“Is there anything else you can tell us about Zoe? Friends or family we can check with, any particular places she liked to hang out?” Ianelli asked.
“As far as I know, she spends the majority of her time in class, the museum, and the library. Zoe’s class schedule was considered when setting her internship hours. It doesn’t allow her an abundance of leisure time.” Louisa pictured the coffee cup Zoe usually had in her hand first thing in the morning and the bag she sometimes carried in after lunch. “On her way to the museum, she often stopped at Joe’s Coffee Shop and frequented Fresh Deli at lunchtime. Both are within a block.”
Ianelli leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his round belly. “How much do you know about her social life?”
“Our relationship was primarily professional, and I’ve only been a curator here for two months. I know her parents live about an hour away and that she’s a bit shy.”
“What about boys?”
“The boy she dated the other night is the first she’s mentioned. She said he was new, so I assume they hadn’t been together long.”
Jackson lifted a page and read the underlying paper. “Let’s talk about your last job. You were fired after several artifacts were stolen and used in an elaborate murder ritual?”
“Yes.” Louisa braced herself.
“And soon after you started your new job here in Philadelphia, an intern and the dagger that killed her went missing.”
Louisa inhaled. Fresh sorrow gathered in her chest. “So you’re sure the victim is Riki? You weren’t yesterday.”
Irritation flickered in Jackson’s eyes for a nanosecond before he smoothed it away. He hadn’t meant to give that away. “DNA will take weeks to come back, but we were able to confirm her identity through medical records.”
Louisa swallowed the burn of nausea in her throat. She blocked the images of Riki’s smile and the photos of her wounds, but snatches of pictures leaked through.
Oh my God, Zoe could suffer the same fate.
Red tunneled Louisa’s vision. She closed her mouth and breathed through her nose.
Jackson leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “Conor Sullivan was the last person to see Zoe alive. Are you sure you haven’t seen him since last spring?”
“Quite.” She needed to get out of this airless room, and it seemed the police were going to rehash the same material, so . . . “I’m done answering questions.”
Jackson’s jaw moved back and forth, as if he were grinding wheat to flour with his molars. “If we find out you’ve lied about your relationship with Conor Sullivan or that you’ve withheld information . . .” His partner’s hand on his forearm cut Jackson off.
“I’m leaving now.” Louisa rose, praying her legs held her frame upright. Images of Riki’s ruined body flashed in an endless reel. “If you have any more questions, I’ll need time to notify my attorney.”
If the police were interested in finding Zoe, Louisa would be the first person in line to assist them. But Jackson actually implied she was involved in or knew about her intern’s disappearance and Riki’s death.
“One more thing.” Ianelli frowned at his partner. “For a ritual killing, would there be some kind of complicated setup?”
“I don’t know.” Louisa gripped the edge of the table. Could Zoe still be alive? Had she been tortured? Set on fire? “Probably. The ones in Maine did. You should check with the state police detective there.”
“We already have,” Ianelli said. His dark gaze was intent on her face and seemed to recognize her distress. He stood and offered Louisa his hand. “I think we have everything we need for now. Thank you for your time. Do you need some water?”
Shaking her head, Louisa accepted his handshake. His warm palm nearly burned her icy hand. She directed her parting comment to Jackson. “I hope you’re not so focused on Conor that you’ve stopped looking for Zoe.”
“Every cop on duty is looking for her. If the killer has a pattern, then she might still be alive. Riki wasn’t killed right away. She was tied up and tortured for a few days first.”
Louisa’s head spun. She fought the dizziness. Under her jacket, a chilly line of sweat dripped between her shoulder blades and soaked her blouse.
Ianelli shot Jackson a disturbed glance. Ianelli might want to pursue every lead, but the dynamics of the partnership were easily identifiable. Jackson was in charge, and he appeared to be concentrating his efforts on Conor.
She left the room on wobbly legs, her high heels seeming narrower. A few minutes later, she found herself standing next to her car with no recollection of walking to it. She opened the door and slid behind the wheel. The vehicle still smelled faintly of dog. Although cool, the interior felt suffocating. She lowered the windows and rested her head on the back of the seat.
The police detectives thought she could be collaborating with Conor, as if either of them could do what had been done to Riki. Those images would be forever branded into Louisa’s brain. She would see them until the day she died. To think the police suspected her of collaborating or covering up such a deed was truly abhorrent.
Louisa knew she was innocent, and she couldn’t believe Conor would do anything as horrible as they’d described. How would the police ever find Zoe if they weren’t looking for other suspects?
A uniformed cop led Conor into a small interview room at the police station and locked him inside. He paced the linoleum for a few minutes, then dropped into a metal chair. He propped his elbows on the stainless-steel table and let his head fall into his hands.
His entire body felt like someone had beaten him with a stick. He’d spent the last hour perched on the edge of a metal bunk, staring at the moldy walls of a holding cell. With no empty interview rooms, he’d been briefly caged with two drunks, a couple of gangbangers, and one seriously crazy fucker who sat in the middle of the floor and banged his forehead on the concrete. The single toilet was clogged. Obvious stains covered the floors. The odors of vomit, human waste, and sweaty bodies were permanently infused into his nostrils.
