Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

This man had openly professed his absolute disinterest in marriage when they had first met as near strangers. Now, months later, he had reversed himself. Why?

  Francesca was hardly a fool. She knew she had some charm, but she wasn’t half as beautiful as the women she had seen him with.

  Still, she knew with her entire heart that he was genuinely fond of her. Of that she was certain.

  But a man like Calder Hart didn’t marry a woman because he was fond of her. What should she do?

  The solution was simple: Carry on as they were and do nothing.

  She trembled and turned away from him, closing her eyes tightly, stunned at the disappointment surging within her. And a terrible image of her in a wedding dress and veil, walking down the aisle of a church with Calder Hart waiting for her at its end, assailed her then.

  “Francesca? You are clearly upset with me. I am beginning to think my sweet sister Lucy has said something to you. She is the worst gossip.” He spoke very quietly, and no matter how she tried to tug her hand free of his, he would not let it go.

  “I am fine. I am not upset with you. You have been nothing but kind,” Francesca said, not looking at him.

  “Sir?” Alfred entered the room. “Commissioner Bragg is here and he insists upon seeing Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca jerked, her heart lurching, facing the doorway. Bragg strode in, past Alfred, looking very grim. No, he was more than grim; he was angry.

  Hart shoved back his chair and slowly stood. “I wondered how long it would take you to come,” he said mockingly. “I take it your wife sleeps in?”

  Bragg did not look away from Francesca, although she saw his eyes darken even more. “Get out, Calder,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon,” Hart said smoothly. “This is my home. If anyone is to leave, it is you.”

  Bragg whirled.

  Francesca sensed he was about to strike his half brother in earnest and she leaped to her feet. “Not now!” she cried nervously.

  Hart smiled unpleasantly at Bragg, clearly waiting for a blow and relishing the opportunity to strike back.

  “Calder, would you leave us for a moment?” she pleaded, walking over to him and touching his hand.

  He started and met her eyes. Then, with real disgust, he nodded and strode out.

  He had left both doors wide open. Francesca walked to them and closed them solidly. Then she paused to take a deep breath before facing Rick Bragg.

  “You were attacked last night! And I learn of that this morning at headquarters?” He was as disbelieving as he was angry.

  She remained standing with the doors at her back, her hands behind her on the brass handles. She didn’t know how to respond, but the one thing that had always been there between them was honesty and truth. “I went to you first,” she said, and heard how rough her own tone sounded.

  He stared—and his eyes widened with stark comprehension.

  “Leigh Anne said you were asleep.” Francesca held his gaze. She fought not to tremble. She fought to smile. “I had clearly come at an inopportune time. I left.” She squared her shoulders with all the dignity she could muster.

  He was turning red.

  Francesca raised her hand, sensing an explanation—one she did not want to hear. “I made a huge mistake. I should have never called at such an hour. You are married—rightfully so. Do not explain. Please, do not.”

  “Damn it!” he cried. “You don’t understand—I don’t even understand! How badly were you hurt? Newman made light of the attack.” He came forward but paused before her and did not move to touch her.

  How odd that was. Because once, not so long ago, he would have swept her into his arms, held her, comforted her, loved her. Once upon a time, he had been her safest harbor. But all of that had changed in one fell swoop last evening. Or had it been changing for some time? She opened her mouth to tell him that she was fine, thinking that it was better this way, not to discuss his private life, his intimate affairs.

  Yet once, they had been able to share everything. Now his wife stood between them as solidly as a brick wall. It was impossible to speak.

  He cursed again, savagely, turned away, ran his hand through his dusty golden hair. It was shaking. Then he faced her, shoving his hands abruptly in the pockets of his wool suit jacket, as if to restrain them there. “Are you all right? You look terrible. Your face is scratched and bruised. Your neck . . .” He could no longer speak, either.

  She had to turn away from him. Because in spite of the evening he had shared last night with his wife, it was so evident that he still cared. When did life become so terribly complex? So incomprehensible? she wondered.

  “Francesca, please.”

