Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

She smiled at him. “They’re lined with cashmere,” she said. Joel had been wearing rags on his hands. She’d sent one of the housemen out to buy him the hat and gloves.

  “Cashmere?” His eyes widened to impossible dimensions. “No kiddin’? I thought cashmere was only for rich folk!”

  “There’s no law that I know of which bars you from wearing cashmere,” Francesca said, smiling.

  Inside the precinct station, it was as quiet as outside. Captain Shea was at the front desk, but he was reading a newspaper and sipping a mug of steaming coffee. Another officer whom she recognized but did not know was actually snoring as he dozed, sitting in a chair behind the front desk. Francesca realized she had never been down to headquarters this early on a Sunday. It was so quiet. Not only were no complaints being lodged, but there were no fisticuffs or disgruntled felons about, and the constant pinging of the telegraph was absent. She realized she had come to like the sound.

  Shea saw her and put down his paper. “G’morning, Miz Cahill. What brings you downtown this early?” He was a black-haired fellow with graying temples and a pleasant smile. Francesca knew from her conversations with Bragg that Shea was actually honest. At one point, Bragg had considered promoting him—and appointing him chief of police. That would have been unheard of. In the end, he hadn’t done so, admitting that Shea was just not strong enough for the job.

  “I am on a case,” Francesca said, walking up to the front desk. Actually, she was on two cases—Lucy’s and Sarah’s. Lucy’s predicament seemed the more pressing, however, and that was where she would start. She wanted to dispatch the character who had accosted her as swiftly as possible, before any real harm was done.

  “I thought so. Hey, Tom! Sleepyhead, wake up! C’mish’s friend is here.” He jabbed Tom in the ribs but smiled at Francesca. “Police c’missioner isn’t here, Miz Cahill. But can we help?”

  “I do hope so,” she said, disappointed in spite of herself. An image of Bragg’s hard expression the night before swept through her mind. She shoved it aside, as she simply had too much to do.

  Besides, some people went to their graves without ever having found what she had found—which was the other half of her soul, a man who could complete her and make her whole.

  “Is there any chance I can take at look at the Rogues’ Gallery?” she asked, referring to the infamous mug book begun by an even more infamous—and crooked—earlier police chief, Thomas Byrnes. “I am afraid I can’t divulge any information, as the relationship between myself and my client is a confidential one, but Bragg has said that he does not mind.” She added for effect, “I had dinner with him and his entire family last night.”

  “Why don’t I set you up somewhere nice an’ private, say the conference room? An’ you can take all the time you need to look at the book.”

  Francesca thanked him, then winked at Joel when Shea wasn’t looking. Thank God there was a case to solve; otherwise she might be in bed, brooding.

  A few moments later, Francesca and Joel were seated at a long conference table in the room opposite Bragg’s office. His door was solidly closed. The upper half was a heavy frosted glass. Francesca knew he wasn’t there; still, she found herself staring at his door, as if expecting him to walk out at any moment.

  Shea entered, the mug book in his hands. “Here it is,” he said cheerfully. “Hope this helps. You need anything, just holler.”

  “Thank you,” Francesca said. When he was gone, she opened the book, Joel standing by her shoulder.

  “What did you say he looked like?” Joel asked. Francesca had already filled him in on most, but not all, of the details of what had happened. He did not know, however, that Lucy Savage had been accosted and that she was Bragg’s sister.

  “He is of medium build, but quite husky. His hair is dark and long; his eyes are blue. And there is a small scar on his right cheek.” Small, but it had been ugly.

  “Don’t ring no bells,” Joel remarked cheerfully, for he was also happy to be back at work again. They began carefully studying each page of the book. Each photograph was accompanied by the culprit’s name and a brief description of his or her vice. There were cutpurses and sandbaggers, cracksmen and moll buzzers, and almost every woman identified by the book was a shoplifter. They were all shady characters indeed. Francesca turned the page—and froze.

  There he was.

  “‘Joseph Craddock, rowdy, sharper, and rounder,’” Francesca read aloud on a long breath.

