Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  It was only a studio. It was only a room. So what if one canvas had been destroyed? Nothing else had happened. There was no reason for her to feel so ill every time she thought about it. Or was there?

  She closed her eyes, vaguely aware of Evan and Bartolla in quiet conversation behind her. Her stomach felt violently ill now, and in the shadows of her mind there was a threat. Lurking in the black fog, somewhere, was something terrible, or someone.

  She shivered and suddenly felt eyes upon her.

  In the shadows there was a man. A terrible, terrible man.

  The sensation of being watched increased. Sarah had begun to shake when her arm was seized from behind. She cried out, whirling, and came face-to-face with wide topaz eyes and a hank of dusty blond-brown hair falling directly into them.

  “Miss Channing?”

  Sarah pulled away. Her vision cleared, and she came face-to-face with Rourke Bragg.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his amber eyes unwavering upon hers.

  She did not like the way he stared. And she liked even less the fact that when she had been terribly ill and afraid, he had decided to be her doctor. Why, he wasn’t even a doctor—he was only a medical student. And she realized his hand remained on her wrist. She pulled away. “I am fine. Good day, Mr. Bragg.”

  He eyed her as if he did not believe her, then smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “You seem so sad,” he said.

  “I am hardly sad,” she snapped. Not that it was his business!

  “No?” He gestured with his head toward the couple on the bed, darkness coming to his eyes. “You truly have every reason to be angry, not sad.”

  She knew what he meant. She shrugged. “I don’t care. She is beautiful. He should be marrying her.”

  Rourke shook his head with disbelief. “I can’t believe you mean that.”

  He was annoying her again. “I do,” she said tartly. “And what do you really care about my feelings, Mr. Bragg?”

  He stiffened. “I happen to be in the healing profession. It is my nature to care. It is why I shall one day become a doctor.”

  She felt terrible for being so rude. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what overcame me . . .” She trailed off. She knew why he made her so uncomfortable. She felt very certain he had seen her skinny body unclothed when she was feverish, and she didn’t like it, not one bit. But she was too embarrassed to ask if the vague recollections she had of being ill and naked in his arms were true.

  “How is that bruise?” he asked.

  “Better.” She turned toward Evan and Bartolla. They had their heads together and Evan was chuckling over some misadventure being related by the countess.

  “He is a fool,” Rourke said. “I feel sorry for him.”

  Sarah had no idea what he meant. She squared her shoulders. “I think he is kind and gallant. Unlike most men.” She gave him a significant look.

  Rourke laughed, hard. “I am not insulted,” he said, still chuckling. “You know, appearances are truly deceiving, are they not? You are not a timid little mouse at all. One day, your forward manner will get you into trouble, my girl.”

  So now he was insulting her? “I am not your girl,” she snapped.

  “You do not have to tell me that!” he returned as swiftly.

  That gave her pause. He was rather good-looking, in that golden Bragg way—if one was in the habit of admiring men, which she was not. Then she gave it up. She was an artist, and while she preferred painting women and children, she had an artist’s eye and the man confronting her was simply gorgeous. He had those uniquely high cheekbones, inherited from some Indian ancestor, a straight, strong nose, a cleft chin, not to mention intriguing dimples. He was tall, six feet or so, with very broad shoulders and very slim hips. Undoubtedly he had a lady he was seriously courting back in Philadelphia—which was fine with her. More than fine, in fact.

  It was an oddly comforting notion.

  “You are undressing me with your big brown eyes,” he said, a soft, soft murmur.

  She jumped. “I beg your pardon!” But even as she spoke, she knew she had been taking a very personal inventory of his lean thighs and she felt heat growing in her cheeks. “I was doing no such thing!”

  “And this brings to mind a question I would like to ask you,” he said firmly.

  Sarah nodded, desperate to get their encounter over with, desperate to leave the room.

  “Hart mentioned something to me about a casual supper this Friday night. We are going to an opening of a gallery first. He thought you might wish to join us,” Rourke said, his usually mobile face quite expressionless.