  She finally met his frantic gaze. “I survived. I am a bit bruised and I was frightened, I admit, but it is not as terrible as it looks.” She hesitated as he stared, then added, “We lied to Mama. It does no good to tell her I was attacked. She thinks I fell on a patch of ice.”

  “You had better change your shirtwaist,” he said grimly.

  Francesca nodded. The collar of her white shirt was too low to hide the bruising on her neck and throat.

  “I want you to tell me everything that happened. Do not omit a single detail.”

  Francesca walked away from the door and realized she was putting more space between them. But the need was instinctive now. Not turning, her hands idle on the dining table, she told him about her conversation with LeFarge and finding Thomas Neville at the Royal. She then revealed that Evan and Thomas were well acquainted and that Melinda Neville had wished to paint Evan’s portrait—that he had lied about not knowing her. And when she had walked out of the saloon, she had been attacked just a moment later.

  Francesca tensed, remembering being seized without warning from behind. The memory was so vivid and acute that it felt real. As if the assault were happening all over again. “I never even heard him come up behind me, Bragg,” she whispered. “He was so swift that I never got a look at him. He dragged me into the alley and shoved me against the wall and . . .” She stopped. “You know the rest.”

  He cursed. “Hoeltz has confessed nothing, Francesca. And we kept him overnight—so he is not our man.”

  Francesca stared at him. She was sweating, she realized, and a knot of fear curdled her insides and stiffened her spine. “It’s not Hoeltz, Bragg.”

  He started. “Newman said you could not identify the assailant.”

  She swallowed. “It’s Brendan Farr.”

  Bragg gasped. “What?”

  “I thought it was Hoeltz. Every clue, every indication, pointed to the jilted lover who loved too much. Obviously he could have been attacking Melinda’s studio in a rage for her rejection, and perhaps even Melinda herself, when he was interrupted and seen by Grace Conway. How simple it would be to say that Hoeltz murdered her to hide the deed—and did the same to Miss Holmes. I might even speculate that he struck out at Sarah first because she was a substitute for his mistress—but that act was simply not enough. And then he struck out at me, because I was getting too close to uncovering the truth.” She smiled grimly at Bragg. “I have even suspected Thomas Neville of being our strangler, of having a love-hate relationship with his sister, of attacking Sarah and then Melinda just as I have described Hoeltz doing. But it’s not Thomas Neville.”

  “You have just accused my chief of police of being the strangler, Francesca. Do you realize how serious that accusation is?” His eyes remained hard, wide. His expression was extremely grim. “What evidence do you have?”

  She had to sit down. She grasped the table now, revolted by every memory of the attack that she had. She swallowed. “Before Farr left this house last night, I overheard him making a comment about Calder. He said, ‘Everyone knows Calder Hart enjoys his whores.’ And then he looked at me over his shoulder—and then he left.”

  Bragg walked over to her. “That is the evidence you have?” He was incredulous.

  “I know.” She looked down at her hands, realized they were tremblin
g, and hid them on her lap. “In the light of day, it sounds foolish, absurd.” She knew she wasn’t wrong.

  “You must be wrong,” Bragg said firmly. “You have no evidence, not a single clue!”

  “The only evidence I have is the feeling in my heart,” she said, meeting his gaze and aware of how foolish and unprofessional she sounded. She added, “I am terrified of him now.”

  Bragg seemed an instant away from reaching for her. Francesca sensed that he fought himself, and in the end his self-discipline won. “In the past, you have had excellent instincts,” he said slowly.

  Francesca nodded. “Yes, I have.”

  Bragg sat down at the table beside her, finally taking both of her hands in his. “Give me his motivation, Francesca,” he said.

  She inhaled and realized that she was trembling. “He hates me.”

  Bragg stared, trying not to appear incredulous, but she saw that he was.

  She wet her lips. “He hates me, and all women, I think. The strangler hates all women, Bragg.”

  “We do not know that Farr hates women. I understand he has a mistress.”

  “He’s not married, is he?”

  “He has never been married,” Bragg said slowly.

