“Will he?”
“Frankly, Conor, it could go either way. They’ve gathered the perfect storm of circumstantial evidence.”
9
Louisa found a metered parking spot across the street from the museum. The exterior design of the Livingston Museum mirrored the exhibits within. Renovations over the years had given the old building a modern flare, a slide down the timeline of history from present to past.
The streetlight behind her reflected on the dark glass, casting her own image back at her. It was past closing time. She stepped closer and shielded her eyes with her cupped hands. She couldn’t see any movement inside. But she knew people were in there. The night security guard would be on duty. He was likely making his rounds. The cleaners worked at least until midnight. She didn’t have a key to the front door, and there was no one in sight. Heels ringing on the concrete, she slipped down the narrow alley that led to the rear of the building. She pulled her key ring from her purse and opened the back door. In the corridor, a tiny green light on the alarm panel blinked. She swiped her card through the reader and entered the four-digit security code, and the light stilled.
She flipped on the light switch in the rear corridor. The floor gleamed with fresh wax. The faint hum of a floor cleaning machine placed the cleaning crew in the exhibit part of the museum. She walked down the hall.
Why was she here?
Because she couldn’t go home. Once she’d left the police station, she’d thought of one other spot the knife could have been placed by accident. If she could just find the reproduction, the museum could be absolved. She could be absolved.
Poor Riki’s death wouldn’t be her fault. She wouldn’t lose her job—and disappoint her father again. All she had to do was find the knife and prove it wasn’t the murder weapon.
She bypassed her office, then stopped. A light shone from under her door. Puzzled, she checked the doorknob. Locked. She took out her key and went inside. Nothing seemed amiss. The janitor must have forgotten to turn off the light. She switched it off, locked up, and went back into the hall. At the end of the corridor, the elevators banked the left wall.
Louisa and April had double-checked the entire Celtic Warrior exhibit. Other curatorial staff had been asked to inventory the other museum collections, and Director Cusack had assigned the search of miscellaneous prop and costume rooms to office employees. She was sure the office workers had done their best, but the extra storage room was the junk drawer of the museum. A second search couldn’t hurt.
She scanned the packed shelves. Everything from fake rocks to urns to rubber insects was stored up here. Props supplied the details that brought the past to life. Could someone have put the replica knife up here? She sighed. In the back of the room were drawer units to hold smaller pieces. Shelves and drawers were labeled and ordered alphabetically. But she was looking for a misplaced item. It could be anywhere.
She started searching nearest the door, moving methodically from bottom to top, left to right. The shelving units contained the larger pieces, and she moved through them steadily with no sign of the missing knife. Something glittered at the back of a shelf. On her knees, she brushed the fronds of an artificial fern aside. Not the knife. Just a small gold-toned pedestal that might be used to display a piece of pottery or a sculpture. She sat on a step stool, took off a shoe, and rubbed her aching toes. She should have stopped at home to change before beginning her search. But she’d been consumed by the thought that the knife could still be here somewhere.
She’d need to leave soon, though. The dog would have to be walked.
She pulled her phone from her purse and checked the display. She’d been searching the museum for hours. She’d missed a call from Damian, but he’d sent a text: CONOR BEING RELEASED. CALL U TOMORROW.
What did that mean? Were the police charging him? Did he have to post bail?
She dialed Damian back, but the call went to voice mail. She left a message.
A metallic ping rang through the room. Louisa’s head swiveled toward the open door, hidden behind the tall rows of shelves. A musket ball rolled past the aisle. Her heart skipped. Had her search knocked the small metal ball from its container? Slipping off her remaining pump, she climbed to her feet, heels dangling from her fingertips. The lights went out, leaving the windowless room black.
She froze.
The lights were on an energy-saving motion timer. Had she been too still?
Fabric rustled in the hallway. One of the cleaning staff? Another employee? She hadn’t seen anyone else when she’d come in, but that didn’t mean another curator hadn’t decided to put in some overtime. Every department head wanted his or her exhibit to be perfect for the fund-raiser on Saturday night.
She opened her mouth to call out, then closed it, instinct and fear constricting her voice box.
She was being ridiculous. There were a number of people in the building at night, including cleaning and security staff, but seeing those pictures of Riki had sent her imagination into overdrive. Regardless, it was time to go.
Her grip tensed on her phone. She pointed it at the floor and sidled toward the door. Her elbow bumped something solid. She whirled. A face and bald head stared back at her. Louisa staggered backward, terror clogging her throat, locking her scream behind her sternum. She tripped and fell on her butt. Primal fear sent her bare feet out into a solid kick. The figure toppled, landing on top of her. She pushed at it. Her hands encountered plastic instead of skin or fabric.
A mannequin.
She shoved it away and skittered backward, crab-fashion. Panting, she pressed a hand to her chest. Beneath her breastbone, her heart banged against her palm, and her lungs worked like bellows. Facedown on the linoleum, the mannequin’s arms were bent at grotesque, unnatural angles. Louisa climbed to her feet. She stepped around the figure and crept to the door, as if it were possible that anyone on the floor hadn’t heard the scuffle.
