Читать книгу Deadly Illusions - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10

Wednesday, April 23, 1902 5:00 p.m.

FRANCESCA SMILED AS her cab halted in front of the building where Gwen O’Neil lived. Bragg’s black roadster was parked on the street, a conspicuous sight amidst the drays and wagons on the block. Bragg stood leaning against the hood, his hands in the pockets of his brown wool suit jacket, appearing thoughtful.

As the bay in the traces lowered his head, the driver turned around and opened the small window behind his back. The front seat was elevated and he smiled down at her. “Twenty cents, miss.”

Francesca handed him twenty-five. She reached for the door but Bragg was already opening it. “Am I late?” she asked, unable to help being cheerful. They were working together again. She and Bragg made a fine investigative team—they had the track record to prove it—and now, why, they would solve this case in no time.

He smiled back at her. “I only just arrived.” He helped her to the street. Francesca regarded him closely and saw that the dark cloud he had been under that morning had lifted. She was relieved. She felt certain it was because Leigh Anne had gone home from the hospital.

As they entered the building, he asked, “You look pleased. What did you learn today? I take it there must be something new.”

“I think my brother has strong feelings for Maggie Kennedy.” The words just tumbled out.

He stopped and looked at her.

“I am not playing matchmaker,” she said defensively. Then she sighed. “And I know that heirs do not marry seamstresses. Still, I am certain he cares quite a bit for her.”

“Try not to get involved,” he said mildly. He gestured for her to precede him up the narrow stairs.

“Is that all you have to say?” she cried. “You have seen them together. What do you think?”

“He is not currently an heir,” he said, pausing on the second-floor landing.

She met his gaze and their glances held. Well, that was to the point. Then she forced herself to stop thinking about her brother and Maggie. “Shall I brief you before we go inside?”

He nodded. “Please.”

She quickly told him all that she had learned from Francis O’Leary, including the dream she had had and her uncertainty over whether or not the Slasher had called her a faithless bitch.

Bragg leaned against the wall, reflective.

“I would tend to believe that it was just a dream, as there does not seem to be anything faithless about her,” Francesca said.

“You are supposing that he knew her and deliberately chose her as his victim. He might have a vendetta against all young, pretty women, Francesca, based on some experience he has had with one particular woman. He might only vaguely know his victims and they might not know him at all.”

“I have also thought of that. It would be helpful if the killer knew his victims and chose them deliberately.” She was grim. “If he randomly attacks women, how will we ever find him?”

“I have assigned extra men to patrol this ward. I have expanded the two square blocks in which all the victims were found to six square blocks.”

“That is a good idea, but that will not change the fact that we need to knock on doors. Someone must have seen someone suspicious lurking about last Monday near here.”

“I hope so,” he said. “This case will involve a lot of legwork.”

That was her cue. She smiled at him. “And what should we do about Francis O’Leary’s missing husband?”

He smiled in return. “Find him?”

“I was hoping you would say that!” she cried. “Of course, that will involve even more legwork and we may never locate him. He could be dead, for all we know.”

“When you look at the current case file, you will see that Newman began a preliminary search for Thomas O’Leary. He interviewed his friends, co-workers and employer. No one had any idea that he would abruptly walk out on his wife or his life. I should not be surprised if we learned he was dead—or if we never learned where he went and where he is now.”

She agreed wholeheartedly. “Rick, why would a man who abandons his wife come back to assault her, and then assault a similar woman before murdering Margaret Cooper? I should love to interview O’Leary, but he is not high on my list of suspects.”

With some fond amusement, he said, “And is there a list of suspects?”

She rolled her eyes. “It is a list of zero.”

He laughed. Then, “I am truly pleased to be on another case with you, Francesca.”

“So am I,” she said with a grin. “Perhaps Joel has discovered something useful. So, is Leigh Anne home? The girls must be ecstatic.”

His smile vanished. “She is undoubtedly walking through the front door as we speak.” The moment he spoke, he grimaced, clearly displeased with his choice of words. He knocked abruptly on Gwen O’Neil’s door.

