Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03]

by Deadly Affairs

  “Don’t you want to find Kathleen’s killer?” Francesca asked. “Mary’s?”

  “People die here every day. Every day, every hour. Most of ’em meet a rude end. No one’s goin’ to find out who killed Kathleen or Mary. Why bother? They wasn’t like you.” He gave her a hard look. “They were just poor Micks. The leatherheads ain’t gonna care to find out who done it.” He glared now at the bartender.

  The bartender refilled his half-empty shot.

  But Mike O’Donnell did not reach for it. His gaze held Francesca’s, and he seemed angry.

  “I have one more question,” she managed after a short pause.

  He made a disparaging sound.

  She took it to mean “yes.” “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Kathleen or Mary dead?”

  He pushed off the bar. “You mean, do I know who killed them? The answer is no. But I know who hated my wife. Oh, yeah.”

  “Who?”

  He grinned. “Her boyfriend, Sam Carter.”

  Joel had insisted upon waiting outside, never mind the cold. Francesca knew him well enough, as she left him hanging about the front steps of police headquarters, to know that he hated the police and had no desire to go into the station. She waved at Captain Shea as she crossed the reception room. He was speaking to a citizen, another officer in blue serge beside him. Shea saw her, smiled, and waved her on through.

  Francesca looked away and whomp! She collided with another person.

  “I am so sorry,” she began, disengaging herself from the man.

  “Hello, Miss Cahill,” Arthur Kurland said.

  Her smile vanished.

  “What? You are not thrilled to see me?” the reporter from the Sun asked with a grin. He was of medium build and height, dark-haired, about thirty. He was a man she should never underestimate.

  “How pleased I am to see you,” Francesca recovered.

  “So, you are visiting your ‘friend’ the police commissioner?”

  “Is that a crime? Or a newsworthy tidbit?” She was far colder than she meant to be. She did not want him to know how she disliked him—and even feared him.

  “It is not a crime, and right now, I doubt it is newsworthy.” He was as relaxed as she was not. “You know, Miss Cahill, I do admire you. For your fortitude, intelligence, and all the good works you are involved in.”

  Francesca stiffened. “Have you been investigating me?”

  He smiled. “How could I write the story I did without doing a bit of background on you? You are a most interesting woman. I can well understand why a man like Bragg would find your friendship so essential.”

  He did not inflect on the word “friendship,” but his meaning was clear. She started past him. “I must go.”

  “In a hurry?” He followed her.

  “Yes, I am.” She did not look at him now.

  “Well, the biggest news to hit this city is the O’Shaunessy and O’Donnell murders.”

  She whirled, facing him. Of course he would have linked the two murders.

  His smile widened. “Are you aiding the police yet again? Perhaps you have missed your true calling in life, Miss Cahill. Perhaps you should become an investigator, instead of a reform activist?”

  “This is a social call, nothing more.”

  “Bragg has taken in O’Shaunessy’s girls. How odd.”

  “You are despicable!” she cried. “Can you not leave anyone’s life alone?”

  His gaze locked with hers. “But what do you have to hide?”

  She inhaled sharply and loudly.

  He did not move.

  She whirled, and even though the elevator was available, she fled past its cage, having no desire to leap in and become trapped there with Kurland. She gripped the banister and ran up the stairs and down the hall to Bragg’s office. Today the door was solidly closed.

  The top half was a thick frosted glass that she could not see through. She leaned on the wall beside it, panting and breathless. If Kurland did not guess her feelings for Bragg already, he soon would. He was too determined and too astute and, worse, far too unscrupulous to not use that information one day, somehow.

  She wanted to cry. She must guard her secret at all costs. No, she must guard their secret!

  An image of the envelope addressed to Bragg with his wife’s title on the back assailed her mind’s eye. She faced his door grimly and knocked.

  “Come in.”

  His voice warmed her thoroughly. She pushed open the door and saw him standing near his desk, speaking to a big, brawny man with a head of thick gray hair. The badge on his blue uniform was inescapable—so this was the new chief of police, Brendan Farr.

