Midnight Betrayal (3 page)

“Thanks.” Zoe grinned. Excitement radiated from her brown eyes.

“Be careful.” As Louisa knew from experience, boys knew how to take advantage of naïveté like Zoe’s. Her settled nerves tightened at an old memory. No. Not the time. She put the old pain back in the dark corner of her mind, where it belonged.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“Have fun,” Louisa said as Zoe bounced out of the room.

Louisa’s thoughts turned to the gruesome photos the police had brought. Was the body Riki or some other poor young woman? Whoever she was, had she thought she was safe? Where and how had she been taken?

And most importantly, would the killer strike again?

3

Would this night never end?

In the basement of the South Philadelphia bar he owned with his three siblings, Conor set up a new keg of brown ale. The old brick floor dug into his knee. Finished, he climbed the steep wooden staircase, passed the kitchen, and went back into the main room.

A cheer erupted at the far end of the bar. A half-dozen college-
age hockey fans circled around a table, all dressed in Flyers jerseys. They’d painted their faces with orange and black stripes in support of their team. Conor didn’t recognize any of them, and unlike the usual Sullivan’s crowd, these boys had been overt about flashing their cash since they came in an hour ago. One raised his hand and snapped his fingers for the waitress. The sound didn’t carry over the din, but the superior attitude came across crystal clear. An aura of privileged aggression hovered around the group. While Conor appreciated the dollars in the drawer, this bunch set off his well-developed troublemaker radar.

Conor lifted the hinged partition and moved behind the bar. Tilting a glass under the tap, he tested the flow of ale.

The part-time bartender, Ernie, was at the register, ringing up a customer.

“Is Terry still here?” Conor asked. His old friend, now a beat cop, had been nursing an off-duty beer when Conor went downstairs.

“He just left,” Ernie said.

“Figures.” Just a ten-minute walk from the Sports Complex, Sullivan’s was a postgame stop-off for fans either commiserating a loss or celebrating a win. He nodded toward the college crowd. “Are they behaving?”

“So far.” The lighted Heineken sign reflected off Ernie’s bald dome. At seventy, Ernie had been supplementing his social security a couple of nights a week at Sullivan’s for years. “But while you were in the basement, they downed another pitcher of beer and a round of J
ägermeister shots.”

Ernie wiped a condensation ring from the worn-smooth wood.

“Hopefully they’re barhopping, and they’ll move on soon.” Conor checked the head on the ale. Perfect. He poured the test beer in the sink. “If not, we’ll cut them off.”

“Hey, get back over here.” The voice was irritated, male, and drunk.

“I said no, Heath.” The lone girl in the bunch, a slim brunette in painted-on jeans, squirmed her way off a drunken college boy’s lap. Her ponytail and the scattering of freckles across her nose made her look painfully young.

“Don’t be a tease.” Drunk Boy grabbed her with both hands by the waist and tugged her back. With short, dark hair and blue eyes set too close together, his face was predatory, hawkish.

“Stop it.” She spun and swatted at his chest.

“Crap.” Conor set the empty glass down and headed toward the ruckus.

“And here we go,” Ernie muttered.

Conor waded into the spat. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah.” Drunk Boy’s face reddened. “You butting into my personal business. That’s the problem.”

If the kid had been a regular, he would have backed off at Conor’s glare. But he was full of belligerence, beer, and himself—the trifecta of stupidity.

Conor gave diplomacy a try anyway. “The lady would like you to let go of her.”

“I think I know what my
lady
wants more than some old dude.”

“Kick his ass, Heath,” one of his friends yelled from the table.

“It’s time for you to leave, boys.” A headache started in Conor’s temples. Longest. Day. Ever.

“Fuck you.” Drunk Boy pushed the girl off his lap and stood up, his posture combative.

Physically, they were well-matched. Drunk Boy was a couple inches over six feet tall and had the lean, athletic build of a lacrosse or soccer player. But size wasn’t everything. At six-two, Conor ran regularly and lugged kegs and cases of beer every day. He’d given up boxing years ago, but he worked out on the heavy bag a few times a week. Plus, Conor had been bouncing his own bar since his twenty-first birthday. He’d introduced a hundred obnoxious drunks to the sidewalk on the other side of the door. If Drunk Boy’s brain cells weren’t pickled in Jägermeister, the younger man would have thought hard before he threw a punch.

