Deadly Promise

by Brenda Joyce

  "That would be wonderful," Francesca returned, not meaning it. She hardly wished to have a partner who would be reporting directly to Farr. Did this also mean Bragg had no intention of teaming up with her? And that saddened her no end. God, was she making a huge mistake in accepting Hart's proposal? She flipped through four more reports. "Here it is!" Excitement filled her. "Emily O'Hare listed as missing this last Monday." Then her excitement vanished as quickly as it had risen. "Bragg, there is absolutely nothing in this report that we do not already know. Who is in charge of this bureau?"

  "It's hardly a bureau," Bragg said. "Cases are passed along. In fact, most of these missing persons cases are runaways—children who decide to leave home and spouses who decide to abandon their marriage or their families. The worst cases turn out to be homicides. A murder will become linked when it is solved with a missing person, so Homicide ends up solving a good portion of the real missing persons cases."

  "This report doesn't say who took it. No one has signed it, Bragg."

  He took the page from her, scanned it, and said, "That must be an oversight. Captain Shea? Is Newman at his desk?" Bragg asked.

  Shea turned back to them. "No, sir. He's in the field. A murdered gent, sir. His body was found around dawn this morning in some old lady's basement."

  "Have Newman come to my office when he returns." Bragg faced Francesca. "What is your next move?"

  "I think I shall go back to the neighborhood and start knocking on doors, asking questions. Someone had to have seen something. I also wish to speak with Mrs. Sarnoff, Mrs. Polaski, and Mrs. O'Brien."

  He smiled. "Schmitt's three regular Monday customers. Canvassing an entire neighborhood could take some time. I have an important meeting at noon, but I could help you if you wish, for an hour or so."

  She was surprised—and then she was delighted. It would be like old times—almost. Smiling, she said softly, "I'd love your help. I would never refuse such an offer."

  He smiled back at her. A real, genuine smile, one that excluded the present and the past. "I'll round up a few men to help us. Shea, get me some eager rookies—say, a half-dozen men."

  Shea hurried off.

  Francesca pushed the pile of reports away, then paused. An idea tried to form in her head but failed. She stared at the reports. There was nothing new or significant in Emily's report, was there? Unsure of why she was doing it, she pulled the pile of reports back across the counter.

  "What is it?" Bragg asked.

  "I don't know," she said, the hairs on her nape tingling. She found Emily's report and read it over again, but this time slowly and word for word. No, there was nothing there. Oddly consternated, she stared at the pile. There was really no reason to go through these reports, none at all. But the urge to do so was strong, never mind that she had no idea of what she was looking for. And as she began to go over them, she said, "Emily was very beautiful. Hart thinks Emily may have been offered an unsavory position by some rich and depraved gentleman."

  Tersely, Bragg said, "I am not surprised Hart would reach such a conclusion."

  His comment was rude, but Francesca did not respond. She went through the reports one by one, rejecting case after case involving women and men, and then froze. Her heart leaped. "Bragg."

  "What did you find?"

  "Listen to this!" she cried. "Deborah Smith disappeared March second while on her way home from school. The disappearance was on Fourteenth Street, just a few blocks from where Emily disappeared. She is twelve years old, blond and blue-eyed, and according to this report, unusually pretty. The case is open. A Detective Moynihan has signed this." Francesca looked at him, wide-eyed. And now, even the fine hairs on her arms stood up.

  "There is no reason to suspect a link between Deborah Smith's disappearance and Emily O'Hare's. There is a public school on Fourteenth between Second and Third Avenues."

  Francesca trembled. "Yes, there is really no reason to suspect a link, but both girls were about the same age, both were very pretty, and they both simply vanished."

  He stared. "Of course," he finally said, "we should leave no stone unturned. Where do the Smiths live?"

  "On Fifteenth and Second," Francesca said with a smile, as they always did think alike. She quickly checked the last two reports, but one was an older man and the other a boy of eighteen, and the detective who had worked the latter case had scrawled "runaway" on the page.

  Shea returned with several blue-coated policemen. "Here's Keene, Livingston, O'Dell, and O'Donnell, sir."

