Deadly Desire

by Brenda Joyce

  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 leather-heads.

  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."

  Their gazes locked. The flu could kill its victims, especially the very young or the aged or infirm. Francesca hadn't thought of Sarah as being infirm, but now she recalled Rourke exclaiming that she was far too thin, that she was all bones.

  "What brings you here?" Evan asked.

  "The case," Francesca returned. "Let's talk for a moment, please."

  He nodded and they sat down in a pair of facing chairs.

  "Can you think of any young woman who, before your engagement, s
eemed especially enamored of you? Was any particular young lady trying harder than the others to win your heart—and your hand?"

  He sighed. "Actually, after you asked me this last night, I have been thinking about it. I cannot imagine any young lady in our set doing such a thing. If you want to know the truth, I think it is far more likely that the vandal was striking out at Bartolla. She is simply the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the city, and I see the way all men hope to attain her notice and admiration. She is not a young virginal lady, looking for marriage. Someone, perhaps another woman, might have been jilted because of her, and decided now to strike back. Or maybe an old lover of hers has just realized she is in town? There are many possibilities here," Evan said.

  "Yes, there are," Francesca agreed. "I suppose I must speak with Bartolla, again, although she hardly seems interested in helping solve this case. And of course, I do wish to see Sarah." Francesca got to her feet. "Evan? Have you changed your mind about leaving the company and moving out of the house?" she asked hopefully.

  His expression hardened. "I did not sleep last night. That is, I packed most of my bags, and they are in my front hall. After I leave here, I am picking them up and taking a room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel," he said. "So, no, I have hardly changed my mind."

  In a way, a terrible way, she was proud of him, because what Andrew was doing—and the way he was doing it— was so wrong. But she hated thinking ill in any way of her father, for he was her favorite person in the world, or at least, he had been—until Bragg. She sighed, resigned, when footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  As one, brother and sister turned. Rourke was trotting down the stairs, looking somewhat disheveled, as if he had had a restless night. His tie was askew, his suit jacket open, and he had a day's growth on his face. He carried a medical bag that was worn and shabby—Francesca suspected he had gotten it secondhand. Still, he was an extremely attractive man. Although he looked so much like Bragg, in a way he reminded her of Hart. Had he not been carrying his satchel, one might assume him to be a riverboat gambler, returning after a long and fruitful night.

  Evan leaned close. "Now he is available, and he is four years older than you," he whispered fervently in her ear. "Now, is that not perfect?"

  Francesca stabbed her heel on his instep.

  He yelped.

  Rourke smiled at them both. "It's nice to see that our family is not alone in behaving like a pack of cats and dogs. Good morning."

  Francesca smiled, but it was brief. "How is she?"

  "She is better," he said. "Her fever is down to just under a hundred. She is sleeping comfortably now."

  "That is good news!" Francesca exclaimed.

  "Well, it could be worse. Her fever was too high last night for comfort. Perhaps Finney is right and it is merely a cold. Fortunately it is not her lungs—I woke her to check them again. They are clear."

  "You feared pneumonia?" Francesca asked with dread.

  "She told me her back hurt, and it was my first thought. In any case, she should rest. And she certainly should not be burdened with anything right now." He did frown thoughtfully.

  "What is it?" Francesca asked.

  "Miss Channing has a large bruise on her upper arm. Her mother has no idea of how she got it."

  Francesca blinked. Last night Sarah had been wearing sleeves. "Surely she must have had an accident."

  Rourke turned his amber eyes on her. They were flecked with light gold. "It looks to me as if someone grabbed her in an excessively brutal manner."

  Francesca was stunned. "Well, there must be a simple explanation; did you ask Sarah?"

  "She was sleeping so soundly this morning when I arrived that I had no wish to awaken her." He glanced at Evan. "You can go up, Cahill, if you wish to sit and hold your fiancée's hand."

  "If she's asleep, I shall not disturb her," Evan returned.

  Rourke stared at him. It was impossible to read his eyes or fathom his expression. But Francesca felt that there was censure there, somewhere, lurking beneath the surface.

  Francesca was surprised when Rourke glanced at her and said, "I stole down to her studio last night. Lucy is right. She is rather brilliant, for such a tiny girl."

  "Yes, she is, and I am glad you think so," Francesca said, when Bartolla appeared on the stairs behind them, smiling. She was wearing an extremely fitted royal blue brocade suit and skirt, trimmed with paler blue fox at the cuffs and hem. A trio of sapphires winked from her throat. Her hair had been perfectly waved, with a few auburn tendrils escaping to wisp sensually about her face.

  Francesca introduced Rourke. "This is Bragg's brother Rourke, and this is the Countess Benevente."

  Bartolla shook her head. "You look so much like your brother! Of course, there is a difference, but it is obvious you are brothers—or twins."

