Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06]

by Deadly Promise

  Beth hugged herself. “Because they saw me watching, and before they took off, the fat one grabbed my hand and almost broke it. He said if I told anyone what happened, I’d be next!”

  Schmitt made a despairing sound and sank down onto a box, his body slumped, his shoulders hunched.

  Francesca put the gun away and went over to Beth, putting her arm around her. “You have done the right thing, telling me what you saw. The police will protect you,” she added.

  Beth nodded, in tears.

  “Like hell they will!” Schmitt cried.

  “I will protect you,” Francesca said firmly, then. “But first, we are going to have to go to headquarters.”

  “Headquarters?” Beth trembled.

  “Police headquarters. They have a book of photographs and sketches of known criminals and crooks, Beth. Perhaps you will be able to identify the two men who abducted Emily.”

  Beth wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. “I want to help. I’ve always wanted to help. Father refused to let me.” She looked terrified now.

  “I don’t want you hurt,” Schmitt said, heaving himself to his feet. “You’re my only child,” he added passionately.

  Francesca knew the importance of an eyewitness. She made a decision. “Beth can stay with me until the case is solved,” she said. “She will be safe in my home, Mr. Schmitt.”

  He blinked. “Your home?”

  Beth also blinked. “I am going to your home?”

  “Yes. We have plenty of guest rooms. First we will go to police headquarters, and then you can stop back here to pick up a few things.” She smiled at them both. “She will be safe uptown, Mr. Schmitt.”

  He seemed truly confused. “Why are you doing this? What do you care about my daughter—or even Emily?” he demanded.

  “I do care,” Francesca said firmly. “I care very much, in fact.” She took Beth’s elbow and guided her from the back room and out of the store.

  “Don’t blame Father,” Beth said. “He is afraid. He was only trying to protect me.”

  “I understand that,” Francesca said. “But he was going about it the wrong way.” She halted abruptly, as a police officer on a bay horse was coming down the street. A mounted officer in this vicinity was an unusual sight. He suddenly veered toward her.

  Francesca quickly assumed that he was looking for her. Did Bragg wish to speak with her? She hadn’t told him about last night yet, so maybe there was another development on the case. And as the mounted officer trotted swiftly her way, she glimpsed a familiar figure on the opposite sidewalk—Eliza Smith, Deborah Smith’s mother and Tom Smith’s widow.

  “Miss Cahill,” the officer said.

  Francesca vaguely recognized him as he dismounted. “Yes?”

  “You are needed at headquarters. I’ve been told to find you and instruct you to go directly there,” he said.

  Curiosity reared. She prayed there was a good, hard lead. “We were on our way there, actually,” she said. “I have a coach. We’ll take that.” She was using the family brougham that day, and her driver, Jennings, was waiting patiently down the block.

  “Very well, miss,” he said, saluting her politely before turning his gelding and loping off.

  Francesca smiled at Beth and said, “I must speak with Eliza Smith. Wait here. Don’t move.”

  Beth nodded and Francesca dashed across the avenue, weaving past various drays and carts. “Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith?”

  Eliza had seen her and had halted, waiting for Francesca on the corner, her face pale and pinched. “Is there any news?” she whispered. Her eyes and nose were red—she had been weeping. Had she been weeping for her murdered husband? Francesca wondered.

  Francesca took her hand. “I will find Deborah. I have a witness to her abduction. We will find the thugs who did this.”

  Eliza nodded, clearly unable to speak, clearly about to weep.

  “I am sorry about your husband,” Francesca added.

  “I’m not!” Eliza cried. Then she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “God forgive me, I’m not mourning, Miss Cahill. Not at all.”

  “I understand,” Francesca whispered. “Do you have any idea why he was murdered? Do you have any idea who killed him?”

  She wet her lips. “He lied about Deborah. I knew it was a lie right from the start—I knew he’d never send her to Charlotte. He hated Charlotte!”

  Francesca took her hand. “Do you know who killed him?”

  Eliza shook her head.

  Francesca sighed. Then, “Do you know the Wirklers? Or the Coopers?”

