Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  Abruptly she looked away from him, recalling the many times she and Bragg had worked so closely together. They had been far more than a professional investigative team. She finally wrapped her arms across her chest, suddenly saddened. It was odd, Hart being with her now.

  She stared outside at the passing buildings. Winter was abandoning the city. When she had last been home, dirty ice had covered the streets, muddy snow patches on the sidewalks. Now the gaslight cast by the tall wrought-iron street lamps revealed clear walks and cobbled streets marred only by an occasional puddle. The coach had turned off Fifth Avenue and was passing Madison Square—where Bragg let a pleasant older house. A homeless man in a potato sack had decided to spend the night on an iron park bench. She glanced past the square, at Bragg’s Victorian brick house. The lights were on in the upstairs window, which she knew from her own experience was the master bedroom. Was he making love to Leigh Anne?

  “Perhaps you should solicit my brother’s help on this case,” Hart cut into her brooding.

  She jerked and saw he had been watching her and knew where she had been gazing. She opened her mouth to tell him that she had been considering just that, but then she refused to lie, even whitely, to him. She faced him grimly. “He will certainly assign a detective to the case.”

  “Yes, he will,” Hart agreed. “As he would never refuse you.”

  She shifted uneasily, then tried a smile out on him.

  He did not smile back.

  “He would never refuse to pursue justice, Hart,” she said softly.

  Hart made a sound. “Of course not.”

  Francesca glanced aside. The one thing Bragg was, was a man of the most honorable inclinations. A reformer at heart, just as she was, he had been appointed to carry out the unpleasant task of reforming the city’s notoriously corrupt police department, an on-again and off-again affair—dependent upon which party was in power. Bragg’s brick home was left behind as the coach bumped down Broadway, passing an electric trolley that was empty. Hart remarked, “The police are right; people disappear every single day in this city. Even children.”

  “I know.”

  “Three days is a long time. Do not get your hopes up, Francesca.”

  “It isn’t me whom we must worry about. It is Emily—and her family.”

  “I will always worry about you, even if you can take care of yourself.”

  She felt her pulse leap in response to his words, as she was more than pleased, but she did not smile. “Most missing children are runaways, I think.”

  “I am inclined to agree.”

  She glanced out the carriage window and saw 14th Street ahead. Three hansoms were in the intersection, and Raoul, Hart’s driver, slowed the coach. She faced Joel. “How old is Emily, Joel?”

  “Thirteen. Her birthday was last week,” he said promptly.

  “Did she attend school?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “No. She worked with me mom and Mrs. O’Hare, sewing at Moe Levy’s.”

  “Was she a happy child?” Francesca promptly asked. Working at such an age was common, never mind the education laws. And the Moe Levy sewing factory was actually a large room, not airy but not airless, the conditions quite bearable. Francesca had been there several months ago and had seen the premises for herself.

  “I think so,” Joel said, his brow screwing up. “Why d’you ask, Miz Cahill?”

  “Do you think she has run away?”

  He was startled. “No, I don’t. She fought a bit with her mom, but why would she run away? Where would she go?”

  Francesca had no idea, but Hart coolly said, “Was she pretty, Joel?”

  Francesca whirled to look at him.

  Joel nodded. “Real pretty. White skin an’ black hair, all curly and long, and real blue eyes—like Miz Cahill.”

  Francesca stared at Hart, wanting to know what terrible thoughts he was having, but she refused to ask in front of Joel. Hart said, “Was there a young gentleman that she liked?”

  Her heart sank. She looked at Joel.

  “A gent? I dunno.” He flushed now. “Gents were always lookin’ at her when she walked down the street, Mr. Hart. An’ the roughs would suggest things, if you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed I do,” he said quietly.

  “We are almost there!” Francesca cried, determined to stop the conversation.

  “You don’t think she ran off with one of them rowdies, do you?” Joel asked sharply.

  “No, I don’t,” Hart said calmly.

  Francesca wondered just what he did think. She could barely refrain from asking but did not want poor Joel further alarmed. He, however, asked shrewdly, “You think she been pimped by some fine dandy like yourself?”