She was acting like a child who’d imagined a monster under her bed.
Maybe one of the cleaning staff had simply turned out the light on their way out. Except she hadn’t seen or heard anyone on the third floor in the time she’d been here. Had she been so absorbed in her search she didn’t hear another person? It wouldn’t be the first time that work had drowned out the normal sounds around her. She tended to hyperfocus on a task.
But the primitive warning wouldn’t fade. She clenched clammy fingers around her phone and peered out of the storage room. She saw no one in the small beam of light. The corridor light switch was at the end of the hall, near the doors that led to the elevators and stairwell. All the doors on either side of the hall were dark and closed, just as they’d been when she went into the prop room. But none of them were locked. Anyone could be inside.
She moved faster, her imagination conjuring images of hands reaching out to grab her. By the time she reached the stairwell, she was nearly running. She paused at the door. Something whispered behind her, another soft brush of fabric on fabric. Louisa pushed through the door into the stairwell. She switched on the light and ran down two flights of stairs, bursting into the first-floor hallway sweaty and breathless. The hum of a machine drew her to the main corridor. A janitor pushed a floor cleaner slowly across the tiles, the path behind his machine clean and shiny with moisture. Glancing at the shoes in her hand, he raised a brow. She smiled and stopped to put on her heels.
Trekking down the main corridor, she spotted the security guard behind the reception desk near the front door.
The guard raised his gaze from his paperback. “Dr. Hancock.” He greeted her in his slight Slavic accent and a curt nod of his white-haired head. “Is everything all right?”
“Good evening, Serge.” Louisa took a deliberate breath to slow her racing pulse. “Are any of the other curators here tonight?”
He squinted. His head tilted as he studied her. “I haven’t seen anyone come in, but
then, I didn’t know you were here. I was making my rounds until a few minutes ago.”
“You weren’t here when I came in,” she admitted. “I used the back door.”
“What is wrong?”
“I thought I heard someone on the third floor.”
“Probably the cleaners. Dr. Cusack is also here.” Standing with a wince, he came out from behind the desk, his posture painful and bent with arthritis.
Cusack didn’t frequent the storage rooms.
Serge cracked his neck. “Why don’t I go up and take a look?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
She followed him to the rear corridor. They passed the public restroom. A janitorial cart propped the door open. The sound of running water echoed on tile and steel. Serge’s jerky gait covered ground faster than Louisa expected, but he chose the elevators over the stairs.
On the third floor, he flipped on the hall lights. They moved from room to room in a cursory inspection. Thirty minutes later, after finding no one and nothing suspicious, Serge turned off the last light, and they returned to the elevator.
“Probably one of the cleaners,” he said. “Or a rat.”
Louisa hadn’t thought of vermin when she’d been kneeling on the floor. The thought lifted the hairs on the back of her neck, and she suddenly wanted to go home. “Thank you, Serge.”
“Anytime, Dr. Hancock.” His spine bent in a curt bow. “Next time you need to wander around the museum at night, I’d be happy to accompany you. This building is frightening in the dark.”
The elevator stopped, and they got out. Serge paused, staring at the end of the long hallway where a light shone from under her boss’s door. He clucked his tongue. “You all work too much.”
She smiled at Serge. “We’re just trying to get ready for the big fund-raiser on Saturday night.” Which sounded like a good reason for her to be in the museum late as well. But Director Cusack didn’t do much of the actual physical work anymore. His job was more administrative, political even. She supposed he had plenty of last-minute details to organize for the big event.
“Do you need to see Dr. Cusack, or are you leaving?” Serge asked.
“I’m going home.” She had no desire to explain her presence to the director. “I’m sure Dr. Cusack is here late so he can get work done undisturbed.” Which could actually be true.
“Good. You look tired.” Serge walked her to the front door and let her out.
Louisa hurried to her car and drove to the Rittenhouse. She’d had enough wandering around in the dark for one night. Despite evidence to the contrary, her nerves were still convinced she’d been in danger.
10
Conor’s jaw clenched hard enough to loosen the fillings in his molars. He rubbed the corner of his eye. “I need to find that kid I punched in the alley.”
Damian snorted. “Yeah. Good luck with that. Even if you do find him and get him to talk to the cops, do you really think, after you broke his nose, that he’ll give you an alibi?”
Ugh.
“But I suppose his broken nose would support your statement.”
The door opened. Ianelli came back in. His smile was thinner than paper. “The DA is not willing to press charges at this time.”
Conor was too damned exhausted to say anything. Being questioned in a murder case was like going five rounds with the defending champ. Every muscle in his body hurt, and his head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He felt like he had the flu. Or bubonic plague. He turned to Damian. “What now?”
Damian smiled. “Now you go home.”
The detective left the room. The wide-open door was the best sight Conor had seen in hours.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Damian led him from the room. They followed the guard through the maze of hallways.
Conor felt eyes on him the whole way through the building. “Is it my imagination, or are they all staring?”
“Better get used to it. They’re going to be watching you.”
