Deadly Kisses

by Brenda Joyce

  He was gazing at her with real worry and she tried to smile and pat him on the back.

  “He didn’t mean it,” Joel said as they hurried inside. “He loves you, Miz Cahill. I mean, at least I think he does.”

  Francesca’s heart cracked apart. Even though Hart was behaving in the most noble, selfless manner, what he had just done hurt beyond belief and comparison. “I think he does care for me, Joel. But you see, he has been accused of murder and he does not want me involved.”

  “I don’t see,” Joel said, as they hurried toward their gate, maneuvering though the crowds coming and going in the huge, marble-floored lobby of the train station. “You can find the real killer. He should want you involved!”

  “People are going to say unkind and even cruel things about him,” Francesca explained. “He doesn’t want me there to hear those things.”

  Joel just shook his head. “But you can still get married. Because when you find the killer, no one will be mean to Mr. Hart anymore.”

  Francesca reached down to hug him. “Let’s find the killer first.”

  IT WAS ONLY EIGHT, but Bragg had been at headquarters for more than an hour now. At the knock on his door, he slowly stood, his pulse accelerating. “Enter.”

  Sergeant Shea came in, gripping Mike O’Donnell’s arm. The longshoreman was unshaven, bleary-eyed and in manacles. “Got your boy, C’mish,” Shea said cheerfully. “An’ he ain’t very happy about it.”

  O’Donnell’s expression was controlled, but Bragg could feel his anger. “Commissioner, sir,” he said. “Am I being charged for a crime? ’Cause I just been dragged out of my bed!”

  “You can take those off,” Bragg said softly. He watched Shea unlock and remove the cuffs. “Thank you. Leave us.”

  Shea nodded and left, closing the door firmly be hind him.

  O’Donnell rubbed his wrists as if he’d been in shack les for hours. “I’m no criminal, sir,” he said.

  The man looked as if he had been drinking. Bragg circled him, but he could not detect the sour odor of last night’s beer or alcohol. “I don’t know. Should I charge you, Mike? Say, for extortion and blackmail?”

  Bragg paused in front of him, their faces inches apart. The man’s eyes were slightly bloodshot.

  “Charge me? Charge me for extortion?” O’Donnell cried, his face the picture of aggrieved innocence. “Sir! This is unfair! I could never extort anyone, it is a sin!”

  “Maybe you should have thought about the possibility that I could charge you with just about anything I choose—be it true or false—before you called on my wife and daughters.”

  O’Donnell was still, except for his chest, which heaved as he breathed. “Is that a threat?” he asked after a long pause. “I never asked for money. All I did was visit my girls. That’s not a crime.”

  Bragg smiled tightly, not pleased that O’Donnell was sticking with his story. “We both know you have not found God and that you don’t give a damn about the girls,” he said flatly. “How much do you want?”

  “They’re my flesh an’ blood,” O’Donnell said, his expression relaxing, his tone earnest now. “And they belong with me. I feel certain it’s what God wants. This isn’t about money, sir.”

  Bragg had no patience left, not for this game. His wife was upset and afraid. This ploy needed to end before it went any further. “God wants you to disappear,” he snarled. “I want you to disappear. How much do you want?”

  O’Donnell met his gaze, his expression deadpan. “Sir, I am not asking you for money. I have every right to see the girls. Beth an’ me, we’ve been talking about it. How we can raise the girls. We can’t give them all that you and your wife can, but we can get by. They’re my nieces, sir, and they need to come home.”

  Bragg was in disbelief. O’Donnell was not going to crack!

  O’Donnell smiled at him.

  “Get out,” Bragg said.

  O’Donnell turned for the door when Brendan Farr, the chief of police, suddenly poked his head in. Bragg’s tension skyrocketed. The chief had his own agenda, and Bragg did not trust him. “My door was closed,” he said tersely.

  “Sorry, boss,” Farr said benignly. He was a very tall man with silver hair and pale blue eyes. “This a bad time?” He eyed O’Donnell as the blond man sauntered out. He turned back to Bragg. “I was hoping we could talk about Miss Jones’s murder. The newsmen are having a field day, and we’re looking bad—as usual.”