  Francesca looked at the officers, all so baby-faced that she doubted any one shaved, and she smiled. They looked her own age or even younger. But they were as bright of eye as beavers, and they would probably bend over backward to help.

  "Let's retire to the conference room, gentlemen," Bragg said with a gesture. He was also hiding a smile, and the first officer, who had pale skin and carrot-red hair, was so flushed he looked like he might faint. "I am assigning you to a missing child's case and I will brief you there."

  The tenement was no different from any other. Francesca removed her driving goggles, which were coated with spots of mud and dirt, as Bragg turned off the engine to the Daimler. He removed his goggles as well, and they both climbed out of the once gleaming and now rather dirty roadster. As they were on 14th Street, a major thoroughfare crossing town, traffic was heavy around them, and noisy as well. Omnibuses, trolleys, hansoms, private carriages, and drays jockeyed for position, passing them by. Pedestrian traffic was heavy as well. Francesca skirted several muddy puddles and made it safely to the sidewalk.

  "I am sorry, we should have taken a cab," Bragg said.

  She glanced at her navy blue coat, which was spotted with mud. "It's actually a beautiful spring day—the mud notwithstanding."

  "It wasn't that bad this morning. The puddles were still frozen over from last night."

  "If I don't care about my coat, you shouldn't, either," Francesca said as they approached the building where the Smiths lived. "Bragg, how are the girls?" she asked, referring to Katie and Dot. Their mother had been murdered, and the children were being fostered at Bragg's until the right adoptive family could be found.

  He smiled. "They're doing very well, although they both have asked for you repeatedly. Katie has the appetite of a horse. Dot's little mistakes are fewer and farther between. Of course, that nanny your mother found has been a true blessing."

  Francesca hesitated. She missed the children terribly, but in order to visit them, she would have to enter a home where Leigh Anne now reigned as lady of the house. "May I visit them?" she asked.

  "Of course!" he cried, as if shocked. "Any time, Francesca."

  She avoided his gaze as they entered the building. Inside, it was dark and dank. She smelled rotting potatoes and, unfortunately, urine. "I do not want to intrude."

  He gripped her arm. "You could never intrude!" he said vehemently.

  She met his fervent gaze. "It will be awkward," she heard herself say.

  "Do you want me to arrange a time when Leigh Anne is not there?"

  In that instant, Francesca remembered that his wife was having her luncheon that day. Dread filled her—she really did not want to go. But her many good causes were far more important than her own personal feelings, and she would also be able to see the girls. "I forgot," she said quietly. "Connie told me about Leigh Anne's luncheon. I intend to go. If I can, I hope to recruit any number of the women present at some future time for some of my charities."

  He simply stared.

  "You do not think it a good idea?"

  "Not really," he said rather tersely.

  "Why?"

  He hesitated. "I just don't like you being around her. She is clever, Francesca, so promise me that anything she says, you will not heed."

  How odd his comment was. And Francesca no longer believed Leigh Anne to be the scheming witch he made her out to be. In fact, she wasn't sure just how bad—or good— his wife really was. "I'll try," she said. Then, "How does she
feel about the children being in your home?"

  He hesitated, looked away. Then, "Oddly, they do get on."

  Francesca was surprised—and dismayed. But she quickly told herself that her dismay was extremely selfish— for if they got on, it was wonderful for the children. "Are there any prospective adoptive homes for them, Bragg?"

  He was grim. "Yes." Then, "I have become very fond of them, Francesca. I just don't know if I can let them go. But of course, I must."

  She took his hand. "You are a wonderful father."

  "I am not their father."

  "You are wonderful with them," she said, and her eyes suddenly tired. She dared to recall a time when she had dreamed of having his children, and when she had seen him with the girls, she had even dreamed of the four of them becoming a family.

  She dropped his hand, lifted her skirts, and started up the stairs. "Apartment Three, is it not?"

  "Yes," he said, following her after a pause.

  Her knock was answered by a bare opening of the door after the removal of a bolt. Francesca met a single blue eye. "Hello. I am Francesca Cahill, a sleuth, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Deborah Smith?"