When he got home, he was going to delouse himself. With bleach. His clothes were going directly into the Dumpster. He refused to think of spending the next twenty years of his life in a cinderblock-and-steel tomb. It couldn’t happen.
The small interview room had no windows and no clock, but it was a vast improvement. Conor shifted his weight, then sat up and rolled his shoulders. His decision to wait for an attorney had slowed the entire process. They hadn’t said anything, but that announcement had probably solidified his guilt in the cops’ eyes, but he could practically see the railroad tracks spanning his body. There was no way he was talking to Jackson or anyone else without a lawyer in the room. His younger brother had gotten in enough trouble in his youth. Conor had learned the basics of the legal system keeping Danny out of juvenile detention.
The door swung open, and a thin, blond man strode in. Gold cuff links winked in the glare of the overhead light as he held out a hand. “Damian Grant. I’m your attorney.”
Conor shook it. Everything about the young lawyer, from his short, edgy haircut to his slim suit pants, looked expensive. Where had Pat found this guy? “Thanks for coming.”
“It’s my job. Right now, I need you to tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Panic sliced through the numb sensation in Conor’s gut as he related the events of the night Zoe disappeared. “The police will investigate. They’ll find whoever’s responsible, right?”
“You’ve been watching too much TV.” Damian slid into the seat opposite Conor, linked his fingers, and leaned on his forearms. The gel on his wavy hair gleamed in the light. “There are several extenuating factors in this investigation. First of all, the police would love to find this girl alive. Every minute she is still missing decreases the chances of that happening. They already have one dead girl. They d
on’t want another. Secondly, if you’re here, then they think you’re responsible.”
Conor opened his mouth to protest, but Damian cut him off with a raised palm. “I know. You’re innocent. Let me finish. As always, political issues come into play as well. Jackson wants to close this case as quickly as possible. His boss is breathing down his neck. The captain wants to be mayor, and a string of murdered college girls isn’t on the road to office.
“Lastly, the university’s board members will apply their own pressure. Parents don’t want to send their little girls off to a college where they won’t be safe. This girl is pretty and young. They’re going to trot out her fucking baby pictures for the media. Grade-school snapshots of Zoe Finch in pigtails will be all over the news and Internet. Her parents will go on the nightly news to plead for their daughter’s return. You, on the other hand, had better never have been convicted of so much as a parking ticket. The media will find the worst shots of you possible to bombard the public. If there’s anything resembling a mug shot anywhere in the universe, they will find it.”
“This is all wrong.”
“Conor, snap out of it. This is real. You are caught in the middle of an emotionally volatile situation. You have to deal with it. The detectives will be in here any minute. Answer their questions as succinctly as possible. If I think a question is loaded, I’ll stop you from answering. Don’t volunteer information. Do not refer to this girl in the past tense. Not even once. As far as you know, she is alive and well and spent the night at a friend’s beach house. And Conor, pay attention, because the questions they ask will tell us about the evidence they’ve found.”
Light-headed, Conor dropped his head into his hands. Blood rushed in his ears.
The door opened, and Detectives Jackson and Ianelli came in. Damian moved to the chair next to Conor, leaving the cops to sit across the table.
Damian held up a hand. “Before we get started, Mr. Sullivan needs a glass of water.”
Ianelli slipped out the door. He returned in a couple of minutes and set a paper cup in front of Conor.
He drank the cool liquid and used the minute to get his shit together. They read him his Miranda rights and handed him a paper to sign confirming he understood them.
Jackson rested his forearms on the table. “Let’s start with a recap of Monday night.”
“You have the surveillance video,” Conor said.
Jackson nodded. “We’d like to hear what happened in your words.”
“A group of Flyers fans came in after the game. One girl and four guys. The guys were drinking pretty hard. One of the guys grabs his girl. She protests, but he won’t let her go. I interceded. The guy took a swing at me, so I popped him. Then I bounced him. The other three guys took him and left. The girl stayed behind. I offered to call her a cab. She declined, saying she’d call her roommate for a ride, but when closing time came, she was still there. I asked her how she was getting home, and she said the subway. I locked up, gave her a ride to the station, and went home.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
The cop stared. “Why did you give her a ride to the station? It’s only a few blocks from your bar.”
“I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the girl,” Conor said. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.
Jackson pounced. “Why would you think anything bad would happen to her?”
But the damage was done. “My little sister was attacked in a parking garage when she was in college. So I’m well aware that this city isn’t as safe as it should be. Young girls shouldn’t trust anybody.”
The cop stared. Conor stared back.
Jackson switched gears. “How’d you get that scratch on your face?”
Oh shit. Conor had forgotten about that. “After I got home, I found an injured pit bull in the alley behind the bar. A kid came looking for her. Considering she looked like she’d been in a dogfight, I declined to give her back. He pulled a knife on me. I disarmed him, but he managed to nick my face.”