  Hart shrugged. “Perhaps a gentleman offered her something she had no wish to refuse.”

  Joel was blushing. “Mr. Hart, sir! I didn’t mean no disrespect!”

  “I know you didn’t,” he said, smiling finally, slightly.

  “Hart! What do you mean, precisely?” Francesca demanded, no longer able to stand it.

  He settled his gaze on her. “There are a sort out there, Francesca, who are on the prowl for young, beautiful, innocent girls. She may have been offered money, clothes, an apartment. If she was very pretty, that is my first guess as to the cause of her disappearance.”

  Francesca could not breathe. The coach had stopped. Raoul’s weight above them shifted the chassis as he stepped down to the sidewalk. “She is a child. A child just turned thirteen.”

  “I am not condoning this kind of behavior,” he said. “But it is a fact of life.”

  She stared.

  He did not look away, not even as Raoul opened the door, not even as Hart said, “Thank you, Raoul.”

  A tug on her sleeve ensued. “He’s right; he is, Miz Cahill. I heard of Tammie Browne. She used to live down the block. She was real pretty, with dark red hair and big blue eyes, an’ when she was fifteen, she went away to live uptown with a gent. Her father disowned her, he did. He was only a butcher, but he was real honest, the godly sort, you know, an’ t’ this day, he cries whenever he hears her name.”

  Francesca briefly closed her eyes. It remained shocking, she thought, to step out of her glittering and lavish world into this other one, a world of darkness, despair, of hopelessness, a world people like Connie and Julia didn’t even know existed—a world that made women such as Tammie Browne choose a life of depravity in order to survive.

  He touched her elbow. “If you want to find Emily O’Hare, we should go up and interview her parents,” Hart said.

  Her gaze flew open. He had leaned close and his knees bumped hers. “I hope you are wrong, Calder. I desperately do.”

  He hesitated. “There are worse fates.”

  Her alarm skyrocketed. “Such as?”

  “Please.” He gestured with only a slight nod toward the street. His gaze never left hers.

  Francesca stepped out with Raoul’s aid, thanking the swarthy, short driver, whom she had always suspected was actually a bodyguard. A moment later she and Hart were following Joel into a dark and soiled brick building and up two flights of narrow, dark stairs. He knocked on Apartment Seven, and the door was instantly opened by a bleary-eyed older man whom Francesca assumed to be Emily’s father.

  He was in overalls and a tattered sweater. “Joel?” The man appeared to have been sleeping. However, he did smell of beer.

  “Mr. O’Hare, sir. I brought you Miz Cahill, a very famous crime-solver.”

  O’Hare blinked. He had dark hair and long sideburns and a very big belly.

  “To find Emily,” Joel added urgently.

  Francesca swiftly pressed her calling card into his hand. It read:

  Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire

  No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City

  All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small

  He blinked at it. “What’s this?”

  From somewhere in the flat a woman called out, eagerly asking who
was there, hope in her tone.

  “Mr. O’Hare, sir. My name is Francesca Cahill, and I am a sleuth. I am here to ask you some questions about Emily’s disappearance,” Francesca said firmly.

  The sleepy look left his eyes, which began to fill with tears. “Is this a prank, boy?” he demanded of Joel. “You may not have a daddy, but I don’t mind givin’ you a good whipping!”

  Francesca shoved Joel behind her skirts. “Mr. O’Hare. May I come in? I do wish to speak with you and your wife—if you want to find your daughter.”

  “Brian!” A chubby woman with strikingly black hair and vivid blue eyes hurried forward, and instantly her gaze locked with Francesca’s. Never looking away, she said to her husband, “Maggie told me about Miss Cahill. She is a sleuth, Brian. She finds murderers, scoundrels, every kind of crook. Even missing children. Please, let her in!”

  Brian started while Francesca stared at Emily’s mother with real despair. If Emily looked like her mother, then she was more than pretty, she was beautiful, and Hart was probably, terribly, right.

