what?”
“Now I grab a cab and hope I’m not late getting back to work. Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe Zoe’s boyfriend’s behavior upset her, and she went to see an old friend. I know her hometown isn’t far from here. If she wasn’t thinking clearly, she could have made a mistake with her schedule.” But a twinge of doubt lingered in the pit of Louisa’s belly.
“What’s your number?” Conor pulled his phone from his pocket.
Louisa gave it to him, and he punched the numbers on his keypad. Her purse vibrated.
“I sent you a text. Would you let me know what happens with your intern?”
“I will.”
Light spilled into the bar, its brightness reminding her it was only late afternoon. The darkness of the interior, all scuffed wooden floors and red leather, suggested nighttime.
Two figures walked into the entryway, stopped, and scanned the room with purpose. Louisa stiffened. Detectives Jackson and Ianelli. Several policemen in uniform followed them inside.
“Conor Sullivan?” the older man asked.
Conor stood. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Jackson.” The African American detective gestured to his associate. “This is Detective Ianelli. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Not entirely surprised to see the police, Conor turned to Louisa. “Bye, Louisa.”
“Dr. Hancock?” Jackson’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello.” Louisa shook the detectives’ hands. “I was asking Conor about Zoe. I’m glad you’re looking for her.”
“We’re just making a few inquiries.” The detective sighed. “I’ll probably have additional questions for you, Doctor.”
“I’m already late getting back to work,” Louisa said. “I’ll be at the museum all day, and you have my cell number.” She pivoted and strode from the bar.
Conor waved a hand toward the rear of the bar. “Please come back to my office, Detectives.”
“Everything OK, Conor?” From behind the bar, Pat flicked a curious gaze at the cops.
“It’s fine, Pat.” Conor led the way down a short hall. Ahead was the kitchen; on the left, the restrooms. He turned right into a small office and took his place behind the scarred oak desk that had belonged to his father. The old wooden chair squeaked. The seat was hard and uncomfortable, but neither Conor nor Pat would ever replace it. Dad had been gone eighteen years, but if Conor closed his eyes, he could still smell the faint hint of cherry pipe tobacco. The detectives followed him in. Jackson took the plastic chair next to the desk. Ianelli leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his gut.
“We’re looking for a young woman.” Jackson pulled a photo from the chest pocket of his jacket and handed it to Conor. It was a snapshot of Zoe. “Have you seen her?”
“Yes. Her name is Zoe. She was in the bar last night. Her boyfriend got drunk and started pushing her around. I had to bounce him.”
“What did Zoe do?”
“She couldn’t get ahold of her roommate for a ride, so I drove her down to the subway station.” Conor paused, still kicking himself for not taking her all the way home. “It was late. I didn’t want her to walk alone.”
Jackson took notes. “Which station did you drop her at?”
“Pattison Ave.”
“She didn’t indicate that she was going anywhere else?”
Conor thought back, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. She said she was going home.”
“I assume you have surveillance cameras in the barroom?”
“We do.”
“Could we have a copy of last night’s tape?”
“Of course,” Conor said. “I can have that for you in about an hour.”
“I’ll send someone over to pick it up.” Jackson stood. “Thanks for your help.”
The cops left, and Conor went back to the bar.
Pat popped the tops off two bottles of Heineken and served them to a couple of guys on the other side of the bar. Turning to Conor, he wiped his hands on his black apron.
“Now I grab a cab and hope I’m not late getting back to work. Maybe this is a misunderstanding. Maybe Zoe’s boyfriend’s behavior upset her, and she went to see an old friend. I know her hometown isn’t far from here. If she wasn’t thinking clearly, she could have made a mistake with her schedule.” But a twinge of doubt lingered in the pit of Louisa’s belly.
“What’s your number?” Conor pulled his phone from his pocket.
Louisa gave it to him, and he punched the numbers on his keypad. Her purse vibrated.
“I sent you a text. Would you let me know what happens with your intern?”
“I will.”
Light spilled into the bar, its brightness reminding her it was only late afternoon. The darkness of the interior, all scuffed wooden floors and red leather, suggested nighttime.
Two figures walked into the entryway, stopped, and scanned the room with purpose. Louisa stiffened. Detectives Jackson and Ianelli. Several policemen in uniform followed them inside.
“Conor Sullivan?” the older man asked.
Conor stood. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Detective Jackson.” The African American detective gestured to his associate. “This is Detective Ianelli. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
Not entirely surprised to see the police, Conor turned to Louisa. “Bye, Louisa.”
“Dr. Hancock?” Jackson’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello.” Louisa shook the detectives’ hands. “I was asking Conor about Zoe. I’m glad you’re looking for her.”
“We’re just making a few inquiries.” The detective sighed. “I’ll probably have additional questions for you, Doctor.”
“I’m already late getting back to work,” Louisa said. “I’ll be at the museum all day, and you have my cell number.” She pivoted and strode from the bar.
Conor waved a hand toward the rear of the bar. “Please come back to my office, Detectives.”
“Everything OK, Conor?” From behind the bar, Pat flicked a curious gaze at the cops.
“It’s fine, Pat.” Conor led the way down a short hall. Ahead was the kitchen; on the left, the restrooms. He turned right into a small office and took his place behind the scarred oak desk that had belonged to his father. The old wooden chair squeaked. The seat was hard and uncomfortable, but neither Conor nor Pat would ever replace it. Dad had been gone eighteen years, but if Conor closed his eyes, he could still smell the faint hint of cherry pipe tobacco. The detectives followed him in. Jackson took the plastic chair next to the desk. Ianelli leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his gut.
“We’re looking for a young woman.” Jackson pulled a photo from the chest pocket of his jacket and handed it to Conor. It was a snapshot of Zoe. “Have you seen her?”
“Yes. Her name is Zoe. She was in the bar last night. Her boyfriend got drunk and started pushing her around. I had to bounce him.”
“What did Zoe do?”
“She couldn’t get ahold of her roommate for a ride, so I drove her down to the subway station.” Conor paused, still kicking himself for not taking her all the way home. “It was late. I didn’t want her to walk alone.”
Jackson took notes. “Which station did you drop her at?”
“Pattison Ave.”
“She didn’t indicate that she was going anywhere else?”
Conor thought back, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. She said she was going home.”
“I assume you have surveillance cameras in the barroom?”
“We do.”
“Could we have a copy of last night’s tape?”
“Of course,” Conor said. “I can have that for you in about an hour.”
“I’ll send someone over to pick it up.” Jackson stood. “Thanks for your help.”
The cops left, and Conor went back to the bar.
Pat popped the tops off two bottles of Heineken and served them to a couple of guys on the other side of the bar. Turning to Conor, he wiped his hands on his black apron.
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