  He did not look like a corrupt officer now. He had an air of authority and power, and he seemed more than respectful toward Bragg.

  “Francesca.” Bragg seemed surprised to see her. Then his surprise vanished and his amber eyes warmed. His look was enough to melt her bones. “Farr, Miss Cahill. As I am certain you know, she was indispensable to the solutions of both the Burton Abduction and the Randall Killing.”

  Farr extended his hand. “I have read all about you. You are a brave little lady, Miss Cahill. Imagine that. Capturing a killer with a fry pan. Who would have thought?” He smiled. Francesca had opened her long wool overcoat, and his gaze slid over her chest, in spite of the fact that her fitted jacket was buttoned to the throat, with a touch of white silk peeping past the lapels.

  While his words were pleasant enough—except for the “little lady” part—Francesca sensed that condescension hung behind them. She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

  “Sir,” Farr said. “The moment we resolve this matter, I will be the first to let you know. And I shall do so personally,” he added.

  “Thank you,” Bragg said.

  Farr left. Bragg and Francesca remained silent until he had closed the door behind him. She turned. “I found O’Donnell,” she said abruptly.

  “What?” His eyes widened. Then, “I thought we had agreed that you were not to become involved in this case.”

  “Actually, I never agreed to any such thing. Have you forgotten that Mary tried to come to me for help before she was murdered? Not to mention that I promised Maggie Kennedy I would solve the murder of her friend.” She folded her arms firmly across her chest.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he asked darkly.

  “You admire me because I am intelligent and determined. You have said so yourself.”

  He was silent, but only for a moment. His golden gaze slipped over her. “That is true. But what do my feelings have to do with anything now? This murderer is extremely dangerous, Francesca. And you know that. I do not want you hurt,” he added.

  She was always pleased when he worried about her, but now she was unsettled, Kurland’s presence downstairs disturbing her, as did the letter he had received from his wife and the fact that two women had been gruesomely murdered and they still did not know why. She sighed. “Do you want to know what O’Donnell said?”

  He studied her for another moment. “Yes.”

  She smiled. “We found him in a saloon by Water Street. I do not know whether he is a killer or not, but he claims to have loved Kathleen—and he claims not to recall when he last saw her. He said her boyfriend, Sam Carter, hated her. He gave me the name of the warehouse where he works.”

  “I have had twelve men scouring the docks, attempting to locate O’Donnell. They have been at it since yesterday afternoon, but you have succeeded where the professionals have not. I wish to be exasperated. Instead, I find myself resigned.”

  She plucked his sleeve. “I am a young woman. People like O’Donnell don’t mind talking to me, or if they do not wish to speak to me, they are eager to speak to Joel, as he is one of them.”

  Their eyes locked. Francesca did not drop her hand from his arm. A long moment ensued in which neither of them moved. Finally, she let her palm fall to her side.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he finally murmered.
/>   She was a heartbeat away from walking into his arms and saying, “Just kiss me.” She remained utterly still—and it was a terrible battle that she waged. Finally she murmured as softly, “We make a wonderful team.”

  “We do.”

  “I like working with you.”

  “So do I.” He was grim.

  “No one has to know.”

  “Francesca . . .”

  “Bragg! You love me because I am this way. You would not want me to become a wallflower.”

  He began to smile. “We have enough wallflowers—and debutantes—in this city as it is. I wish more of the women in town were as original and concerned about our issues and affairs as you.”

  She also smiled. Victory was at hand.

  He brushed a tendril of golden hair away from her eyes. “I suppose no harm has been done . . . yet.”

  “I will stay out of danger,” she promised fervently. She debated telling him about her gun and decided against it. He might not be as enthused as she.

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and suddenly he took her hand and pressed it, knuckle side up, to his lips.