  “I lost my manners,” Brian said gruffly, stepping aside and opening the door. “I truly lost my manners. I am sorry, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca gripped his arm. “You are frightened and in grief. Do not apologize.” She looked back at Hart, smiling, as she stepped swiftly into a small but neat apartment. On one wall was a sink and stove; on another, a bed where two small children peeped at her from beneath their covers. A curtain cordoned off another section of the room, where Francesca assumed Emily’s parents slept. In the kitchen area was a large wooden table with five chairs. Another area contained a washtub. “Mr. O’Hare, this is my friend Mr. Hart.”

  O’Hare nodded at Hart. “Come in, do sit down. Kathy, see if we got something to offer our guests.”

  Kathy smiled grimly and did not move.

  Hart said smoothly, “We have just eaten, Mr. O’Hare. But a glass of water would be welcome.”

  Kathy looked relieved, and she turned to the sink to comply.

  Francesca was oddly proud of Hart as they sat down at the pine table. She smiled her thanks at Kathy for her glass of water, then leaned toward O’Hare, who had sat at the table’s head.

  “When was Emily last seen, Mr. O’Hare, and by whom?”

  Brian O’Hare opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His face turned red, as did his eyes and nose, and he began to cry. He covered his face with his hands while Kathy ran around to stand beside him, her hand on his broad shoulder. “I’ll tell you,” she said, ashen. “On Monday she came home from the factory, as happy as can be. I was going to go out to buy a loaf of bread, but I was so very tired, and she said she’d go for me.” Her face crumbled. “She went out and never came back. I remember looking at the clock in the window across the street and wondering where she was. It was five then. At six I began to really worry. At seven Brian came home and went looking for her.” Tears trickled down her face.

  Francesca said, “What time do you think she left the house?”

  “Four, maybe half past,” Kathy whispered, stricken.

  “Did she go into the grocery?”

  Kathy shook her head. “The grocer is Will Schmitt. He never saw her.”

  Francesca was silent for a moment, but she looked at Hart as she thought, in case he had anything to add. He understood and said, “Has she ever disappeared for a day or two—or even a few hours—before last Monday?”

  “Never!” It was Brian who now spoke. “My daughter is a good girl, and she knows her duty, she does.”

  “Mr. Hart meant no harm,” Francesca said, reaching out to cover his hand with her own. “But there are many questions we must ask, some of which are personal.”

  Brian nodded grimly. “Go on, then.”

  “Do you think she ran away?” Francesca asked.

  Brian snorted. “No.”

  Francesca looked at Kathy, who shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “I am certain of it, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca glanced at Hart. He inclined his head imperceptibly toward her, and she knew he wished for her to continue. “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No!” Brian shot to his feet, trembling. “Just what are you trying to say?”

  Francesca also stood. “I am trying to make certain she did not run off with a handsome young man whom we might easily find.”

  “Emily wasn’t that way,” Kathy said tremulously. “She’s very young for her age and she’s shy where the lads are concerned.”

  Francesca was at a loss. “Where is Schmitt’s Grocery? I’ll have to speak with him first thing tomorrow.”

  “It’s on the corner of Eleventh Street,” Kathy said.

  “What can you learn from him? He knows nothing!” Brian cried.

  “Every investigation has to start somewhere. After I speak with Schmitt, I may interview every person who lives and works on this block. Someone saw something,” Francesca said firmly, meaning it.

  “God, we got nothing, not even a single clue,” Brian said, his nose turning red again.

  Francesca stood. “No, Mr. O’Hare, we have more than nothing. Your daughter left here between four and half past four last Monday. She did not make it to the grocery store. It takes mere minutes to walk a single block. So sometime between four and four-thirty she disappeared—on this very block, between your door and that of Schmitt’s. That is hardly nothing. There is a witness out there who saw what happened to Emily. Of that I assure you.”

  Hart also stood.

  Kathy looked at her eagerly, hope flaring in her eyes. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Francesca said, and she added, as the idea occurred to her, “We shall post a reward for information. Joel, I’ll make some flyers by hand tonight. You can post them first thing tomorrow, the rest I’ll print up, and we’ll post them in a four-block square by tomorrow evening. That,” she added with satisfaction, “should bring us a result or two.”