  Her heart leaped. Calder Hart was a world-famous collector of art, and he had recently commissioned Francesca Cahill’s portrait from her. That commission might give her some renown in the art world. Sarah could think of nothing more enjoyable—or frightening—than an evening spent in his company, discussing art. She wondered if he might give her a viewing of his own extensive collection at some point in the evening. She prayed it would be so. She opened her mouth to reply and could not get a single word out.

  Rourke laughed, clasping her shoulder with a large, strong palm. “I take it that is a yes?”

  Feeling like a fool, Sarah nodded. And finally, she got the words out. “Oh yes. An evening with Mr. Hart. Oh, yes indeed, I would not miss it for the world!”

  His expression odd, Rourke said, “Good. I’ll pick you up at five.”

  “What do we do about Miss Neville now?” Francesca asked seriously. They had paused on 10th Street, not far from the front door of Number 202.

  “We continue to follow any leads which come our way. If she is alive, we will find her. If not, we will find her body.”

  “What a grim thought.” Francesca shivered. Her mind continued to analyze each twist and turn of their new case. “I think Sarah confronted our killer, Bragg.”

  He started. “Did she say something? And if she has seen him, why hasn’t she said so?”

  “She is having nightmares about the vandalism, and in each and every dream she finally faces a man whom she cannot see.”

  Bragg’s eagerness vanished. He shook his head. “Francesca, that hardly means she witnessed anything. She remains distressed enough to be having nightmares.”

  “I have a very strong feeling,” she said. And then she sighed. She had an errand she must do, one she very much regretted.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

  “I am going uptown to Barnard to cancel my enrollment there,” she said softly. How the very notion hurt, but she had concluded that there was no other choice. She had gone to great pains to enroll secretly—so her mother might never know. She had been so certain she could attain her AB degree. It had been a goal of hers for years.

  “Francesca, you must not drop out!” Bragg exclaimed.

  “I fear I have no choice,” she said, meeting his wide, concerned eyes. “I have no time to study. I missed an entire week of classes due to my burned hand. Now we are hot on the trail of another killer. I fear a life of crime-solving is far too busy to include the pursuit of a higher education.”

  “Francesca, I know how much your studies mean to you, and I am firmly against your letting them go. Could you not speak with the dean and see if you could continue on a part-time basis?”

  She hesitated. “I thought about it. But, Bragg, there is so little time!”

  “Of course, you must do what you think is best,” he said, clearly not supporting her decision.

  “Well, I shall see what the dean says. She rather liked me . . . initially.”

  “Perhaps she will suggest the solution I have posed,” he said easily. Then he faced her more seriously. “I have several meetings I must attend, but I do hope to speak with LeFarge later this afternoon.”

  Andrew LeFarge—the owner of several gambling halls—the man to whom Evan owed a small fortune. She grabbed his sleeve. “I must come with you.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Why? Because
he almost killed my brother?” There was simply no possibility that she would not go with him to speak with LeFarge. “He may be our murderer!”

  “Yes, he may. But even if he is not, he is a very dangerous man. He lives outside of the law. I don’t want him even taking a single glance at you, Francesca. Why don’t you visit the several galleries Newman and Hickey found? That would be incredibly helpful, especially if you found someone who knew Miss Neville.”

  It was simply unacceptable that she could not interview Andrew LeFarge. “You are trying to distract me! The galleries can wait until tomorrow.” Her mind raced. “I have the time now. Perhaps I will interview him alone.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “Fine! But that is blackmail, Francesca, and you know it.”

  She smiled happily. “It did work.”

  “I will pick you up at five,” he said.

  They were ushered into a stately mansion by a British servant. Francesca was more than surprised as the man took Bragg’s card, placed it on a silver tray, and hurried away to give it to his employer. Removing her coat, Francesca glanced around the elegant hall. Oak floors gleamed underfoot, and several pleasant paintings graced the wood-paneled walls. Through an arched entryway she saw another reception hall, this one decorated in red and gold with a magnificent chandelier. Other doors leading off the entry were firmly closed.

