by Brenda Joyce
They were ushered into a stately mansion by a British servant. Francesca was more than surprised as the man took Bragg's card, placed it on a silver tray, and hurried away to give it to his employer. Removing her coat, Francesca glanced around the elegant hall. Oak floors gleamed underfoot, and several pleasant paintings graced the wood-paneled walls. Through an arched entryway she saw another reception hall, this one decorated in red and gold with a magnificent chandelier. Other doors leading off the entry were firmly closed.
"This man appears to be a gentleman," she whispered.
"His reputation precedes him and he is not welcome in polite circles," Bragg remarked. "He is also a huge supporter of Tammany, Francesca."
"Does all of his wealth come from indebted gentlemen?"
"He has three 'saloons' in the city. If he has other investments, we do not know about them," Bragg said as the servant returned, another gentleman with him.
LeFarge was short and husky and he had donned a blue velvet smoking jacket over his white shirt and evening trousers. Matching velvet slippers monogrammed in gold with the initials ALF were upon his rather small feet. He had a large nose, fathomless dark eyes, heavy black brows, and a warm, slightly amused smile on his face. "Commissioner Bragg!" he cried effusively. "What a delight, my good man."
Bragg nodded politely. "Good evening, Mr. LeFarge. I am afraid I am here on police business."
"Really?" LeFarge blinked innocently, then smiled warmly at Francesca, extending his hand. "What a lovely lady! Miss ... ?"
This man was responsible for having her brother beaten almost to death. Francesca did not extend her hand. "My name is Cahill," she said softly as the anger began to build within her in wave after frightening wave. "Miss Francesca Cahill."
"I should have guessed," he said, dropping his hand but continuing to smile. "The infamous lady investigator! Do, please, come in. I am dressing for an affair, but I can give you both a few moments."
He turned away, reaching for a pair of heavy rosewood doors. His portrait was on the wall on the left, and in it he was in a military uniform that appeared to be nineteenth-century and French. The pose was also Napoleonic. Francesca halted before the portrait, not at all amused. In it, LeFarge did resemble Bonaparte.
Bragg instantly took her arm, his gaze locking with hers, a warning there. Francesca had begun to shake. But she understood, and she nodded. She must control herself.
He nodded in return and they followed their host into a magnificent salon.
"Can I offer you refreshments?" LeFarge asked, gesturing at a red velvet settee flanked by a pair of darker red damask chairs. "A scotch, Commissioner? A sherry for the lady?"
"We will be brief," Bragg said.
Francesca realized she had folded her arms tightly across her chest. She sat down stiffly on the edge of one damask chair as LeFarge poured himself a scotch from a crystal decanter on a bar cart. He lifted the glass at them both, smiling. "To our city's finest police officer and its finest amateur sleuth."
Francesca trembled. The words were there, on the tip of her tongue: Did you kill Grace Conway? Did you assault Sarah Channing? Did you think to get at my brother for his
debts in this way? But she said nothing—she simply stared.
And over the rim of his glass, he stared back at her, his eyes turning black.
She shivered, certain that a threat was there.
"Can you recount to me where you were Monday morning?" Bragg asked.
LeFarge looked surprised. "I was here in my library until noon. I spend every morning going over my business affairs," he said.
"And then you went out?"
LeFarge seemed amused, and he sipped from his drink. "I had lunch with Harold Levy and Jacob Cohen at the Waldorf Astoria, my good sir. Our luncheon was at one. It went an hour or two. Might I ask why you are posing these particular questions?"
Bragg smiled grimly. "A friend of Evan Cahill's was murdered on Monday, Mr. LeFarge."
He seemed shocked. "Is it anyone I know? And how is Evan handling it? Oh, do send him my regards!" he cried.
Francesca stood up—she had had enough.
"Francesca," Bragg warned.
She knew she had lost all of her control. She did not care. "Do not dare to pretend that you are a friend of my brother's!" she cried.
"But I am. I see him frequently, several times a week, if not more. He is a constant guest in my saloons. I am very sorry a friend of your brother's has been killed." He seemed compassionate.
"Miss Conway was murdered," she said rigidly.
Bragg took her arm.
LeFarge set his glass down. "Not Grace Conway, the lovely actress?" He seemed genuinely stunned.
"Unfortunately, Miss Conway has been murdered," Bragg confirmed.
"And you think I had something to do with it?" He laughed. "Commissioner, you are barking up the wrong tree! My business is money—not murder!"
"Where did you go after your luncheon with the gentlemen Levy and Cohen?"
"To the Royal," he said. "I was there all evening, and you may ask anyone." He continued to smile and then finished his scotch.
"How well did you know Grace Conway?" Francesca asked coldly.
