Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(82)

“In that case, you have more in common than you think.” Pat picked up his glasses and gestured with them. “I’ve never known you to be afraid of work. Good things don’t come easy. Besides, there’s no such thing as an easy woman.”

“Leena would kick your ass if she heard you say that.”

“Exactly.” Pat nodded. “But honestly, Conor, life doesn’t come with any guarantees. You have to risk it to get the biscuit.”

“And on that profound note,” Conor laughed. “There’s ten minutes until we open for lunch. I have to run upstairs and check a couple of things in the apartment so we can get moving on the renovation.”

“Maybe you won’t be needing the apartment for long.” Pat waggled his eyebrows.

“Maybe not.” The idea of waking up with Louisa every morning sparked hope inside Conor. After the turmoil of the past week, all he wanted was some quiet time to get to know her. If only the cops would find the killer, then everyone could begin the healing process, including Louisa. He hoped she’d give him a second chance to explain why he was such an idiot that morning.

“I’ll be back in a few.” Conor gathered up the invoices and receipts. “I’ll drop these in the office on my way out.”

“Take your time.” Pat headed for the front door, keys jingling in his hand.

Conor hurried outside and jogged up the back stairs. Empty. That was the only word to describe the apartment. The professional cleaning crew had been forced to trash most of his belongings. The floors were scheduled for refinishing this week. Then the walls would be painted. An entire new kitchen had to be installed. Everything would be brand new, but Pat was right. Conor had no desire to live here alone any longer. Being with Louisa had changed his life. She’d changed him.

A distant woof from a neighborhood dog triggered a twinge of anxiety. He’d dropped Kirra off at the vet’s office on his way to the bar. They were going to run some tests. He checked his phone display for the tenth time, but he hadn’t missed any calls. If the vet didn’t call in the next hour, Conor was going to give the office a ring.

Kirra shouldn’t lose her second chance either.

With a last survey of the bare space assuring him that the apartment was ready for renovation, Conor let himself out and jogged down the wooden steps. Pat would need help with the lunch crush. Primitive instinct cramped his belly as his boots hit blacktop. Conor scanned the alley, the hairs on his nape quivering. No teens with guns or knives. Nothing at all. What the hell was wrong with him?

Something scraped. Conor froze, listening hard, but he heard nothing but the usual sounds of traffic and muffled voices. Conor started toward the door. A shuffling sound stopped him. He crouched and peered into the shadow under the stairwell. Oh shit.

He recoiled from the sight. Shaking his head, he leaned down again, just to make sure he hadn’t imagined the grisly sight.

No. He hadn’t. A body lay under the steps. A ragged gasp drew Conor closer.

It was the teen gangbanger who’d been after him, Hector Torres. He was still alive, but from the looks of him, just barely.

Conor whipped his cell phone from his back pocket and called 911. Then he crawled back under the steps. The kid’s torso was covered in blood, and he’d leaked all over the pavement. Hector’s eyes opened, and his gaze locked on Conor. The teen’s glazed look was filled with fear, but also a shocking amount of hate, considering the shape he was in.

This was a bad day for the cops to stop tailing him.

“Don’t move.” Conor unzipped the hoodie and found the source of the bleeding, a stab wound just under Hector’s ribs. Conor tugged off his own T-shirt, folded it, and pressed it against the wound. He leaned on his overlapped hands to apply pressure. It seemed like a long time until the thin wail of sirens announced the arrival of help. Two patrol cars and an ambulance crowded in the alley. Conor moved out of the way for paramedics to take over.

He gave a statement to the beat cops while the ambulance loaded Hector into the back and took off. The patrol cops left, and a familiar dark sedan pulled into the alley. Jackson and Ianelli got out.

“If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to come inside.” Conor walked to the back door and gestured toward it with a bloody hand. “Would you mind?”

Jackson opened the door. Conor led the way to the men’s room. He opened the swinging door with his hip. Jackson turned on the spigot for him.

“Thanks.” Conor lathered up his hands and forearms all the way to his elbows. He scrubbed the blood out from under his nails.

“You missed a spot.” Ianelli pointed to Conor’s ribs. A streak of blood had dried to rusty brown.

Conor scrubbed the spot with a soapy towel. He leaned on the sink with both hands.

“I hear your alibi is in pretty bad shape.” Jackson leaned on the wall.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Conor stared at the cop, whose gaze didn’t flinch. He yanked a paper towel from the wall dispenser and dried his hands, arms, and ribs. Walking out of the restroom, he let the cops follow him to the office, where he dug out a clean Sullivan’s Tavern T-shirt and tugged it over his head.

Jackson’s eyes were roaming over the desktop. So what? Conor didn’t have anything to hide.

The venom in the wounded kid’s eyes was going to stick with him. Halfway to death, Hector still wanted to kill Conor. What bred that level of animosity? “You think he’s going to make it?”