Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  “I never said it was a nude!” she cried. “But I was so upset and he wanted to know why. I told him that the portrait was terribly compromising and that it must never be displayed in public.”

  Francesca’s horror was complete.

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS was not far from the terrible slums of Mulberry Bend. In the warm weather, a very unpleasant odor afflicted the entire neighborhood. As Francesca got out of the Cahill carriage, she held a handkerchief to her nose. Bragg’s black Daimler was parked in front of the five-story brownstone building that housed police headquarters. Two roundsmen in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets were casually guarding the vehicle.

  The road car had been a spectacle months ago, when Bragg had first taken up his appointment. Police headquarters was in a terrible neighborhood, and all kinds of lowlife hoods and crooks, cutpurses and muggers, not to mention prostitutes, went about their business on the adjacent streets. Now, no one paid any attention to the car. These days, most of the petty crime took place away from headquarters. Bragg had laid down the law. Mugging and solicitation were not to be tolerated on the department’s front steps.

  As Francesca left the carriage, telling Jennings to return home—she would cab it for the rest of the day—she wondered if there could ever be a future with a hospitable, crime-free, law-abiding city and citizenry. As long as the tenements were filled to overflowing, the residents living in horrific conditions without adequate light, ventilation or water, with many of the immigrants unable to understand any English, working for mere pennies a day, she thought it impossible. The slums bred desperation, and that encouraged crime.

  She glanced briefly at the desk sergeants and the three complainants in the reception room, noticing two beggars in the holding cell, both of whom were sleeping. The rest of the hall’s many wooden chairs and benches were vacant. Apparently it was a very quiet Sunday morning; usually a handful of reporters were present, awaiting a story. She didn’t see a single newsman, which was a relief, so she went to the elevator, stepped into the cage and pressed the button for the third floor. A moment later its engine whirred and the iron cage began a slow ascent. Francesca watched the activity below as she went up.

  Farr’s interest in the case had worried her to no end during the interminable drive downtown. She hurried to Bragg’s office and found his door wide open. He stood behind his desk by the window, looking out onto Mulberry Street. He was on the telephone. He nodded when he saw her, his mouth softening, and she smiled in return. Francesca came inside as Bragg hung up the receiver.

  “Good morning,” he said, his gaze moving slowly over her features. “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  He was the one who looked as if he hadn’t slept at all, she thought, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. “Actually, I slept like a rock. I was exhausted by the time I crawled into my bed.”

  “I’m glad. Your timing is impeccable, as always. I just received word from Newman. Apparently he learned last night from a neighbor that Daniel Moore lives a few blocks from the gallery. This morning, they located his home address in that back office.” He picked up a pen and scribbled the address on a pad. Francesca came closer to view it: 529 Broadway.

  “Perfect,” she breathed. “Moore will be my first stop after I leave you.”

  “We will go together,” he said firmly.

  She touched his hand. He started and she said tersely, “I have news and it isn’t good. Or, I don’t think it is.”

  He studied her. “You are referring to the case, not my brother.”

  She knew she colored. “I haven’t seen Hart since last night.”

  His brows lifted. “You didn’t speak to him this morning?”

  She bit her lip. She knew what Rick would think if she told him that Hart hadn’t come home. “We are off track! Rick, Chief Farr questioned Sarah about my portrait three times in the week after it was stolen.”

  His eyes widened in surprise.

  “Sarah didn’t realize that we were keeping the investigation private,” she added. “She mentioned to Farr that the painting is compromising. My God—he has been involved in this case from the beginning!”

  Bragg inhaled. His expression was grim, and Francesca knew he was thinking about the last case they had worked on. Farr had withheld information during the investigation into Daisy’s murder, but they hadn’t called him on it. Instead, Bragg had decided to watch Farr very, very closely. Clearly, he had his own agenda and could not be trusted.

  Francesca cried, keeping her voice low, “What if that portrait was still hanging in Gallery Moore last night when Farr and his detail arrived?”

