Deadly Love

by Brenda Joyce

  Fifteen minutes went by. And then he said, “Bragg here. Who is this?”

  “Bragg! This is Francesca. I found another note!” she cried.

  There was one moment of stunned silence, and he said, “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

  Francesca had been pacing in the hall for a half an hour when she saw his motorcar coming up the driveway. Her relief knew no bounds. She ran to the door and opened it before he was even out of the car. She began jumping up and down.

  He hurried up the steps and into the house. When he was on the threshold she cried out. “This is terrible.”

  He held her shoulders. “Calm down. Where is the note and where did you find it?”

  She stared up at him. “It’s on the desk in the library,” she said, and finally she gave in. Tears slipped down her face. “There’s blood, Bragg, so much blood, all over it.”

  He cursed and ran. Francesca ran after him. She was so frightened.

  He reached the desk before she did. He lifted the page, which was now thoroughly wet. “God damn it,” he cried.

  She stared at his rigid back, wiping the tears away.

  Bragg turned. His eyes were wide with shock and the very same fear she herself felt. Francesca wished that she had never seen such an expression on his face. She wanted to be reassured. She did not want to know that the commissioner of police was as frightened as she was for the little boy’s safety. “Where did you find this, Francesca?” he said grimly.

  She told him. “I was in an examination and it just struck me that maybe the crook was directing us to that field,” she added.

  “You shouldn’t have touched it,” he said, coming forward.

  She started. “I—”

  “This is evidence and you should have left it precisely as you found it.” His eyes blazed with anger. He was waving the bloody note at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, backing away.

  “It’s too late to be sorry,” he snapped.

  Francesca stiffened.

  And suddenly he stared. “Good God, Miss Cahill, I apologize.”

  She met his stare. “You do not have to apologize, I understand,” she said, touching the sleeve of his black suit jacket. And she did. He had lost his composure because of this latest, frightening development in the case. This was not about her; it was about Jonny.

  He stepped away and her hand dropped to her side. “No, I doubt that you do. But there is no excuse for me to lose my temper, when, in fact, you have helped this investigation enormously.”

  Francesca crossed her arms. He was still agonized. He could not hide his anguish. She was anguished, too, but absurdly, she was so pleased that he had recognized her efforts to help solve the ghastly crime. “What do you think this means? Is the blood Jonny’s?”

  He met her gaze, nostrils flared. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Francesca hugged herself. “It’s his blood, isn’t it? Do you think he’s dead? Are we dealing with a madman and a murderer?”

  “He isn’t dead,” Bragg ground out. “The boy is not dead.”

  Francesca inhaled, her eyes tearing yet again. “I hope you are right. For his sake, for the Burtons’ sake, for James’s sake.”

  “I am right,” he said tersely.

  Francesca knew him a little by now. She knew he was an intelligent, capable, and determined man. She suspected he was also very ambitious; why else would he accept the position as Seth Low’s police commissioner? So she could not understand why he would so fiercely insist upon something that might or might not be true. Did he think to delude himself? “This criminal, he doesn’t want a ransom. This is not about ransom, is it?”

  “Clearly this is not about ransom,” he agreed.

  “Someone wants to taunt the Burtons.”

  “Yes. At the least,” he said.

  Their gazes met and held. It was a moment before she could speak. “Why, Bragg? Why would someone hate them so? They are nice people. I’ve known them for two years and, I must say, I cannot imagine either one of them having made such an enemy.”

  “We will know the answer to that when we find the criminal behind the crime,” he said flatly.

  Their gazes remained locked. Francesca shivered. “So we are dealing with a madman. Only a madman would do something like this.”

  “I am afraid so.”

  He looked at her and, for one moment, she almost thought he might reassure her, even with a simple touch. Instead, he said, “You will have to get your coat. I wish to see exactly how and where you found the note.”

  She nodded. “Will you tell the Burtons?”

  “I have no choice,” he said.

  They stood side by side on the cement foundation, shivering. Francesca watched Bragg run his bare hand up and down the beam, around the nail. She could not imagine what he was looking for.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I was foolishly hoping to find some trace of whoever put the note here. Perhaps a piece of fabric, or even a hair.”

  Her eyes widened as he stooped low and sifted through the snow with his bare hands. Francesca continued to shiver. “Have you had the other notes compared with the one we typed last night on our typewriter?”

  “The notes were not typed on your Remington 5. They were typed on a shift-key machine, as I originally suspected.” He stood, brushing the snow off his hands on his overcoat. “And they were both typed on the same machine. At least, that is what we have determined.”

  “My mother found the guest list last night,” Francesca volunteered, knowing that if she did flush with guilt he would not notice, as her cheeks were undoubtedly red from the cold.

  “It was delivered to me at my office last night.” He took her arm and helped her down from the foundation.

  He must have worked late. She admired his stamina and his ambition, but she couldn’t help thinking that he looked as exhausted as she herself felt. As they crossed the lot, she suddenly thought about the photograph in his office.

  If that woman were his wife, if those children were his, wouldn’t he have gone home at a reasonable hour? “Do you always work at night?” she asked, and this time, she knew she flushed.

