Oh, dear God. Francesca closed her eyes, finding it difficult to breathe. If only they had spoken, that woman might now be alive!
Francesca tried to regain her composure, hearing Bragg’s car door slam. After finding the body, she had quickly looked around the grounds, but the killer had made sure to cover up all his tracks. The only footprints were hers. Spending no more than a few moments in a brief search of the scene, she had pounded on Mrs. Hopper’s front door—only to realize she was at No. 42 East 30th Street, and that Mrs. Hopper lived next door. The couple who lived in the house she had been erroneously spying upon sent a servant to the police station, as they did not have a telephone. Instead of waiting inside with them, Francesca had gone back outside, walking along the street and looking for the murder weapon.
Bragg had told her once that it was usually found close to the victim. But she had not seen a knife anywhere.
Now, she watched him approach. Her breath stuck in her chest, but her emotions had little to do with eagerness to see him.
She did not know what he was doing there, but she could guess. One of the detectives, Murphy, knew her from the past two investigations. He had asked her to remain at the scene of the crime, only briefly questioning her. Somehow, he must have relayed to Bragg that she was present.
Their eyes connected in the dark, across the bloody expanse of turned-up snow. Hatless, his brown, wool overcoat open and swinging about him, he walked directly to the body. He knelt down, then began speaking with Murphy. Francesca wished she knew what they were saying.
How angry, she wondered, would he be at finding her at another murder scene? But this was no fault of hers, she thought defensively. And then she felt ill and guilty again.
He stood up, not brushing the snow from his knees. Then he approached her. She could not smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said tightly.
“I am in shock,” he said, not smiling. His eyes held a dangerous light.
“Bragg, this is not what you are thinking. This is not what it looks like.”
“Did you, or did you not, find the corpse?” he demanded.
Her chin went up. “I did.”
“So tell me not to think what I am thinking!” he cried. “Francesca, this is simply unacceptable. One week ago, I found you with another corpse. Or have you forgotten?”
“Bragg, please.” She touched his bare hand. “That was different! Miss de Labouche hired me to help her dispose of the body. This time I fell on the body, purely by chance.” She realized that she was trembling.
“You fell on the body?” He was disbelieving.
She nodded and looked up at the tree. “I was up there.”
“In the tree?” He was even more incredulous.
She nodded grimly. “I am lucky I did not break my neck,” she added, strategically.
“Are you all right?” he asked instantly.
Her ploy had worked. She showed him her abraded and raw hands. They looked much worse because she had the victim’s blood on her right one.
He turned her hands over, staring. Then he dropped them and looked at her. “I can see I am going to chase you all over the city, Francesca,” he said tersely. “What were you doing in the tree? No, let me guess. You are on a case.”
His anger had been diffused. But she had forgotten all about their wager, which she had lost. She stared in dismay at his striking features, imagining the evening of theater, dancing, and dinner that they would not share.
“You have a new client,” he said grimly.
She nodded slowly. “Yes, I do. Bragg—there is more.”
His jaw seemed clenched. “I gave you two weeks.” He shook his head. “It was more like two hours, Francesca.”
She inhaled. “Yes, it was. Bragg—”
“Who hired you and what were you doing in that tree?”
She opened her mouth to tell him and closed it. “Bragg, that is confidential.”
He smiled, not pleasantly. “Who hired you and what were you doing in that tree?” he repeated, his tone very hard.
She knew better than to press her luck. “Mrs. Lincoln Stuart suspects her husband of having an affair. I was spying upon the man. Except—I was in the wrong tree. The woman she suspects of being her husband’s lover is at No. 40, not No. 42.”
“You are slipping, Francesca,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” she agreed. “Bragg, I know the murder victim.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
She swallowed. “The woman who was almost run over in front of the Plaza Hotel. It’s she, Bragg. I told you that she wanted to speak with me, that she was in trouble, but you did not believe me!” Tears came to her eyes.
Instantly, he slid his arm around her. She sagged against him. “This is all my fault,” she said unsteadily. “Perhaps if—”
“Are you certain? This woman is the same woman who was in the crowd at the Plaza?”
She nodded, clinging to him, her gaze holding his. “I knocked her down to push her out of the way of the brougham, Bragg. I was on top of her in the street. I saw her face as clearly as if we were lovers. I am certain, Bragg, completely certain, and if only I had persisted, she might still be alive!”
“No! You are not to blame yourself. This is not your fault, Francesca.” He tilted up her chin, speaking with urgency. “Do not do this to yourself.”
She shook her head, briefly incapable of speech. “Bragg, did you see the cross carved in her throat?”
He was grim. “Yes, I did.” He studied her for a moment, and Francesca fought for her composure. Then he turned and walked away from her, back to the body and the detectives standing around it. There were now four. Francesca also recognized the shorter man as Inspector Newman. She followed Bragg, still miserable.
“I want her moved to the morgue as carefully as possible. I do not even want her hands disturbed,” he said. “But before she is moved, I want photographs.”
“Photographs?” This from Murphy, a tall man with a big belly. He was disbelieving.