  “There is no reason to think that Farr would go to that extent to destroy you, Francesca,” Bragg said. “I know he dislikes you, but he works for me and he knows how close we are. Taking that portrait would be a huge gamble, as he could lose his job here if he were ever discovered. Besides, think of the logistics. Farr arrived with his men, Francesca, not in advance of them.”

  He had already checked Farr’s actions. “What are you going to do about this?”

  “I am giving him several assignments at once, all of the utmost urgency, to keep him distracted.”

  “Maybe you should confront him.”

  His brows lifted. “He will claim he is trying to be a proper civil servant—that he is trying to help us.”

  Bragg was right, she thought grimly.

  “Meanwhile, we have put out word that we are looking for information on Solange Marceaux, and that there is a handsome reward for news of her whereabouts.”

  “That is a good idea.” Francesca had a new thought. “Bragg, I should speak with Rose.”

  He looked at her. Rose Cooper was an expensive prostitute who had been very close with Daisy Jones. Before Hart had become involved with Francesca, he had solicited her services from time to time. Rose had come to hate Hart; she had been in love with Daisy, and Daisy had fallen for Calder. Still, Rose knew the world of prostitution well. “I spoke with Rose two months ago, Francesca, and she did not have a clue as to where Solange Marceaux was.”

  “That was then.” Francesca smiled determinedly. “And you are not me. I can often persuade Rose to be helpful. And she owes me.” Rose had asked her to find Daisy’s killer. Francesca would have done so anyway, but she had not only agreed, she had comforted the other woman when she had been grieving. “Perhaps Rose can lead me to Dawn, the prostitute who once worked for Marceaux. Dawn might know where her former employer is, and she was helpful to us when we rescued those children.”

  “That is an excellent plan,” Bragg agreed. He made another note on the same page as previously, and handed it to Francesca. “That is Rose’s last-known address.”

  She glanced at him.

  “She was still entertaining the chief, Francesca, in early May.”

  Francesca inhaled. “I hope the affair continues. It might give me leverage over Farr if I ever need it.”

  He suddenly walked around his desk and took her arm. “Don’t you dare even think to use leverage on the chief. If it is necessary, I will be exerting the pressure,” he warned.

  He would always be her protector, she thought—not that she needed protection. “Well, then, we will both have leverage, if they are still involved.” She smiled at him.

  His smile was brief. “I have several calls to make before we call on Daniel Moore. It might take an hour. Can you wait?”

  Francesca did not want to wait an hour, but she had seen the fatigue in his smile. She stared closely at him. “Rick, is something bothering you? You were so tired yesterday—and you seem very tired today, as well.”

  Not looking at her, he sat in the cane-backed chair behind his desk and said, “I worked late last night.”

  “Did you return to headquarters after you left me last night?” she exclaimed.

  He hesitated, reaching for a pencil. He started making notes to avoid eye contact. “Yes.”

  Francesca stepped forward and placed both hands on
his desk, leaning toward him in such a way that he had to look up and meet her gaze. “What is wrong?” She wondered if the white shirt he was wearing was the same one he had worn last night. “Rick, what time did you go home last night?”

  He sighed, sitting back in his chair. “I probably got home at four.”

  Her mind raced. Something was very wrong. She had been so caught up in her wedding—and the events of the past twenty-four hours—that she hadn’t paid any attention to all the signs. She took his hand firmly, across the desk. “What is wrong? What has been going on these past two weeks?”

  “I am under pressure, Francesca. That is all.” He pulled his hand from hers and looked at his desk. “Low has decided to negotiate with Tammany Hall and the Germans. Parkhurst is leading the elites in a series of media attacks on me. His followers have been raiding brothels and saloons. The newsmen have been eating up the raids. I am in a terrible position.”

  Her gut told her there was so much more. “How is Leigh Anne?”

  He stiffened.

  He was having problems with his marriage, she thought, stunned. “Rick?”