But pickled they were.

The punch was slow and sloppy. Conor slapped the kid’s hook out of the way and fired a punch neatly into his jaw. Drunk Boy crumpled on the wood floor as if his bones had evaporated. Shocked silence filled the bar for a solid minute. Then the friends got up and stumbled over.

Ow.
Pain rolled through Conor’s knuckles. He was sick and tired of dealing with young assholes.

Drunk Boy blinked and sat up. His nasty squint caught on the brunette. “You’re such a bitch.”

Conor tucked the girl behind him. He addressed the group. “Pick up your friend and get out of my bar. Don’t come back.”

They didn’t argue. Two buddies hauled Drunk Boy to his feet and dragged him out.

Conor turned to the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Zoe.”

“I assumed you didn’t want to leave with them. Can you call someone to pick you up, Zoe?”

“I’ll call my roommate.” Nodding, she pulled a cell phone out of her purse.

“Next time, don’t go out without a couple of girlfriends for backup. Being alone with those guys isn’t smart.”

“I didn’t know they’d turn into such jerks after a few beers. We go to school together.” Big, brown eyes blinked innocently up at Conor. God, she was a pretty thing. But much too young for him. Much, much too young.

Even if she weren’t, he’d sworn off jumping into bed with women he barely knew since the Barbara I-forgot-to-mention-I’m-married McNally episode three years ago. For a relationship that had only lasted a few months, it had left a damned big impression. Being deliberately lied to and used had soured his attitude toward dating, as had the ease with which she’d manipulated him.

“We close at midnight on Mondays,” he said.

“My roommate should be home.” Texting furiously, she slid back into the booth. Conor cleared away the booze, brought her a Diet Coke, and left her watching ESPN. She was still there an hour later when Ernie and the kitchen staff were clearing out.

“Did you get your roommate?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll take the subway.”

She is not your responsibility
. Conor backed away. He needed a pretty college girl about as much as a rash. Both tended to hang around long enough to make life uncomfortable. “And there’s nobody else you can call? Do you want me to call you a cab?”

She shook her head and batted those thick lashes again. “No. I take the subway all the time. It’s fine.”

He glanced out the window. In the light of the streetlamp on the corner, a figure in a hoodie hunched against the rain. South Philly was generally safe during the day. A working-class neighborhood, people looked out for each other. Families tended to stay generation after generation. But a young girl alone at midnight . . .

“Do you want me to drive you to the station?”

“Would you do that?”

“Sure.” Because he was a giant idiot genetically incapable of minding his own business. He’d parked his car illegally in the alley. He had to move it anyway. And that guy on the corner gave off the wrong vibe.

Besides, the sooner he got her out of here, the sooner he could go to bed.

“Oh, thank you.”

“Come on. My car is out back.” Conor locked the front door to the bar and led her out into the back alley. The rain had settled into a steady, soaking drizzle. No sign of anyone or anything that shouldn’t be here.

Conor patted his pocket. “I have to run upstairs for my key. Wait here.”

But she was right behind him as he jogged up the stairs to his apartment over the bar. Conor flipped on the light. His keys were usually on the table by the door. Not there.

Zoe sidled behind him. “I didn’t want to wait in the dark by myself.”

“OK. Wait here. I have to find my keys.” Conor did a quick surface scan. Nothing. The kitchen counters were clear. In the bedroom, he went to the nightstand, moved some books, and shuffled some papers before finding his key ring on the dresser under a stack of junk mail. When he came out of the bedroom, Zoe was standing in the kitchen leafing through an advertisement circular.

“Sorry it took so long.” Conor motioned toward the door. “Let’s go.”

He grabbed an umbrella on the way out, then put Zoe into the twenty-year-old Porsche he’d bought as a junker and spent most of last year restoring. The SEPTA station was only eight blocks down. He pulled to the curb behind a transit bus.

“
’Night.” She got out of the car and turned away.

