Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  “I saw the sleeve, Miss Cahill. The sleeve was well tailored and charcoal gray. It was a fine sleeve, Miss Cahill. A fine sleeve, indeed.”

  Francesca’s mind raced. “Are you certain? Are you certain of all of this?”

  She nodded. “I also saw his hand. His other hand—the one on my stomach—not the hand he held the knife with.”

  Francesca almost held her breath. What wonderful clues these were! “And?”

  “His hands were soft and smooth. They weren’t the coarse, red hands of a working man.” Francesca stared.

  “And there was a ring. I can’t recall it exactly, but it was gold. There was a stone; I’m not even sure what kind or color it was.” Her eyes suddenly flashed. “He was a gentleman. He was a gentleman and I have not one doubt.”

  IT WAS SIMPLY UNBELIEVABLE, he thought, staring at the window of the milliner’s shop from where he stood across Sixth Avenue. It was unbelievable that the notorious Francesca Cahill had started an investigation into the so-called Slasher; that she dared to seek out the first two bitches and question them again, after the police had already done so; that she dared to try to reveal him.

  He knew she was clever. He had read all about her, who hadn’t? But she wasn’t half as clever as he was, he felt certain of that.

  He watched the two of them standing outside the shop, trembling with his hatred.

  God, he hated them all. Every single faithless one of them. He could count the promises, but not the lies… He knew now he should have killed them, instead of warning them, instead of letting them live.

  His fingers twitched and he slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling for the small penknife.

  Well, his plans had changed.

  This one would die.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thursday, April 24, 1902 Noon

  FRANCESCA HAD BEEN told that she could wait in Bragg’s office, as he was in a closed meeting in the conference room. Having been left alone there, she paused by his desk and saw, among the many files and folders there, a notepad with his handwriting on the page. His scrawl was very rushed and careless, so unlike the man. She saw that he was composing a report for the mayor.

  It wasn’t her affair, of course. But she hoped his internal police investigation would yield the results he wanted, or ones advantageous to him and his career. Unable to help herself, she wandered over to the hearth. There was no fire lit, as May was around the corner and the morning newspapers had promised the city a day that was seventy degrees Fahrenheit. She glanced at the mantel and stared at Leigh Anne’s photograph.

  She knew it had been taken some time ago, and Leigh Anne looked very young and very innocent. She was smiling at the photographer, unabashedly happy, seated in a chair in a lavish salon. Francesca wondered how she was convalescing. She hoped that she was now happy to be home.

  She turned her back to the photograph. Hopefully there would be an explanation for the incomplete police report on Kate Sullivan.

  Francesca thought about the pretty blonde as she stared vaguely across the room and out the window behind Bragg’s desk. Like Francis O’Leary, Kate had been severely traumatized and as a result, she remained very frightened. Francesca thought about the fact, again, that all the victims were young, pretty, female, unattached and Irish—or at least, in Margaret Cooper’s case, of Irish descent. Still, Margaret Cooper felt somehow mismatched—perhaps because she hadn’t ever been married. Francesca couldn’t help thinking that Gwen O’Neil matched the pattern set by the first two victims far more precisely than Margaret.

  Could Gwen have been the Slasher’s intended target? Had he attacked and murdered Margaret Cooper by mistake?

  Francesca reminded herself to interview Sam Wilson. She wondered if the police were making any progress in locating Thomas O’Leary. And she would not yet put too much credence into Kate’s claim that the Slasher was a gentleman.

  Bragg walked into his office and she quickly turned.

  He was clearly surprised to see her. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me.” Behind him, Francesca saw several men walking down the hall, including Inspector Newman and the tall, gray-haired chief of police, Brendan Farr. Farr was glancing her way and when she briefly met his cool gaze, she flinched.

  She more than disliked Farr; she did not trust him. She smiled at Bragg. “I was told to go up and wait for you here. I hope you do not mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” he said, returning her smile. He shut his door and approached. “I’m assuming this is not a so cial call?”

