Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(17)

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.