  “Frequently,” he said. “It is odd, isn’t it, how that list briefly disappeared, and so suddenly reappeared—exactly where your mother thinks she last saw it?”

  She looked away as they found the more firm footing of the sidewalk. “It was probably on her secretaire the entire time, but buried beneath other papers.”

  He made no comment. She could feel him studying her, and she prayed her expression would not give her hand in the matter away. He said, “I am becoming more and more convinced that someone very close to the Burtons is behind the child’s disappearance.”

  “Can you find that ruffian, Gordino?” Suddenly she halted, excitement rising within her. “Surely he knows just who the dastardly crook is!”

  He smiled at her then. “Good detective work, Miss Cahill. In fact, Gordino has gone underground, so to speak. But my men will find him, and when they do, I shall be the first in line to give him the third degree.”

  “The third degree?” she asked, but her mind was racing. Joel might know where to find Gordino. The possibility elated her—as soon as Bragg had left, she would seek Joel out and ask him.

  “That is police terminology for a serious interrogation. You’ve heard of Thomas Byrnes?”

  “Who hasn’t?” she said mildly. “He was such a corrupt chief of police that when he retired he had amassed a fortune of millions of dollars. He resigned when Teddy Roosevelt had your job, for he was afraid to have to explain his actions in a court of law. I am a great fan of Roosevelt’s,” she added with a smile. “McKinley’s assassination was a terrible tragedy, but we do have a wonderful man and a determined reformer in the White House now.”

  His brows lifted as they paused before the front steps of the Burton mansion. “I had
forgotten,” he said, “that you are a woman of not just intelligence and education but the most vocal and impassioned opinions and convictions.”

  She stared. There was no possible way she was mistaking his meaning. He was praising her character. He did not think her mannish after all.

  Francesca could not move. She felt heat warming every inch of her face, and she realized she was flushing with real pleasure. “Thank you, Commissioner,” she said finally.

  He hesitated, smiled briefly, and then became grim as he faced the front door of the house. Francesca realized she should leave and return home. But she did not. “Can I be of help?” she asked hesitantly.

  He took her arm again. “I think so. Eliza may need another woman when she realizes there is a third note.”

  “I wish this could be avoided,” Francesca said uneasily as he rang the bell.

  “So do I. But I do not intend to show the note to her. Burton, however, will have to see it.”

  The door was opened and they went inside.

  They were shown into the same drawing room they had been in yesterday morning. It was not the room that Francesca could see from her bedroom window with the aid of opera glasses.

  Burton and Eliza appeared at the exact same moment, their faces pale with fear and dread, Eliza wearing a heavy cashmere shawl upon her shoulders. Immediately, Francesca moved closer to her.

  “What has happened?” Burton cried. “Please tell me you have found our son and that he is fine!”

  “We have not found the boy,” Bragg said. He gestured. “Please sit down.”

  Neither Burton moved. And then Eliza strode forward, grabbing Bragg’s arm. “Something has happened! I can see it in your eyes. Something terrible has happened!”

  He took her elbow. “Please, Mrs. Burton, sit down. We have found another note, that is all.”

  But Eliza would not budge. “A ransom demand?” Hope filled her tone and her expression.

  “I am afraid not.”

  “Let me see it.” Burton came forward, paler now than before—if that was even possible. He looked ghastly. Clearly he had not slept at all, he was terribly unshaven, rumpled, with the coloring of one becoming ill. And Francesca realized he was trembling.

  “I will show it to you in a moment.” Bragg told them where the note had been found and what it said. Francesca flushed when the Burtons turned to look at her. But they did not ask her how on earth she had managed to deduce just what the first two notes had meant.

  “What does ‘C is for Cub’ mean?” Eliza whispered in anguish. “What does this bastard want!”

  Francesca flinched but went to her and took her hand. “If anyone can solve this case, it is the commissioner,” she said softly, meaning it.

  Eliza did not seem to hear her. “And he was here, right next door, in that vacant lot!”

  “ ‘C is for Cub,’ ” Burton murmured. And suddenly he whirled to face them. “My God! I think ... I think I know what that means!”

  “What?” Bragg demanded.

  “The boys’ tree house. They named it ‘the Den.’ ”

  Francesca stared. Cub, bears, cave... den. And she looked at Bragg.

  “Francesca, stay here with Mrs. Burton. Robert, please get your coat and show me to the tree house.”

  The two men hurried from the room, but Eliza ran after them—and therefore, Francesca did, too. “I am coming, too!” she said.

  Francesca suddenly had a horrific thought—what if the boy was in that tree house, bloody and dead? She gripped Eliza’s arm. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Stay in the house,” Bragg ordered without looking back at them.

  Eliza wrenched free of Francesca. “Do not tell me what to do,” she shouted. “Not when my son is missing.” And she lifted her skirts and ran.

  No one bothered to retrieve his or her coats. Francesca had to run hard to catch up to Eliza, who trailed the two men as they crossed the gardens in the back of the house. Clouds had moved in, threatening more snow. The sun had disappeared. A gusting wind had picked up, and in general, the area was desolate and bleak, whereas in the spring it was riotously colorful and in bloom. And the oak tree loomed ahead.