  Eliza hesitated. “Do you mean John Cooper’s family?”

  Francesca gripped her hand. “Yes.”

  “John used to drink with Tom. They were friends. I didn’t know them well. I seem to recall they had a lovely daughter, a bit younger than Deborah.”

  Francesca sensed the connection now. “Where do they live?”

  “Around the corner. But I haven’t seen them in some time.” She added, “So maybe they moved.”

  “Which building?” Francesca asked with excitement.

  “The tan one with the blue shutters,” Eliza said. “Why? Why are you asking me about the Coopers?”

  “Because their daughter is missing, too.”

  The precinct was very busy that morning. The moment she and Beth entered, Francesca saw a number of civilians gathered at the reception desk, with a very harassed and red-faced Sergeant O’Malley. The holding pen was also full—a half a dozen scruffy men were in it, two sleeping curled up on the floor. It was also louder than usual, and not just because of the chorus of raised voices coming from the half-dozen complaining gentlemen at the desk. The telegraph was pinging constantly, and several phones were ringing as well.

  Francesca saw that Captain Shea was also busy. He was at a desk behind the reception counter, with two officers and an inspector, and they were going over some paperwork. She decided to forgo any formalities. She knew Bragg had sent for her, anyway.

  “I’ll put you in the conference room upstairs,” she told Beth, who continued to tremble and was wide-eyed now. “You can go over the mug book at your leisure then.”

  Beth seemed speechless; she nodded.

  They were about to hurry to the stairs when Francesca saw a familiar form detach itself from all of the gentlemen gathered at the front desk. He was slim and dapper with a small mustache, dark-haired and in his thirties. She halted. He smiled at her, approaching.

  “Kurland,” she said. “You are just the man I have been looking for!” She was brisk, as she so disliked this newsman.

  “Really? And how are you, Miss Cahill?” His gaze slid to the high collar of her shirtwaist, as if he knew she’d had a knife to her throat the other night.

  But that was impossible. Francesca fingered her collar. “I am fine. I am on a new case.”

  “And you are eager to spill the beans?” His eyes laughed at her.

  “More than eager, Kurland. For once, I do think we can help one another.”

  Kurland eyed Beth. “Really.”

  “My case is headline news,” she said with a smile.

  His brows lifted and he did not seem impressed. “Do go on.”

  Francesca felt her temper flare. “Four children are missing, Kurland, all very pretty girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen. We fear a white slaver—we fear the girls are being forced into prostitution.”

  “We?”

  “Bragg and myself,” she said with impatience.

  His brows lifted again. “Really, I thought ‘we’ might refer to you and Calder Hart—now that you are engaged. Oh, by the way, congratulations.”

  She stiffened. “Thank you.”

  “Odd, how a short time ago you were such a frequent guest at the commissioner’s home. Oh, but I forgot, his wife was not in residence then, was she?”

  Francesca was furious. “Kurland, Bragg and I are friends. We will always be friends, and you know we also work closely together! I am giving you a sc
oop. Are you interested or not?”

  “I am interested in everything about you, Miss Cahill, seeing as you are such an unusual woman.” He smiled.

  “Their names are Bonnie Cooper, Rachael Wirkler, Deborah Smith, and Emily O’Hare. The first three girls all went to school on Fourteenth Street between Second and Third Avenue. Emily worked at Moe Levy’s with her mother. She was the last to disappear, just this last Monday. I’ve yet to speak with the Wirklers or Coopers, and for some odd reason, the principal of that school did not go to the police. All school records pertaining to the girls are missing. Oh. I forgot. Deborah Smith’s father, Tom Smith, was murdered yesterday.” She glared. “Let’s go, Beth.”

  “Thank you, Miss Cahill, for the scoop. Oh, by the way, when is the wedding?”

  But Francesca had taken Beth’s hand and was already hurrying up the stairs. How that newsman infuriated her. And he knew the truth. He knew she had been carrying on with Bragg before his wife had come to town. What he did not know was that their affair had never been consummated, that it had come to nothing. Francesca felt ill. She felt as if a time bomb were ticking and Kurland was the one who would light the fuse.