  The crack widened slightly and Francesca met two wide blue eyes, a small nose, and pale brows. A voice bellowed from the back of the flat, "Who is it?"

  The door was now ajar by several feet. Francesca smiled at the woman, who did not smile back. She seemed frightened. "It is a sleuth, Tom," she said. "A lady who wishes to ask us about Deborah."

  "Tell her to get the fuck out of this house!" he cried, and a large man in an undershirt and patched trousers came into view.

  "I only wish to help," Francesca said quickly, placatingly.

  "Shut the door, Eliza," her husband ordered.

  Bragg stepped forward, pushing the door open. "Excuse me," he said to Eliza Smith. And he stepped inside the flat.

  "I said get out," Tom Smith said, and he seemed very angry indeed. He also seemed drunk.

  "I am the police commissioner," Bragg said. "And we have some questions to ask you and your wife, so sit down."

  Tom froze.

  Eliza shrank against the wall.

  Tom turned to his wife. "You went to the police?" His tone was disbelieving—and furious.

  She nodded, just barely, cringing even more.

  "It is hardly unusual to go to the police when a relative is missing," Bragg said.

  "She ain't missing, an' my wife's a fool! She went to her aunt's, she did, so she could work uptown in some fancy house for some fancy lady." He looked at his wife again, with murder in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry," Eliza whispered to Tom. "I made a mistake." She faced Bragg. "I made a mistake, sir. I truly did."

  Francesca knew that something was terribly wrong. Tom was a drunken lout; his wife was terrified of him, and Francesca's every instinct told her that Deborah Smith had not gone uptown to work as a lady's maid. "And where does her aunt live, Mr. Smith?" she asked, careful to appear neutral.

  "Ain't none of your damned business," Tom sneered.

  "She lives on Twenty-second Street, between First and Second Avenue," Eliza whispered desperately.

  Tom moved so quickly that it was impossible to stop him. "Stupid bitch!" he roared, striking his wife across the face.

  The slap was resounding. Eliza crumbled against the wall and Francesca caught her before she could fall to the floor. Francesca felt how fragile she was. Her entire body was shaking. The woman turned to meet her gaze. Blood trickled from her nose. And her eyes spoke as loudly as if she had uttered the words: Please help.

  Bragg struck as quickly. Before Tom could react, his neck was in a chokehold and he was against an opposite wall. "Apparently no one has ever told you that men do not strike ladies," he said.

  Tom managed, his eyes bulging, "She ain't a lady, asshole, and we both know it."

  Bragg increased his hold. "You are under arrest," he said.

  Tom tried to speak and began choking.

  Eliza cried out, in protest.

  Bragg released Tom, who was quite larger than he, and threw him to the floor. He landed on his hands and knees— Bragg stepped on his lower back, hard. Tom coughed. "You can't arrest me. I did nothing wrong!"

  "Assault is a felony, my man, and so is battery."

  Tom began cursing so profusely and graphically that Francesca felt her cheeks turn red. She looked at Eliza. "Let's get some ice on that nose."

  "It's not broken," Eliza whispered, beginning to cry, but without a sound. "I'm fine, really." She held her fist to her nose to stop the bleeding.

  "Let me get some ice," Francesca said kindly. She could not imagine how this woman survived, living with such a man.

  "No," Eliza said sharply, surprising Francesca. Then Eliza looked pleadingly at Bragg. "He didn't hurt me, sir. He really didn't. Please. Don't arrest him. He's a good man, he is. It's just the whiskey. Please."

  Francesca closed her eyes, anguished. She understood all too well what was happening. Bragg could easily arrest Tom Smith, but for how long? And when he came home, she felt certain Tom would take his arrest out on his wife.

  Bragg looked from Eliza to Francesca. She silently urged him to agree. Appearing very grim, he released his foot from Tom's back. The man moaned and made no move to get up.

  Bragg knelt. "If you strike your wife again, I am locking you up in the Tombs and throwing away the key. Did you hear me?" he said very softly.

  Tom nodded.

