Kansas City Countdown. Julie Miller

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СКАЧАТЬ location and vague description. But Hoodie Guy saw that he’d been noticed, and quickly spun away and shuffled on down the street.

      “That’s right, buddy, I’m a cop.” Keir watched the man until he turned at the next intersection and disappeared around the corner of a closed-up building. “You’re not causing any trouble tonight.”

      Detouring for a moment, Keir retraced his steps, wondering if there was anything in particular Hoodie Guy had been watching. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to separate from the pack—someone to mug for drug money or mooch a drink from. Maybe he’d been watching an old girlfriend on a date with someone new. And maybe the guy just had a creepy sense of fashion and poor timing when it came to choosing where he wanted to loiter. There was no way for Keir to get answers unless he wanted to chase the guy down. And, technically, the guy hadn’t done anything to warrant such a response.

      Satisfied for the moment that the street was safe, Keir turned around and resumed the walk to his car. Keeping one eye on the cars and empty spaces and drivers and pedestrians to see if Hoodie Guy reappeared, he pulled up his messages. Maybe he’d find a victorious text from Hud or news from his family about Seamus Watson’s shooting or his health as his eighty-year-old grandfather recovered from the brain injury that had left him relearning how to speak and use the left side of his body. Nothing. Not even an update from the detectives working the investigation.

      Keir scrolled through the case notes he sent himself as texts on his phone as he stepped over the cable marking off a neighborhood parking area and cut through the public space to reach the Shamrock’s parking lot. He stepped over the cable at the back end of the lot, ignored the retching sounds of a drunk in the alley he passed and climbed a couple of steps over a short concrete wall to reach the lot where his Dodge Charger was parked.

      He was considering sending a text to Hud about their failed pickup bet when he heard the scrabble of footsteps and a slurred, feminine voice from the alley behind him.

      “One. One. One is the wrong number.”

      Keir swung around at the garbled words, leaving the text half-finished and pulling back his jacket to rest his hand on his holstered weapon.

      A tall, slender woman stumbled to the edge of the alley. “Three... Two... One isn’t right.”

      “Ma’am?” She wasn’t drunk and she wasn’t a threat. She was hurt. Seriously hurt, judging by the blood on her face and clothes.

      She tried to raise her head, but she groaned and braced her hand against the brick wall as she swayed. “Please. Help me.”

      Keir leaped over the concrete barrier, taking in several details as he ran to assist the injured woman. Dark silvery blond hair bounced against her chin and clung to the bloody hash marks on one side of her face. The skirt of her fancy tan suit was ripped along one seam and there were dirty smudges on both sleeves of her jacket. She wore one ridiculously sexy leather pump on her right foot, and nothing but a torn silky stocking over the scraped-up knee and toes on her left foot.

      “Ma’am, are you all right?” Keir slipped his arm behind her waist, taking her weight and guiding her to the concrete wall. Hoodie Guy’s curiosity about something Keir had missed was screaming at him now. Damn it. He should have followed up on his suspicions and stopped the guy for questioning. He helped the lady sit on the edge of the wall, wondering if Hoodie Guy was responsible for this. “What happened?”

      “I woke up. I got sick. Everything...spinning.”

      “Are you alone? Is anyone else hurt?”

      She opened her mouth to answer, turned her chin toward the alley, then looked away. “I don’t remember.”

      “Okay.” Clearly, she was a little disoriented. “Stay put. I’ll be right back.”

      Once he was certain she wasn’t going to collapse on him, Keir pulled his weapon and darted back into the alley, making a cursory sweep of the trash bins and power poles. He startled a rat from its hiding place. But there was no one else in the alley. No signs of a struggle. Not even the missing shoe. This was a dump site. Whatever had happened to her hadn’t happened here.

      Maybe Hoodie Guy hadn’t attacked her, after all. He’d moved away on foot, and it would be impossible to transport an injured woman through this maze of back alleys without a vehicle or someone noticing the two of them together.

      Holstering his Glock, Keir jogged back out of the alley to find her on her feet, limping over to meet him. So much for staying put. “Is anyone else hurt?”

      Keir caught her by the elbows and turned her back toward the wall and the nearest lamp in the middle of the lot. “Just you. I thought I told you to wait for me.”

      “I don’t know where I...” she muttered beside him. “I don’t know how long I was there.” She flattened her hand over her stomach and bent forward, as if she was going to be ill. “I don’t feel so good.”

      “Ma’am?” He stopped her beneath the light and waited for her to nod that she could stand straight again before brushing the angled line of bangs off her forehead. Keir swore under his breath as he tilted her face to the yellowish light. He knew this woman. “Kenna Parker? What the hell are you doing—”

      “Who are you?” She squinted against the light shining in her eyes and backed away from him, fear making her skin pale.

      He raised a placating hand to stop her wobbly retreat and pulled his badge from his belt. “I’m Detective Keir Watson, KCPD. Ms. Parker, how badly are you hurt? Can you tell me what happened?”

      She shook her head. But the motion made her dizzy and she grabbed the sides of her head and tumbled.

      “Watch out.” Keir caught her before she hit the ground and scooped her up into his arms. Her cheek fell against his shoulder and she curled into him without a protest as he stepped over the short wall and carried her to his car. “What does one mean?” he asked. Maybe her attacker had been wearing a jersey with a number on it, or she’d seen part of a license plate. “Why is it the wrong number?”

      “What?” Her fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket. “I don’t understand.”

      “You kept saying... Never mind.” Once he got the passenger door open, he set her feet on the pavement and helped her onto the edge of the seat before pulling the first-aid kit out of the glove compartment. “You were mugged. Assaulted. I can’t tell how badly yet. Can you tell me who did this to you? Do you know how you got into that alley? I don’t think the attack happened there.”

      He dabbed at the cuts on her face, tried to assess how well her eyes were tracking the movement of his hands as he knelt in front of her. Besides their sensitivity to the light, her pupils were dilated, both signs that she had a concussion. “I should have a purse. Or a briefcase or something. Where are my things? I always carry...” Her voice trailed away and the thought escaped her.

      “I didn’t see anything like that in the alley. Is one part of a phone number? If you need to call someone, you can borrow my phone.”

      “Who do I need to call?”

      He didn’t think she was married. There was no ring, nor any sign that she’d ever worn one, on her left hand. “A boyfriend? Any friend? Your doctor? Someone you work with?”

      She touched her finger to the drops of blood staining the knobby СКАЧАТЬ