by Brenda Joyce
“I beg yer pardon,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to barge in.”
“It’s all right,” she said, studying him. “What do you wish to tell me?”
He grinned. “I tailed Chief Farr! An’ I found him, all right, just like I found you an’ Mr. Hart!”
“Joel! I told you not to follow the chief. Did he catch you?” she cried.
“No, ma’am. He never saw me, not once.”
Francesca was relieved. “What did you discover?”
The color in Joel’s cheeks increased. He shot a glance at Hart. “He was with Rose, Miz Cahill, just like you and Mr. Hart.”
It took Francesca a moment. “Farr and Rose are lovers?”
Joel nodded.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday, June 6, 1902—10:00 a.m.
THE BANGING ON HIS door awoke him. Evan groaned, his head pounding with the force of an anvil, wishing that whoever it was would go away. Then he recalled the prior evening and instantly he was ill.
“Evan! The maid said you haven’t left yet. Please, open the door and let me in,” Bartolla Benevente said, sounding quite annoyed.
He did not really listen. He lay very still, recalling every bet he had placed, the roll of every pair of die, the spin of the roulette wheel, and finally, the far too serious game of poker.
How much had he lost last night? He seemed to recall the sum of eighteen thousand dollars, all of it credit, and he already owed Hart fifty thousand, not to mention that he owed more than that to another creditor. He had been so upset last night that after three drinks he had wandered to a club, never mind that he had told himself he would not go inside. But he had. Then he had told himself he would only drink and watch, and he had—for a few hours. And then he had told himself he’d only place one bet—one single bet—and he’d leave. But he had known he was lying to himself. One bet had brought back that familiar rush and he had forgotten everything—Bartolla, the child she claimed was his, Maggie. Gaming was far more addictive than any opiate could ever be, and he was no different from a drug addict.
Damn it.
His father had disowned him because of his gambling. He was deeply in debt—Andrew refused to pay his creditors. Because of his dissolute nature, because of his weak, flawed character, he was living in this goddamned hotel, about to marry a woman he no longer liked and, in fact, could barely stand. Now he would never have a chance to become acquainted with Maggie Kennedy, and discover if his feelings were reciprocated at all.
The key turned in his lock. Evan was too much of a gentleman to curse aloud, but in his mind, a few unsavory words echoed. Bartolla stepped inside, clearly quite outraged.
Evan sat up. He slept in the buff, so he stayed under the bed-covers. Now he recalled why she was so livid. He had failed to meet her for their engagement last night.
“Well, at least you aren’t with another woman,” she said, stepping into his suite.
And something inside of him snapped. He stared at her, in her striped burgundy suit, garishly low-cut and far too fitted across the hips. In the past, such a style had inflamed him; now it repulsed him. Suddenly her body, which he had once considered magnificent, seemed overly ripe. It occurred to him that her hair was as distasteful, too, the shade more ruby than red and clearly unnatural. Maggie’s soft blue eyes filled his mind, her regard tender, worried, searching.
She always put everyone before herself; never would she put her own needs first.
He held his simmering temper in check, slowly threw off the covers and got up. He ignored Bartolla, aware of her gaze upon him as he went to the love seat at the foot of the bed, where he had left his trousers. He quickly stepped into them, keeping his back to her.
“What happened last night? We had supper plans,” she snapped.
He needed a glass of water, he thought, although he knew that would not alleviate his throbbing head or his disgust with her—and himself.
“Evan! What is wrong with you? I thought you were going to pick me up, and when you didn’t, I went to the Farleys’ alone, thinking you were meeting me there. But you never showed up!”
He poured himself a glass of water, his hands shaking. Bartolla marched around him to face him. She grabbed the glass from his hand. “I was humiliated.”
He met her heated eyes. “I am sorry—”
“I should hope so!” she said, cutting him off.
“I am sorry, but I cannot marry you, Bartolla,” he continued.