  She hesitated. Once, she had actually made social calls, right there at his office. Those days were long since gone. In a way, she wished she could drop by whenever she had the urge to do so. Somehow, she missed those days.

  So much had changed. Aware of his wife’s photograph behind her back, she said, “It’s not a social call, but may I inquire after Leigh Anne?”

  His smile vanished. “Of course.” He walked to his desk and busied himself with arranging the folders there.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked somewhat timidly, well aware that the question was quite out of bounds.

  “Everything is fine,” he said, not looking at her.

  She did not think so. “I guess it might take some time for her to adjust to being at home in a different circumstance.”

  “Yes.” He faced her, forcing a smile. “She does need some time.”

  Francesca hated this delicate dance. “Rick…would it be awkward if I called on her? I wanted to call on her at the hospital, but I was a coward, a terrible coward!” she cried, relieved that she was finally being honest with him. “I like Leigh Anne. Maybe I can be of some help.”

  His face collapsed. “Of course you can call on her,” he said softly. “Francesca—” He stopped.

  “What?”

  “I am at a loss,” he whispered.

  She really knew very little now of his intimate affairs, but she sensed his distress and wanted to take him in her arms. She did not. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.” He smiled grimly at her, recovering his composure.

  “Are you certain I can call? I don’t want to upset her.”

  “I think it would be helpful if she had callers—if she had the same social life she used to have. She was never idle, Francesca.”

  Francesca nodded. She had an odd and terrible image of Leigh Anne sitting in her new wheeled chair in the old Victorian house Bragg had leased, never going out, a prisoner of a lack of desire.

  “So what brings you here?” he asked, gesturing at a chair.

  Jerked away from that horrific image, she quickly went to him, having no wish to sit. “The police file you have on the Slasher is incorrect.”

  He started. “What do you mean?”

  “I read it very carefully after Margaret Cooper’s murder. Kate Sullivan’s statement is incomplete.”

  “You spoke with her?”

  “Yes, this morning. She said the Slasher is tall, but that was not in her statement. She also said he was a gentleman, that she saw his sleeve and his hand. The sleeve was charcoal gray and of a fine, expensive wool, his hand was unblemished and smooth and not the hand of a working man. He was also wearing a ring, which she did not see clearly, but it was gold and it had a stone. She is uncertain what kind of stone and she could not even recall the color. None of that is in the statement in that file, Bragg, and she insisted that she told all of this to the police.”

  He gave her a dark look and strode to the door. Opening it, he seized a passing patrolman. “Have Inspector Newman re port to me immediately.” He returned to Francesca. “I am assuming someone has been asleep on the job,” he said. “Someone inept.”

  “Yes, I am sure that must be the case,” Francesca said. “But Inspector Newman is not inept—he is quite thorough.”

  “Yes, usually he is,” Bragg said grimly.

  Newman poked his head past the door, which was ajar. “You called for me, C’mish?” the rotund
detective asked.

  “Please sit down,” Bragg said.

  Newman’s expression changed. He glanced at Francesca and then back at his boss and took a seat. “Is something wrong?”

  “Who took Kate Sullivan’s statement?” Bragg asked.

  Newman began to flush. “I did, sir.”

  “Then why is the statement inaccurate and incomplete?”

  Newman’s red color increased. “I’m not sure I know what you are speaking of,” he said, looking away.

  Francesca was in disbelief. He was lying!

  “Kate Sullivan remarked on the Slasher’s jacket and hand.”

  Newman looked distraught. “Yes, sir, she did,” he mumbled.

  “You recall all of this?” Bragg asked in the same disbelief that Francesca was feeling.

  He nodded, appearing miserable.

  “Then why was it not in the file?” he demanded tersely.

  Newman stared at his knees. “I dunno, sir.” His voice was barely audible.

  Bragg was as incredulous as he was angry. “So you failed to make an accurate report?”

  Newman nodded.

  “Why?”

  Newman just sat there, hanging his head. “I dunno,” he finally whispered. He seemed close to tears.

  “I need a reason—before I suspend you,” Bragg snapped.