She was stunned. What was this? Why wasn’t Bragg with her? Why wasn’t he ecstatic? “Perhaps you should be home as well. I can interview Bridget by myself, Rick, and relay all the pertinent information to you later.”

Not turning, he knocked again. “She is aware of my schedule,” he said.

There was no mistaking the tense note in his tone or the rigidity in his back. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Is every thing all right?” she asked carefully, almost wishing she had not brought up this obviously painful topic.

He glanced sidelong at her. “Yes.”

Francesca did not know what to think, but clearly, Bragg did not wish to discuss his wife. She knew she must respect his wish for privacy, but what had happened? Everything was not all right, any fool could discern that. Then she realized there was still no answer to the knock.

“No one is home. We will wait,” Bragg said flatly.

Rather relieved to be distracted from Bragg’s personal life, Francesca stepped past him and rapped smartly on the door. “Mrs. O’Neil?” she called. “Bridget? It is I, Francesca Cahill.”

Bragg smiled a little at her. “You remain the terrier with the bone. No one is home, Francesca.”

She started to try again, when the door suddenly opened and Bridget appeared there, white-faced and shaken. There was no mistaking her fear. “My mum’s not home yet,” she whispered.

“We have scared you!” Francesca cried, putting her arm around the pretty red-haired child. “I am so sorry!”

Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought it might be the Slasher.”

“You are right to exercise caution,” Bragg said as they stepped inside.

“The Slasher does not knock,” Francesca told her, guiding her to the table. Then she realized that they did not know that, not at all, as they did not know how he got into the first two women’s flats. Perhaps he had knocked on Margaret Cooper’s door, only to con his way inside. She glanced at Bragg and clearly, he was reading her mind. “Did you go to school today?” she asked.

Bridget nodded, still trembling. “I’m not coughing today.”

“That’s wonderful. Bridget, can we ask you some questions?”

The small red-haired child stared anxiously, even suspiciously, at her. “What kind of questions?”

“You know that Mr. Bragg is the police commissioner?”

Bridget nodded, glancing his way.

“We are trying to find the man who murdered Margaret Cooper,” Francesca said.

“I know,” Bridget returned. And then tears filled her eyes. “Why did we have to come here? I hate America!”

Francesca shared a glance with Bragg and sat down beside her, taking her small hands in hers. “I know how hard this must be for you, leaving your home behind. But one day, this will be your home, too.”

“It will never be my home. I hate it here! I wish we could go home, but we can’t, I know that.” She wiped her eyes with anger.

The reason why the O’Neils could not return to Ireland was not her concern and had nothing to do with the case. But Francesca was curious, and past investigations had taught her never to leave any stone unturned. Before she could get the words out, Bragg said, “Why can’t you return to Ireland, Bridget?”

Bridget looked at him. “Because Papa hates us.”

Francesca’s eyebrows lifted and bells shrieked alarmingly in her mind. “I’m sure your father doesn’t hate you,” she said.

Bridget crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her mouth hard together.

“Why would your father hate you?” Bragg asked quietly.

She shrugged, looking away, clearly determined not to respond.

“Where is your father?” Francesca tried.

Bridget glanced sullenly at her. “In jail.”

Francesca bit her lip and quickly exchanged a glance with Bragg.

“Is he in a prison in Ireland? Or is he in the city?” Bragg asked quietly.

“He’s in Limerick.”

Francesca was disappointed. Briefly, she thought they might have had a lead.

Then Bridget started to cry. “He’s still supposed to be there. But today, after school, I thought I saw him across the street!”

Francesca stood, staring at Bragg, who stared back. “Darling,” she said, clasping Bridget’s shoulder, “you think your father is here, in the city?”

“I swear I saw him!” Bridget was in tears. “But if Mama finds out, she will be more afraid than she is now!”

Francesca knelt before the child, clasping both of her hands. “Why do you think your father hates you? Why was he in jail? And why would your mother be afraid if your father were here in the city?”