  Bragg sighed, rubbing his temples. “Come in, Chief.”

  Farr closed the door behind him. “Do I know that hoodlum who just left?”

  “No.” Bragg turned away. “I can’t stop the reporters from writing their stories. But I will release a statement for the press before noon.”

  “And what will it say?”

  He was not in the mood for games. “Whatever it is that you want to say, spit it out.”

  Farr’s face hardened. “Yes, sir! Look, I know Hart’s your half brother and I know he’s engaged to Miz Cahill, but he’s a real suspect here.”

  Bragg did not like Farr knowing that he and Francesca had once had been romantically involved. “I am well aware of the facts of the case.”

  “We should bring him in for more questioning, but Newman’s been treating him with kidskin gloves, just because he doesn’t want to step on your toes.”

  Bragg realized with dismay that was probably the truth. Hart should be interviewed again, very thoroughly.

  Farr saw the opening. “I can have my boys bring him in and I can do it.”

  “No.” Bragg sat down behind his desk. “First of all, you have the entire department to oversee. You do not need to be personally involved in this case,” Bragg said. He knew Farr had some kind of ax to grind, either against Francesca or himself. No good could come of his involvement in the case. Ironically, he now thought to protect Calder. “Newman can speak with Hart. But we’ll do it uptown, at his home. He doesn’t need to be dragged into HQ—the press will only write more misleading stories about that.”

  Farr nodded, his arms folded across his broad chest. If he was unhappy, he gave no sign. “I got one more thing to suggest, boss.”

  Bragg raised his brows, waiting.

  “We need to search his house and his offices.”

  Farr was right. Inwardly, Bragg cursed. “Get a search warrant. Judge Hollister is usually accommodating.”

  Farr smiled. “Yes, sir. I’ll put an officer on that right away.” He started to leave.

  “Farr!”

  The chief of police halted and faced Bragg. “Yes, sir?”

  “There’ll be no search—none—until we have the warrant. When we do have it, I’m in charge.”

  Nothing flickered in Farr’s eyes. “Yes, sir, I understand. Hollister may be in court. If so, we won’t have a warrant until late tonight or first thing tomorrow.”

  Bragg nodded. “Just as long as we are clear.”

  “We are very clear,” Farr said.

  Bragg walked him watch out. Then he stood. O’Donnell was going to be a problem and he knew it. His worry had no bounds. He had to protect the girls and Leigh Anne, but he was going to have to wait for O’Donnell’s next move. And then there was Hart. He could not help it—he was also worried about his brother.

  CONNIE WAS VERY NERVOUS AS she was led down the corridor of Hart’s huge home. She clutched her reticule tightly, reminding herself that she was fortunate to have found him at home. She had been prepared to travel to his offices on Bridge Street, however, for her sister’s sake.

  Connie followed Alfred, certain that her sister would not be very happy with her now. Had Fran known what Connie intended, she would have talked her out of it. Neil had advised that she not stick her nose into this affair, but she had tartly reminded him that Francesca was her beloved sister. She had to do what she thought was right. She had to convince Hart to break off his engagement to Fran.

  Alfred knocked on the library door. Connie braced herself, because she was most definitely cornerin
g the lion in his den. Hart was an enigma. He could be terribly charming and impossibly seductive, but he could also be blunt, rude and very difficult.

  Hart appeared at the door, appearing uncharacteristically disheveled. He wore no jacket and no tie. His shirt was unbuttoned by two holes at the throat, revealing some dark hair there, and his sleeves were haphazardly rolled up to the elbows. “I said I did not wish to be disturbed,” he said harshly. Then he saw Connie. There was no mistaking the fact that he flinched.

  “I do beg your pardon, but Lady Montrose insisted she must see you, sir. As she is Miss Cahill’s sister, I thought I must allow her in.”

  Hart looked past Alfred, as if he were no longer even there. “This is not a good time,” he said, and there was no mistaking his warning.

