Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(16)

Hearty laughter bubbled out of Louisa’s throat. The kind of laughter she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “All right. I’ll try to do better than Sneezes.”

“You’re so serious most of the time. I like to hear you laugh.” Conor stopped walking. His gaze dropped to her mouth. He leaned closer. Did he want to kiss her? She licked her lips. A little heat in his eyes completely disarmed her, and holding his hand short-circuited her brain. What would the taste of his mouth do?

As much as Louisa wanted him to kiss her, she couldn’t stop the slight backward shift of her body weight.

He noticed. Suspicion narrowed his eyes as he straightened.

Oh no. She’d ruined it already.

“I’m sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second and breathed in and out. Opening her lids again, she forced herself to make eye contact, expecting to see irritation on his face, but his eyes held only concern. How could she explain she was afraid of the way she responded to him? “I need to take things slowly.”

He smiled. Was that relief in his expression?

“No worries. I’m a slow mover myself these days.” Turning, he continued down the sidewalk, his pace easy and unhurried.

These days? What did that mean?

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes, crossing an intersection and skirting an elderly man playing a violin on the sidewalk. A tattered coat hung to his knees. Under a fedora, long gray hair fell in a curtain over the side of his face. Conor tossed a dollar into the open instrument case at the musician’s feet. When they reached the bar, he opened the door for her.

They went back to the booth. Conor brought the dog a cooked hamburger patty from the kitchen. She ate a few bites and then curled up under the table.

Conor picked up her bowl and set it aside. “So your intern was here last night, and no one has seen her since. Now what?”

“Now I grab a cab and hope I’m not late getting back to work. Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe Zoe’s boyfriend’s behavior upset her, and she went to see an old friend. I know her hometown isn’t far from here. If she wasn’t thinking clearly, she could have made a mistake with her schedule.” But a twinge of doubt lingered in the pit of Louisa’s belly.

“What’s your number?” Conor pulled his phone from his pocket.

Louisa gave it to him, and he punched the numbers on his keypad. Her purse vibrated.

“I sent you a text. Would you let me know what happens with your intern?”

“I will.”

Light spilled into the bar, its brightness reminding her it was only late afternoon. The darkness of the interior, all scuffed wooden floors and red leather, suggested nighttime.

Two figures walked into the entryway, stopped, and scanned the room with purpose. Louisa stiffened. Detectives Jackson and Ianelli. Several policemen in uniform followed them inside.

“Conor Sullivan?” the older man asked.

Conor stood. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Detective Jackson.” The African American detective gestured to his associate. “This is Detective Ianelli. We’d like to ask you some questions.”



Not entirely surprised to see the police, Conor turned to Louisa. “Bye, Louisa.”

“Dr. Hancock?” Jackson’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello.” Louisa shook the detectives’ hands. “I was asking Conor about Zoe. I’m glad you’re looking for her.”

“We’re just making a few inquiries.” The detective sighed. “I’ll probably have additional questions for you, Doctor.”

“I’m already late getting back to work,” Louisa said. “I’ll be at the museum all day, and you have my cell number.” She pivoted and strode from the bar.

Conor waved a hand toward the rear of the bar. “Please come back to my office, Detectives.”

“Everything OK, Conor?” From behind the bar, Pat flicked a curious gaze at the cops.

“It’s fine, Pat.” Conor led the way down a short hall. Ahead was the kitchen; on the left, the restrooms. He turned right into a small office and took his place behind the scarred oak desk that had belonged to his father. The old wooden chair squeaked. The seat was hard and uncomfortable, but neither Conor nor Pat would ever replace it. Dad had been gone eighteen years, but if Conor closed his eyes, he could still smell the faint hint of cherry pipe tobacco. The detectives followed him in. Jackson took the plastic chair next to the desk. Ianelli leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his gut.

“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?”