  “How odd,” Francesca said tersely. Then, “When this investigation started, my brother was the single link between Sarah and Miss Conway.”

  He searched her gaze with his own eyes. “Are you suggesting that my chief of police wished to strike at you through your brother?” Again, he tried to keep his expression impassive, but Francesca saw the disbelief in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “And Melinda and Miss Holmes got in his way.”

  A long moment passed. Bragg stared. “So what does he wish to gain? Has he attacked Sarah and Miss Conway merely to cause trouble for your brother? To make him and your family suffer? To see you suffer?”

  “Someone leaked the news of my brother’s involvement to the press,” Francesca said.

  “That could have been anyone,” Bragg said, somewhat angrily.

  “Someone impersonated a police officer, dismissing the guards at the Channing residence.”

  He stared.

  “Our killer is a madman,” she added, their gazes locked as if with a padlock and key.

  Bragg was grim, understanding. No one need understand the motivation of an insane killer perfectly. Reflectively he said, “He also despises me.”

  “The strangler has been enjoying himself, Bragg, and not just sexually.” She shuddered, but it was true. “He is fearless.”

  Bragg stood abruptly. “I think you’re wrong. But I am not going to dismiss your theory completely. I want this kept extremely quiet,” he said. “I will have Peter keep a very discreet eye upon him.”

  Francesca swallowed. “That is a good idea.” She understood that he could not have a police officer shadowing his own chief of police. “I also have an idea,” she said hesitantly, her heart accelerating with sudden fear. Could she really do this?

  He waited, his expression set and severe.

  “I think we should set a trap for the strangler, Bragg. He wants me. He failed. He will surely—”

  “No!” Bragg exclaimed in horror.

  She stood up. “We can meet with Farr and Newman in your office. Bring Neville in, as we know it’s not Hoeltz. Start to question him. Then I will make it clear I am dissatisfied with the investigation, that I feel we have missed a clue at Melinda Neville’s flat. I will go there, alone. I suspect that Farr, if he is the killer, will come after me there.”

  “Absolutely not,” Bragg ground out.

  “But you will be hiding there with your men.” Her heart was pounding in fear and dread. “How else will we ever catch him?”

  “You shall not be the bait in a trap, Francesca,” Bragg said flatly. “And that is that.”

  Francesca simply stared. Her pulse had become deafening now. She had never been more afraid.

  Alarm filled his features. “What are you going to do?” he cried.

  “I can set a trap by myself, Bragg—or we can set one together,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1902—11:30 A.M.

  FRANCESCA STIFFENED WHEN THERE was a knock on Bragg’s office door. They were in his office at police headquarters. Because it was Sunday, the five-story brownstone was eerily quiet—no typewriters sounded, nor were any telegraphs transmitting or telephones ringing. Even Mulberry Street was sleepy on the Sabbath day—when they had arrived earlier there had been one single soul in sight: a beggar asleep on the police building’s front stoop. Now Francesca reminded herself to remain calm and composed as Bragg gave her a reassuring smile before calling out for Brendan Farr to enter.

  The chief of police walked in. He was a big man with broad shoulders, and Francesca had to work hard to keep her breathing even when he saw her and halted. If he was displeased, she could not tell. His expression was impossible to read. He did not even blink. He was solidly built. He had, she saw now, large hands. Her heart drummed wildly in her chest, making her feel faint and ill.

  God, was she the mad one to think that one of Gotham’s finest was the City Strangler? Her pulse continued to drum thickly, sickly.

  “Commissioner.” Farr nodded. He smiled politely at Francesca. “Do you need to see me?”

  “I should have been apprised of Miss Cahill’s attack last night,” Bragg said calmly, walking up to the other man. Rick Bragg was six feet tall, broad-shouldered, lean yet muscular. Next to Farr, he seemed short and slender. Francesca guessed that Farr topped him by a good four inches. Her heart beat even faster now. It was hard to breathe. She felt trapped. She wanted to escape the room. She needed air—it was as if she might actually choke.