“Good night.” Remembering when his sister had been assaulted in a parking garage years ago, Conor glanced in his rearview mirror. Standing on the sidewalk, digging something out of her purse, Zoe looked so young and vulnerable.
Damn it.
He jumped out of the car and ran around the back end. “Wait.” He tapped her shoulder.

She whirled, jumping backward, her eyes wide in alarm. She pressed a hand to her chest. “God, you scared me.”

“I’m sorry. Are you sure I can’t get you a cab?”

“No, you’ve done enough.” She backed up a step.

He dug a business card out of his wallet. “Do me a favor? Give me a quick call when you get home.”

She took the card. “Sure. Thanks again.”

A horn blared. His car was blocking a cab. The driver leaned over the passenger seat and gestured between Conor and the Porsche with irritation.

“Be careful.” He returned to his car and pulled out into the street.

And that was that.

He drove back to the bar and found a parking spot down the block. The guy in the hoodie was gone when Conor circled the bar and went into the alley. At the base of his apartment steps, a faint whimper carried over the sound of traffic on Oregon Avenue. He turned his head and listened. Another thin whine emanated from the darkness under the stairwell. Crouching, he squinted into the shadows.

A dog cringed in the space between the brick building and the wooden stairs. Plenty of strays roamed the city streets, but something about this animal’s posture was off. He ran upstairs for a flashlight and a couple slices of cheese. Back outside, he shined the light into the dark crevice. It was a pit bull or a pit mix, blue-gray in color, and injured.

“You hungry?” Conor squatted and tossed a piece of cheese a few feet in front of the dog. The dog shuffled forward, sniffing the air, body tense and postured for flight as it licked at the aged provolone.

Numerous old scars, fresh cuts, and oozing abrasions crisscrossed the dog’s skin, mostly around its head and face. A meaty collar encircled the neck, and a short piece of heavy chain hung from it, all signs that the pit bull could be from a dog-fighting operation—and a bad one at that. The poor beast was razor thin. Pit bulls were naturally muscular dogs, but this one’s skin was stretched taut over visible sinew and bone. How the hell could a skinny dog fight? Not that this one looked like much of a fighter. There wasn’t anything aggressive about its posture.

Raindrops splattered on the asphalt. Thunder crashed, and a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky. The dog flinched, cringing toward the stairwell.

He should go upstairs. Picking up strays was not his responsibility, and with his current luck, the dog would bite him. He’d spent the last eighteen years of his life helping to raise his younger siblings. Now his family was settled. Business was up. Some debts had been paid. Conor finally felt like he could relax.

Maybe he’d take a vacation.

Alone? Yeah, that was lame, but he hadn’t even had a date in ages. Not that he was really trying. He couldn’t get that curator he’d met in Maine out of his head. Something about pushing the cool blonde’s buttons heated his blood and made the women who tried to pick him up at the bar seem . . . too easy. Dr. Louisa Hancock would be a challenge.

God, there must be something wrong with him. He was thirty-eight. It was time to settle down like his siblings, not go looking for extra work.

Thunder cracked again, and the dog went flat on the pavement. He tossed another piece of cheese on the ground closer to his feet. The dog moved forward, one eye on Conor, one eye on the food. He squatted and held a chunk toward the dog. The rain intensified, soaking Conor’s hair and dripping onto his nose. The dog moved forward and took the food from his hand. A drop of blood dripped onto the blacktop and swirled pink in the eddying runoff. He looked up at his apartment door, then back at the dog. Big, brown eyes blinked at him with a thoroughly pathetic, soulful, woe-is-me expression.

“Just for tonight. In the morning I’m taking you to the animal shelter. I’m not home enough to have a dog.”

The pit licked his fingers.

“Come on.” Holding the remaining provolone in front of the tentative dog’s nose, Conor led him—he glanced back—
her
up the stairs and into his apartment. He filled a bowl with water and spread a fresh towel on the old linoleum floor. “I’ll be right back. The first-aid kit is in the bar.”

He jogged downstairs. He was halfway to the back door of the bar when footsteps and the metallic echo of a garbage can being knocked over put him on alert. A teenager was making his way down the alley. He stopped, squatted, and inspected behind the Dumpster. Conor sidestepped toward the door without taking his eyes off the kid.