  Bragg straightened. "We are paying a visit to Deborah Smith's aunt. Is she your sister?" he asked Eliza.

  Eliza nodded, pale and fearful.

  "What's her name?"

  Eliza didn't speak.

  Tom heaved himself to his feet. He looked at Bragg with hatred.

  Bragg calmly returned the look. "The aunt's name?"

  "Charlotte Favianno." It was Tom who spoke or, rather, spat. "She married a wop, she did."

  "Thank you," Bragg said. He leaned close. "If Deborah isn't there, you will be hauled downtown in a paddy wagon. Lying to the police is a crime. It is officially called obstruction of justice."

  Tom sneered but didn't speak.

  "Francesca?"

  Francesca faced Eliza, who looked terrified now. Francesca did not want to leave her alone with her husband, but was there any choice? An idea occurred to her. "Why don't you come with us?"

  "I can't," Eliza breathed.

  Francesca pressed several cards into her hand—in case Tom took one of them. "Call on me if you need me, Mrs. Smith. Please. I want to help."

  Eliza hesitated, glanced worriedly at Tom, and said, "You are so kind."

  Bragg and Francesca left.

  And one hour later they learned that not only wasn't Deborah at her aunt's, but Charlotte Favianno hadn't seen her niece or sister in at least ten years.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Friday, March 28, 1902—2:30 P.M.

  Francesca thanked her cabbie, and as the hansom rolled away, she turned to face Number 11 Madison Square. A dozen handsome coaches were lined lip along the block in front of Bragg's town home, many of them double-parked. Liveried drivers stood on the sidewalk in clusters of two and three, chatting amiably while awaiting their mistresses. Traffic passing around Madison Park was therefore congested, resulting in the frequent blaring of horns and even a few curses. Francesca knew there would be no traffic summonses today. Not when the wife of the police commissioner was having a luncheon.

  Francesca trembled, foolishly afraid to go up to his dark green door and use the knocker. And her fear had nothing to do with being late.

  How could a portion of her heart remain exclusively Bragg's? She was about to marry Calder Hart, who had been the most eligible and seductive bachelor in the city—a man she was dangerously, overwhelmingly attracted to. She was also genuinely fond of him—more than fond, in truth. She knew she anticipated the next time he walked through the door of the same room she was in, just as she knew she eagerly awaited his
embrace, his kisses, his touch. He fascinated her, he confused her, and he infused her with lust. And just about every single lady in the city would give her right hand to be in Francesca's shoes.

  But she and Bragg had just parted company thirty minutes ago after their brief interview with Deborah Smith's aunt. Neither one of them had been very surprised by Charlotte Favianno's admission, or the fact that Tom Smith had lied. As always, they had been thinking along the exact same lines.

  Bragg had gone back to headquarters to issue a warrant for Smith's arrest while she had gone uptown to attend his wife's luncheon.

  Francesca closed her eyes briefly. Working so closely with Bragg again had been more than enjoyable—it had been familiar, comfortable, reassuring, and even right. They made, as always, the perfect investigative team. But this past morning had proven even more—it had reminded her that there was no one she admired and respected more than Rick Bragg. He put the welfare of others and the pursuit of justice first—always. He was, in fact, a real-life hero.

  Francesca knew it was over with Rick Bragg; her every instinct told her that—she was certain Bragg would never divorce his wife. But the terrible truth was it would never really be over, not as long as he continued to be the man that he was. A very strong bond remained between them and she had become acutely aware of it while working with him that morning. That man would always have a piece of her heart and it was as simple as that.

  The challenge was in their remaining real friends— given that he had Leigh Anne and she was now marrying Calder Hart.

  She could not linger on the sidewalk—several of the drivers were eyeing her with curiosity now. She inhaled for courage and strode determinedly to the front door. Peter, Bragg's man, answered her knock immediately. He was huge, six-foot-four, with blue eyes and blond hair. Francesca knew from firsthand experience that he was a jack-of-all-trades; at various times he had been Bragg's butler, his valet, his household manager, his driver, and even his bodyguard. And until her mother had hired Mrs. Flowers to take care of the girls, he had also been their nanny.