  Connie’s trepidation increased. “Good morning,” she whispered hoarsely. Then she cleared her throat. “I know it is terribly early, Calder. I do apologize, and I could certainly come back later, if you insist. But I must speak to you, sooner or later, about Francesca.”

  An endless moment passed. Never taking his eyes from her, he said to Alfred, “That is all.”

  His words were very final and Alfred hurried away, not bothering to ask if they wanted tea or coffee.

  Hart smiled at her, but it was a mere stretching of his lips. He gestured grandly—or mockingly—for her to come in. Connie knew that it was a mistake seeing him now, when he was so irritated and annoyed, but she hurried past him, breathing hard.

  “Do I frighten you?” He laughed, walking past her toward his desk.

  “Actually, this morning you do,” she managed to say, her gaze riveted on him. She could understand Francesca’s attraction, for once, briefly, she had felt it herself. Even now, there was something mesmerizing about his presence. Maybe it was the way he moved in such a predatory manner, as if he could barely control his own energy and strength. It was far more than his dark good looks, far more than his wealth and power. Perhaps it was his arrogance that was so fatally attractive to women.

  “You are staring.” He cut into her thoughts, lifting a glass from the desk.

  Connie was shocked to realize he was drinking.

  He smiled at her, but it was taunting. “I’d offer you a drink, but I feel certain you would decline.”

  And she knew then what made him irresistible. It was his anger, his wounded anger. It rippled through the man, making him unpredictable and dangerous. That was what the ladies found so fascinating, she decided. “Calder, are you all right?”

  He saluted her and drank. Clearly he had no interest in providing her with an answer.

  She bit her lip, wondering if she should have followed Neil’s advice and stayed out of this affair. Then she took a step toward him. “Francesca told me everything last night,” she said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  He put his glass down and she saw that his hand was shaking. “Really? Forgive me, my lady, if I simply do not believe you.”

  She was thoroughly taken aback.

  He smiled, but it came out a sneer. “Lady Montrose,” he said, his tone as soft as silk, “we both know you are loyal to your sister. You must be thrilled that my mistress—excuse me, my ex-mistress—and my bastard are dead.”

  Connie hated being there. “Calder, I could not wish anyone dead, and especially not your child.”

  He shook his head. “As if you hoped my bastard would survive. And what then? Francesca and I should live happily ever after, with such a constant reminder of my black past?”

  Why was he doing this? Connie wondered. She could see now that he was in pain. Fran had said he was grieving for his child, and she certainly understood that. “Francesca told me she would have raised the child with you,” Connie said carefully. “You know how Fran is. She would have welcomed your child into her home.”

  He stared at her, his face stricken, and then he turned away from her, his body so rigid she thought it might snap. “Why the hell are you here?” he demanded, his back to her.

  He needed comfort, she thought, and only Francesca could give it to him. Now was not the time to ask him to take a very high road, indeed. He was already down. How could she beg him to put Francesca first and break his engagement to her?

  Because she loved her sister and she could not stand by and watch Francesca’s life go up in flames.

  Connie walked up to him, shaking with fear. She laid her purse on a small table and put her gloved hand on his back. “I am sorry for your losses,” she repeated, meaning it. “I am very sorry, Calder.”

  He whirled, clearly astonished by her gesture. Then his dark, gold-flecked eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing?”

  She backed up. “I want to help.”

  “Are you thinking to seduce me?” he asked, angry and incredulous at once.

  She was so shocked by his words that she gaped. She covered her mouth with her hand. Suddenly it was be yond amusing, and she was so nervous she laughed. “Calder! My sister loves you! I happen to love Neil! I was only offering you comfort!” She laughed again, helplessly, and then the laughter turned to tears.

  He stared, noting the tears slipping down her cheeks. Finally, slowly, without anger, he said, “Women never offer me anything other than their bodies, Lady Montrose. Except for your sister, of course. So please forgive me for failing to appreciate your kindness.”