She bit her lip. Finally she whispered, “Mama says I am not allowed to speak of it.”

“This is a police matter,” Francesca said gently. “You cannot withhold information from the police. It is against the law.”

“I can go to jail?” she gasped.

“No one is sending you to jail,” Francesca said firmly. “But surely you wish to obey the law?”

Bridget nodded glumly. Then, in a rush, she spoke. “Papa tried to murder Lord Randolph!”

Francesca stood. She didn’t have to ask. Bragg said, “Who is Lord Randolph?”

Bridget covered her face in her hands. “The man Mama loves.”

AS HE TOOK THE steps in the narrow stairwell two at a time, Evan Cahill was well aware that his heart was racing. He could not shake the conversation he had just had with Francesca from his mind. But his leaping pulse had nothing to do with romantic matters. He felt sure of it. He was very fond of Maggie and the children, but his adrenaline was the result of fear and determination, nothing more.

Still, he had not visited her and the children in some time and he was eager to see them all. He was equally aware of that.

He paused before her door, noticing that it was freshly painted a cheerful shade of blue. As he finger-combed some pieces of hair back into place, he wondered if she had painted the door herself. He hoped that Joel had done it for her. She worked herself to the bone as it was. The last time he had been there, the brown paint on the door had been flaking and peeling away from the wood.

He straightened his tie and knocked. As he waited for a response, his heart tightened unmistakably, and then he heard Maggie’s voice on the other side of the door. He felt himself smile.

“Paddy, stop. You know we do not open doors until we know who is on the other side,” she scolded.

Paddy was five and a mischievous handful. He looked just like Maggie, except that his red hair was far brighter. “It’s Joel,” Paddy cried in protest.

“Probably,” she said. “Who is it?” she then called.

He felt his smile increasing. “Evan Cahill.” An image of her pretty blue eyes filled his mind and he could imagine Paddy pressed against her skirts.

And he felt her surprise and could almost see her hesitate. A moment later the door opened and she stood there in a simple dove-gray skirt and white shirtwaist, her hair swept back into a bun, her eyes wide with surprise. She appeared breathless.

“Hello,” he said. And even as distressed as he was with the circumstance of the Slasher striking two doors down, he held a paper bag filled with cakes and cookies in his arms. He knew Maggie would refuse a sack of groceries.

Her mouth trembled. “Hello, Mr. Cahill. I…I’m sorry, we were not expecting company. The flat is a mess!” And as she spoke, Paddy cried out in delight and tackled him about the knees, hugging him there.

“Mrs. Kennedy, please do not stand on formality with me. I was in the neighborhood and I thought to bring the children some treats.” He made no move to step inside but he could see from the corner of his eye that the flat was as clean as a whistle and as tidy as always. He did not know how she fed and housed her four children so properly. His admiration for her knew no bounds. “Paddy, my boy, if you do not loosen up I may keel over.” He was joking and he winked at Maggie.

But she did not smile now. “Please, come in,” she whispered nervously.

As he did, Mathew whooped and barreled over to hug him, too. Evan set the bag down on the kitchen table, draped in a blue-check tablecloth, and he slapped the seven-year-old on the back. “How are you, buddy?” he asked with a grin.

“Great,” Mathew grinned. “I got an A in arithmetic!”

“That’s wonderful,” Evan said, meaning it and feeling oddly proud of the child. “And what grades did you receive in reading and writing?”

“Bs,” Mathew said earnestly, eyes wide. Like Joel, he had midnight-black hair and the dark eyes to match.

“Good job,” Evan said softly, pulling him close for a moment. Then he felt Maggie come to stand behind him and his entire body tensed. Slowly, he released the boy and turned, uncertain now of why he reacted to her so. He felt somewhat breathless.

“I’ll put up some tea. Lizzie just went to sleep and Joel is out,” Maggie said, her eyes wide and riveted on him.