  “This man appears to be a gentleman,” she whispered.

  “His reputation precedes him and he is not welcome in polite circles,” Bragg remarked. “He is also a huge supporter of Tammany, Francesca.”

  “Does all of his wealth come from indebted gentlemen?”

  “He has three ‘saloons’ in the city. If he has other investments, we do not know about them,” Bragg said as the servant returned, another gentleman with him.

  LeFarge was short and husky and he had donned a blue velvet smoking jacket over his white shirt and evening trousers. Matching velvet slippers monogrammed in gold with the initials ALF were upon his rather small feet. He had a large nose, fathomless dark eyes, heavy black brows, and a warm, slightly amused smile on his face. “Commissioner Bragg!” he cried effusively. “What a delight, my good man.”

  Bragg nodded politely. “Good evening, Mr. LeFarge. I am afraid I am here on police business.”

  “Really?” LeFarge blinked innocently, then smiled warmly at Francesca, extending his hand. “What a lovely lady! Miss . . . ?”

  This man was responsible for having her brother beaten almost to death. Francesca did not extend her hand. “My name is Cahill,” she said softly as the anger began to build within her in wave after frightening wave. “Miss Francesca Cahill.”

  “I should have guessed,” he said, dropping his hand but continuing to smile. “The infamous lady investigator! Do, please, come in. I am dressing for an affair, but I can give you both a few moments.”

  He turned away, reaching for a pair of heavy rosewood doors. His portrait was on the wall on the left, and in it he was in a military uniform that appeared to be nineteenth-century and French. The pose was also Napoleonic. Francesca halted before the portrait, not at all amused. In it, LeFarge did resemble Bonaparte.

  Bragg instantly took her arm, his gaze locking with hers, a warning there. Francesca had begun to shake. But she understood, and she nodded. She must control herself.

  He nodded in return and they followed their host into a magnificent salon.

  “Can I offer you refreshments?” LeFarge asked, gesturing at a red velvet settee flanked by a pair of darker red damask chairs. “A scotch, Commissioner? A sherry for the lady?”

  “We will be brief,” Bragg said.

  Francesca realized she had folded her arms tightly across her chest. She sat down stiffly on the edge of one damask chair as LeFarge poured himself a scotch from a crystal decanter on a bar cart. He lifted the glass at them both, smiling. “To our city’s finest police officer and its finest amateur sleuth.”

  Francesca trembled. The words were there, on the tip of her tongue: Did you kill Grace Conway? Did you assault Sarah Channing? Did you think to get at my brother for his debts in this way? But she said nothing—she simply stared.

  And over the rim of his glass, he stared back at her, his eyes turning black.

  She shivered, certain that a threat was there.

  “Can you recount to me where you were Monday morning?” Bragg asked.

  LeFarge looked surprised. “I was here in my library until noon. I spend every morning going over my business affairs,” he said.

  “And then you went out?”

  LeFarge seemed amused, and he sipped from his drink. “I had lunch with Harold Levy and Jacob Cohen at the Waldorf Astoria, my good sir. Our luncheon was at one. It went an hour or two. Might I ask why you are posing these particular questions?”

  Bragg smiled grimly. “A friend of Evan Cahill’s was murdered on Monday, Mr. LeFarge.”

  He seemed shocked. “Is it anyone I know? And how is Evan handling it? Oh, do send him my regards!” he cried.

  Francesca stood up—she had had enough.

  “Francesca,” Bragg warned.

  She knew she had lost all of her control. She did not care. “Do not dare to pretend that you are a friend of my brother’s!” she cried.

  “But I am. I see him frequently, several times a week, if not more. He is a constant guest in my saloons. I am very sorry a friend of your brother’s has been killed.” He seemed compassionate.

  “Miss Conway was murdered,” she said rigidly.

  Bragg took her arm.

  LeFarge set his glass down. “Not Grace Conway, the lovely actress?” He seemed genuinely stunned.