  She looked at him through her tears. He finally seemed sincere. He was odd, she decided, if he could not accept a simple gesture of sympathy from a woman without jumping to erroneous conclusions. Then she realized that odd was not the right word. He was jaded and terribly cynical—making him as different from her hopeful, optimistic sister as night and day. How did Francesca man age a relationship with such a dark man? “I understand,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Calder, I know this is not the best of times, but I am terrified for my sister.”

  As if he hadn’t heard her, he walked behind his desk. Connie watched him rummage through the jacket hanging on the back of the chair there. When he returned, he handed her a handkerchief, his initials embroidered on it.

  She accepted it, wiping her eyes.

  “Why are you here?” he asked harshly.

  She finished drying her tears. “I know you are very fond of Francesca. I think you are even in love with her. I have been so happy for her—for you both.” She prayed he would understand what she was about to say.

  He waited.

  She swallowed hard. “Calder, I can’t stand by and watch my sister become a social pariah. If you really care for her, if you love her, you will surely break the engagement, so she does not go down in the flames of this scandal with you.”

  She thought she saw grief, anger and frustration all cross his face, shadowing his eyes. She knew she saw resolve. He finally said, “You are too late. I broke the engagement this morning. Your sister is finally free.”

  He strode past her to the door. There, he opened it widely, clearly wishing for her to leave.

  Connie’s heart beat madly. She understood his anguish now. Clutching her purse she went to the door. There, she dared to pause to face him, even though her instincts urged her to escape.

  “Francesca has told me how good you really are. I can see that now. Thank you, Calder, thank you for protecting my sister.”

  His jaw ground down. “Get out.”

  Connie fled.

  ALBANY WAS COLD. As Francesca and Joel traveled from the train station in an open horse-drawn buggy that was being passed off as a cab, she wished she had brought a coat with her. Although the sun was shining in a mostly cloudless sky, the pastures surrounding their route were muddy, and according to the loquacious cabdriver, last night it had snowed. “Might snow tonight, too,” he cheerfully added. He turned to look at Francesca, several front teeth missing from his smile. “Ye need a coat.”

  “I have become rather aware of that,” Francesca said. “How far are we from the courts?” They continued to pass through a very rural area consisting mostly of dairy farms
. Black-and-white cows grazed contentedly be side the road.

  “Maybe five miles. The city’s spread out, but all that’s important is real close to itself.”

  Francesca quickly learned that the district court where Gillespie was seated was located in the city’s civic center. A few moments later they reached the small two- or three-block area, where a handful of stately brick buildings had been built a century earlier. A quick inquiry to a passing gentleman yielded the information that the judge’s offices were in the court building on the second floor. Several gentlemen, all carrying attaché folders, were coming and going as she and Joel climbed the wide front steps of the courthouse. Inside the spacious lobby, where several plaster columns formed a rotunda, Francesca saw a number of closed doors. Clearly, several court proceedings were in session. Above her, she saw gentlemen passing by on the mezzanine. To her right was a wide wooden staircase. She and Joel started up the stairs, Francesca hoping that Gillespie was not in session.

  A moment later she found his office, his name engraved on the brass nameplate beside the door. Francesca told Joel that he could wait outside in the hall. A clerk with graying hair and spectacles opened the door to the office. “I am here to see Judge Gillespie,” she said.

  He seemed surprised. “I don’t think the judge has any appointments scheduled for today, miss.”

  Francesca followed him into the antechamber where the clerk had a small desk. An equally small sofa was against one wall. The judge’s dark wood office door was closed. The clerk went to the calendar on his desk. “No, he has no appointments today. I thought he might be in session until late.”

  Francesca glanced at the closed door. “But he is out of court?”

  “Yes, but I am sorry. He won’t see you without an appointment. However, I can make an appointment for you for next week.”

  Francesca smiled, handing him her calling card. “I am afraid that won’t do, and I am sure the judge will see me. I am here to investigate a murder and I have traveled all the way from New York City today. More important, I am working with the police on this matter, as I frequently do. Commissioner Bragg encouraged me to meet with the judge. We both feel he could be helpful in solving this case.”