that you’ve stopped looking for Zoe.”

“Every cop on duty is looking for her. If the killer has a pattern, then she might still be alive. Riki wasn’t killed right away. She was tied up and tortured for a few days first.”

Louisa’s head spun. She fought the dizziness. Under her jacket, a chilly line of sweat dripped between her shoulder blades and soaked her blouse.

Ianelli shot Jackson a disturbed glance. Ianelli might want to pursue every lead, but the dynamics of the partnership were easily identifiable. Jackson was in charge, and he appeared to be concentrating his efforts on Conor.

She left the room on wobbly legs, her high heels seeming narrower. A few minutes later, she found herself standing next to her car with no recollection of walking to it. She opened the door and slid behind the wheel. The vehicle still smelled faintly of dog. Although cool, the interior felt suffocating. She lowered the windows and rested her head on the back of the seat.

The police detectives thought she could be collaborating with Conor, as if either of them could do what had been done to Riki. Those images would be forever branded into Louisa’s brain. She would see them until the day she died. To think the police suspected her of collaborating or covering up such a deed was truly abhorrent.

Louisa knew
she
was innocent, and she couldn’t believe Conor would do anything as horrible as they’d described. How would the police ever find Zoe if they weren’t looking for other suspects?