  Francesca forced herself to calm, showing Beth into the conference room and asking her to wait there. Shutting the door behind her, she faced Bragg’s frosted glass door. She squared her shoulders and inhaled. Kurland had the knack of being able to shake her composure as no one else could. But then, she sensed he enjoyed discomfiting her.

  She knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Francesca stepped into Bragg’s office and instantly saw him seated at his desk, his face on his bridged hands. He seemed grim, unhappy, and deeply lost in thought. “Rick?”

  He looked up. His expression changed as he stood swiftly. “Good. I am glad you are here.” He moved swiftly to her side, helping her off with her coat. “Are you all right, Francesca?”

  She blinked, meeting his gaze. “You know?”

  “Calder told me. Damn it, he told me, Francesca.” His gaze darkened.

  She understood. Once upon a time, she would have run directly to him, had she been assaulted the way she had been last night. “I’m fine. But it had to be Tom Smith’s killer. He held a knife to my throat and told me to forget the girls, Bragg.”

  He tilted up her chin, unbuttoned the two highest buttons on her collar, and grimaced when he saw the fine dark red line on her throat. “Smith is dead. I want you off this investigation.”

  “Never!” she cried, backing away.

  His hand dropped.

  “How can you even suggest such a thing? And I do have the means to protect myself. I am carrying my gun and it is loaded.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. He had an odd look now, one dangerously annoyed. “I am not burying you on this case.”

  “No, you are not,” she said.

  “And Hart will allow you to continue on?”

  “Hart doesn’t allow or disallow anything,” she shot back.

  “Then you do not know the man you think to marry,” he said softly—unpleasantly.

  She stared. “You are in a foul mood today. Do not take it out on me.”

  “Why not? My mood is worse because you were threatened last night, you went to him—and I was not there to help.”

  “Yes, I was with Hart last night. Just the way you were with Leigh Anne.”

  He flushed, which she did not understand.

  “I had thought you sent for me because there was a new lead.”

  “No.”

  “No? Well, I have one. In fact, she is here. Schmitt’s daughter is an eyewitness to Emily’s abduction, Bragg, and I want to get her started on the mug book. I also want to see if we can find John Cooper in there.”

  “Beth Schmitt saw the abduction?” Bragg asked, diverted now.

  Francesca nodded. “There were two men. One short and fat, the other big and bald. The short one threatened to come back for her, too, if she said a word.” Francesca stared. “Calder thinks this is about child prostitution.”

  He grimaced. “Calder would.”

  “I think so, too.”

  He stared. “So now you both think alike?”

  And she lost her temper. “Hardly! But we are in agreement, and if we are right, this is a ghastly crime!”

  He reached for her. “Calm down. Shouting will not solve either the crime or anything else.”

  She pulled away. “What do you really think?” Her heart hammered hard.

  “I happen to agree,” he said flatly. “I wanted to spare you the worry you are now so clearly afflicted with.”

  “By lying to me?” she asked, incredulous and dismayed. “By misleading me on such an important investigation?”

  “I was trying to protect you,” he said sharply.

  “Maybe it is your wife you should be protecting,” she said without thinking.

  He snapped back, as if struck.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, aghast at making such a cutting remark.

  “Let’s get Beth Schmitt started on those photographs and sketches,” he said.

  Francesca watched him walk to the door. Dismay immobilized her. How had they been reduced to such straits?

  Bragg turned. “He is winning, you know. Because this is exactly what he wants, to drive us apart, in every way, even as genuine friends.”

  Their gazes locked. “You are wrong.”

  He made a sound of disgust.

  But she was afraid. Afraid that he was right.

  An hour later, Beth had failed to identify the thugs who had abducted Emily, leading Francesca to believe that both men were rowdies and little else. Clearly they were the brawn for the brain behind the child prostitution ring. However, they did find John Cooper in the mug book.