He faced her. "Not well. But she came in with your brother quite often. I had actually hoped to entice her to supper, should she ever tire of Evan. I am so sorry she is dead."
Francesca stared, not believing a single word he said.
He raised both brows and met her stare, his gaze unwavering and steady. Then he said, "Do give Evan my regrets."
Francesca turned and walked out.
But not before she heard Bragg say, "Evan Cahill is a personal friend of mine, LeFarge. I am extremely concerned for his welfare. He himself has recently had an accident. But then, I think you know that?"
"No! I hadn't heard! Is he all right?" LeFarge gasped.
"He is fine. And I intend for him to stay that way. In fact, should anything befall him again, I will make certain that the responsible party never sees the light of day again. That is, I shall toss him in the cooler in the basement of headquarters and throw away the key."
LeFarge chuckled. "How melodramatic you are, my good man. I can hardly imagine you violating the letter of the law that you are sworn to uphold. Commissioner, I have to go. But would you meet me for a drink, say tomorrow evening? I think we can continue this discussion then."
"I'm afraid I have other plans," Bragg said.
Francesca was waiting on the other side of the doorway. She watched LeFarge shrug, clearly unperturbed. "And that, my good man, is your loss." He saluted them both with his now empty glass.
Francesca and Bragg walked out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, February 20, 1902—11:00 a.m.
Rick Bragg stood with his arms folded across his chest, in his shirtsleeves, gazing out the window of his office. Below, Mulberry Street remained a land of hoodlums and cheats. Even now, with several police officers loitering within his view, not far from his double-parked roadster, he watched a cutpurse strip the wallet from a gentleman who was on his way to headquarters. Farther down the block, a brawl was imminent, as two louts, both clearly drunken, were shouting and about to engage in punches and blows. The brownstone across the street was where the city's newsmen loitered, awaiting scoops for their respective newspapers. He could clearly see into the window of one apartment, where several reporters were sipping coffee and standing about gossiping. He recognized one of them as Arthur Kurland from the Sun. The newsman had proven himself an adversary, perhaps even a dangerous one. However, Kurland might prove very useful where LeFarge was concerned. Bragg hoped to learn whatever he could about the gambling hall owner from the newsman.
Several drays were slowly passing by, as was a hansom. But most of the traffic below Bragg was on foot. He saw the entire familiar scene, yet in a way he also saw none of it. He was thoroughly preoccupied.
There were no new leads on the Conway Murder, and because of the possible invol
vement of Francesca's brother, Bragg was extremely concerned. Had Evan not been the connection between Grace Conway and Sarah Channing, he would not have involved himself in the case at all, as his job was to manage the entire police department, not to undertake the investigation of a single crime.
Had Grace Conway's murder been a brutal accident? Or was Sarah Channing lucky to be alive?
Were they dealing with a vandal... or a killer... or both?
At all costs, he did not want Francesca hurt by any of this, which meant he must protect her brother no matter what transpired.
Suddenly he started. A hansom had stopped on the block below his window and Francesca was alighting from the cab. He smiled instantly—she always brought a smile to his face—and then he felt his smile vanish. Francesca was an amazing woman—there was no woman he respected or admired more. He had never meant to become so terribly fond of her. He hadn't meant to fall in love, not with her or any other woman—he hadn't thought it possible, actually. For as much as he had cared for the few women he had been with since his separation, when Leigh Anne had left him, something within him had died.
And then he had met Francesca. As beautiful as she was, it wasn't her looks that had attracted him—it was her v/it, her intellect, her humor. One conversation—which had turned into a political debate—and he had found himself ensnared.
He watched her cross the sidewalk, disappearing from his view, and was aware that she would be in his office in a moment. He was pleased about it, no matter that he should not be. Then he thought about his wife. He turned away from the window, closed his eyes, and sighed.
She felt like an iron collar about his neck.
Yet he knew if he could somehow grip that iron shackle, he could tear it off and be free.
Wide, innocent-looking emerald green eyes assailed his memory. But there was nothing innocent about her!
His telephone rang. Bragg's desk was a terrible clutter of papers, files, and folders. The telephone was on the desk's edge, and as he lifted the receiver from the hook, the rest of the telephone clattered to the floor along with several files. "Rick! I am terribly remiss; there is something I forgot to ask you yesterday when we spoke," Seth Low, the city's mayor, said tersely, without formality.
"Good morning, sir," Bragg said quickly. He had spent late yesterday afternoon in a meeting with the mayor, who, while indicating just how pleased he was with Bragg's current efforts to reform and revamp the police department, was exceedingly anxious now about Bragg's enforcement of the Blue Laws, which kept the saloons closed on Sundays. Bragg was torn. He was the kind of man who believed that one must follow the letter of the law without exception, yet he knew that in doing so he might cost Seth Low his chances of reelection in the next two years. Low had politely asked him to reconsider his position. "What can I do for you?"
