Deadly Love

by Brenda Joyce

  If he walked in while she was searching his desk for clues, she would be in very serious trouble, indeed. Was it a crime to search a police commissioner’s desk? She imagined it might be.

  Careful not to touch anything, Francesca edged closer, until Betsy’s cloak brushed the edge of the desk. She stared down at the handwritten notes left carelessly atop the mess.

  “Ants,” she read. “Ants, sand, woods, park, Central Park? Fields, dirt, grass.” The words were scribbled haphazardly across the page. Also scribbled, off center, were two additional words: “Burton” and “enemies.” Heavy slashes underlined them.

  And that was all.

  “Darnation,” she breathed. Francesca quickly reached out and flipped the page. The page below was blank.

  She scanned the desk. Nothing else seemed pertinent to the Burton case. Just to be certain, after another quick look at the closed and unmoving door, she opened one beige folder, saw names that she did not recognize, and then she flipped it closed.

  She tried to think. No one knew what time Jonny Burton had been abducted from his bed. She would have to find that fact out, as precisely as possible. She wondered if Bragg had narrowed the window from eight p.m. to one a.m. If only she could interview the Burtons’ servants herself.

  Bragg would have been summoned from his bed shortly after one a.m. He had been at the Burton house at ten that morning. Francesca couldn’t imagine when he had been able to stop by his office to make the few notes that he had, but perhaps he had done so just before the one o’clock appointment on Mott and Hester streets. In any case, he hadn’t spent very much time in his office since the abduction, which would explain the paucity of notes and related material on his desk.

  Francesca could not help herself. Frightened now, she quickly moved a few books and folders aside, but found nothing at a glance. She wet her lips, debated opening up at least one drawer. And that was when he stepped inside.

  She smiled at him; he stared. She was merely standing behind his desk, thank God. Had he walked in even an instant earlier, he would have caught her with her hand in the cookie jar, indeed.

  His gaze went from her brittle smile to his desk. He closed the door behind him, slowly. “Are you looking for something?” he asked, staring as he came forward.

  He was in his shirtsleeves and vest, having taken off his suit jacket; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. His tie had been thoroughly loosened, as well, revealing the strong hollow of his throat. “Of course not,” Francesca cried, and she smiled brightly again. Do not overdo it, she warned herself. He was astute and he was no fool. He could sense what he had not seen. “I was merely looking at the view.” She was amazed at how easily she lied.

  His eyes narrowed as he approached his desk, and then he settled one buttock on the edge, facing her at an angle. “The view? Oh, let’s see, you mean the wonderful view of pickpockets, hooks, and crooks?”

  She straightened. He was not being particularly nice right now. “I have never been to this part of the city before, and you do not have to be mocking.”

  He started. “I apologize.” Then his gaze moved from her face to his notes. “Find anything you liked?”

  Francesca felt her cheeks heat dramatically. “Your notes caught my eye,” she finally admitted. “I apologize,” she added guiltily.

  And suddenly he sighed, rubbing his temples. With his gaze down-turned, Francesca could stare openly, and she found herself doing so. He seemed terribly tired, terribly worn. His face was drawn, his tie was askew. No small amount of compassion moved her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered softly. The last thing she wished to do was to add to his burdens.

  His head snapped up and their gazes locked, and then he was on his feet, and any vulnerability that she thought she had seen was gone. “Sit down, Miss Cahill,” he said. And the tone was very similar to the one he had used with Joel in her carriage just half an hour ago.

  It was a tone that caused her anxiety to spiral anew. Francesca sank down in his chair. She found herself gripping the edge of the desk. “I can explain.”

  “Really? I cannot wait. Please feel free. Feel free to tell me what possessed you to go to Mott and Hester streets.”

  She looked into a pair of uncompromising golden eyes. “I wanted to help,” she said, low.

  “Help? Help?” His voice was rising. “Is getting yourself raped by that rough Gordino helping? Is it?” He was shouting.

  She was thoroughly taken aback. “How-how did you know?”

