He reached for a glass. "Everything all right? I mean, except for your missing friend."

She nodded, unwilling and unable to articulate her distress over her father's call.

Setting her soda on a napkin in front of her, he scanned her face. "Dinner?"

"No, thank you."

He frowned. His attention flickered to another customer. "I'll be back. The crowd'll thin in an hour or so. Then we'll have some time to talk. Are you sure I can't get you something to eat while you wait?"

"I'm OK." She watched him and sipped her soda. She envied his ease with people, the comfortable way he conversed as he worked. People responded to him. Women flirted. Men joked.

A petite but voluptuous young waitress set a plate in front of Louisa.

"I'm sorry. I didn't order anything," she protested.

The waitress shrugged. "Conor said to bring you a club sandwich."

She turned to catch his gaze, but he ignored her, seemingly on purpose.

She hadn't wanted food, but the scents of french fries and bacon tantalized her nostrils. She ate a fry, then another, then bit into the sandwich. Her mouth was full when Conor drifted over and refilled her glass. He'd timed that well. He glanced at the plate, gave her a know-it-all smirk, and sauntered away.

By seven thirty, the work crowd had thinned. The bar was still busy, but the waitress's trips back and forth to the kitchen slowed. Sports fans clustered around the hockey game that played on hanging TVs.

Conor propped an elbow on the bar and rested his chin in one palm. "So how was your day?"

The indelicate snort that burst from her lips shocked her. She covered her mouth with a knuckle. "Long. Yours?"

He gave her a small, wry smile. "Same here."

She was tempted to tell him about her father's call. What would it be like to have someone to confide in at the end of the day? But she couldn't get the words out. Face it. Sharing her emotions was a new endeavor. She'd have to start slowly. "How did it go with the police?"

He lifted a shoulder. "OK, I guess. They weren't here long. Asked for a copy of the surveillance tapes and left."

"Is that good?"

"Beats me." But suspicion lingered in his eyes. "You didn't hear from them?"

"No. I haven't heard anything about Zoe." She chewed her lip. "God, I hope she's all right."

Conor reached across the bar and rested his hand over hers. "I know."

A shadow fell across Louisa. Conor straightened. She twisted on the stool. Detectives Jackson and Ianelli were behind her.

Jackson presented Conor with a stack of folded papers. "Conor Sullivan, we have a search warrant for the bar, your apartment, and your car. We're also taking you to the police station for questioning."

They couldn't think he . . .

But Conor could see in Jackson's eyes that they did.

Conor was a suspect. They thought he did something to Zoe.

He focused on the senior detective, meeting his shrewd brown eyes with a direct stare.

The cop motioned to the uniforms behind him. "Get started." More cops flooded into the bar. Jackson turned to Conor. "We'll need the keys to your apartment and car."

Conor flipped through the search warrant. There was a basic description of Zoe. Fingerprints, blood, fibers, DNA, weapons, other trace evidence, weapons, the list went on. He skimmed through the legalese. In summary, the cops were looking for Zoe or evidence that might lead to a possible suspect in her abduction. Seeing no options, he handed the keys over.

"Before you go into the apartment, I'd like to get my dog out," Conor said. "I haven't had her long. I'm not sure if she'll bite if she feels threatened." He doubted it, but he didn't want her frightened.

The cop nodded.

Conor turned to Louisa. "Would you hold on to her? Pat can't take her to his house."

"Of course," she said.

"Dr. Hancock." Jackson's gaze darted between Conor and Louisa with suspicion.

Pat hurried over. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure, but I think it'd be best to close up." Conor walked toward the back door with Jackson right on his tail. Upstairs, the cop watched him open his door, grab the leash, and snap it to the dog's collar. He led her downstairs and handed the leash to Louisa. "Thank you."

The dog cowered against Louisa's calves.

Jackson pulled a set of handcuffs from his pocket. "Now we're going to the police station."

Conor swallowed his shock and found his voice. "Would you find me a lawyer, Pat?"

White-faced, Pat pulled out his phone. "I'll call Jaynie. Maybe Reed can help."

Jayne's fiance was a former cop.

The cop pushed Conor through the doorway by the elbow and paraded him through the bar.

The cop marched him out onto the sidewalk. A patrol cruiser was double-parked next to an unmarked car at the curb. Three more vehicles lined up behind them. Jackson steered him toward the black-and-white. Two uniforms waited by the vehicle. The cop shoved his head down, and Conor dropped onto the seat with an awkward side shuffle.

He looked out the window. Pat was standing in the doorway, cell phone against his ear, lips pressed into a bloodless line. Louisa, and everyone else who'd been in the bar, clustered behind him. Humiliation buddied up to Conor's discomfort.

The car smelled like the cold, stale grease of fast food. A wire cage separated the front and back seats. Conor was enveloped with a surreal sense of claustrophobia.

What could the police possibly have discovered?

8.

Stunned into paralysis, Louisa stared out the glass doors.

The police took Conor? That was impossible. She couldn't believe he would have hurt Zoe, not after the lengths he'd gone to in Maine to stop a killer, not after he'd rescued the dog and stepped in to defend Zoe the night before. She'd witnessed his devotion to his family.

Also, Conor was an intelligent man. The police found something in their search. If he had committed a crime, he wouldn't have left evidence in his apartment.

