The next hour was spent answering questions for the police report. The cops verified the pouches were likely full of liquid heroin. They’d had several other cases of drugs being transported in animals recently. It was seven o’clock before Conor finished. He left the vet’s office. Pulling out his phone, he hurried toward the bar. He left a message on Louisa’s cell phone and sent her another text. Something was wrong.

He went into Sullivan’s.

Behind the bar, Pat set a freshly drawn draft in front of a customer. “Is everything all right?”

“The dog was full of heroin packets.”

Pat’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. No wonder that kid wanted her back so much.”

“Yeah.” Conor’s gaze swept the bar. “Louisa hasn’t been in?”

“No.” Pat took an order and tilted a tall glass under the tap. “Was she supposed to come here?”

“No, but I haven’t heard from her. She was worried about the dog. She should have called me right after work.” Conor paced the length of the bar. “I’m going to drive over there.”

“Go.” Pat straightened the glass. A perfect head of foam topped the amber liquid. “Text me when you find her, all right?”

“Yeah.” Conor headed out the back door. Was it just this morning that he’d found Hector bleeding in the alley? Seemed like much longer. His Porsche was parked on the street at the end of the alley. He started the engine. His phone chirped as he pulled away from the curb. He didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Sullivan?” a familiar voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is Gerome from the Rittenhouse.”

Conor’s heart double tapped.

“The police have already been notified, but I wanted you to know too,” Gerome said. “You know Dr. Hancock arranged for the car to pick her up after work.”

“Yeah. I was there.”

“Right. When she didn’t come home right after work, I thought maybe she wanted to stop somewhere. But we just found our driver in the men’s room utility closet. He was tied up. Someone zapped him with a homemade stun gun. His uniform and the car are missing. Dr. Hancock isn’t in her apartment.”

Conor’s heart dropped into his stomach. “Someone stole the town car?”

“Yes.”

“Did you try Dr. Hancock at the museum?”

“She left two hours ago.”

“I’ll be right there.” Conor floored the Porsche. Weaving in and out of traffic on Front Street, he dug Detective Jackson’s card out of his wallet. He left his name and number on the cop’s voice mail with a simple message. “Louisa is missing.”

Two patrolmen were questioning the driver when Conor ran into the Rittenhouse.

Gerome paced the lobby.

“Does he remember anything?”