  “Our little friend told me,” he said, having recovered some degree of composure, but not all of it. He was standing now, his hard legs braced apart, and he was clearly angry. “I am still waiting for an explanation.”

  It was hard to speak. “I am so fond of that boy,” she said, and they both knew she meant Jonny Burton. “This is an outrage. I thought he might be present, I thought you might need my help if he was present,” she cried. His brows lifted with more disbelief. Francesca did not pause and give him a chance to speak. She too was on her feet.

  “The note Joel gave you. Was that from the wretch who abducted him? Is it a ransom demand? Did Joel tell you who he is working for? Do you know or suspect who abducted Jonny?”

  His eyes went wide. And then he snapped, “Sit down.”

  Francesca did not think twice about it; she sat.

  And he was leaning over the desk, leaning over her. “There is a recently enacted statute on the books,” he said, low. “Are you aware that it is a felony to obstruct a criminal investigation?”

  She stiffened. “What?”

  “You, Miss Cahill, could be charged with obstructing a criminal investigation. Are you aware of that?” He leaned closer.

  She shook her head no, drawing back.

  “So then you are not aware of just how serious those charges are?” he pressed, still leaning over her. Their faces were not very far apart. Yet her spine was already digging into the back of the chair; if she leaned back any further, she might very well topple over. She was afraid to breathe.

  And did she detect the slightest whiff of whiskey on his breath, mingling with his musky cologne?

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “No, I am not,” Francesca whispered, shaken to the quick.

  “You have committed a crime, Miss Cahill,” he said, holding her eyes with his. She did not dare even blink. “A very serious crime. If one were convicted of such a crime, one could serve up to ten years in a federal penitentiary.”

  Francesca felt rather faint. She had never intended to commit any crime. “Are you intending to prosecute me, Commissioner?” she finally heard herself say.

  It was as if he had not heard her; either that, or he was so agitated that he ignored her. He straightened. “As commissioner of the police department, I could put you in jail right this very minute, and leave you there, until I decided whether to proceed against you.” His eyes were as dark as storm clouds.

  She blinked frantically, then somehow found the last shreds of her courage and dignity. She stood so abruptly that her chair scrapped nosily back, toppling over at last. Neither one of them even looked at it. “Commissioner,” she said, as firmly as possible, given the fact that she was not used to being shouted at by attractive men. “Should you do so, should you even try, I doubt you would have this position for very long.” And she imagined her own eyes flashed because she was scared—but now she was also angry. How dare he threaten her.

  His eyes widened dramatically. And then he choked, “You threaten we?”

  Francesca was afraid she had made a mistake. But no one, ever in her life, had set her down and threatened her the way that Bragg had. Of course, he did have some right. But on the other hand, she wasn’t one of the prostitutes on the street just below them. She wasn’t a shop girl or a sales clerk. She was Andrew Cahill’s daughter. She deserved respect. And her father was a friend of Platt’s. In fact, he was an even better friend of Roosevelt’s. Should he choos
e, Francesca had no doubt that Bragg’s head would roll, sooner rather than later.

  Francesca said, “It was hardly gentlemanly to threaten me, Commissioner.”

  Their gazes had locked, and it seemed irrevocable. He said, “I never claimed to be a gentleman, Miss Cahill.”

  Francesca did not like the sound of that Every man she knew was a gentleman—or outwardly seemed to be. She could not think of a response. She could only stare—or, perhaps, gape.

  “You may go home,” he said finally, folding his arms across his chest. “And I am certain that in the future you will let police affairs alone.”

  She had to nod. “I will try.”

  He shook his head in amazement. “Please, do more than try.” Then, seriously, “I have no time to look after you, Miss Cahill. I am afraid that my hands, currently, are quite full.”

  Francesca was beginning to feel bad for adding to his worries. “I am sorry,” she said, meaning it with all of her heart. “I really had no intention of interfering with your investigation.”

