Midnight Betrayal (12 page)

“He’s a good boy. Thankfully, crayons aren’t toxic.” Leena went to the gate and scratched the pup’s head. “Are you sure you don’t want a puppy? There are still two left.”

“Positive.” Conor thought of the dog currently sleeping in Louisa’s bed. Kirra should stay there. “My apartment’s too small, and I’m never in it.”

“A dog would be good company. You spend too much time alone.”

“Alone? I’m never alone. I’m always in the bar.”

“You know what I mean.”

A giggle drifted down the stairwell that ran along the living room wall. Someone was still up.

Leena dropped the plastic guitar into an open bin in the corner, walked to the base of the steps, and cupped a hand around her mouth. “Don’t make me come up there.”

Silence.

Yep. No question. Leena was the boss.

“You need help getting him upstairs?”

“Like we could get him up those steps.” Leena laughed. “He’s fine where he is.” She had a point. The stairwell was narrow and steep, barely enough room for Pat when he was steady on his feet. “Tomorrow’s backache will remind him why he isn’t much of a drinker,” Leena said without the faintest trace of pity.

“No doubt.”

“The kids are obviously still awake if you want to pop up and say good night.” She pulled an afghan off the back of the couch and tucked it around her husband. Her hand gave his square jaw a quick, loving stroke. A snore ripped through the room.

Normally, Conor would like nothing better than a round of hugs from his niece and nephews, but tonight the thought of their energetic affection hollowed out his chest. Why? What had changed? Why did Jayne’s pregnancy make Conor nostalgic? Did it have something to do with Louisa?

The only thing he knew for certain tonight was that he was too tired and too strung out about the missing girl and the police investigation to analyze his love life.

“I really have to get back to the bar.” Conor turned toward the door, then paused, his gaze drifting toward his brother. “Is Pat OK?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He got all choked up at Jayne’s news.”

“He’s happy, but at the same time, the news made him feel older, less needed, like that chapter in his life is closed. You and Pat spent the last two decades acting more like parents than siblings.” Leena’s dark eyes zeroed in on Conor’s like X-ray vision. “How are you dealing with Jayne’s news? You raised her as much as Pat did.”

“Fine. Pat did most of the parenting.”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?” Conor eased backward, toward the door. He should have kept his mouth shut.

“Brush off the credit.” Leena closed the distance between them and poked him in the chest with one finger. She might as well have used a knife. “He couldn’t have done it without you, and you know it.”

Yeah. Leena saw right through him. Conor took a step sideways. “I’m thrilled for Jaynie.”

“Conor . . .” She shook her head. “You haven’t been yourself all summer. Talk to me. Pat said you have a new girlfriend?”

“She’s not really a girlfriend.”

“What is she?”

Good question.
“I don’t know. She’s wrapped up in the police investigation.”

Leena put her hand on his biceps. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m innocent.”

“Duh.” Leena rolled her eyes. “That isn’t what I asked you.”

“Everything will be OK.” He leaned over and gave his sister-in-law a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good luck with Snorezilla. Love ya, Leena.” Conor bolted, closing the door behind him. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Leena or anyone else about his mood. He wanted what Pat currently had—oblivion, at least for a short time. But he had a business to run. Only one Sullivan could be incapacitated at a time.

He strode out on the sidewalk, his boot heels ringing on concrete covered with chalk drawings of rainbows. Walking promoted thinking, another thing he was avoiding, and he was glad to slide back into the Porsche.

Conor lucked out and found a spot at the curb around the corner from the bar. He cut through the alley toward the back door. Back to the bar. Back to work. But his mind was on Pat’s family.

All Conor wanted was a simple life. He’d always thought he’d end up like Pat, with a wife and kids and a cramped but happy house.

Barbara’s betrayal had floored him.

She’d come into the bar and pursued him with the single-minded focus of an alley cat chasing a rat. Why hadn’t he seen her true predatory nature? She’d been sexy, wild, and always eager for him. They’d spent most of that summer in his bed. Probably if the relationship had gone on, he’d have realized it was nothing but sex. But at the time, the overabundance of sex hadn’t promoted deep introspection.