  “That’s him? That’s the thug?” Joel asked with excitement.

  “It most certainly is, only here he does not have his scar,” Francesca said, equally excited.

  “Should I put the word out on the streets?”

  “Absolutely.” Francesca faced him, leaving the book open. “Let’s offer a small reward for anyone who has information as to where he can be located. Say fifty dollars?”

  Joel’s eyes widened. “That ain’t no small reward!” he exclaimed.

  She patted his dark head. “I do want results. I must speak with this crook, sooner rather than later. I am sure he will approach my client again, Joel, but what if it isn’t for a few days? Then we shall lose valuable time.”

  He shook his head, grimacing. “I can’t let you throw away good money like that. Offer twenty, lady. It’ll do just as good.”

  “Just as fine,” she corrected gently. Still, she remained thrilled. Then she sobered. “Joel, what exactly is a rowdy, sharper, and rounder?”

  He laughed. “A rowdy’s lots of trouble. Probably been busted for fightin’, drinkin’, bullyin’, an’ all that. Sharper is a real crook, someone good at the swindle and the con. As for a rounder, that just means he’s been at it again and again.”

  “A repeat offender,” Francesca murmured. “Let’s find out if he has been in jail more than the one time that I know of.” She stood.

  Joel followed her downstairs. “Someone like that been in the calaboose more ’n once, I’d bet.”

  “I think so, too. I hope there is a big fat juicy file on him.” She smiled at the thought as she hurried to the front desk, the book tucked under her arm. “I do hope you can help, Captain,” she said with a wide smile. “For we have found our man.”

  “Let’s see what you got,” Shea said amiably, setting the paperwork he was now involved in aside.

  Francesca laid the mug book on the counter and opened it to the page with Craddock’s picture. The sergeant, Tom, came over curiously. “That’s the culprit. Craddock. Joseph Craddock. Do you know of him? Can I see if there is a file upon him?”

  “Hmm, he looks somewhat familiar, but after a few years on the job, they all start to look alike, don’t they, Tom?”

  “He’s as mean as the rest,” Tom agreed. “Name is familiar, though. I’ll bet we got a file on him a mile wide.”

  “Could you check?” Francesca asked eagerly.

  Tom looked at Shea, who nodded. Then the taller police officer left—only to return within a moment, a folder in hand. “We got him, all right.” He laid the folder on the desk and said, “I glanced at it. He got sent up to Kendall for extortion. But he’s been in and out of the Tombs a dozen times. Drunk ‘n’ disorderly, fistfighting, mostly. Still, he was charged with murder once. See?” He pointed at the page and Francesca did see. Someone named Lester Parridy had been strangled to death, and there had been a trial—the charges had been dropped.

  “Lots of civvy complaints against him, too. Some ladies been scared by him, it seems. Here’s one, Mrs. Van Arke. But she dropped her complaint an’ we dropped the charges then, too.”

  “The complaint was blackmail,” Francesca breathed. Extortion, blackmail, murder. She shivered. Was Lucy’s plight far worse than it seemed?

  “Yep. Just two years ago.”

  Francesca saw that the Van Arke file had been opened in April of 1900 and closed the following month. The woman’s address glared up at her—No. 250 Fifth Avenue. That would be an older home, far downtown, now swallowed up by a neighborhood of department s
tores and specialty shops. “When was Craddock released from Fort Kendall?” Francesca asked.

  “Looks like he got out in ‘96.” Shea blinked. “He didn’t go in until ’88. They sendin’ them up for six years now for extortion, Tom?”

  “Musta been a lot more than extortion.”

  “Either that or he was a real bad boy up there in the hold,” Shea said, shaking his head.

  “Can I copy this file?” Francesca asked. There was just too much valuable information. “And is that his last known address? Eighteen Allen Street?”

  Shea had opened his mouth, as if to agree, when he blinked, stiffened, and became oddly still.

  Francesca felt a breath on her neck, and she quickly turned.

  Brendan Farr, New York City’s newest chief of police, smiled at her. It did not reach his iron-gray eyes.

