Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  She touched his arm. "Tell me the real truth. Do you really want to give up everything you have worked your entire life for?"

  He turned and stared at her.

  "Bragg?" she prompted. "What if I never married another man? What if I devoted myself to crime-solving and reform, growing old as a spinster? What would your choice be then?"

  It was hard to tell in the darkness of the cab, but he seemed to flush. He inhaled harshly. "I do not want to end my own career. How could I? There is so much to be done! The police department in this city is just the beginning. If I lived to be a hundred, I could not accomplish all that I must." He was excessively grim. "But this is not a perfect world, Francesca. One must compromise and make choices. Your scenario is absurd. You are an amazing and unique woman. Perhaps I am the only man to fully understand and appreciate you, but did you not see how many men wished to make your acquaintance at the Channing ball? If I do not come forward, and soon, one of them will. I have made my choice, Francesca."

  She looked at him and now he looked away. She sensed then that his choice was not as absolute and firm as he had made it out to be. He was a great man, a natural leader, and a true reformer. He did not want to really give it all up. But he did not want to lose her, either. How could she solve this dilemma? "I am going to make you a promise, Bragg," she said thoughtfully.

  His gaze met hers.

  She smiled just a little and took his hand in her left one, squeezing it hard. "I will never give my heart to another man. My heart will always belong to you," she said.

  His face softened. "This is why I love you so." He swept her up into his arms, hard, and held her that way briefly. When he released her, he said, "You are twenty years old. I refuse to accept such a pledge. For God forbid there might come a day when you regret it."

  "I will never regret it, and you have it, now," she whispered. "I am the kind of woman to only love once, Bragg."

  "I hate to tell you, Francesca, there are many different ways to love. Life's paths are surprising. You might be surprised, one day, when you find yourself on a road you never dreamed of." He was very serious now.

  He simply did not understand. "Does this mean you have realized a divorce is not a good idea?" she asked.

  He hesitated. "No."

  "You are still going to approach Leigh Anne?" she asked, alarmed.

  "Not immediately. Perhaps I am rushing things." He smiled just a little and pulled her against his side. "Maybe if you and I continue this discussion, we can come to terms that satisfy us both."

  She blinked. "What does that mean?"

  He smiled. "You realize you cannot live without me and agree to become my wife while supporting my decision to divorce."

  His tone was light now, so she smiled. But she began to tremble, with fear. He remained set in his decision, too. There was, however, one solution to this terrible impasse. It was a long moment before she could speak.

  "There is another solution, here," she said hoarsely. "A way to navigate through the waters of the present before we must face the seas of the future."

  He met her gaze, mildly perplexed. "Is there?"

  "Yes," she cried. "Make me your mistress, Bragg."

  His answer was instantaneous. "Absolutely not."

  The cab had halted in the snow-dusted driveway before the front steps of the Cahill mansion. Neither one of them moved. Francesca sat in the far corner of the backseat, angry and upset. Bragg was staring out his own window. The driver coughed.

  "One moment," Bragg said. "I wish you to wait for me."

  He pushed open his door then and jumped out, slipping a little on the frozen, icy snow. He turned and looked into the cab.

  Francesca finally met his gaze. "Why not?" she asked, choked up with tears. "I have thought about this very carefully."

  "No, you haven't thought about this at all. Either that, or you do not know me at all," he said grimly. He held out his hand.

  She took it reluctantly and allowed him to help her down from the cab. His hand touched the small of her back. It felt so right—it felt so wrong. They started carefully up the short stone walkway to the front steps of the imposing limestone house. "I know you the way I know myself," she said. "Sometimes we think the exact same thoughts, or it is as if you read my mind."

  "No. You do not know my thoughts." He clasped her hand hard and pulled her about to face him. "You deserve more than being a man's plaything, Francesca. You deserve to be a man's wife, his partner, the mother of his children. I would be afflicted with guilt every time I looked at you if I took you as a mistress. Do you know how corrosive guilt is?"

  Tears began to moisten her eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

  "And I also know that sooner or later you would have many conflicting emotions. Most important, sooner or later there would be shame. Because our secret would not last long." He touched her cheek. "How long would you remain in love with me, while filled with shame?"

  She pulled away from him and crossed her arms tightly, so tightly it was hard to breathe. Or maybe the air had changed, becoming thick and unpalatable, or maybe it was something else.

  "And how would you feel if the day ever came when you came face-to-face with my wife, while you were my mistress?" he asked simply.

  "Stop!" His words felt like a knife now, inside her heart.

  "I told you once I respect you far too much to treat you the way other men treat women like Georgette de Labouche and Daisy Jones," he said softly. "Don't cry. My respect for you is no less than what you deserve. And what about Andrew? Good God, he is my friend. I respect and admire your father, Francesca. I could never betray him by using his daughter in such a manner."

  Everything he said was right, which was why it hurt so much. "So where does that leave us?" she asked. "Where, Bragg? If I cannot let you divorce your wife and you will not make me your lover, then where do we go from here? And how do we get there?"

  He stared, dropping her hand. And something impossibly sad crossed his face, filled his eyes. "I don't know. Our friendship is becoming an impossible one."

  "No." It was a gasp, a horrified one.

  He held her gaze, not speaking.

  "Do not even think it!" He had not been about to suggest they end their friendship. "The one thing I refuse to do is lose you as a friend. It is simply not a possibility, Bragg!" she cried desperately.

  "We shouldn't be alone," he said bluntly. "And you know it."

  She stared, but he was not in focus. She realized that her vision was blurred from all her tears. "I had better go inside," she said stiffly. "Thank you for seeing me home."

  He nodded and walked her to the front door, this time not touching her.

  And when he was gone, Francesca stared blindly out a window at the deserted and snowy avenue, in the throes of sheer fear.

  This could not be happening.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902 — 9:00 A.M.

  "Nuthin's changed," Joel Kennedy said with a scowl. "Ain't been no flood or hurricane."

  They had just alighted from a cab and now stood in front of police headquarters, a squat brownstone building that Joel was clearly unhappy to see still standing. Mulberry Street was eerily deserted, but then, it was quite early on a Sunday morning and Francesca suspected that most hooks and crooks had been up into the wee hours of the morning the night before. Bragg's motorcar was not parked in front of the brownstone building. She was relieved.

  What had happened between them the night before was terrifying. She could not face him just yet. It was still hard to think clearly; she only knew that she did love him and they would, somehow, find a solution to the terrible impasse they now found themselves in.

  It was cold. Last night the temperature had apparently dropped to eight degrees above zero; today it remained about the same. "Let's get inside," Francesca said, shivering. "How do you like your new gloves and hat?" she asked.

  As they walked past two uniformed policemen who seemed oblivious to them, Joel grinned. "Real leather an' lined with woo
l. I like 'em a lot, Miz Cahill. Thanks."

  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. Drank 'n' disorderly, fist fighting, 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 stores 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."