Outside, Conor let the city air waft over him. A SEPTA bus chugged past. Diesel exhaust never smelled so sweet.
Damian nodded toward the parking lot. “I’ll give you a ride home. I’m sure you want fresh clothes and a shower.”
“Yeah. I want to bleach everything, including my skin.”
They settled in Damian’s Lexus sedan.
Conor leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes. “So what happens next? Be honest.”
“They have all the circumstantial evidence we discussed, and don’t discount that. Enough of it can get a conviction, depending on the DA. But my thoughts are that they have the trace evidence from your apartment: the hair, the blood. They will send those for expedited DNA testing, which will take anywhere from three days to a week. In the meantime, they will be watching you.”
“Too bad they don’t seem interested in finding the truth, the girl, or the real criminal.”
“That’s the thing, Conor. They think you are the real criminal.”
They turned down Oregon Avenue. Damian found a parking spot at the curb half a block from the bar. Only four hours had passed since Conor was taken to the police station, but he felt like weeks had gone by when they walked inside. The bar was quiet. The sound of a hockey game, voices, and the clink of glasses on tables welcomed him home.
Pat was behind the bar, and Jaynie was waiting tables. Her face was pale, her eyes worried. Spotting him, she tossed her empty tray on the bar and rushed to him. She threw her arms around his neck. “Conor, we were so worried. They showed an awful picture of you on the news from when you used to box, and they said you’d been in two fights last night.”
Exactly as Damian had predicted.
Her curly, red hair smelled like strawberries, and he was reminded that he was filthy. “Jaynie, honey.” He gently pushed her away. “Don’t touch me. I’m disgusting. I’m going upstairs to decontaminate. I’ll be right back. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
Well, maybe not everything. He’d give her the PG version. His sister had been through enough. “Where’s Reed? I want to thank him for sending Damian to my rescue.” Jayne’s fiancé, now a wealthy artist, had once been a homicide detective.
Tears glittered in her eyes. “Reed didn’t send anyone. He isn’t even in town. He got a call yesterday morning that Scott got sick at school. He jumped on the first flight to Denver.” Reed’s son had started at the University of Denver in the middle of August.
“Is Scott OK?”
“His appendix burst.” Jayne sniffed. “I’m waiting for Reed to call when he’s out of surgery.”
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you want to go home?”
“Reed wouldn’t let me go with him because I wasn’t feeling well.”
“You were sick?” Conor put a hand to her forehead. “Why are you here?”
“Not that kind of sick.” She blushed, the pink fever-bright on her pale face. “I’m pregnant.”
Oh. The news just about took Conor out at the knees. Why was he so surprised? He kissed her on the cheek. “Well, congratulations. Are you all right? It’s late. You should be home in bed.”
“I’m fine now. I need to keep busy.” She swiped a knuckle under one eye. “What happened at the police station?”
“I wasn’t charged with anything. It’s all good.” He wasn’t exactly lying. OK, he was, but Jayne had enough to deal with. She didn’t need to worry about him. As a former cop, Reed would have been enormously useful, but since he was out of town and no doubt frantic over his son, there was no point distressing Jayne.
He introduced her to Damian. “Jaynie, would you please bring Damian a drink if he wants one?”
“Of course. What can I get you?” she asked Damian.
Damian perked up and smiled at her. “Please. I’d love a Guinness.”
Co
nor led the lawyer to an empty corner booth they usually kept available for family use. “She’s pregnant and engaged to a former homicide cop.”
“OK.” Shrugging, Damian slid into the seat. “Go clean up. I’ll be here when you come down.”
Conor took the back exit. He left his boots outside on the steps and went inside. The scene shocked him. His house looked like it had been ransacked. Drawers were hanging open, their contents bulging out. Sofa cushions listed on their sides. Everything that was even slightly out of place seemed like a violation. A fine layer of dust coated every surface.
Averting his eyes, he walked into the bedroom and stopped short.
Holy shit. They’d taken the sheets and blanket from his bed. The enormity of what the police suspected him of committing flattened him like a commuter bus.
They thought he’d murdered Zoe Finch right here in his bed. Trembles started in his knees and worked their way up until his whole body was shaking.
He reached for the back of a chair, then stopped himself a few inches short of the seat. No sitting on any of his furniture in these clothes.
Clenching his fists at his sides, he gathered his strength. He had other sheets. He didn’t want the old ones back when the cops were through with them. Stripping off his clothes, he stuffed them in a plastic garbage bag and tied it closed. He’d never truly appreciated antibacterial soap until today. By the time he finished, he’d washed his hair three times and scrubbed his skin raw. He tugged on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Was Zoe Finch dead? What happened to her after he dropped her off at the subway station? Both were questions he couldn’t possibly answer tonight.
He finger-combed his hair and brushed his teeth with the diligence of an obsessive-compulsive. The second he finished, his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. He stomped into an old pair of running shoes and went downstairs. Conor joined Damian at the booth, but he didn’t sit down. The lawyer was digging into a plate of wings.
Midnight Betrayal Page 8