Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(47)

Jayne was also a freelance photographer.

“I don’t want to be alone.” She rested her head on his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head. “OK. Then you can help Ernie behind the bar, and I’ll take care of the tables.”

At least she wouldn’t have to carry trays. Conor made a mental note to hire another waitress. He turned to take an order. A buzz from the TV overhead signaled another goal. Conor glanced up. The Flyers scored again.

“Whoot!” Phil, the cable repairman, leaped from his seat and high-fived the guy next to him. He turned, tripped, and dumped his beer on Conor. The nearly full glass soaked him from neck to knees.

“Oh, man. I’m sorry, Conor.” Phil grabbed a handful of napkins and pushed them at Conor.

“It’s cool.” He backed away. “I’ll just go change.”

“Be back in a few minutes,” he called out to Jayne and Ernie. He hurried toward the back door, dropping the order ticket in the kitchen on his way through. He jogged up the stairs into his apartment. Coming home to his empty place last night had sucked. He’d slept better the night before on Louisa’s couch, and he could get used to the whole breakfast together thing. He’d kissed her—twice. Yes, despite being a murder suspect, things were looking up, and Conor was in a pretty damned good mood. If only the cops could find Zoe alive. Then maybe he and Louisa could spend some real time together, time not overshadowed by worry and death.

He pulled out his key and moved his hand toward the lock, but his door wasn’t quite closed. Scratches marred the jamb, and the frame was splintered around the deadbolt. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he gave the door a two-finger push. It swung inward with a squeak.

Trashed didn’t come close to describing his apartment.

His couch was turned on its back. Slashed cushions spilled their guts across the area rug. His glass coffee table was smashed. Graffiti—and what might be feces, judging from the smell—covered the walls. Conor didn’t go beyond the foyer, but he could see the kitchen drawers had been pulled out, dumped, and broken. The cabinet doors had been pulled off the frames. Splintered wood, utensils, and broken dishes were heaped on the tile.

No point looking for clean clothes. From what he could see through the open bedroom door, the contents of his closet had been shredded. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to call the police. Then he remembered there were two cops downstairs.

Shock gave way to relief that Kirra hadn’t been inside the apartment when the looters had broken in.

The odor overwhelmed his nostrils. He went back outside and jogged down the stairs. The streetlight cast deep shadows over the alley.

Two forms stepped out of the darkness behind the Dumpster. Conor recognized one of them as the kid from Monday night. He scanned the alley. Of course, the cops who’d tailed him all day were nowhere in sight. Surely they’d notice when he didn’t come back.

Anger simmered in Conor’s belly. “Did you destroy my place?”

His answer was a whir of a revolver cylinder spinning. The metallic sound echoed between the brick buildings. “I know you got my dog.”

Well, that wasn’t good. One kid with a knife he’d handled. Two kids with a gun was a whole different story. The .38 in the kid’s small hand looked like a cannon.

The friend stepped sideways. Conor mirrored him, keeping the wall at his back. There was no way he’d let these kids flank him.

“I’m not leaving without my property.” Kid number one raised the gun, turned it on its side, and pointed the muzzle at Conor’s face gangsta style.

“Really?” Conor kept one eye on the gun and the other on the buddy. Was the friend armed? His eyes adjusted to the fading light. The pair pressed closer. They sported matching tattoos on their necks, some sort of spider encircled with words in Spanish. Great. Gang tats. He’d pissed off a junior gangbanger, and the irony of all ironies had to be that this little scumbag was Conor’s alibi for Zoe’s disappearance.

Way. To. Go.

“I don’t have your dog,” Conor said.

Kirra was at Louisa’s apartment, where these two scumbags wouldn’t get past the lobby. Thank God. If Louisa had been here tonight, Conor had no doubt these two would have raped and killed her. The bar was noisy on Friday nights, and with the volume of the band earlier, Conor hadn’t heard them busting up his furniture. Would he have heard a woman scream? Probably not.

“You’re a f*cking liar,” the kid snapped.

Where were the cops? They should come looking for him if he was gone more than a couple of minutes.

“There are thousands of pit bulls in this city. Why don’t you just go find another one?”

“It’s a matter of principal. If I let one person take what’s mine, word gets out.” The kid’s statement was 100 percent bullshit. There was something he wasn’t saying. “A man has to protect what’s his.”

The man was about fifteen. Conor searched the kid’s face. The eyes that stared back were cold, dark, and mean. Nope. No compassion there. This kid would kill him without remorse. He’d have no trouble pulling the trigger and watching the bullet rip through Conor’s head. These two would go through Conor’s pockets and use his cash to hit Popeye’s on the way home for a chicken sandwich.

Sweat broke out between Conor’s shoulder blades and dripped down his back. His alibi was the least of his worries. “There are better ways to make a buck. I could give you a job.” But he knew the answer to his question before disgust uglied up the kid’s already busted face.