Even more shocking than the husband walking into the bar and calmly informing Conor that he was sleeping with his wife was her reaction. Unwilling to compromise the lifestyle her wealthy husband provided, Barbara had broken it off with Conor with barely an
it was fun while it lasted
shrug.

Looking back on it now, with the perspective of time and distance, everything they’d had suddenly looked cheap and sleazy.

Conor hadn’t been tempted to start a new relationship since, until he’d met Louisa. Unfortunately, he might not have the time to find out what could happen between them. The police would get the test results back in a few more days. What would happen then? Would they arrest him? Did they even have any other serious suspects? And more importantly, was Zoe still alive?

16

At this point in the game, my biggest concern was that someone would discover my captive. Though I’d have heard about it. An explosion would likely make the evening news.

After a careful cruise through the neighborhood, I parked the old sedan in front of the building. The streetlamp overhead was out, but the harvest moon shone from a clear sky, its faint orange tint casting a sepia glow over the desolate block. I hadn’t seen a single soul on my reconnaissance. The area was so empty the streets could be used as the set for an urban apocalypse film.

With gloved hands, I took my tool bag from the trunk and went inside, careful of the footing. After clicking on my flashlight, I edged my way to the stairwell. A board gave way under my shoe. With a quick grab, I spared myself an ankle-breaking plunge into the basement. At the top of the steps, I examined my trip wire. The booby trap was undisturbed. Removing the trip wire was delicate business. Finished, I descended.

The only inhabitant was the one I’d left there. I played the beam of my flashlight over her face. Naked, she lay curled on her side on the floor against the back wall, her hands cuffed behind her back and fastened to a pipe. Her eyes and nose had leaked all over the duct tape on her mouth, the tears and snot drying to a cracked white film on her skin. Blood crusted across the wounds on her thighs. The puddle of urine had dried to a brown stain on the concrete.

I was definitely done with her.

Over the mess on her face, her gaze still pleaded. But as I stood in the doorway, truth overtook the faint glimmer of hope and stomped it into the ground.

She knew this was it.

Dropping the bag at my feet, I knelt and pulled out the knife. Moving behind her to avoid the initial gush, I raised the weapon. She slid sideways, making the angle difficult.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” I said, though secretly wishing she would do just that.

I reached for her chin to hold her head and neck still. She thrashed hard for someone dehydrated and weak. After the last experience, I’d only allowed ten minutes for the actual death. But she fought considerably harder than my first, using her bound legs as a counterweight to fling her body sideways.

I stepped on her head to pin it to the concrete. She twisted, but my weight immobilized her. I slashed the knife across the stretched, white skin of her neck. A low moan seeped from her lips as blood spurted in even pulses across the concrete. Her body twitched; fear clouded her eyes.

I moved my foot from her head. Her eyes met mine. Life faded from her gaze slowly, as if her soul clung with desperate fingertips to its physical embodiment.

I had caused this. I was in control. A strange and powerful surge of energy flooded me.
This
was a proper climax. No failure, no disappointment. I watched the blood drain until her chest deflated and her opaque, dead eyes lost focus, all because of me.

Note to self: the will to live is variable, and adequate time must be allowed even if it might not always be needed.

But what if the killing took longer? How would that feel? To draw out the experience, to watch the panic flutter in her pupils? What if she begged for death and I withheld it?

All interesting questions that could be explored at another time. For now, I’d stick to my predetermined schedule. But maybe I could experiment a little with the next one.

After carving the spiral on her abdomen, I lined up the rest of my supplies. Paper, kindling, gasoline, matches. Right on schedule. Paying close attention to detail, I proceeded to the next step.

17

Louisa waited just inside the door, watching raindrops roll down the glass. Conor’s Porsche pulled up to the curb. She went out, popping up her umbrella as she ran for the street. A fine drizzle amplified the scent of falling leaves. She climbed into the passenger seat, shook the umbrella, and closed the car door.

“How do you run in those shoes?” Conor eyed her pumps.

“It isn’t easy.” Her toes had felt the quick jog across the sidewalk.

“I still don’t get why you wear shoes that aren’t comfortable.”