She turned white. “I know you do not mean what you just said!”
“As for last night, I was gambling.” He turned away from her, ill once again. What was wrong with him? Like a drunkard suffering from the effects of a binge on the next day, he regretted every bet he’d placed.
She seized his arm. “I thought those days were over!”
He gently dislodged her. “I had thought so, too.”
Her face softened. “Evan, I see you have had a bad night. I am sorry. We both know that gambling is a disease for you. I see I have overreacted. How can I help? Oh, I think I know the cure for what ails you,” she said, her tone turning husky. And she grasped the waistband of his trousers, her fingertips pressing against his skin.
He did stir, but only slightly. “I have had a very bad night,” he said, pulling away from her. There was only one woman whose comfort he wanted—whose touch he wanted—and while she might comfort him, he felt rather certain she would never touch him. “I want you to know that I will take care of you and the child. I will be very generous.”
Bartolla cried out. She lost all of her coloring now.
He hoped that would be the end of it. He could not manage a scene right now. “I am going to get dressed.”
But she followed him into the boudoir. “Of course we are marrying—we are eloping, as soon as possible. I am carrying your child!”
“And I said I would take care of you.”
She trembled in anger. “How?” she spat. “You have been disowned and you work for a lawyer. You can’t even afford a decent ring! And clearly, you have not recovered from your urge to game. That will certainly tighten your purse strings!”
He was suddenly alert. “Bartolla, I was a penniless clerk when we first agreed to elope. You did not seem to mind then.”
She shook her head. “I have always minded! And I have always assumed it was a temporary aberration on your part.” Suddenly she reached for him. He stepped back, but she managed to place her hands on his chest. “Darling, I am a countess. I would never agree to marriage to a clerk. I intended to encourage you to make amends with your father after we wed. I know you had a rotten night, Evan, but we have to think of the child.”
“I am thinking of the child. I am thinking that I will grovel before my father and beg his forgiveness so that I can support you and the child in the manner you deserve. But I am not marrying you.”
She had become still. Her hands slipped from his chest. “You are going to go to your father and patch things up? So you can support me?”
He could not breathe. There did not seem to be enough air in the small chamber for them both and he walked out. Maggie’s eyes followed him, sad and somewhat reproachful. She was going to be very disappointed in him, he thought, as she had made it clear that she thought he should marry Bartolla. He hated letting her down. And she would be horrified when he told her how he had slipped back into gambling last night. “I do not lie.” He did not look at her now. “My one redeeming quality, I suppose. You need not fear for the future, Bartolla. Until my son or daughter comes of age, you will be taken care of.”
Bartolla had followed him back into the bedroom and she sat down, appearing thoughtful. After a moment, she said, “My heart is broken, Evan.”
He wasn’t foolish enough to believe her. “And I am also sorry for that.”
“I think I should send my lawyer to meet yours so we can finalize all of the arrangements.”
He shrugged. “Just give me a day or two to speak with Andrew.”
She
stood. “Of course.” She hesitated. “I will be here if you change your mind. We are a good match.”
He tried to smile and failed. He wasn’t going to change his mind, but he did not tell her that. “I am late for work. That is, if I haven’t lost my position.”
“Well, after you speak with Andrew, you won’t need your employment, now will you?” She started across the room, reticule in hand.
He suddenly thought of what Maggie had told him. “Bartolla?”
At the door, she paused. “Yes?”
He walked over to her. “My support is conditional upon one thing.”
“What is that?” she asked, unperturbed.
“I want you to stay away from Mrs. Kennedy and her children.”
Her expression changed. “Is that what this is about? Are you breaking it off with me because of her?” Disbelief heightened her tone.
“I care for her, but no, that is not the reason I have bro ken things off.”
Bartolla was shaking. “You fool! You jilt me—a countess—for a seamstress with four children and callused hands?”
He felt an answering rage sweep through him. “She is a true lady, Bartolla,” he warned. “And she would never have me. So no, I did not jilt you for her.”
