“Jackson pulled me out into the parking lot to ask me if I had any dirt on you.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“What do you think I told him? That you’re a serial killer?” Terry rolled his eyes. “I told him I’ve known you since high school, and you wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“And?” Conor took another small sip.

Terry’s grim face wasn’t promising. “They have a shitload of circumstantial evidence on you.”

“I’m afraid they aren’t even looking for anyone else.” Conor tossed the rest of the scotch back. “I’m going to have to find this girl myself.”

“You aren’t without friends at the precinct,” Terry said. “But this case goes beyond us.”

“I know there isn’t anything you can do.” Nerves steadied, Conor stood. “I need to get back to work. We’re shorthanded tonight.”

“Watch your back, Conor.” Terry pointed at him with his pen. “I’m serious. Jackson’s got a rep as a determined motherfucker. Don’t get in his way.”

Conor ushered his friend out of the office. “I’m not arguing, but if I don’t find out who did it, I’m still the number-one suspect.”

Both Damian and Jackson arrived within the next half hour. They all went out back, where Jackson viewed the damage to Conor’s apartment and reviewed his statement. Standing in the alley, Conor watched a uniform with a camera jog up the steps and enter his apartment.

Jackson squinted at Conor. “Did you set this up?”

Conor leaned against the brick and crossed his arms over his chest. Following the warm trail of scotch, anger was burning a path through his chest.

“You know that isn’t true,” Damian said. “Mr. Sullivan has been under police surveillance 24/7 since Monday night.”

Jackson frowned. “I’m not convinced. Maybe you hired someone else to do it. You’re a smart guy. There are ways.”

Terry was right. Jackson was one determined motherfucker.

“This is ridiculous. Conor, don’t answer any more questions,” Damian retorted. His phone chirped. “Excuse me.” He stepped away and glanced at the screen. “Louisa?” He stilled. “What’s wrong?” Concern sharpened his voice. “I’ll be right there.”

Conor pushed off the wall. “What?”

“There’s been an accident.” Damian raised a hand. “She’s OK. She just needs a ride home from the ER.”

“What the—?” Conor was already moving.

“Conor, she didn’t call you. She called me.” Damian’s palm hit him square in the chest. “I’ll take her home. She said it was all scrapes and bruises. You need to stay here until they’re done with you.” He nodded toward Conor’s apartment, where a couple of cops were taking photos and detailing the damage. “I’ll call you. Or better yet, come to Louisa’s when you’re done.”