She looked down at the pretty, nude, patent leather Pradas. “Because I like them.”

Shaking his head, Conor eased into traffic.

A tractor-trailer rattled past as he took the ramp for the Schuylkill Expressway, nicknamed the Sure Kill Expressway by Philadelphia residents for a reason. A bus driver blew his horn as Conor merged into traffic and drove toward University City. He reached behind the seat and handed her a Styrofoam box.

She lifted the lid. He’d brought her a sandwich. “What’s this?”

“Turkey club. This is the third lunch you’ve missed this week.”

“Thank you.” She took a small bite. Her stomach approved.

“You’re welcome. Now eat,” he ordered.

She raised a brow at his bossy tone, but he ignored her. She finished the sandwich in a few impolitely large bites. She opened the bottle of water he handed her. “Are the police following you today?”

“Probably. Black-and-whites stand out, but sometimes the unmarked cars are hard to spot.” Conor sighed. “I just assume they’re there all the time.”

He parked at the curb a few units away from Zoe and Isa’s apartment. “Be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.” Louisa opened the car door and popped her umbrella as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. She hurried to the covered front porch and scanned the list of names. She rang the intercom for apartment 3B. Nothing. She pressed the buzzer again.

“Who is it?” a sleepy and slightly testy voice asked.

Gotcha.
“Hello, Isa. It’s Dr. Hancock.”

After a few seconds of silence, the voice mumbled something incoherent. With a faint buzz, the door lock clicked. Louisa went into the foyer and went up the two flights of dark, wooden steps to the third-floor landing. A girl in pajamas and a camisole held the door open. Her brown hair was pulled back in a sloppy tail, her face devoid of makeup, her eyes wary and irritated. She hadn’t expected Louisa’s visit, and she wasn’t happy about it.

Louisa stepped inside. “I’m Dr. Hancock.”

“I’m Isa.” She rubbed a hand over her face.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” Louisa crossed the threshold. The door opened into a cramped living room and kitchenette combination. Squeezed between the couch and the kitchen counter was a round laminate table covered with books and papers.

“It’s OK.” Isa yawned. “I have a ton of research to do anyway.”

“Late night?”

“Yeah. I’m working on a project for the Pendleton grant.”

“Congratulations,” Louisa said. “That’s a lot of work.”

Isa smiled. “It is, but I’ll power through it.”

“Good attitude.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Zoe.”

“I don’t know what else I can tell you. The police were already here. I told them everything I knew. They searched her room and everything.” Isa nodded toward a closed door off the living room.

“Would you mind if I took a look?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I guess not. They took a bunch of stuff.”

Louisa walked to the doorway and peered inside Zoe’s closet-size bedroom. The bed was made. A small desk in the corner held books and papers stacked in neat piles. Zoe’s backpack hung by the straps over the back of her chair. “You’re sure she didn’t come home Monday night?”

“Yeah, I pulled an all-nighter.” Isa walked to the fridge and poured Diet Coke into a glass. “Want a Coke?”

“No, thanks. Is that normal for her not to come home?”

“We’ve only been rooming together since the beginning of the semester. So we really haven’t established norms yet.”

Louisa rephrased the question. “Had she ever not come home before?”

“No. Not that I’m aware of.”

“You were here all night? You didn’t run out to the library or to grab a pizza?”

“I said I was here all night.” Isa’s voice grew irritable.

“Why didn’t you answer Zoe’s texts Monday night?”

“My phone battery was dead.” The words were flat, as practiced as a child reading a memorized line in the school play. “I’m terrible about keeping it charged.”

Louisa could hear Conor in her mind.
Lame
. Charging a cell phone was as second nature to twentysomethings as brushing their teeth.

“I feel terrible about it. If I had picked her up . . .” Isa’s eyes watered. She brushed at the corner of one.

Real or fake tears? Louisa scanned the apartment. No boxes of tissues. No tissues in the trash can. Isa’s eyes didn’t show any signs of previous crying. Louisa just couldn’t shake the sense that something wasn’t right.

Isa returned the two-liter soda bottle to the refrigerator. “I fell asleep around eleven.”