  “Chief,” she heard herself gasp, taking a step back, as he stood so closely to her. And then she smiled, but inwardly she tensed. “Goood morning,” she somehow said.

  Farr continued to smile, his gaze moving slowly, leisurely, past her. It fell on the open mug book and then on the equally open file. “Good morning, Miss Cahill. My, it is a surprise to see you here at headquarters on such a beautiful Sabbath morning.” He now gave her the same slow and careful scrutiny, but this time it was insulting, the once-over a man who is not a gentleman gives to a woman who is not a lady.

  She swallowed and told herself that she could manage this man and that she did not need to be intimidated. Nevertheless, he unnerved her. “I am waiting for the commissioner,” she lied. “And I was chatting with your men.” She tried out another false smile.

  It had no effect. “I see that.” He was a very tall man, in his late forties, with a strong, solid build and hair as gray as his eyes. He walked past her and looked at the mug book and then at the file. “I do believe you are studying police files, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca glanced nervously at Shea. “I am on a case, and I have asked for some help. I hope that was all right?” She smiled yet again. How ingratiating could she be?

  He snapped the book closed and then the folder. “I am afraid it is not all right, Miss Cahill. Police affairs are exactly that—police affairs.”

  She was so stiff, a pain began going up and down her neck. “My business is not police affairs. I have a client who has requested my services.”

  He smiled at her—it was not pleasant. “And I have a police force to run. There are rules. Rules and regulations. In any case, police files are confidential and not available to the public.” He stared. “Do I make myself clear?”

  She nodded. “I am sorry if I have overstepped my bounds. I did not know.”

  “Now you do know.” He smiled at her, the same mirthless smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Perhaps your client might better direct his or her requests to the police,” he said softly.

  Francesca could not think of a good reply. “I shall suggest it.”

  “Good.”

  “Sir?” Shea said nervously. “She’s a close friend of the c’mish, an’ he lets her do as she wants around here.”

  Francesca winced. Oh, how bad did that sound!

  “I am well aware of just how close Miss Cahill is to our commissioner,” Farr remarked suavely. Was there an innuendo there? Francesca thought so. Worse, she did not think Farr the kind of man to miss a single trick. “Nevertheless, rules are rules, and we do not share our information with civilians, Shea.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” Shea said, as if he were in the military.

  “Do not let it happen again.” Farr gave him a chilling look before sending an identical glance at Tom. “Suspensions will be in order next time.” He nodded at Francesca. “Good day, Miss Cahill.”

  There was no mistake about it; he was suggesting—strongly—that she leave.

  “Good day,” she said, and then she tensed again as he took the folder and tucked it under his arm and walked away. She glanced at Joel, unhappily surprised, then looked at Shea and Tom with real dismay. “I am so sorry,” she said.

  Shea flushed now. “Don’t worry about it, Miz Cahill. I got work to do.” He turned away.

  She felt like a pariah. And then she felt eyes on her from behind.

  She knew and she slowly turned around.

  Bragg stood in his dark brown greatcoat by the double front doors, unmoving. She wondered how long he had been standing there and how much he had heard. She was vastly relieved to see him, in spite of the terrible night before. But she did not smile, as she could not.

  He started forward, unsmiling as well. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. Bragg, I may have gotten Shea and Tom in some trouble.” She searched his eyes for a sign that he had had a change of heart—that he loved her far too much to ever consider ending their friendship. But he was too grim. Her heart sank with dismay.

  He also looked as if he had been up most of the night, tossing and turning.

  “So I heard,” he said quietly.

  “But you will protect them, won’t you?” she asked quietly, quickly.

  “I am not intending to be Farr’s nanny. He runs this department; I oversee it,” Bragg said. “It is important that he rule and regulate the men.”

  Francesca understood but was dismayed and appalled. “I don’t trust him.”

  “It’s not your place to trust him or mistrust him,” Bragg said. “And frankly, he is right. No other civilian could walk in here and charm my men in order to gain access to our files.” He did not look very happy now, and Francesca knew he was blaming himself.