  Brian blinked at her, and for the first time that evening a light appeared in his eyes. “That’s a grand idea,” he said in wonder. “Why didn’t we think of it?”

  “Do not fret,” Francesca said. “I have one more question. Joel said you went to the police. Was any investigation undertaken?”

  Brian cursed the police roundly, then said, “No. If the Democrats had won the election, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Tammany takes care of its own, it does.”

  Francesca bristled. “If you are so certain of that, why don’t you go ask Boss Croker for his help?”

  Brian stood, flushing.

  Hart took her arm. “I think we have learned all that we can tonight. Mr. O’Hare, Mrs. O’Hare, Miss Cahill is a clever sleuth, and if anyone can locate your daughter, it is she. She is your best hope.”

  The O’Hares walked them to the door, Brian grim, Kathy anxious. Once there, Kathy gripped her hand. “Please find her, Miss Cahill. Please find my darling girl.”

  “I will,” Francesca said. “I will do my best and I shall not let you down.”

  Kathy nodded, then said, “You will return tomorrow? Post the rewards?”

  “Not only that, I shall keep you informed of the status of the investigation,” Francesca said. Then, impulsively, she hugged the other woman. “Do not lose hope,” she said.

  She and Hart followed Joel down the narrow, dark stairs in thoughtful silence. On the first level they paused before the Kennedy flat. “I will see you first thing tomorrow,” Francesca said to Joel.

  “How early?” he asked.

  “Half past seven,” she returned.

  He beamed at her. “I’ll be there, Miz Cahill.” Then he turned to Hart. “G’night, sir.”

  Hart chucked his jaw. “Get some sleep. I can see you shall have a busy day tomorrow.”

  They waited as Joel knocked lightly on his door. A moment later Maggie Kennedy opened it, clad in a flannel wrapper, her red hair in a long braid. Her blue eyes widened when she saw Francesca and Hart. “Miss Cahill! I mean, Francesca! This is a
surprise.”

  Francesca smiled warmly at her. “Maggie, we wanted to see Joel safely home. We have taken on the Emily O’Hare case,” she added.

  “Thank the lord,” Maggie whispered, her gaze tearing. “I am so glad, for I know you shall find her safe and sound.”

  Francesca wasn’t certain of that last part, not at all, but she smiled anyway. Hart nodded politely and then went out to the waiting coach. As he handed her in, he murmured, “I am impressed.”

  His hand was large and warm on her bare elbow as she carried her coat. She was thrilled, and she smiled at him as she took her seat. “That was hardly an unusual interview,” she said, trying to appear indifferent to his praise. It occurred to her that they were now alone and it was a long ride uptown.

  He settled down beside her and Raoul slammed the carriage door shut behind them. “You gave them hope.” He leaned back against the plush squabs, rather indolently. Only Hart could make such a simple position seem utterly decadent.

  She tried not to think about his virility and said, with worry, “And I do hope it wasn’t wrong of me to do so. I do hope it wasn’t false hope that I gave them.”

  “I have little doubt you will locate Emily, Francesca.” His gaze was warm, enough so to melt a frigid block of ice.

  She started, surprised by the extent of his confidence but very pleased indeed.

  “You may grin like a sated fat cat,” he chuckled.

  She beamed. “You will give me a very big swollen head, Hart, if you keep on flattering me so. And somehow, I do not think you would find a vain woman attractive.”

  He laughed. “I know you are not vain enough, my dear, and I find confidence in you charming.” His smile faded. He gave her a long and thoughtful look.

  It went right through her heart to her loins. Francesca sat up.

  “I find you charming, Francesca, and I suppose the fact that you are unpredictable will keep me on my toes,” he added, more to himself than to her.

  “I am so sorry about that ridiculous note,” Francesca said, then, in a rush, “Calder, I didn’t know what to write! I should have spoken with you before leaving.”

  “Please don’t ever lie to me again,” he said simply. “I have never lied to you, and I expect to be repaid in kind.”