He gave up. There was something so pretty about her, and why deny it? That meant nothing, of course, as he was very involved with Bartolla, whom he would probably one day marry. And Bartolla was the kind of woman he was insanely attracted to—gorgeous, bold and far from innocent. But Maggie was lovely and he had always had an eye for attractive women, so of course he would notice her. But there was something else about her, something he could not put his finger on. In a way, she was like a ray of the purest light.

However, Maggie and he were from different worlds. They both knew it. The gulf of class and economy that separated them was as wide as the Atlantic Ocean. So even if Francesca was right—which she was not—any feelings on his part, other than the noble ones of admiration, respect and friendship, were entirely inappropriate.

“Thank you,” he said very quietly. He was uncharacteristically shaken.

“Joel and your sister are on a case,” Maggie said, hovering over the kettle she had just set to boil.

He stared for a moment at her slim back. Most women who had had four children had long since gone to fat. Maggie remained slender. Not for the first time, he thought her a touch too thin. But then, he knew her rather well now and he knew she gave the best of everything, including their meals, to her children. He saw a pot on the stove. Now curious, he wandered over.

She whirled and they were face-to-face, mere inches separating them, her back to the stove.

For one moment, he did not move, impossibly aware of her, realizing that she wore the faintest scent, floral and sweet. Then he stepped aside. “I beg your pardon,” he murmured, glancing into the pot. She was making a stew, a few potatoes and onions simmering with some bones. There was no meat to be seen.

Maggie had scurried to the kitchen table and grasped the back of a chair. “Have you had supper?” she said very breathlessly. “I mean, we do not have much, but you are welcome to dine with us.”

He knew he had made her nervous and he hated that she was so skittish around him. Maybe she sensed his admiration could have been something more, if the circumstances had been different. Suddenly, he wished that the circumstances were different.

Confusion stunned him.

“Mr. Cahill?” she asked.

He leaped away from the stove, smiling. But he remained shaken. “I’d like to take you and the children to supper,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

Now that he had spoken, he liked the idea. He’d put a huge meal into them all.

“You want to take us to supper? You mean, to a restaurant?”

“Yes, that is what I mean. We should wait for Joel,” he decided.

Maggie hugged herself. “I can’t accept.”

His smile vanished. “Mag—Mrs. Kennedy, please. I’m hungry, and not in the mood for soup. A nice beef roast would do.” He smiled encouragingly now and could almost feel her mouth water.

“Surely you did not come all this way to take my family to dinner?”

He became sober. “Francesca told me about your neighbor.” Then he glanced at the children. “I’d like to find a private moment to discuss this with you.”

She bit her lip, also glancing at the two boys, who were playing with some toy soldiers, all in Confederate gray. “It is very unsettling,” she whispered.

He walked directly to her and took her hand. He also lowered his voice. “Two doors down, Maggie? It’s not acceptable. I must insist that you take my sister up on her offer.”

A mulish expression appeared on Maggie’s face. “I know that Francesca means well, as do you, but we are not a case for charity.” Her tone rose with some anger.

And he was as angry. Still, he fought to keep his voice down. “This is not about charity. This is about the safety of your children and your own safety, too.”

“I have thought about it. On Monday we will stay with my brother-in-law.”

He started, surprised. And while he would prefer her to be safe and sound in the Cahill home uptown, this was better than nothing. “Where does he live?”

“A bit farther uptown, right on the East River at Twentieth Street. He won’t mind. Since my husband died, he is the only family we have here in the city. He’s a good man and very fond of the children,” she added.

“You would be safer uptown,” he said, and by that he meant Fifth Avenue and Sixty-first Street where the Cahill mansion and his own home, now abandoned, were.

“I heard that all of the victims lived between Tenth and Twelfth Streets. My brother-in-law’s flat is far from this vicinity,” she said stubbornly.

He sighed. “I can hardly twist your arm.”

“No, you cannot.” And then she softened. “Do not misunderstand. I truly appreciate your concern. Really.”