  “Unfortunately, Miss Conway has been murdered,” Bragg confirmed.

  “And you think I had something to do with it?” He laughed. “Commissioner, you are barking up the wrong tree! My business is money—not murder!”

  “Where did you go after your luncheon with the gentlemen Levy and Cohen?”

  “To the Royal,” he said. “I was there all evening, and you may ask anyone.” He continued to smile and then finished his scotch.

  “How well did you know Grace Conway?” Francesca asked coldly.

  He faced her. “Not well. But she came in with your brother quite often. I had actually hoped to entice her to supper, should she ever tire of Evan. I am so sorry she is dead.”

  Francesca stared, not believing a single word he said.

  He raised both brows and met her stare, his gaze unwavering and steady. Then he said, “Do give Evan my regrets.”

  Francesca turned and walked out.

  But not before she heard Bragg say, “Evan Cahill is a personal friend of mine, LeFarge. I am extremely concerned for his welfare. He himself has recently had an accident. But then, I think you know that?”

  “No! I hadn’t heard! Is he all right?” LeFarge gasped.

  “He is fine. And I intend for him to stay that way. In fact, should anything befall him again, I will make certain that the responsible party never sees the light of day again. That is, I shall toss him in the cooler in the basement of headquarters and throw away the key.”

  LeFarge chuckled. “How melodramatic you are, my good man. I can hardly imagine you violating the letter of the law that you are sworn to uphold. Commissioner, I have to go. But would you meet me for a drink, say tomorrow evening? I think we can continue this discussion then.”

  “I’m afraid I have other plans,” Bragg said.

  Francesca was waiting on the other side of the doorway. She watched LeFarge shrug, clearly unperturbed. “And that, my good man, is your loss.” He saluted them both with his now empty glass.

  Francesca and Bragg walked out.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 1902—11:00 A.M.

  RICK BRAGG STOOD WITH his arms folded across his chest, in his shirtsleeves, gazing out the window of his office. Below, Mulberry Street remained a land of hoodlums and cheats. Even now, with several police office
rs loitering within his view, not far from his double-parked roadster, he watched a cutpurse strip the wallet from a gentleman who was on his way to headquarters. Farther down the block, a brawl was imminent, as two louts, both clearly drunken, were shouting and about to engage in punches and blows.

  The brownstone across the street was where the city’s newsmen loitered, awaiting scoops for their respective newspapers. He could clearly see into the window of one apartment, where several reporters were sipping coffee and standing about gossiping. He recognized one of them as Arthur Kurland from the Sun. The newsman had proven himself an adversary, perhaps even a dangerous one. However, Kurland might prove very useful where LeFarge was concerned. Bragg hoped to learn whatever he could about the gambling hall owner from the newsman.

  Several drays were slowly passing by, as was a hansom. But most of the traffic below Bragg was on foot. He saw the entire familiar scene, yet in a way he also saw none of it. He was thoroughly preoccupied.

  There were no new leads on the Conway Murder, and because of the possible involvement of Francesca’s brother, Bragg was extremely concerned. Had Evan not been the connection between Grace Conway and Sarah Channing, he would not have involved himself in the case at all, as his job was to manage the entire police department, not to undertake the investigation of a single crime.

  Had Grace Conway’s murder been a brutal accident? Or was Sarah Channing lucky to be alive?

  Were they dealing with a vandal . . . or a killer . . . or both?

  At all costs, he did not want Francesca hurt by any of this, which meant he must protect her brother no matter what transpired.

  Suddenly he started. A hansom had stopped on the block below his window and Francesca was alighting from the cab. He smiled instantly—she always brought a smile to his face—and then he felt his smile vanish. Francesca was an amazing woman—there was no woman he respected or admired more. He had never meant to become so terribly fond of her. He hadn’t meant to fall in love, not with her or any other woman—he hadn’t thought it possible, actually. For as much as he had cared for the few women he had been with since his separation, when Leigh Anne had left him, something within him had died.