  He slowly looked up. “Do we have to discuss this?”

  “Yes, we do, because…I care, deeply.” She was resolved.

  He closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he met her unwavering regard. “She hasn’t adjusted at all to the paralysis. And the more I try to help her, the more she pushes me away.”

  “I am sorry,” she whispered. When had she last called on his wife? Suddenly she was ashamed. She had called on her once, maybe a month ago, but Leigh Anne had looked well, considering the tragedy that had befallen her. “It will take her time, Rick, to adjust. She loves you.”

  He stood. “Maybe she loved me once, Francesca. But if there is one thing I am sure of, it is that she doesn’t love me now.”

  She gasped. “You are wrong! She loves you—I have seen it.”

  “You are a romantic, Francesca. And you are the only reason she returned to our marriage, in case you have for gotten.”

  She bit her lip and touched his arm. “Maybe so. But you have reconciled, there are the two little girls, and she is your wife. Rick, I can see that you are anguished. You deserve happiness. I am sure this will pass. Every marriage has its hard times.”

  He made a harsh sound. “Francesca, I am at a loss these days.” He pulled his arm back, and she dropped her hand. Bragg was usually the most decisive, committed man she knew.

  He suddenly said, “She complains about pain. She is drinking to mask it. She takes laudanum to sleep.” He slowly shook his head. “I think she is escaping far more than physical pain.”

  “I am so sorry,” Francesca whispered, horrified, taking his hand again. She had had no idea of what was happening in the Bragg household.

  Bragg looked past her.

  Francesca tensed, and she turned.

  Calder Hart stood in the doorway, elegant and urbane in his coal-black suit, starched white shirt and dark burgundy tie. He slowly smiled at them. “I can see that I am interrupting, but frankly, I don’t give a damn.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday, June 29, 1902

  Noon

  “WHY AM I not surprised to find the two of you holding hands and whispering in one another’s ears?” Hart drawled, entering the office.

  Francesca’s heart exploded in her chest. How long had he been standing there, eavesdropping? “Hart! We weren’t holding hands or whispering. We are discussing the case.”

  “Ah, yes, the case of the missing portrait. And what clues did you both discover last night?” His dark glance was riveted on her and his mirthless smile was carved in stone. Finally, he looked at his brother. “You move quickly, Rick.”

  He was so mocking. Francesca was filled with alarm. Someone had told Hart that she had been with Rick last night. “I needed help last night. You were not interested in my dilemma—not that I blame you, as you suffered such a shock. But I could hardly go home, with my portrait hanging in some gallery downtown.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t blame you for trying to protect your reputation, Francesca.”

  She met his unwavering gaze. She hated it when she could not decide what he was really thinking or feeling. “Well, I am grateful for that. This is hardly the first case we have worked on together, Hart.”

  “No, but it is the first case you have worked on with Rick since we ended things.” His smile came and went, coldly.

  She shuddered, realizing that nothing had changed. He was not interested in reconciliation.

  “And, Francesca? I believe my virtuous brother is correct. Love is not lust. His wife doesn’t love him, nor has she ever loved him.”

  She needed to be alone with Hart, she thought, feeling frantic. They had to continue the discussion she had tried to have with him last night. “Why are you talking about Leigh Anne? What does she have to do with…” She trailed off.

  “Us?” he supplied helpfully.

  She was rigid with dread. “She doesn’t have anything to do with our relationship.”

  “Really?” he asked, his gaze hardening. “In my estimation, my brother is available now.”

  She had never known such tension. Bragg had nothing to do with their estrangement.

  Rick moved between them. “Why are you here, causing discord, when so much is at stake? As if I do not know! You intend to hurt Francesca—to cause her as much pain as possible. As if you did not hurt her enough last night.”

  Hart smiled. “I was the one who was jilted in front of three hundred guests.”

  “I was locked up,” she tried. “I would never hurt you, not on purpose.”