“I will surrender—but only if you agree to have supper with me,” he said. The moment he realized how flirtatious his tone had become, he tensed. “With the children,” he added quickly.

She stared. “I…I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

He had been chasing and seducing women his entire adult life. Taking her hand was sheer instinct. “It’s only supper, Mrs. Kennedy. One you and your children shall thoroughly enjoy.” The same instinct widened his smile and intensified his persuasive stare.

Her cheeks turning red, she tore her glance away. “While we wait for Joel,” she said, low, “I’d like to tidy up the children.”

He had won. Grinning, he realized he held her hand and almost lifted it to his lips. Instead, he released it. “I’ll go see if I can find Joel,” he said, still smiling.

Maggie nodded, slipped past him and called for the two boys.

“CAN I GIVE YOU a lift home?” Bragg asked as they paused before his motorcar. Night had fallen, a pleasant warm evening filled with winking stars and the remnants of last night’s full moon.

“Actually, I have to stop at Sarah’s.” Her friend, the artist Sarah Channing, had sent a note that morning asking Francesca to come by at her earliest convenience.

“I’ll drop you there, then,” Bragg said with a smile. He walked around the car and held open the passenger door for her.

Francesca got in, picking up the spare pair of goggles. He closed the door, cranked the motor and then got in beside her. Their interview of Bridget had not produced any further clues. The child had not seen or heard anything Monday afternoon, which was frankly a blessing. They did not need Bridget to have any knowledge of the murder that might put her in danger. Gwen had arrived home shortly after their talk with her daughter.

As Bragg turned onto Tenth Street, she turned toward him. “I feel sorry for Gwen O’Neil.”

“Why? Because she fell foolishly in love with a man she should have never looked twice at?”

They had spoken with Gwen, as well. “Lord Randolph was her employer! Any attraction on his part was as faulty as any on hers. But now I know why she does not have references,” she said. Still, it had been apparent from Gwen’s expression and tone that she had fallen in love with the Irish aristocrat and that she loved him still. Francesca felt certain that he was a cad. She had quickly sensed that they had been lovers. No wonder her husband, David Hanrahan, had tried to kill Randolph. Gwen had been using her maiden name since leaving her husband.

But was he still incarcerated in Limerick, or was he now in the city? If he had arrived in New York, then he was on her exceedingly short list of suspects.

“Why are you concerned about her lack of references?”

“I intend to find her better employment, as a lady’s maid,” she said.

Bragg smiled. “Will you become involved with each victim or near victim on every single case we work on?”

She faced him fully and his smile faded. Softly, she said, “You are implying that there will be more cases for us, Rick.”

He finally glanced at her. “I doubt you will give up your newfound profession. And while I am currently police commissioner, I will not turn my back on you should you ever need my aid.”

Francesca stared, touched. But what was he implying? “You sound as if you are not certain of your future.”

“I’m not,” he said. “You are aware of the politics surrounding my job. I may be out of my position far sooner than I would choose, before I can really make the changes this department needs.”

Francesca forgot about their investigation for a moment. The press had begun to note the increase in activity of the city’s saloons and so-called hotels on Sundays. One of the hot test debates in the city since Bragg’s appointment was whether or not to enforce the blue laws against serving liquor on the Sabbath. That issue was constantly fueled by the clergy and the goo-goos—the good government reform movement. Early in his term Bragg had closed a number of establishments violating those laws; recently, the police department seemed to be looking the other way at those infractions. “Is it true? Have the police begun to ignore the Sunday saloon openings?”

He sighed heavily. “We have been selectively enforcing the law, Francesca, and only closing the worst offenders. Low asked me to ease up.”

She gripped his arm. “Why?”

He glanced at her. “The mayor is worried about reelection, as well he should be. Every time we close a saloon on Sunday, he loses votes to Tammany Hall. Which is the greater goal? Reforming the corrupt police or reelecting a great reform mayor?”

“But he appointed you to uphold the law!” she cried, frustrated for the dilemma in which he found himself.