  "We only look alike," Rourke assured her with a twinkle in his eye. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gallantly. "Rest assured I am far more clever, far more interesting, and far more amoral."

  Bartolla laughed. "Then I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance, as morality is a stiff bore."

  "It is indeed," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement and admiration. "Too bad you did not join us last night."

  "I am afraid I had other plans," Bartolla said. In truth, she had not been invited.

  "I vow that we shall not exclude you from our next family supper," Rourke declared.

  Bartolla laughed again.

  Evan stepped over to her, clearing his throat.

  She instantly turned, taking his hand, and from the way their gazes met, it was as if everyone else had disappeared.

  "How is Sarah this morning?" she asked earnestly.

  "Better, fortunately," Evan said, gazing intently at her now. Francesca glanced down and saw him squeeze her hand.

  She froze, in that instant wondering if they were lovers. She glanced at Rourke and knew he was wondering the exact same thing.

  Bartolla stepped away from Evan and said breezily, "I think I shall buy Sarah a gift. Something to cheer her up. She has been far too distressed ever since she found her studio vandalized. Hmm. I wager an art book would be just the thing to keep an artist preoccupied in bed."

  "I can think of better diversions for one confined to a bed," Rourke murmured.

  Bartolla glanced at him. "And so can I. But then, I am a widow, while Sarah is not yet a bride."

  "Ah, I do offer my condolences, Countess," Rourke said, and it was obvious he hardly regretted the count's death.

  "Thank you."

  "Bartolla is newly arrived here in the city," Evan said, stepping forward and between them. "I have been showing her the town. With Sarah, of course."

  "Of course," Rourke said dryly.

  "An art book is a wonderful idea," Francesca cut in. Everyone looked at her. She knew that they could not be lovers. Evan would not abuse his fiancée so, by cuckolding her with her cousin.

  Still, she knew firsthand how passion could break free of the bonds of morality and convention. And both Bartolla and Evan were far too experienced in matters of the heart.

  "My carriage is outside," Evan said, speaking only to Bartolla. "I can give you a lift downtown, if you like."

  "I would love a lift," Bartolla said with an expansive wave of her hand, but she never took her eyes from his face. "And I happen to be ready, as I do have an appointment this morning."

  It was not even eleven. Francesca wondered what kind of appointment Bartolla could possibly have on a Sunday morning, especially as she knew that she preferred not to arise, much less leave the house, until eleven. "Bartolla? I need to speak with you for a moment before you go."

  Bartolla seemed startled, as if she had forgotten France-sea's presence. "Oh! I hope this isn't about Sarah's studio?"

  "It is."

  "Don't tell me you still think someone deliberately damaged my portrait—and this is about me?" she exclaimed, clearly amused.

  "It's a possibility," Francesca said. "One we
must consider. And the portrait was slashed to ribbons—viciously, I might add."

  "My dear, I hardly care." She laughed.

  "Bartolla." Evan touched her arm. "Maybe you should be worried—maybe the vandal was striking out at you and not at Sarah. I think that is far more likely. I can wait until you have had a chance to speak with Francesca."

  "But I do have an appointment," she said lightly. "I must get to midtown. Evan dear, do not worry about me!"

  "Of course I worry," he said huskily. "I should hate to see anything ill befall you—or Sarah," he added quickly.

  Rourke made an insulting sound.

  Evan gave him a very cool look.

  "I am leaving," Rourke said. "And as I am going uptown to Hart's, I will not offer the countess a ride. It was a pleasure, madam."

  "Please, do call me Bartolla; all of my friends do."

  He lifted her hand again. "I am sure our paths shall cross again, Bartolla." He smiled at Francesca. "Good luck, Miss Cahill. Do keep my feckless brother out of harm's way." He chuckled, then nodded at Evan and strode out.

  When he was gone, Francesca took Bartolla's hand. "Give me just a moment, please," she said, realizing that with Bartolla being so difficult, she would have to begin the interview alone—and maybe even conclude it that way, too.

  "I am running late already," Bartolla said pleasantly, but it was clear she intended to remain as stubborn as a mule.

  "Just one moment," Francesca said, feeling pressured to get right to the point. "Do you have enemies?" she asked.

  Bartolla seemed amused. "Who does not?"

  "Seriously, Bartolla. Please, do take this seriously."

  "Yes, Francesca, of course I have enemies."

  "Who are they? I need names," Francesca said.

  Bartolla sighed. "Do you want the truth?"

  She nodded.

  "Before I married the count, when I was only sixteen, I came out here in the city. I stole a dozen young men from their sweethearts." Bartolla shook her head. "I was rather a flirt, as a young girl," she said. "And to make matters even worse, I broke too many young male hearts to even count."

  "Could any of these women—"

  "I don't know," Bartolla said, interrupting. "But if you want to know who really hates me, why, it is the count's family."