"What just happened?" Pat was standing in front of her, his jaw hanging open, his face shockingly pale.

Alarmed, she went to his side. The dog stayed close. "Don't worry. We'll get this straightened out."

"I know my brother. The last thing on earth that Conor would do is hurt a young girl." Pat scrubbed his red buzz cut with a huge, shaking palm, his eyes confused. "This can't be happening."

"Maybe you should sit down."

Pat didn't move. She wasn't sure he even heard her. His face was drawn as if he'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes. Louisa took his thick biceps in her hands, steered him to a table, and backed him into a chair. "Sit."

His legs folded obediently. The chair creaked.

"Dr. Hancock?" Detective Jackson summoned her from the open door. The triumph in his eyes sent a wave of anger rushing through her. Zoe was missing, and the police were pursuing the wrong person.

Louisa lifted her chin and steeled her spine. "I'll be with you in a moment, Detective."

His eyes narrowed. She turned back to Pat. "Do you have a lawyer?"

He frowned at her. "We haven't needed that kind of lawyer in ten years, not since Danny was young. My sister's husband might be able to help, but they didn't answer their phones."

"We'll take up a collection for a retainer," a man's voice said.

Louisa startled. She'd been so focused on the situation that she hadn't noticed the bar's handful of customers gathering around them. Voices murmured, and heads nodded in agreement.

She turned her attention back to Pat. "I know someone who might be able to help."

"Thank you."

The small crowd filled in the space, surrounding Pat with support and emphasizing her own solitude, while Jackson waited in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his stare impatient.

"What's the best number to reach you?" she asked Pat.

"I got it." Another customer wrote on a cocktail napkin. "Here's Pat's cell number."

These people weren't just the Sullivans' customers. They were friends and neighbors. How did it feel to have a group of people who would stand by one's side? The intimacy spotlighted her outsider status, but then she should be used to being alone.

"I'll call you when I know something." Looping the leash over her wrist, she went back to the barstool for her jacket and purse.

At the exit, Louisa stopped for a deep breath before walking out onto the sidewalk. The balmy day had turned cool and damp.

Detective Jackson was waiting at the curb, his foot tapping on the cement. Louisa crossed the sidewalk.

"I need you to come down to the station as well." He gestured toward a scratched sedan with a floodlight attached to the side mirror.

"I'd prefer to drive my own car. I'm parked just down the block."

"Parking is a hassle. It's easier if you come with us. We'll bring you back here afterward." He opened the rear door.

She couldn't make phone calls to defense attorneys from the back of the police car. Louisa gathered her nerve. "Then I'll meet you at the police station. I need to drop the dog off at my apartment. I shouldn't be more than thirty minutes."

He considered her for a minute. Then he dropped his arms to his side. "Yes, ma'am." He wasn't pleased, but there was nothing she could do about that. She needed privacy.

She had the Rittenhouse valet hold her car while she dropped the dog at her apartment. Back in her car, she scrolled through her phone contacts for the number of the only attorney she knew in Philadelphia. Could Damian even help? He primarily worked with juveniles, which was how they'd met. Shortly after Louisa moved to town, Damian introduced himself and asked her for a donation to fund a shelter for teenagers. His sincerity had impressed her, and she agreed not only to write a check but to give her time as well, tutoring at the shelter. He answered his cell, and she was relieved when he agreed to go to the station immediately. If the case turned out to be more than he could handle, he'd give her a referral.

A half hour later, Louisa waited in a small, windowless room at the police precinct. Worried but feigning calm, she folded her hands across her lap and let her mind do the racing. Questions dominated her thoughts: Where was Conor? Why was the detective so convinced he was guilty that they searched his apartment and brought him here? What had they found?

The door opened, and Detectives Jackson and Ianelli came in.

Jackson sat across from her. "Sorry for keeping you waiting, Dr. Hancock." He didn't look sorry.

Ianelli took the seat next to his partner.

"How do you know Conor Sullivan?" Jackson asked.

"We'd met on one previous occasion, last spring in Maine. I consulted on a case involving Mr. Sullivan's brother."

Jackson's brows lifted. "So your relationship with him is entirely professional?"

"For the most part, yes."

"And you haven't seen him since?" Pen in hand, Jackson tilted his head. "Because you two looked awfully friendly tonight in his bar."

"Before today, I hadn't seen him since last spring."

He made a note. "Yet you moved from Maine to Philadelphia, Conor's hometown."

"Coincidence. The position at the Livingston Museum was the only one I could find after being let go from the museum in Maine."

Jackson's eyes brightened, putting her on guard. "We have proof Conor visited the museum three weeks ago. He showed up on footage from multiple security cameras."

"I didn't know he was there." Had he come looking for her? The thought was a small bright spot in the bleak room.

"He hasn't called you or kept in touch in any way? No e-mails or messages?"

Louisa shook her head. "No. We've had no contact until today."

"You finished college early, right, just like Zoe?" Ianelli jumped in. "Zoe is pretty smart too, isn't she? That's why she's in a doctoral program at twenty-one."

"That's correct," Louisa answered.

"You wrote her up for lateness." Jackson scrutinized her through the cover of his lashes. "Aren't you happy with her performance as your intern?"