“Yes, he did. But there is so much of an outcry by the working community against the closings that he has asked me to exercise the arm of the law with caution and care.” He was grim. “I am torn, Francesca. If I do my job as I wish to do, Low will lose the next election. It has become very clear.”

“And you are loyal to Low, instead of to the people who believe in you and the cause of reform?” She felt despair, for she was one of those people who so believed in the law, the cause of reform—and in him.

“I am focusing on the corruption within the department now. I have an internal investigation in progress. When it is concluded, a number of officers will be dishonorably discharged.”

She blinked. Then, filled with admiration for him, she touched his arm. “I am proud of you,” she said.

He smiled at her then.

Traffic had become heavy as they had turned onto Fourth Avenue, where a huge excavation was in process for the new railroad line that would terminate in the Grand Central Station. A trolley crept slowly forward just ahead of them, while several carriages and a hansom penned them in. Francesca suddenly realized that Bragg’s home wasn’t far from where they now waited, ensnarled in traffic, and that his wife had come home as scheduled but he was not there to greet her.

She looked at him. “Please, Rick. You should not be driving me all the way across town. You should be at home with Leigh Anne.”

His jaw tightened. It was a moment before he spoke. “You will never catch a hansom at this hour. I am happy to drive you to the Channings and I am sure they will send you home in one of their coaches.”

His reply was not satisfactory. “I know you well, Rick. Why didn’t you take Leigh Anne home from the hospital? I am starting to think that you are avoiding going home.” She stared at his handsome profile, which now seemed cast in stone.

He stared at the back of the trolley and finally said, “You are right.”

She was stunned. “I am right?”

He sighed and, not looking at her, replied, “I am avoiding going home.”

“What?”

He was grim. “Leigh Anne did not want to leave the hospital today.”

Francesca blinked. “She did not want to come home?” But everyone wanted to leave the hospital as soon as they could!

“I don’t blame her.” And finally he glanced at her, his eyes filled with anger.

“What does that mean? And why didn’t she want to leave the hospital?”

The trolley moved. Bragg took a moment to shift gears and the Daimler crept forward. “She didn’t want to come home because I am there.”

“What?” That was nonsense, Francesca was certain.

He faced her, his eyes wide with anger and anguish. “Cease all pretense, Francesca. We both know that this is entirely my fault.”

“What are you talking about?” she cried.

“The accident,” he spat.

“The accident?” She was thoroughly bewildered. “You mean, Leigh Anne’s accident?”

“Yes, of course, her accident, what other accident would I mean?”

She could only stare.

“She would not be in this predicament—a cripple for life—if not for me.” He slammed his hands on the wheel.

Francesca jumped in her seat. Then she seized his wrist. “Dear God! You had nothing to do with the accident. It was just that—an accident. You speak as if you were driving that runaway coach that ran her down!”

“I might as well have been the driver,” he said savagely.

“Why are you doing this? Why are you blaming yourself?” she gasped, horrified.

“Because I was trying to drive her away, to drive her from the house, to drive her away from me!” He halted the car so abruptly she almost slammed into the dashboard. “A witness saw the entire thing. Apparently she was standing in front of a shop, crying. She was so distraught she never saw or heard the run away carriage until it was too late. And we both know why she was crying,” he added darkly.

A horn blared behind them. Francesca hardly heard. “Even if she was crying, you do not know why. But to say that you made her cry and then to conclude that makes you responsible for the accident, why, that is absurd.”

“I wished her dead,” he said suddenly, his tone raw. “I did, Francesca, I did, and my wish was almost granted.”

The horn blared repeatedly now.

Francesca took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. “It doesn’t matter what you wished. It doesn’t matter how angry you were with her. You have every right to your feelings. But your feelings then do not make you responsible for that accident. They do not! You must stop blaming yourself.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. “And do you know what makes matters even worse?”

She swallowed, shaking her head, and felt tears well in her eyes.

He inhaled harshly. “What makes matters even worse is that finally, too late, I realize I still love her.”