“That’s right. Put two men on her until the sun comes up. Find me a photographer tonight. First thing, I want photographs of the victim, exactly as she is now—exactly as she was found. I do not even want her eyelids closed.”
The detectives all looked at one another. Clearly they thought Bragg mad.
Francesca was bewildered. She wanted to know why he was asking for such a thing—it was unheard of. But it did seem like a good idea.
“I want this entire yard cordoned off,” Bragg added flatly. “I want a detail in here tonight. Find me the murder weapon, and barring that, anything else the killer might have left behind.”
“Such as . . . ?” Murphy asked.
“A piece of his coat. A match. A nickel. Anything you find in this yard, I want it, whether you think it belongs to the killer or not.”
Francesca stared at Bragg. Why was he taking this case on? He had enough on his plate with running—and reforming—the entire police department.
She was suspicious, concerned. Something was afoot, something more significant than it seemed.
“Sir, I beg your pardon,” a detective said. “But the yard’s got a foot of snow. How—”
“Shovel it up and sift it like flour,” Bragg said. He turned. “Miss Cahill? I shall give you a ride home.”
Francesca hurried forward, and together they walked toward his handsome motorcar. Accidentally, her hip bumped his. He said, “How badly did you disturb the scene?”
“I dug up her body and I walked around a bit.” She met his gaze and quickly looked away.
He paused and turned. “Murphy!”
Murphy hurried forward. “Yes, sir?”
“Send a roundsman to the Cahill residence. He shall collect the shoes she is now wearing. Before you shovel up the snow, check all the footprints. From Miss Cahill’s shoes, you shall know which are hers.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, practically saluting.
“If you find other footprints—and I doubt y
ou will—have an artist draw them. Perhaps we shall one day identify our killer by the size of his feet.”
“Yes, sir,” Murphy cried, clearly impressed.
“That is all,” Bragg said. As Murphy left, he turned back to Francesca. “We have to borrow your shoes,” he said.
“I hardly mind. That was quite impressive. Why the photographs, Bragg?” she asked, very curious. But she was also haunted by two competing images of the young woman, vitally alive and gruesomely dead.
He looked at her as he opened the passenger door, but he did not answer.
She did not slide in. “Bragg?”
He sighed. “You will learn of this sooner or later, I suppose. I am sure one of the newshounds at headquarters will pick up the story.”
Her body tightened in anticipation—and dread. “What story?”
He faced her, resigned. “She is not the first. Another young woman was murdered the exact same way a month ago, shortly after I took office. Or at least, it looks like the same method.”
She stared. “There was a cross carved into her throat?” Her stomach turned at the terrible recollection.
He nodded. “Yes. And her hands were clasped upon her breast as if in prayer, too.”
Francesca had not noticed that. She trembled with fear. “Bragg? Is that why you have asked for photographs . . . in case it happens again?”
He nodded. “Yes, Francesca. In case our killer strikes a third time.”
She stared. “We are dealing with a madman.”
“It appears so,” he said.
The long black motorcar was purring like a cat. Francesca shifted so she could face Bragg more fully, even though a delay now could be dangerous—her parents always returned from an evening out by eleven. She had to get inside before that event.
Bragg remained silent and thoughtful during the short drive to her house. She knew why he was so preoccupied.
She, too, could not get that ghastly image of the poor, terrified woman with her throat cut out of her mind, but recalling her alive at the Plaza was even worse. And now, she could remember her hands, clasped over her chest. Briefly, Francesca closed her eyes, but the images would not disappear.
Why hadn’t she persevered? Why had she let that woman run away?
“Francesca, I do not want you involved in this case.”
She tensed, meeting his very serious gaze. “Bragg,” she began in protest. She was already involved, deeply so. Didn’t he know that?
“We are dealing with a madman. This is far more dangerous than either the Burton Abduction or the Randall Murder.”
She bit off her next words. “Very well.” Who had that young woman been? Clearly, she had known that she was in danger. But why had she been singled out by this killer? Was there a connection between the two victims?
“You have a client now, don’t you?” Bragg continued.
“Bragg, who was the first victim?” Determination filled her.
“Francesca!”
“I am merely curious, that is all.” She crossed her fingers, hating lying to him. But a tiny lie in the cause of justice seemed acceptable.
“And curiosity killed the cat.” He jumped out of the Daimler, seeming angry now as he strode around its hood. He opened her door for her. “Do not let me find you in the midst of this investigation,” he warned.
She realized he meant every word. Perhaps he was right. She did have a client now—and a reputation to build. “I promise,” she said, smiling at him as she stepped out of the motorcar. She slipped on a patch of ice, and he caught her beneath both arms.
She forgot all about murders and madmen. She clung to him and they stood knee-to-knee and chest-to-chest. For one moment, he did not release her.
This is so hard, she thought, staring at his mouth.
He let her go. “Good night, Francesca.”
Her breath seemed to catch painfully. “Good night.”
Beside his door, he paused. “If you are free, I have tickets for Saturday. Perhaps we could even have dinner afterwards,” he said.
“What?” she gasped.
“I happen to have tickets to The Greatest World,” he said, and he finally smiled a little.