  It was stunning, what such a simple and chaste kiss could do. Francesca felt its heat all the way through the core of her body and to her toes. She realized, in that moment, that not having him was unacceptable. She loved him—he loved her. It was a tragedy that he had an awful wife. But should that fact bar them from finding happiness?

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She slipped her hand free of his, stepping back, stunned by her treacherous thoughts—and by the new rationale that had stolen unwanted into her mind. “Nothing.”

  Surely she was not thinking in such a manner now.

  He clearly did not believe her. His dark brown brows here raised skeptically.

  She wet her lips and smiled. “How are the girls?”

  “I don’t know. I left the house at six-thirty this morning; they were still asleep.” His eyes sparkled. “As was Peter. He is always up at five.”

  Francesca had a feeling that all had not gone well last night at 11 Madison Square. Bragg walked past her now, bring his brown overcoat from a wall peg, ignoring the at hanging beside it. “Shall we?”

  “Where are we going?” she asked, with growing exitement.

  “To find Sam Carter,” he said.

  SEVEN

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 8,1902—NOON

  The warehouse where Sam Carter worked was on the West Side of the city on 21st Street. They took a cab, which was far less conspicuous than Bragg’s motorcar. Inspector Murphy had been asked to join them, and Francesca learned that he was the detective in charge of the case.

  The warehouse had a huge sign on its sloping roof that was hanging askew, and it read: PAULEY AND SONS. A large wagon was being loaded with barrels in the yard in front as they left their cab.

  Francesca and Bragg walked over to the wide open door of the warehouse, Murphy and Joel behind them. They paused by the two men loading the wagon. Bragg looked at Murphy.

  He stepped forward and said, “I am Inspector Murphy. Do you know where Sam Carter can be found?”

  Both men dropped the barrel they had been lifting back down to the ground. One put his hands on his hips. “Inspector? You mean police?’

  Murphy nodded. “I have to locate Sam Carter and I was told that he works here,” he said.

  The two men exchanged a glance. “Never heard of him,” they said.

  Francesca felt a floodtide of impatience rise up in her. She glanced at Bragg; he shook his head.

  “Who is the supervisor here?” Murphy asked.

  “Office in back,” said the first man, spitting out a wad of tobacco not far from Murphy’s shiny polished Oxford shoes. Then he looked at Francesca. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  Francesca glanced at Bragg, pleading with him silently. He nodded slightly.

  “Sir? I am Sam’s cousin. He is the only family I have in the entire city, and I am newly arrived here. I was hoping desperately that we might find him today.”

  The man looked at her. He was short and heavyset, with a barrel-like chest and huge, thick arms. His brown hair was thinning, and in spite of the cold, he only wore a flannel shirt over the shirt beneath. “Guess you’re out of luck. Carter don’t work here anymore. No one’s seen him in months.”

  “Really?” Francesca asked.

  “Yeah, really. But if he comes around, or if I see him, I can tell him his cousin was looking for him.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Francesca said, realizing they were at a dead end. And she could not give the man her card, as then he would realize she had lied about being Sam’s cousin—she doubted anyone would believe that Carter had a cousin living on Fifth Avenue. “My name is Francesca Cahill, and the police will know where to find me.”

  Inspector Murphy said, “I’m at police headquarters. Three hundred Mulberry.”

  The man ignored him, and he and his fellow worker reached for the barrel, heaving it up and toward the back of the wagon.

  Bragg touched her arm, and they went inside the large, dimly illuminated warehouse. It was a huge expanse of boxes and bales. They stood for a moment and then, down a center aisle and off to the side, saw a small cubicle serving as a room, with a man seated there, bent over his ledgers. They all started forward.

  Joel said, “He was lying.”

  Francesca looked curiously at him; Bragg gave him a dismissive glance. “What makes you say that?”

  “I can tell; that’s all,” Joel said, speaking only to Francesca.

  They reached the office space. The man had become aware of their approach, and he had stood up to face them. In his shirtsleeves, a bill cap on his head, he said, “Can I help you folks?”

