“Yeah. I got that. You want to tell me about the argument?”

“No.” Louisa’s stomach turned at the thought of sharing her conflict with Blaine. “It’s old news.” But Blaine’s visit wasn’t. Why tonight? And what did he really want? Come to think of it, what did Aunt Margaret really want? The stunt with Blaine didn’t make sense. It had to be about money, but Louisa couldn’t see the angle.

Jackson stared, clearly not buying Louisa’s story.

She sighed. “When you have a lot of money, there are always people trying to get some of it.”

Her jaw ached from its impact with the pavement, and from the thoughts and suspicions turning in her mind. She wanted to go home, get into bed, and pull the covers over her head.

Jackson shoved the notebook and pen back in his pocket. “Do you have a ride home?”

The question surprised her. Was he offering assistance? “I called a friend.”

“Sweetie, what have you done to yourself?” Damian’s arrival ended the interview. He frowned at the cop. “How did you get here so fast?”

Jackson didn’t blink. “I can double-park.”

Louisa looked from Jackson to Damian. “Did I miss something?”

“Have you talked to Sullivan tonight?” Jackson asked.

“No. Why?” She swung her feet over the edge of the gurney. Ouch. “Is there something wrong?”

“He had some trouble tonight too.” Jackson watched her face. She was likely more transparent than Blaine.

“What happened?” Louisa’s gaze swung from Jackson, who wouldn’t give anything away, to Damian.

Her friend shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Conor.”

With a nod, Detective Jackson moved toward the door. “Be careful, Doctor. No more playing detective. You had a close call tonight. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

CHAPTER 20

20

Conor paced the alley. The police were finishing up in his apartment. Damian had said Louisa was all right, but Conor wanted to see her with his own eyes.

Terry pulled up in his cruiser. Conor hadn’t seen him since the break-in a few hours ago. The cop was still in uniform, and his face was all business.

Conor walked over to the police car. “What’s going on?” He gave Terry’s partner riding shotgun a hello nod.

Terry lowered the window and handed Conor a picture. “Is this the kid who broke into your apartment?”

Conor looked down at a mug shot. “Yeah. That’s him.”

“His name is Hector Torres.” Terry tucked the photo back into the chest pocket of his uniform.

“Who is he?”

“A little piece of garbage, but a dangerous one.” Terry tapped a finger on the wheel. “He’s been in and out of juvenile detention a few times, mostly petty shit. But the word on the street is that Hector’s running with the Big K. That’s how we found him, from your description of the tattoo on his neck.”