“How long had she been dating Heath?” Louisa’s gaze swept the cluttered surfaces. “She said he was new, but how new?”

“Maybe a few weeks?” Isa opened a white box emblazoned with the pink-and-orange Dunkin’ Donuts logo. She held it out to Louisa. “Doughnut?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“When she didn’t come home, I thought maybe she spent the night at Heath’s.”

“Had their relationship progressed that far?” Louisa hated to think Heath had taken advantage of the younger Zoe. But Zoe was naive, a perfect target for a handsome, popular guy like Heath.

“I’m not sure. We aren’t really close.” Isa shrugged. “Zoe’s a lot younger than the rest of us. She doesn’t really fit in.”

Louisa switched topics. “How well do you know Heath?”

“Not well at all. I’ve seen him around, but he’s in the business program. We don’t have any classes together.” Isa bit into the doughnut and chewed. Her appetite appeared to be solid.

“How did Zoe meet him?”

“I don’t really remember.” Isa looked away. “I have to get in the shower. I have a class soon.”

“Sure. I’ll get out of your way.” Louisa headed for the door. “Thanks for talking to me.”

Outside, she went back to the car.

“Well?” Conor asked as she slid into the passenger side.

“I think she was lying or hiding something.” She slouched down in the seat and recited her conversation with Isa back to Conor. “I could be wrong. She said they weren’t that close, but Zoe was still her roommate. Maybe I expect too much, but her demeanor just felt . . . off. Can we wait a while? I’d like to follow her.”

Isa came out in less than two minutes, not nearly enough time to have showered.

“You’d better wait here.”

“Why? I want to follow her,” Louisa protested.

He grinned and gave her a deliberate once-over. “Dressed like that, you aren’t going to blend. Plus she already knows what you look like. She may not recognize me.”

The after-the-boxing-match picture the media had shown of Conor was chosen to make him appear rough, but the bruised and swollen face in the photo barely resembled him.

Conor flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt to conceal his face. With his jeans, boots, and lean body, he could pass for a student. But he was right. In her suit and pumps,
she
did not blend in with the student population.

“All right,” she sighed.

“I’ll text you if anything interesting happens,” Conor said. “Lock the doors.”

Louisa slid farther down in the seat. Where was Isa going?

Conor shoved his hands in the kangaroo pocket of his shirt and strode down the sidewalk. Even at a seemingly casual pace, his long legs kept pace with the girl hurrying a block ahead.

Two blocks later, Isa turned at the corner and broke into a jog as the rain increased. Conor followed as she cut through a service alley. Three houses down the next street, she was running up onto the porch to ring the buzzer of Heath Yeager’s place.

There was a bus stop at the corner. Conor ducked into the clear three-sided shelter. He sat down on the bench and pulled out his cell phone. Pretending to text, he kept one eye on the door to Heath’s building.

Isa wasn’t long. In barely ten minutes, she retraced her steps.

Conor texted Louisa:
WATCH FOR ISA
.

A few minutes later, she texted back:
SHE
’
S HERE.

He watched Heath’s apartment another half hour, but the door didn’t open. He returned to the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

“She’s still inside,” Louisa said.

Conor brushed the hood off his head. His shirt was damp. “Heath hasn’t gone anywhere either.”

“What now?”

“I’ll take you back to work.” Conor started the car and pulled away from the curb. “At least we know they’re both lying. They know each other much better than they’ll admit.”

“What could they be lying about?”

“They’re up to something.” Conor turned back toward Center City. “I’d love to get inside Heath’s apartment.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Yes, it is. And I have to work tonight anyway.”

Louisa chewed on her lip. “I’d hate for you to get into more trouble with the police.”

“OK. We’ll shelve that idea for now.” But eventually he might need to get into Heath’s apartment and find out why he and Isa were lying. He glanced in the rearview mirror and picked out a dark-blue American sedan four cars back. He was probably already in more trouble with the police. But what choice did he have? Even when the DNA results came back on the blood and confirmed it wasn’t Zoe’s, Damian had flat-out told him he could still be arrested and convicted. The hair was hers, and Conor had admitted she’d been in his apartment. Either he solved his own case, or he went on trial for murder.