Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(45)
“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.
18
“Have a nice evening, Dr. Hancock.”
“Thank you, Gerome.” Friday evening, Louisa walked through the open door to meet her aunt. She hadn’t seen Conor since lunchtime the day before, but he’d texted her a few times. They’d both been busy with work. She’d spent the day moving artifacts into the Celtic Warrior exhibit cases. The exhibit wasn’t finished, but guests at tomorrow night’s fund-raiser would get a sense of how the display would come together. Conor had been tied up at the bar handling deliveries.
Neither of them had any ideas on how to look for Zoe. The Finches had done several heart-wrenching interviews begging for their daughter’s return. The DNA tests had not come in. Did the labs work on the weekend, or would Conor be safe until Monday?
“You’ll call if you need the car later?” the doorman asked with a polite smile.
“I will. Thank you.”
A cool wind sent dead leaves scurrying in the gutter, and the moon shone with spectacular clarity through a few wisps of thin clouds. If only Aunt Margaret’s intentions were as clear as the night sky. Would her aunt give her news that would unravel her life? Louisa pulled her cashmere wrap tighter around her shoulders as she crossed the pavement. A black town car waited at the curb. It seemed silly to ask for a car to drive her the half mile from the Rittenhouse to her aunt’s hotel, but she’d had too many creepy being watched sensations in the past couple of days. Walking alone at night didn’t appeal.
The driver stood by the open rear door. Louisa eased into the back. The silk of her simple black sheath dress slid across the seat, the leather chilling the backs of her thighs.
The car dropped her in front of the Ritz Carlton. Louisa climbed the granite steps and went through the glass doors. Situated on the prestigious Avenue of the Arts section of Broad Street, the hotel was located in the former historic Girard Bank building. The rotunda building was modeled after the Pantheon in Rome, complete with a soaring domed ceiling and neoclassical columns. More than a hundred feet in the air, the night sky darkened the glass oculus in the dome’s apex. Voices and utensils echoed in the cavernous space as Louisa crossed the white marble floor.
Margaret would not be lingering by the door. She would wait for Louisa to come to her.
Louisa circled the space, admiring the red-and-purple color scheme, strings of beaded glass, and art deco accents popped against a backdrop of gleaming white marble. She spiraled inward, spotting Margaret in a high-backed chair by the bar. A long-sleeved belted column of deep crimson hugged her aunt’s thin frame to just below the knee. Her platinum-blond bob was freshly colored, and a flute of pale, sparkling liquid dangled from her bony fingers. At fifty-five, Margaret fought aging with military ruthlessness, but her obsession with maintaining the slimness of her youth had left her skin crepe-papery and her limbs skeletal.
“Louisa.” She set her glass down, stood, and extended both veiny hands.
“Hello, Aunt Margaret.” Louisa briefly clasped her aunt’s fingers and turned her face for an air kiss. Margaret didn’t come from wealth, but she’d learned to appreciate—and spend—her brother’s income.
“Sit.” Margaret waved to the chair next to her, then signaled the waitress. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”
“No, thank you.” Perching on the edge of the chair, Louisa held her clutch on her lap and ordered a sparkling water.
Her aunt frowned but recovered quickly. “How are you, dear?”
“I’m well. Thank you.”
“Your new job?” Margaret asked, but what did she really want?
“Satisfying.” Louisa would rather they went to dinner without the cocktail-hour delay. Unless her aunt got to the point early, which was doubtful. “What time is dinner?”
“We have an eight-thirty reservation.” Irritation thinned Margaret’s gaze. “Are you in a rush?”
Louisa checked her watch. Eight ten. The Capital Grille was right across the street from the hotel. They had fifteen minutes to kill. Damn. “Of course not. I’m simply hungry. How was your charity event?”
“The usual.” Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “I have a surprise for you.”
Louisa’s spine tensed as the server set a tumbler of ice and a small bottle of Perrier on the table. “Oh?”
“Yes.” Margaret drained her flute and handed it off to the waitress. She clasped her hands together. “We aren’t dining alone.”
There was only one person Margaret could have brought with her. Warmth flooded her. Maybe her father had changed his mind about waiting till the holidays to visit. Or maybe his news couldn’t wait. “But I thought Daddy was in Stockholm.”