She smiled back. Briefly, the world of murder and death faded, and in its place was something else, a world of love and dreams. He had already gotten tickets to the musical she had spoken of. “Of course I am free, Bragg. And supper afterwards would be wonderful.”
He started back toward the motorcar. “No sleuthing,” he said.
She simply smiled at him.
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 7,1902—NOON
Francesca was summoned to her mother’s apartments at noon. This was hardly a surprise, as Julia never left her rooms before that hour. But as she entered the parlor, a large room with red-toned Oriental rugs, ochre walls, and several seating areas, she saw Andrew seated on a gold brocade sofa, his reading spectacles slipping down his nose. Francesca faltered.
Her father glanced up. Calmly he removed his spectacles, announcing, “She’s here.”
What was Papa doing at home? Why wasn’t he at the office? Francesca had purposely avoided him that morning by skipping breakfast and rushing off to her single morning class.
Julia entered the parlor from her bedroom. She was dressed for a luncheon, resplendently, in an emerald-green gown. Her expression was severe. “Where were you this morning, Francesca?”
Francesca did not hesitate. She had almost thought her mother was going to ask her where she had been last night. “The library.”
“Sit down,” Andrew said.
As Francesca gingerly began to do so, taking a chair adjacent the sofa, Andrew tossed a newspaper down on an ivory-topped table. And Francesca saw a glaring headline on the Sun. She winced.
MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER CAPTURES
RANDALL KILLER WITH FRY PAN
“I cannot even begin to tell you the shock I had when I read this article,” he said.
“And I almost had a heart attack,” Julia said, not sitting. She stared down coldly at her daughter.
“I can explain,” Francesca said.
“According to this newsman,” Andrew said, far too calmly, “you captured the murderer yourself, with a fry pan.”
Francesca knew the article did not mention the fact that the event had happened after both Mary and her brother, Bill Randall, had tied her up. Fortunately, she had refrained from mentioning that fact to the reporters, perhaps as a matter of pride. “Papa, Mama, it is not at all as bad as it seems. After I met with this con man, I realized he could not be the killer and that Bragg had arrested the wrong man. So I went to the Randalls’ because there were loose ends that just could not be explained. Truly, I was only trying to help Bragg and serve justice. I never meant to confront a killer; indeed, until the last moment, I had no clue as to who the killer was.” She knew she must keep her wits about her now.
Andrew was on his feet. “You met with a con man as well? It is bad enough that you went alone to the Randalls’. Francesca, what possessed you?”
“Papa, I did not intend, precisely, to confront a killer, I merely wanted to help—”
He was the most courteous man she knew; now, he cut her off. He was fully flushed, “I will not have it! I simply will not have my daughter running about the city, consorting with con men and apprehending killers. That is why we have a police force, Francesca. This behavior of yours must stop. In fact, I forbid it.”
Francesca said, “I am a grown woman. How can you treat me as if I were a child? Especially as nothing happened, in the end.” She looked at her mother.
“I have never been so angry,” Julia said.
Her heart sank like a rock. “My entire life has been devoted to the unfortunate. How could not I help in this instance? I solved the case. I found the killer,” she tried.
“To make matters even worse, I understand you better than anyone,” Julia continued. “Do you think I am a fool, Francesca? I know you are a woman of extreme passion and just as
much determination. You have decided, I believe, that you are a detective of sorts. And you have sunk your teeth into this new passion of yours the way you have done with reform. Oh, I do understand.”
Francesca could not look away from her mother’s gaze. Julia did understand, she thought with dismay, and no good could come of it.
“What I understand is that you disposed of the newspapers before I or your mother saw them,” Andrew cried, his voice raised. “So now you are dissembling—deceiving us? Lying?”
“Papa! You know I do not lie,” she cried in return, but in a way, he was right. She had become adept at avoidance and dissembling in order to carry on with her new profession. Thank God they had not seen her calling cards. “Perhaps I have omitted facts here and there. But only because I knew you both would be upset. My intentions were good. I meant to help, not hurt anyone,” Francesca tried.
Andrew stared. Julia’s arms were crossed firmly over her chest. “Andrew, I told you this would be her reaction.”
Andrew said, “Your mother is right. It is time to find you a husband.”
Her heart felt as if it had dropped to the floor at her feet. She stared at him, suddenly ill. In this cause—her cause to remain single, a bluestocking and a reformer—her father had always been her ally. Until this actual moment in time, he had been in no rush to see her wed and out of the house. In fact, Francesca believed that Andrew did not want to see her go to a home of her own. “Papa, you don’t mean it.”
“He does mean it,” Julia said. “We were up half the night, talking about you. I will not have my daughter running about the worst wards, consorting with crooks and con men, and chasing killers.”
“Perhaps the right man will have a quieting effect on you, Francesca,” Andrew added. “Ever since Bragg was appointed police commissioner, ever since he came to town, you have been carrying on like a detective.”
She stood motionless now. There was only one man who was right for her, and he was Bragg. She was not marrying anyone else. “Surely you do not blame Bragg for this.” She wet her lips and looked at Julia. “He had nothing to do with this, Mama. In fact, he has tried to dissuade me from investigative work, time and again.”
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