Jackson tilted his head. “What happened to him?”
“I punched him in the nose, and he left.”
“Two fights in one night?” Jackson’s brow rose. “Do you have a history of violent behavior, Conor?”
The question felt loaded, and Conor didn’t respond.
Damian cut in. “Both the incidents my client described were clearly self-defense.”
Jackson nodded. “But you were a fighter at one time?”
“Amateur boxer,” Conor clarified. “But I’ve been out of that for years.”
“Detective,” Damian said. “I don’t see how my client’s sporting activity is in any way related to the events of Monday night.”
“She called your cell,” Jackson said.
“I asked her to call me when she got home,” Conor answered.
“Let me summarize the situation for you.” Detective Jackson raised a fist. “You were the last person to be seen with Zoe Finch. We have a witness who saw an altercation between you two in front of the station. The transit surveillance videos do not show Zoe entering the station. You have a scratch on your face. The last call on Zoe’s phone records is to your cell.” He ticked off each point by extending a finger until he ran out of digits.
Altercation? Oh no. Someone had seen him startle Zoe with that tap on the shoulder and misinterpreted the act.
Damian waved a hand in the air. “All of that evidence is circumstantial.”
Ianelli didn’t blink. “Now let’s get down to what was seized during the search. We found a bloody T-shirt in your hamper and long dark hairs both in your car and in your apartment. Was Zoe in your apartment, Conor?”
Conor reeled. How could this be happening? His voice sounded far away when he answered. “Just for a minute. I had to run up to get my keys. It was raining, so she followed me.”
No one spoke for two long breaths.
“Did you hurt Zoe Finch?” Jackson shot questions at him rapid-fire. “What did you do with her, Conor? Is she still alive?”
“I didn’t hurt anybody. The blood on my shirt is from the kid who attacked me.”
“How do you know Riki LaSanta?”
“I didn’t.” Conor leaned forward to press the pads of his fingertips to his throbbing eyes. “Louisa told me about her today. That’s the first time I heard her name.”
“Why were you at the museum three weeks ago?”
Conor lifted his head.
Jackson’s smile was predatory. “We spotted you on the surveillance videos at the museum.”
“I’d read that Louisa had taken a job there. I thought about asking for her, but I changed my mind.” Conor scrubbed his face with both hands. He wouldn’t buy his own lame story.
“Why?” Jackson leaned in.
“I don’t know,” Conor answered flatly. That was the honest truth.
“How did you know Dr. Hancock had been hired by the museum? I doubt an assistant curator made the Lifestyle section of the Inquirer.”
Conor sighed. “I googled her.”
“How often did you perform Internet searches on Dr. Hancock?”
“A few times since I met her last spring.” Conor answered.
“Why?”
Conor chose his words carefully. I couldn’t get her out of my head made him sound like a stalker. “I was curious.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.” Conor was not admitting he had a thing for Louisa. The cops would no doubt turn his attraction for her into something perverted.
“I’m surprised. You have nice, neat answers for everything else.” Jackson gestured with his cup. “Almost like you planned every detail.”
Conor groaned.
“Detective, my client has answered every question you’ve asked him.” Damian pressed his forefinger into the tabl
e. “Are you prepared to charge him with a crime?”
Jackson scowled but didn’t answer his question. Instead, he reached into his file and slid a photo onto the table. For the first few seconds, Conor’s eyes and brain refused to register what he was seeing. But the image clarified all too quickly: a charred body. Conor closed his eyes, but it was too late. He couldn’t unsee the horror on the stainless-steel table that had once been a young girl. It took all his strength not to hurl everything he’d eaten in the past three weeks onto the floor.
Louisa had mentioned the picture at the bar earlier. He knew it was going to be disturbing, and he was even sorrier that she had seen it.
“What the hell?” Damian’s palms hit the table. “Was that really necessary?”
Conor rested his head in his hands. Damian pushed the water cup at him, but Conor shook his head.
“That’s it. My client is done answering questions. Unless you’re prepared to charge him with a crime, we’re leaving.”
Conor agreed. He was done answering questions. If the detectives thought he could do what had been done to that young woman, it was hopeless to try and convince them otherwise.
The cords of Jackson’s neck went tight as steel cables, and his lips compressed into a bloodless line.
Ianelli stood up. “Your client will have to sit tight for a few more minutes.” He left the room. Jackson followed without speaking.
“Just breathe for a minute. I didn’t even get a good look at the picture, and I nearly lost it.” Damian put a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “On the bright side, if I hadn’t already been convinced of your innocence, your reaction sealed the deal for me.”
Conor raised his head. Acid burned up the back of his throat into his nasal passages. He needed to get out of this claustrophobic room. But the holding cell had been worse. What were they going to do with him?
Damian leaned close to his ear. “They’re obviously checking with the DA to see if he’s willing to file charges.”
Midnight Betrayal Page 7