  “Are you the manager?” Bragg asked.

  “Actually, I am the owner. John Pauley,” he said, extending his hand.

  Bragg shook it. “I am the police commissioner,” he said. Pauley’s eyes widened. “Inspector Murphy, Miss Cahill, and Joel.”

  “How can I help you, Commissioner?” Pauley asked.

  “I am looking for a man in your employ, or at least, he was in your employ until recently. His name is Sam Carter. Do you know where he is?”

  For one moment, Pauley looked confused, and Francesca thought that there had been a huge mistake and he did not even know the man. But then he said, “Commissioner, he’s right outside, loading up a wagon.”

  They all looked at one another; then they turned and ran.

  But when they reached the street, Sam Carter was gone.

  Francesca stared thoughtfully out the window of a cab, Joel beside her, as the cab moved uptown on Madison Avenue, patiently plodding behind two other black cabs, a trolley on their right. Bragg had gone back to headquarters with Murphy, and she had a client to visit and appease. She was only slightly worried about Lydia Stuart.

  Carter had been clever, oh yes. How he must be laughing at her now. She felt herself flush.

  Joel patted her knee. “Don’t fret, lady. We’ll find the ruffian again.”

  “I hope so, but he has the advantage now—as he knows we are looking for him.” Unease assailed her. If Carter was innocent, why would he run away from them as he had? She knew that most of the city did not like the police, neither the poor nor the well-to-do. Still, he had given quite the performance, for never in a thousand years would she have guessed that she was talking to the man they were looking for.

  She hoped that he was not the killer. Because he had an advantage now, and he also had nerve.

  But then, the madman who had viciously stabbed both Kathleen and Mary to death had had nerve, too. He had crossed their hands in prayer and then left his signature on their throats.

  Francesca had learned that Kathleen had also been found covered with snow, but in an alley not far from where she had lived.

  She sighed, her gaze on the pedestrians on the street—when she thought she saw a woman she knew and she b
linked, looked again, and sat up straight.

  Rose Jones was walking down the street. She was alone and carrying a shopping bag. She was beautifully dressed—her coat and hat were matching burgundy wool, and she had a fur stole the same color wrapped about her throat. She had just walked past two gentlemen, and they had both turned around to look back at her.

  Francesca and Joel were only two blocks from 37th Street, where the cab would turn right in order to drop them off in front of the Stuart home. She knocked on the partition between her and the driver. “Sir! Pull over—we must get out!”

  A moment later Francesca was racing up the block; Joel on her heels. “Rose! Miss Jones! Do wait!”

  Rose turned, and her eyes widened when she recognized Francesca. Then her gaze narrowed with suspicion.

  Francesca slowed her steps. The last time she had seen Rose, she and her “sister” Daisy were barely dressed and being hauled off in a police wagon to spend the night in the Tombs, Bragg having raided the establishment where they worked. Francesca guessed now that Rose was not pleased to see her, considering her relationship with Bragg and the police. She smiled. “I saw you from my cab. Hello, Miss Jones. Francesca Cahill.” She extended her hand.

  Rose put her shopping bag down but did not shake hands. She put her gloved fists on her hips. “So?” Her tone was challenging. “What do you want?” She spoke with the intonation of a woman who had been brought up in a genteel manner, with an education.

  She seemed angry. But even angry, she was a stunning woman—tall, dark-skinned, with startling green eyes. Francesca said, “I am so sorry about the night you and Daisy spent in jail. I truly begged Bragg to reconsider, but he would not.”

  “Why would you want to help us?” Rose asked, but less harshly.

  “Why? Because I do not like seeing anyone treated abusively, that is why.”

  Rose stared. Then, with less hostility, “I read about you in the Sun. Why did you hunt down that killer?”

  Francesca shrugged. “An innocent man was murdered. There was justice to be had.”

  She stared. “When you’re rich, justice is a grand thing. Most people do not have time for it.”