  “I didn’t realize you would mind.”

  “There are rules, Francesca,” he said tiredly.

  She felt like she was losing him. But surely that could not be! “I’m sorry.” She hesitated, then said, “But this hasn’t been all bad. We got Randall’s killer and the Cross Murderer. Not to mention the fact that we found Jonny Burton alive.”

  “I know,” he said, softening, and his gaze moved slowly over her face. “But there are rules—and we have both been breaking them,” he said. He lowered his voice, so only Joel could overhear. “A consequence of our friendship.”

  She stared, dismayed.

  He stared back. And as softly, he said, “How are you?”

  “Not all that well,” she whispered. “And you?”

  “I have hardly slept,” he said, sending her a potent glance. “Sleep eludes me now. I hate fighting with you, Francesca.”

  “Then let’s never fight again,” she whispered.

  He smiled just a little and finally turned to Joel. “Hey, kid,” he said.

  Joel did not even attempt to smile at him. He sent him a black look.

  “I will not always be a copper, you know,” Bragg said.

  “But you’re the king of them now, ain’t you?” Joel glared. Having been in trouble with the police for most of his life, he was hardly fond of anyone associated with the leatherheads.

  Francesca sighed. “One day, I will tell you about the kind of lawyer Bragg was before he became police commissioner,” she said. “And you might change your opinion of him.”

  Joel shrugged.

  Bragg was regarding her. “So you are after one Joseph Craddock,” he said flatly. “A man who spent eight years in prison here in New York State.”

  “You heard?”

  He nodded. “He doesn’t sound like a savory sort, Francesca.”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t,” she said. “But he is most definitely the man I saw accosting Lucy last night.”

  Bragg walked over to the desk. “When Farr is finished with the Craddock file, put it on my desk,” he said.

  “Aye-aye, C’mish,” Shea said instantly.

  When Shea had walked away, they stepped closer to each other. “Craddock may have blackmailed a woman two years ago,” Francesca said in a low, hushed tone.

  “Is this what you think? That he is blackmailing my sister?” Bragg returned as quietly.

  She considered
the question. “I don’t know. But your family is very wealthy, and it is no secret.”

  Their gazes met. After a moment, Bragg spoke. “So that does beg the question—what is Lucy hiding?”

  Francesca looked at him. “I don’t know. But perhaps that is what we must find out.”

  Francesca arrived at the West Side Channing home alone. She had sent Joel off to spread word of the reward she was offering, while she had gone to Wells Fargo to send a telegram to the warden at Fort Kendall. She fervently hoped that she would hear from him later that day or early on Monday. And if he did not reply, then she would have to go to the Kendall prison herself and meet him directly. She had already learned it was about eight hours north of the city by train, on the Albany route.

  Evan’s coach was parked outside the house in the drive. As Francesca paid her cabbie, she was surprised. Then she thought about the fact that last night her brother had not been able to tell Sarah that he wished to end their engagement. She wondered if Sarah would be up to receiving him now.

  Francesca was ushered into the house immediately, and she saw her brother pacing in a salon adjacent to the hall—the one with the bear head rugs and gilded furniture. “Evan?”

  He halted upon seeing her. “Good morning, Fran.”

  Her brief smile faded; he was so grim. She walked over to him, lowering her voice. “Have you seen Sarah? How is she? What happened last night?”

  He sighed, his hands in the pockets of his brown tweed sack jacket. He appeared tired. “She seemed very weak last night, Fran,” he said with genuine concern. “Rourke wound up carrying her into the house and up to her bed. I stayed, of course, and Finney arrived. Her fever was a hundred and one.”

  Francesca went rigid with worry and surprise. “That is very high!”

  “I know. Finney said it is probably a severe case of the flu.”

  “And what did Rourke say?”

  “Not much. Which worries me, I confess.”

  She plucked his sleeve. “You do care about Sarah.”

  “Not that way, Fran. She is a nice girl, and the kind that would not even harm a fly. I hope she is not seriously ill.”