  Newman looked up, his eyes shining. “I didn’t want to lie,” he begged. “Sir, I didn’t.”

  Francesca became still. And she had a terrible inkling, Brendan Farr’s chilly stare coming to mind.

  “I suggest that you explain yourself.”

  Newman inhaled, as if seeking courage.

  Francesca had to intervene. “I have an idea as to what happened.” She did not look at Bragg, only at Newman, who stared at her as if she were his savior. “Someone didn’t want you to make a complete report, did he?”

  Newman shook his head. “No, he didn’t.”

  Bragg jumped in. “Farr asked you to withhold the facts of this case?”

  Newman nodded. “Sir, I’m loyal to you, I swear! But Farr’s the chief! He can suspend me, fire me, he can hurt my—” He stopped abruptly. Numbly he said, “He’s chief, C’mish. He gave me a direct order. He gives me an order, I got to obey.” He was trembling.

  For a moment, Bragg was still, and then he and Francesca looked at one another. Bragg faced the plump inspector. “I understand.”

  Newman gasped. “You do?”

  “Yes. And now I am giving you an order. Anytime Farr asks you to violate the oath you are sworn to as a police officer, you come to me.”

  Newman nodded, ashen.

  Bragg clasped his shoulder. “I do not condone what you have done, but I understand the position you have been placed in. I do not want you to breathe a word of this conversation to the chief. It never took place. Do you understand me?”

  He turned beet red. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did Farr say why he wished to delete the facts from the file?”

  “No.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  “No one, sir.”

  “Good. Continue with the investigation. But all pertinent facts are to be reported directly to me from this moment forward. If Farr wishes to withhold more information, pretend to do so and seek me out privately. Is that clear?”

  Newman nodded, appearing terribly relieved. “I never wanted to betray you, sir,” he said.

  “I understand. Did you and Farr have a suspect that we do not know about?”

  “No, sir. The only suspect we have so far is David Hanrahan. Farr thinks he might have killed Margaret Cooper by mistake—that he meant to kill his own wife, and that he assaulted the first two women out of anger.”

  Bragg smiled at him. “Why don’t you take your lunch break.”

  Newman stood. “Thank you, sir,” he cried.

  When he was gone Francesca faced Bragg, wide-eyed. “What is Farr up to?” she demanded. “Why hide pertinent facts?”

  “I do not know—yet.”

  Francesca stared. “He hates women. I am sure of it. But surely he isn’t the killer?”

  “That is a bit of a leap to make.”

  “Then why?”

  “As I said, we don’t know. But we will find out, sooner or later, now, won’t we?” He smiled and it was chilling.

  And Francesca took his hand. “Sooner, Bragg,” she vowed. “We will find out sooner, not later, because I have lost patience with your treacherous chief of police.”

  IT DIDN’T MATTER THAT Leigh Anne Bragg was now a cripple. Bartolla Benevente had dressed exquisitely in jewels and a fabulous couturier gown to make certain she put her friend and rival to shame. Of course, while the gown was couture, the jewels only appeared real. The false emeralds surrounding her long, pale throat matched her coat and were a bit darker than the low-cut, three-quarter-sleeved dress she wore. Bartolla had also spent hours on her long red hair that morning. She wore a new rouge on her lips and cheeks, and she knew she had never been more stunning. She was staying with the Chandlers on the dreadful west side of town, so there was no opportunity for any flattering glances to come her way until she alighted from their hansom cab at Madison Square. There, a dozen gentlemen turned to look and stare.

  She smiled at them all as she swept up the brick path to the ugly, dour Victorian house Rick Bragg had let. How Leigh Anne must hate living there, she thought. She knew the other woman very well. Leigh Anne had always expected a mansion, furs and jewels when she married into the wealthy Bragg family. Somehow, her working husband had managed to provide her with everything except the mansion.

  Bartolla smiled widely and knocked on the front door.

  She had called on Leigh Anne four times while she was in the hospital but Leigh Anne had, amazingly, been asleep each and every time and she had not been allowed to enter the sickroom. Once she had managed to steal a glance inside and she had been truly shocked when she had glimpsed Leigh Anne. The woman had been lying there in bed, her face so devoid of color that she appeared dead. She had looked ghastly, even ugly.