  It was just off to the side of the half-acre property, not far from the wall dividing the Burtons’ land from the Cahills‘, as bare as the gardens, its heavy branches covered with snow. A boxlike structure with a slanting lean-to roof was built into its center branches, a ladder leading up to it.

  Francesca slowed as Bragg reached the ladder, commanding Burton to stay where he was. He began to climb up. She did not like this. She did not like it at all. In fact, she was more than uneasy now; she was filled with dread.

  She prayed this would not be the end of their quest. She prayed they would not find the boy in that tree house, frozen, bloody, and dead.

  Bragg disappeared, ducking into the low, squat structure.

  Eliza was shivering uncontrollably. The freezing cold hit Francesca then, and she put her arm around the other woman, who did not even notice. She wanted to reassure her, perhaps with the most simple of statements, such as, “It will be all right.” But she could not get such an inane phrase out.

  Because she wasn’t sure she believed that it would be all right anymore.

  “What’s up there!” Burton shouted frantically from below.

  At first there was no reply. Then, “Another note.”

  Francesca felt her knees buckle with relief. She smiled at Eliza. Tears slid down the other woman’s face. “Where can he be? Why is someone doing this to me?” Eliza whispered.

  Francesca’s smile faded and she stared. What if Eliza was the target of this madman’s efforts?

  Her mind sped with dizzying speed. And images of Eliza filled her head. The other woman riding in an open carriage in summertime, through Central Park on a Sunday afternoon, gentlemen calling greetings to her ceaselessly. Eliza being rowed across the lake, resplendent in billowy white, a white parasol open above her head-the oarsmen young rakes. Eliza at the ball Saturday night, surrounded by men, each and every one of them filled with admiration for her. She thought about the way Wiley had looked at her Saturday night. She thought about the way she had seen Evan look at her on too many occasions to count.

  Was the madman love-struck?

  Had he been rejected?

  Was this his insane idea of revenge?

  Bragg was climbing down from the tree house. Francesca craned to see what he held in his hand, and then she relaxed, because the envelope was pristinely white. Thank God.

  Then she whipped her gaze back to Bragg—to his face.

  Something was terribly wrong. He was turning green, as if he might actually become sick.

  “Bragg?” she whispered.

  Somehow he heard her. His wide, stunned gaze went to hers, and their eyes held. And Francesca felt far uneasier than she had before. Something was in that note, something terrible, it was there in his expressive amber eyes, and she did not want to know.

  He cleared his throat. “Everyone back into the house,” he said, but his tone was hoarse and unclear.

  “What does it say, damn it?” Burton demanded.

  “Let’s adjourn to the house. I wish to speak with you privately, Robert, and afterward, I wish a private conversation with your wife.”

  “What does it say!” Burton shouted.

  Clearly Bragg was not going to compromise and reveal the contents now. “Francesca,” he said.

  She understood. She gripped Eliza’s arm. “We are all freezing. We must obey the commissioner, Eliza, we must. He is in charge of this case. He is the authority here.”

  Eliza looked at her and Francesca had never seen such an expression on a human being before. It was one of utter defeat and hopelessness; it was an expression of absolute resignation. She nodded and seemed to collapse against Francesca, who managed to support her weight.

  “No, goddamnit,” Burton shouted and he tore the note from Bragg’s hand.

  “Burton, don’t!�
�� Bragg shouted, gripping the other man’s arm.

  Burton made a sound that did not seem human and he somehow flung the commissioner off. Later, Francesca would say it was his desperation that gave him the strength, as he was a much smaller man than Bragg.

  And he opened the note, and reached inside.

  Producing half of a small human ear.

  Chapter 7

  Monday, January 20, 1902—3 P.M.

  Francesca sat on a chair in the entry hall, her hands rigidly clasped in her lap. Bragg had disappeared to speak with the Burtons individually; it seemed hours ago since they had discovered the fourth envelope. Francesca closed her eyes. Again, she felt as if she would retch up the only meal she had eaten that day, her breakfast.

  There was no longer any point in pretending. Jonny Burton was not fine. A piece of human ear had been in the envelope, and Francesca had not a doubt that the ear belonged to a child and that it belonged in particular to Jonny.

  What kind of madman were they dealing with?

  She curled over, eyes closed, fighting tears and the urge to vomit uncontrollably.

  The doorbell rang. Francesca watched as a servant answered it, allowing a bearded older gentleman in a heavy black coat and top hat to enter. She recognized him at once.

  “I’m to show you upstairs to Mrs. Burton,” the houseman said with the slightest Scots accent.

  “Please,” the gentleman returned, his physician’s black satchel in hand.

  “Hello, Dr. Finny,” Francesca said.

  He started upon seeing her. “Francesca! What are you doing here?”

  She got to her feet. She felt as if she had aged precariously in the past hour. “I had hoped to comfort Eliza Burton,” she said. And she was also waiting for Bragg. Although she could have returned home, she wanted to speak with him before she did so. She wanted to share her latest theory.

  “Then they have not found the little boy?” Finny asked with genuine concern.