  It was as if neither brother had heard her. “I am not available,” Bragg retorted. “My wife is an invalid, or have you forgotten?”

  “Ah, how could I forget? When you glory in your martyrdom.” His smile flitted across his face again, but his hard stare returned to Francesca. “A martyr and a saint. How impossibly perfect.”

  She bit her lip, wringing her hands. Why did he have to presume that she would find her way back to Rick? “Hart, I wanted to stop by this morning. I desperately wished to talk to you, to tell you again how sorry I am! If I hurt you—”

  He cut her off. “You did not. Desperation is not becoming, my dear.”

  It was a terrible blow. “Can we speak privately? There is no reason for this animosity. I never meant to jilt you, and you must surely know it.”

  His eyes glittered. “Do you really want to go down that road with me again? Nothing has changed for me, Francesca, since we last spoke.”

  She trembled. He could not have been clearer. “Then why are you here?” she somehow managed to say. “Have I hurt you so much that you seek to hurt me in return?”

  Hart’s dark eyes blackened. “No—I am not here to hurt you.”

  “She is your fiancée,” Rick said harshly. Hart simply kept staring at her and she stared helplessly back. “You owe her a private moment.”

  Hart gave him a bored look. “She was my fiancée. I believe I owe her very little at the moment.”

  Francesca turned. He hadn’t softened at all; he was even more set against her now. He might even hate her. She bumped into Bragg, who instantly steadied her. She realized that she was fighting tears. She must not cry now.

  I abhor women who cry.

  As she fought for self-control, Rick handed her a handkerchief. Hart made a mocking sound.

  “I’m fine,” Francesca lied, her back to Hart.

  “You are not fine.” Bragg turned to face his brother. “I don’t know why you are here, so state your business and get out—unless you can behave in a civil manner.”

  Hart shook his head, staring at them. “How fortunate it is that the two of you are always thrown together by the criminal elements in this city. Can I assume you were crime-solving before my ex-fiancée decided to console you on the matter of your estrangement from your wife?”

  Did he really think she would run to Ric
k now? Less than twenty-four hours ago, they had been on the verge of marriage. The night before that, they’d shared a candlelit supper in his home, and afterward she had been in his arms. “Please stop. You are continuing to hurt me, even if it is not deliberate, and I do not deserve it.” His gaze narrowed. She barreled on. “Even if this impasse of ours is permanent—and I refuse to believe that!—I will always undertake criminal investigations. It has become my passion, as well as my profession. One day, Rick will not be police commissioner, but I will still be hard at work, helping victims in need.” She inhaled. “Last night, when you dismissed me, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I hardly had a choice! I am not going to allow this thief to ruin me and my family. You chose to turn your back on me when I needed your help, so I turned to Rick.” His expression didn’t change. “This is not a romantic encounter, Hart. We were discussing the case. I have a lot to lose.” She paused before adding, “Rick would never turn his back on me. But you already know that.”

  He darkened. “Yes,” he said. “My brother would never abandon you, no matter the circumstance. He is not merely noble but loyal. I am sure that the two of you will uncover and apprehend the current culprit, sooner than later. You always do.” His mouth twisted.

  Why was he there if he was still so angry with her? She could only conclude, as she had yesterday, that he was terribly hurt and his cruelty and sarcasm were his means of covering up that anguish.

  She did not want to think about what it meant if she was wrong.

  Just then, she missed the powerful ally he had once been—the safest harbor she had ever known—a man who would never allow anyone or anything to hurt her. “Can we please manage a private discussion?”

  He folded his arms across his chest. The moment he did so, she knew he was acquiescing. “Five minutes,” he said. “But I must warn you, I refuse to entertain any entreaties from you. We are done.”

  Bragg choked. Francesca fought the rush of tears. “I want to speak with you, not beg you for forgiveness. Nor will I grovel.”

  “Good,” he said flatly. “As I am not in a forgiving mood, and groveling is worse than tears.”