Kansas City Countdown. Julie Miller

      Hud and the less animated Gigi had moved over to the pool tables, where he was teaching her some tricks of the game. A quick text exchange with Keir’s partner confirmed that they’d hit it off as friends and that Hud was fine giving the young lady a ride home after they finished their last set. Keir conceded the bet and paid for all their drinks.

      Tammy was obviously disappointed that Keir decided to call it a night instead of inviting her out on a date or even asking for her number. He tried to soften the blow to her ego. “It’s been a long week for me and I’m tired. Plus, if you’ve got an exam Monday, you’d better try to get a little sleep so you can study this weekend.” He stood and took her hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your car.”

      He traded a salute with Hud and led Tammy through the dwindling crowd outside the front door. The days had been warming up with the advent of spring, but the hour was late and there was a chill in the air that elicited an audible shiver from the young woman beside him. Whether her reaction was legit or one last attempt to stir his interest in her, Keir shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “Which way?”

      There might be a dozen or more cops inside the bar, but the downtown streets of Kansas City—even in neighborhoods that were being reclaimed like this one—were no place for a woman to be walking alone at night. She pointed past the neon shamrock in the bar’s window to the curb on the next block. Making a brief scan of the street and sidewalks, Keir dropped his hand to the small of Tammy’s back and headed past the bar’s parking lot, the valet stand for a nearby restaurant, past a north-south alley and the sports bar beyond it, then across the intersection to reach her car.

      “I’ll wait until you get in and get it started,” he said, taking back his jacket and slipping into it.

      “You’re a nice guy, Detective Watson.” Tammy latched on to the lapels of his coat and stretched up on tiptoe as he straightened the collar. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind about coming home with me? It looks like Gigi and your friend will be a while.”

      He pried her hands loose and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Good night, Tammy.” He grinned when she slipped a piece of paper into his pocket, suspecting it was the phone number he hadn’t asked for. He closed the door behind her once she’d started the engine, and stepped back onto the curb. “Be safe.”

      Waving as she drove away, Keir loosened his tie and collar again. Time to call it a night. He hadn’t gotten drunk. He hadn’t gotten laid. And he sure as hell hadn’t figured out any answers to the unresolved cases weighing on his mind. Deciding that the night wasn’t going to get any better, and his day couldn’t get any worse, he turned and strode back toward the parking lot behind the Shamrock where he’d parked his own car.

      He nodded to the trio of college-aged men bemoaning a call in the baseball game they’d been watching inside as they exited the sports bar. Then he stepped around the group of suits and dresses waiting for their ride outside the South American restaurant, shrugging at their fancy outfits in this workingman’s neighborhood. Keir’s attention shifted to a man standing on the sidewalk across the street. Hanging back in the shadows, wearing a dark hoodie, his shoulders hunched over with his hands buried in the pockets of his baggy jeans, the man’s face was unreadable. But his focus was unmistakable. There was something about the restaurant, something about the people walking down the street as the bars and restaurants let out, something or someone on this side of the street he was watching so intently that the hood over his head never even moved.

      And that’s why you walk a lady to her car.

      His suspicions pinging with an alert, Keir slowed his pace and stopped, discreetly pulling his phone from his pocket and snapping a picture while pretending to text. He doubted he’d get a clear shot, but he could at least record a 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