  Could she really go through with this? Could she bait the trap herself? Extremely reluctant, Bragg had gone along with her plan, but only as she had threatened to do so on her own, with only Joel for protection, if he did not. Now she knew she would have never been able to bait the trap without Bragg’s help. Farr terrified her.

  “I’m sorry,” Farr said, seeming genuinely contrite. “It was late, Saturday night. I thought we had the situation under control. I decided not to disturb you, as your wife had just returned to the city.” He gave Francesca an impersonal glance. His eyes, she saw, were cold. Or was she imagining it?

  “Next time anything similar ever occurs, you disturb me, no matter the time of day or night, even if it is Christmas Eve. Newman is bringing Neville back. He should be here at any moment.”

  Farr’s expression was hard to read. “It was too late last night to see if he had an alibi regarding the attack upon Miss Cahill. I was going to go down to the Royal myself tonight to see what I can learn.”

  “Good,” Bragg said. “Meanwhile, we need to thoroughly interrogate Neville now.”

  “You want to leave that to me?” Farr asked.

  “I’d be happy to,” Bragg replied.

  Francesca watched the two men. Both would be unbeatable poker players, she thought. It was simply impossible to guess what either man might be thinking.

  Newman walked in, a bleary-eyed Thomas Neville with him. In fact, Neville was so disheveled that it appeared he had slept in his suit and tie.

  “Do sit down,” Bragg said, pulling a stiff wood chair forward and before his desk.

  Neville glared. “I sleep late on Sundays, Commissioner. I resent being dragged out of bed by your leatherheads on a Sunday morning.”

  “We only wish to confirm your whereabouts last evening,” Bragg said. “Do sit.” It was an order.

  Neville dropped down in the uncomfortable armless chair and then sighed. He glanced at Francesca. “I already know that you have not found my sister,” he said.

  “How is that?” Bragg asked.

  “I asked Inspector Newman,” was Neville’s droll reply.

  A silence fell. Francesca stared at Neville, but stare as she might, she could not get a violent physical reaction f
rom him as she did from Farr. Her senses refused to warn her against him, however odd he might be.

  Farr said, “I’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Neville.”

  “Feel free.” Neville sighed again. “But could I possibly have a cup of coffee?”

  Before Farr could begin, Francesca interrupted. “I am going to go and leave the two of you to police affairs,” she said to the chief and Bragg. Her smile felt sickly. She felt herself flush. “Bragg?” She gestured at the door.

  He walked with her the few steps to it, where they paused, well within earshot of Farr and Neville. “We are missing something, Bragg,” Francesca said quietly, but not too quietly to be overheard. “I can feel it. I am going to go back to Miss Neville’s apartment and see what I can find.”

  Bragg sighed. “I think you’re wrong, but go ahead. I would join you, but I am afraid I have a luncheon to attend.” His gaze held hers, the light there dark with concern.

  “I’ll be fine.” Francesca smiled at him, but her heart was racing with alarming speed. She didn’t dare look back at Brendan Farr. Instead, she gave Bragg one last look and hurried from the room.

  Her fear made her feel faint.

  Francesca waited.

  No police officer had been outside Melinda Neville’s flat and Francesca had been given the key before leaving police headquarters. Bragg had hidden a half a dozen roundsmen in Louis Bennett’s flat, just across the hall. By now, Bragg himself would be somewhere outside the brownstone, with more men, awaiting her signal from the window—or her scream. Francesca’s cheeks were aflame. She had been waiting in Melinda Neville’s apartment for an hour. By now, Farr would have finished his interrogation of Thomas Neville. If her presumptions were right, he would be appearing at any time. She was so frightened that her breathing was fast and shallow.

  Francesca shifted restlessly. She was sitting on the sofa in the salon, the chalk outline of Grace Conway’s body not far from her feet. It was a very graphic reminder of what the killer could—and meant to—do. The room was lost in shadows in spite of the small table lamp she had turned on; she had also turned on a light in the bedroom, leaving that door open. It was time, she thought with rising panic, to pretend to be searching the flat for another clue.