  He seemed to accept that, and this time, when their gazes met, it was without anger on his part, and without anxiety on hers. Immediately they both looked elsewhere, anywhere but at one another.

  His office suddenly seemed very small. Too small, in fact, for the two of them.

  “Can you find your way down?” he asked, moving behind his desk and reaching for the telephone.

  “Of course.” But Francesca hesitated.

  His brows lifted as he began to speak.

  “The boy. Joel. What is to become of him?” she quickly asked.

  Bragg set the receiver back on its hook. “Do not concern yourself with Kennedy.”

  “Is that his last name?”

  “Yes, it is. Now, if you will excuse me?” The receiver was in his hand again.

  “Please tell me that you are not tossing him into some wretched cell with a group of thugs.”

  He set the receiver back on its hook. “Miss Cahill, Joel Kennedy might appear to be a child, but he is far more jaded than either you or I.”

  “What does that mean? He is only a child,” Francesca cried, worried now. “Where is he? Are you going to arrest him for his part in this—his tiny little part?”

  “Kennedy is a well-known pickpocket,” Bragg returned with exasperation. “Here.” He opened a drawer and tossed a book on the desk.

  “What is this?” Francesca said, picking it up. As she opened it, she saw photographs filling up both pages. Each man had his name printed below each photo, with words like “cracksman,” “pickpocket,” “pennyweighter,” and “sandbagger.” The next page contained the photographs of eight women. Every single one of them was a “shoplifter.”

  “That is a mug book, developed by one of my predecessors. I find it useful, although the last commissioner did not, and we are intent upon updating it immediately. Keep turning the pages,” he instructed.

  She did. And there was the exact likeness of Joel, with his full name printed below, and below that, the word “kid.” “I thought you said he is a pickpocket?”

  “He is. A ‘kid’ is a child pickpocket. Kennedy is in trouble more often than not, and if I were you, I would not feel sorry for him.”

  She closed the book and set it down on his desk. “He saved me from that ruffian, Commissioner.”

  Bragg stared.

  Francesca stared back, allowing him a moment to absorb what she had said. “What will happen to him, now?”

  “He will spend the night at the Tombs, and perhaps tomorrow he will be released.”

  She folded her arms. She was afraid of what might happen to the boy in a jail filled with men like Gordino. “Are you charging him with a crime?”

  Bragg’s jaw was tight. “Good day, Miss Cahill.”

  “He is just a boy,” she said fervently, “and he was only the messenger!”

  He sat down in his chair, lifted the phone, and spoke to the operator. A moment later he was speaking tersely to someone on the other end. As if Francesca were already gone.

  Having no other choice, she left his office.

  Jennings had barely taken her two full blocks when Francesca spotted a very familiar small figure weaving amongst the crowds on Lafayette Street. She actually stood up, in order to to get a better view. It was the kid, Joel Kennedy.

  And the way he was rushing along, flinging glances over his shoulder, it was clear that he was in fear of being pursued—it was clear that he had, somehow, run away from the police.

  “Jennings!” Francesca turned and banged hard on the window partition; as she did so, the carriage hit a pothole and she was thrown against the front of the cab. “Pull over,” she cried.

  The brougham had not even been braked before Francesca flung open the door, leaping out and falling on the slick, icy cobbled street. She glanced backward, but did not see any policemen at all. Then she rushed after Joel Kennedy. “Joel! Stop! Joel!”

  He paused and turned and saw her, then ran on.

  “I want to help!” she screamed, running after him. “Let me help! Joel, come back!”

  Suddenly he halted in his tracks, and an instant later, Francesca was hustling him up into her carriage. And still there was no sign of blue uniforms in pursuit. “Jennings! Home, and quickly, please!”

  The carriage took off, tuning north onto Fourth Avenue, racing alongside the New York and Hudson Railroad tracks. Francesca sat facing forward, facing Joel, who bounced along in the opposite seat. “Are you all right?” she asked, her gaze sweeping over every visible inch of him. And she meant her words.

  His thick dark brows, as jet-black as his hair, slashed together. And then he shook his head.