“She would not have you?” Bartolla gasped. “Are you mad? Are you in love with that trollop? Are you so in love that you cannot see clearly?”
Evan just stared, her words striking him with the force of a gale wind. He was dumbfounded. Bartolla was precisely right. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” Bartolla cried. And her cheeks flushed, she stormed out.
“I WAS HOPING YOU would be in,” Francesca said, from just outside of Bragg’s office.
He stood up in surprise, glancing at the clock on his desk. “It’s only half past ten.”
Francesca slipped inside and closed his office door. She hurried to him. “I wanted to call you last night. I have learned something very interesting, but out of respect for Leigh Anne and the children, I waited until this morning. And of course, I did not want an operator to overhear us.”
He walked around his desk. “What has you so excited?”
“Joel has been tailing Farr. It appears that he is having an affair with Rose.”
Bragg registered her words. “Are you certain?”
“No. But yesterday, he was leaving Daisy’s house when I arrived to speak with Rose. Homer said that they met briefly behind closed doors. Rose claims he was on official police business, but Joel saw them in an embrace last night.”
“You think that she was with Farr the night of the murder, and she is afraid to name him as her alibi?”
“Well, that is my first thought. If Rose was with Farr that night, then she is not our killer. But I have another notion.” Francesca had done nothing but think about Brendan Farr’s involvement in the case and crime last night. When Hart had left her, she had made copious notes, and in the end, she had drawn the same two conclusions. “Either Farr was with Rose and she had a solid alibi, meaning she is no longer a suspect, or he and Rose are involved in the murder together.”
“Francesca!” Bragg exclaimed. “That is a huge accusation to make.”
“I knew you would react that way. But Farr hates me. He has hated me from the moment we met. I have never discovered why. I have no doubt he would love to hurt us both by seeing Calder take the fall for Daisy’s murder. And why didn’t he come forward to tell us he was with Rose that night?”
“His silence is suspicious, but he might want to avoid a besmirched reputation—just like Gillespie.”
“He isn’t married. Who would care if he frequents a prostitute?”
“You know the press would make a cause célèbre out of it. I probably would have to dismiss him,” Bragg said pointedly.
“Are you going to call him in? We need to ask him about this, Rick.”
Bragg studied her and she stared back. “Of course. Do you want to look over that report on the knife while I get him?”
Francesca smiled then. “I would love to.”
He handed her the folder, his gaze suspicious. “You are in very good spirits today, all things considering.”
“Calder was framed, and if Rose is not our killer, then we will merely have to keep looking.”
“That is not what I meant, exactly.” He regarded closely.
“I am feeling much better,” she admitted. She had weathered this latest new development with Hart and intended to embrace the future in any way it chose to come at them.
He stared. “You have reconciled with Hart.”
She met his gaze. “Not exactly. But I realized that he has to do this—he feels compelled to protect me. I can understand that now. And I also realized that we do not need an official relationship to remain committed to one another.”
Bragg flushed. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said tersely.
“I think that I do. But I am certainly not abandoning Hart.”
“So what happens now? You will be his lover, with no commitment on his part? How fortunate he must feel!”
“If I am his lover, that is not your concern, Rick. I must tell you, you are misjudging Calder once again. And given that he has just gone out of his way to lend you a significant sum to pay off O’Donnell, I think you owe him the benefit of the doubt.”
Bragg looked apoplectic. “I’d rather see you engaged than carrying on with him. I don’t like this.”
“I am sorry you feel that way,” Francesca said. She meant it, but she was disturbed that he was so judgmental. “I think you have crossed the line, Rick. My private life is just that—private.”
“Then do not speak so openly of it!” he snapped. Abruptly, he strode out to get the chief.
Francesca sat down with the file, sighing. How complicated the most important relationships in her life were. Then she opened the file and read exactly what Bragg had already told her.