  He had done time. Two years, to be exact. His crime? An odd con involving his daughter, whom he had claimed to be someone else’s child, missing since birth. The ecstatic parents had paid him several thousand dollars for the return of their supposed daughter, and had Bonnie not been recognized by chance on the street, the con would have never been revealed. She had been three at the time.

  Nine years ago, the man had sold his own daughter, and here was the proof.

  “He did it again,” Francesca whispered.

  Bragg had avoided looking at her for the past hour. Now their gazes met. “I shall enjoy interrogating this man,” he said.

  Francesca was a bundle of nerves as she entered the grand entrance of the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Now, with John Cooper on her mind, she wished very much that she had put off Grace Bragg. But it was already a quarter past one and it was too late to send her a note canceling their luncheon.

  She entered the lobby where oak floors gleamed underfoot and paneled wood columns met a vaulted ceiling with a huge crystal chandelier. The lobby was filled with hushed conversation coming from the clusters of gentlemen, all in their business attire. Clerks in dark suits graciously registered new guests. Francesca saw Grace instantly, as she was the only woman in the entire lobby. She was seated on a coach in the central lounge area, and two distinguished-looking gentlemen had paused to speak with her.

  Francesca inhaled for courage, smiled firmly, and started toward the woman who would be, in a way, her mother-in-law. Grace saw her and stood.

  Francesca smiled, because Grace was wearing a very severe gray suit, as plain and drab as Francesca’s navy blue one. However, the gray color did wonderful things to her fair complexion and brilliant red hair, which was tightly pinned back beneath a matching gray hat trimmed with black soutache. Her spectacles were hanging on a chain around her neck.

  “Hello,” Francesca said as they embraced. “I am sorry I am late.”

  “I understand. The case?”

  Francesca brightened. “We have several new leads today, and I am extremely hopeful,” she said.

  “That is wonderful,” Grace said, clearly meaning it.

  “Mrs. Bragg, good day.”

  Francesca turned as a
slim and dapper gentleman about Grace’s age paused to greet her. He was exceedingly well dressed, his complexion very fair, his eyes pale blue.

  Grace hesitated and Francesca thought she was trying to recall the gentleman’s name. “Mr. Murphy,” she smiled firmly, and Francesca realized she was wrong—Grace knew this gentleman and did not like him.

  “Yes, Tim Murphy. We met at a function in Washington, I believe.” He smiled at her. “I had heard you and your husband were back in the city and I wanted to say, ‘Welcome.’ ”

  Grace’s smile was cool. “How nice of you. May I introduce Miss Cahill?”

  Murphy turned and leveled his pale eyes on Francesca, smiling. “Any relation to Andrew Cahill?”

  She smiled politely. “He is my father,” she said.

  “Well, I am pleased to meet you then,” he said, taking her hand and politely lifting it. “Are you here for lunch?” he asked, his gaze now riveted on hers.

  “Yes.”

  “Do enjoy. Chef Tomas is wonderful.” He excused himself and left.

  Francesca glanced at Grace and saw her expression, clearly one of distaste. “Who was that?”

  “A Tammany rat,” she said calmly. “He is a good friend of Croker’s. I do believe he was in Van Wyck’s administration. Shall we go in?”

  Van Wyck had had one of the most corrupt administrations in the city’s history, and that on the heels of the reform administration of the previous mayor, Strong. Fortunately, Julia was not related to those Van Wycks. Francesca had been present at inauguration day to witness the happy event of Seth Low becoming the city’s mayor and great good-government white hope. Van Wyck had not dared stay for the ceremony, he was so unpopular and so disliked. He had slunk away without a word the moment he had handed over the ceremonial keys to the city. And it had been good riddance, too.

  They were ushered into an elegant dining room filled with gentlemen—the only women present. Grace clearly did not care and she accepted many greetings as they were led to their table. As they sat, she asked Francesca if she would like a glass of wine with lunch.

  “No thank you,” Francesca said. “I have far too much work to do this afternoon.”

  Grace asked the maître d’ to bring them tea, and when he had left, she smiled at Francesca. “I am very pleased that you could have lunch with me.”