  “What happened?” she cried.

  “That big beefy spot, he hit me, he did. Hard.” He looked grimly at her, and his mouth began to tremble.

  Francesca stared, appalled. “What!”

  He scowled at her. “I hate them police,” he spat. “Every single stupid-brained one of them.”

  She saw no bruises on his face, but he was otherwise covered from head to toe, huddled in his worn and grimy overcoat. “I cannot believe it. Where did he hit you? Do you need a doctor?”

  He looked at her. “Miz Cahill, an‘ if n I did need a doctor, jest how would I pay him?”

  She did not hesitate. “You would not have to worry about that,” she said.

  He seemed to deliberate her words, and then he seemed to relax. “He hit me on the back. Betcha it’s all red. An‘ you?” he said cautiously. “Guess they didn’t hit you.”

  Francesca might have laughed under other circumstances. “No, but I was threatened with being thrown in jail for committing a crime.”

  He was incredulous. “No! That sly fox, the commissioner, he threatened you?” Joel was clearly disbelieving.

  Francesca smiled a little and nodded as a train raced past them, heading south. Momentarily, the noise of steel wheels on the steel tracks was deafening. When the train had passed, she said, “How on earth did you escape?”

  He smiled proudly then. “It was easy. I knocked over a cigarette and started a fire, and with all the ruckus, I just ran out. Them oafs can’t catch me!”

  She had to smile. “Let me take you home. Where do you live?”

  He looked at her as if she had gone mad. “Anywhere. Everywhere,” he said.

  She started. “But—where are your parents? Are you an orphan?”

  He nodded somberly. “Me dad died when I was a babe, of the pox.” Francesca winced. “Me mum died when I was six. Tu-bur-cu-ly-o-sis,” he said.

  “Tuberculosis,” she corrected automatically, her heart going out to him and no mind that he was a thief. “But where do you live? Where do you sleep?”

  “I don’t live anywhere,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “I ain’t got nothin‘, anyways. An’ I sleep where I feels like it. Mostly on stoops, sometimes in garbage, ‘cause it’s warm”—he was briefly defiant—“an’ sometimes I even climb in people’s houses.” He
smiled then, as if proud of the feat.

  “Well,” Francesca said promptly, “how would you like to sleep in a nice warm bed, with a roof over your head?” She did not even have to reflect upon her decision. “How would you like three hot meals every single day?”

  He blinked at her. Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Miz Cahill,” he said, “I ain’t going to no orphans’ asylum. No sirree.”

  She shook her head and reached out to pat his small hand. He wore rags wrapped around the palms, and his bare fingers were red and icy cold to the touch. “You’d have to work, honestly, for the bed and the meals. But I am sure we can use you in the stables. You’d even be paid a small wage for your efforts.” She smiled. “What do you say?”

  He looked at her and did not reply at once.

  “Surely you would not prefer to go back to living on the street?”

  “I hate living like a dog,” he said passionately.

  “Then it’s settled.”

  “Mebbe.”

  She was startled. “What is it, Joel? I won’t tell the commissioner where you are, if that is what you are thinking.”

  “No, that’s not what worries me. What worries me is that you want somethin‘ from me, but I don’t know what.” His black gaze was unswerving.

  He was right. And Francesca laughed uneasily. “I want to help you because you are a little boy and I have the ability to help you,” she said. “I do want your help, but only if you will give it freely.”

  “Mebbe. What do you want?”

  He was awfully blunt, she thought But maybe she would be too if she lived in his circumstances. “Who gave you the note?” she asked. “The note that you gave to Commissioner Bragg?”

  “That’s easy,” he said with obvious relief. “That rowdy, Gordino.”

  “Gordino!” she exclaimed. “That dirty man who tried to kiss me and ...” She could not continue.

  “Yep. That’s him.”

  Francesca did not believe, not for a moment, that Gordino was smart enough to even plan an abduction, much less execute one. “Do you know who his partner is?” she asked hopefully.