  God, how ironic it was! How tragic, how utterly Homeric! As much as Bartolla hated to admit it, the other woman more than rivaled her in beauty. But no more. Never again. The city’s most beautiful woman was now deformed, forever maimed, a cripple, for God’s sake.

  She knew she should not have even the smallest sense of satisfaction. But, in the past, when they had been together in a room, at a fête or a ball, Bartolla had not received the majority of the longing male glances cast their way. No more. No man would ever look at Leigh Anne Bragg that way again.

  It was almost amusing.

  Bartolla was let inside by a manservant as dour as the house and told to wait while he went to see if Mrs. Bragg was receiving callers. Bartolla wandered the small, garish salon, shuddering at the dark red stripes on the walls, the dark red velvet of the tacky sofa, the worn and faded rug. Leigh Anne had returned from marital separation and an opulent life in Europe to reclaim her husband, and Bartolla could not quite understand why. Of course, she had been the one to write Leigh Anne and inform her that her estranged husband was in love with another woman. Still, Bartolla would have let Francesca Cahill have him, had she been Leigh Anne. Leigh Anne had been courted by dukes and chased by Russian princes. What a fool she had been.

  She heard the wheels even before she heard Leigh Anne and she turned as her hostess said hello. Bartolla froze. Leigh Anne sat in a wheeled chair, a young male nurse pushing it, clad in a stunning lavender gown with a pearl and diamond necklace and matching earrings. For one moment, as Leigh Anne smiled at her, Bartolla started in dismay. She had expected to see a corpse. But other than the fact that Leigh Anne could not walk and sat in that odd contraption that was a chair, nothing had changed. She was utterly lovely and terribly elegant and the necklace she wore was real.

  “How wonderful of you to call,” Leigh Anne said. She smiled slightly at the handsome, dark-haired man who was her nurse. “I’ll call you if I need yo
u, Mr. McFee.”

  He smiled, blushing a little, and left.

  Bartolla recovered and swept forward, beaming, but inwardly she was furious. How could Leigh Anne make being a cripple so glamorous? “How are you, darling?” she cried, clasping her hands. “I tried to call on you at Bellevue, but you were asleep every time and they would not let me in.”

  “I know,” Leigh Anne said with the same slight smile. “That was very nice of you. Do sit down. Peter is bringing us brioche and coffee.”

  “Ah, those were the days, when my dear husband the count was still alive—when we would meet in Paris and shop together until we were ready to expire!” Bartolla laughed, recalling those two years of her marriage very vividly. She had married the Italian count at the age of sixteen—he had been in his sixties. Then he had died, leaving her with next to nothing, the bastard. He had left his grown adult children everything, except the smallest pension that came to her, one which she had already spent. Of course, no one in the city knew her little secret—that she was living on her American family’s charity and was desperately impoverished.

  But when she married Evan Cahill—once he was reconciled with his family and his inheritance—that would all change.

  Leigh Anne’s smile never faltered, though now Bartolla realized it did not reach her amazing green eyes. “I’m afraid you did all of the shopping, my dear. I never had that kind of credit, if you recall.”

  Bartolla took a chair. “Bragg kept you well while you were separated.”

  “He was as generous as he dared to be. I quickly learned to excel at pretense,” Leigh Anne said. “Some of the gems I wore were nothing but paste, the gowns hand-me-downs.”

  Bartolla was uncomfortable, as she wore paste and a hand-me-down gown. But of course, Leigh Anne could not know that. “I had no idea. No one did. That necklace is beautiful,” she added.

  Leigh Anne’s expression softened. “Rick gave it to me when we were newly wed. I have always treasured it. It was so hard for him to afford this.”

  Bartolla was annoyed now. “Oh, please, all he had to do was ask for a check from his father. He might have chosen to work for a living like a common man, but let’s be frank, one day he will inherit quite a fortune when Rathe Bragg dies.”