Bragg entered the office with Farr. His eyes slid over Francesca and he greeted her in a civil tone. “Good morning, Miss Cahill.”
“Chief,” she said coolly, standing and closing the file. She looked at Bragg.
“Chief, take a seat.”
Without any emotion flickering in his blue eyes, Farr bent his long frame into the chair beside Francesca. Bragg went to stand behind his desk but he did not sit. “I have a source that tells me you have been involved with Rose Cooper. Is it true?”
Farr looked at Francesca with real distaste. “Let me guess. Miz Cahill’s been snooping?”
Francesca smiled but her temper soared. “You were seen with her in an intimate embrace. Will you deny it?”
Farr’s cheeks turned red. “If I want to see a whore, I think that’s my own business.”
Before Francesca could rebut, Bragg said, “I disagree. We both know the press would take a liaison like this and blow it all over the news pages, until I dismiss you or you are forced to resign. You’re no staff sergeant—you run this entire force.”
Farr bared his teeth. “Then maybe we should keep a lid on this, don’t you think?”
Francesca could not contain herself. She leapt to her feet. “Were you with Rose the night of Daisy’s murder? Are you the man she was entertaining? Because if she has an alibi for the time of the murder, we have been wasting our time considering her as a suspect. If that is the case, Chief, you have withheld information crucial to an official police investigation!”
He was on his feet, towering over her. “Don’t you dare tell me about police rules and investigations! For some damned reason, the boss lets you in here like you own the station. But you’re no copper—you’re a little woman who fancies herself an investigator. I’ve known Rose and Daisy for years. I’ve been in both their beds! Yes, yesterday I took myself a little piece of action. But I was not with her the night of Daisy’s murder. Why don’t you check the logs? I worked late that night, right here at headquarters.”
Francesca was cowed, and she knew she had tur
ned white, but her mind sped. Rose remained a suspect, but could Farr be put on that list now, as well? He had known Daisy for years. He had been one of her clients. “When was the last time you availed yourself of Daisy’s services?”
“You mean, when was the last time I was in her bed? Not since the New Year. She was always hard to book and then she went exclusive with your fiancé—oh, excuse me, your ex-fiancé. I forgot, Hart dumped you.”
“Chief, you need to change your tone,” Bragg warned.
Farr looked at him, his eyes sparking. “She shouldn’t be here and she shouldn’t stick her nose in our business! We got our own inspectors and they’re good men.”
“Francesca has been privately hired to investigate, and I for one am pleased that she works with us. The more minds, the better.”
“If you say so,” Farr said, clearly struggling for his composure. He faced Francesca with a cold smile. “Sorry if I got rude or crude. In the old days, little girls did not dress up and act like the boys.” He glanced at Bragg. “You want me to sign an official statement?”
“I don’t think we need one. And I’ll try to keep a lid on this,” Bragg said. “Thank you, Chief.”
Farr grunted and strode out.
Francesca collapsed in her chair. “What an odious man!”
FRANCESCA SAT ALONE IN the conference room with a cup of bitter coffee, a notepad in front of her. Two officers had been sent over to the Fifth Avenue Hotel to bring Gillespie in, but she hardly needed to make notes to know what she wished to ask him. Her mind kept veering back to the interview with Farr, and a shudder of revulsion swept her. With no information on Rose’s supposed alibi, she finally asked herself if she seriously thought Rose guilty of murder.
Rose had loved Daisy so much. No matter how angry she had been about being rejected, Francesca could not imagine the other woman killing her best friend and lover. Such a heinous act would have had to have been committed in such a fit of rage as to temporarily make Rose insane.
She had no real reason to suspect Farr, but she had little doubt he could take a human life. Maybe that wasn’t fair, but if he wasn’t involved, then why hadn’t he come forward to admit to his prior relationship with Daisy? Unfortunately, there was a simple answer—he wished to avoid being associated with her, just like the judge.