The mayor was not renowned for his warmth. He got to the point. "I have a box at the opera tonight. I'd like you to join us with your wife," the mayor said.
Bragg froze.
"Rick? You there?"
He felt himself smile stiffly. "Yes, sir, I am. You do know that we are somewhat separated?" He could have kicked himself. Somewhat separated? Their separation was irreconcilable; of that there was no doubt.
"Of course I know! You were very clear on that point when we discussed your appointment as the city's police commissioner two months ago. But she is back now. I meant to tell you that you must reconsider your separation. We have enough trouble, and we don't need anything personal landing on our overheaped plates."
How much clearer could the mayor be? Bragg was grim. "Of course we shall attend, sir. It would be a pleasure." But in spite of the professionalism upon which he prided himself, he was furious. He could envision nothing more distasteful than escorting Leigh Anne to any function for an entire evening. But more important, she was attaining what she really wanted—status as his wife.
"Good. Think about a reconciliation, Rick. Even if just for the rest of your term. A public announcement would do. Now. What is this I have heard about Grace Conway having been murdered?"
Bragg stiffened. So the news was already out? "She was found strangled Tuesday evening, sir. The murder took place sometime Monday, between that morning and that night."
"Strangled? What does this mean? Don't tell me the city has another madman on its hands?"
"I wouldn't leap to conclusions, and I am personally working on the investigation with several of my finest inspectors," Bragg said.
"Keep me posted," Low said. "We will have a cocktail at six at the mansion. See you then." He hung up.
Bragg inhaled, his thoughts racing right to his wife, whom he had not seen since Tuesday. Reconcile? He had practically been given an order. He had no intention of reconciling, not ever.
But if the mayor wanted Leigh Anne at the opera, so be it. The real question was, how could he contain his anger during the course of an interminable evening? He reminded himself that this was his political duty. And then another voice from deep within told him that it was his marital duty as well.
"Good morning," a cheerful voice came from the doorway.
He started, his gaze meeting Francesca's. Inside, he instantly softened and warmed.
Her smile faded. "Is everything all right?" Her blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, were worried.
He sighed. "Come in. Shut the door behind you." He bent and retrieved his telephone, hanging up the receiver.
Francesca came forward. "You seem tense."
"The mayor knows about Miss Conway. Word is out, and it will only make our job harder," he said grimly.
She grimaced. "She was more famous than I suspected. I am not surprised the word has gotten out. I imagine quite a few policemen have been gossiping about her death."
"Someone from the Department is talking too freely," Bragg agreed. Then he softened. "How did it go with the dean?" He knew Francesca had gone to Barnard that morning, instead of the previous afternoon, as last evening she had told him it was the very first item on the next day's agenda.
Francesca smiled. "She doesn't want me to drop out entirely—and she admires my work as a sleuth! So I am staying on, but part-time, as you suggested. I have dropped all my courses this semester but two. I was at class this morning," she added happily.
"I am very pleased for you, Francesca," he said, meaning it and clasping her hand on impulse.
They looked at each other. Francesca no longer smiled, but neither did he. He removed his hand, as did she. "Why are you really worried?" she asked softly.
He almost sighed. This woman could see into his soul, or so it sometimes seemed. But he would not bring up his damnable wife now. "I am inundated with police affairs. Low wishes me to back off of enforcement of the Blue Laws."
Francesca's clear blue eyes widened. He felt as if he had lied to her, which, in a way, by omission, he had. He hated it. "How can you leave the saloons open on Sundays? Half of the city is expecting you to bring a new morality to it."
He did smile. "And you are in that half, of course."
"Yes, I am." She smiled back at him.
"I think I will let a week or so go by without doing anything and see if that might make the recent efforts I have made these past few weeks seem less threatening."
Francesca nodded. "And is there anything new on the investigation? I was thinking we might begin with the three galleries Newman mentioned today, if you are not too busy. I also wish to return to the scene of the crime. Surely we have missed a clue that might lead us to Miss Neville's current location. I am haunted by the notion." She smiled, but seriously and more to herself than to him.
Her sincerity was simply adorable. He had never met anyone with such a pure heart of gold. His heart quickened, and images flashed in his mind from the night they had spent together on the Albany train. Images of Francesca with her hair down, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glazing over.
He offered her a seat before his desk, which she took, while he cleared his throat and his min
d. "Hickey and Newman interviewed Levy last night. They are, I hope, interviewing Cohen this morning. Apparently LeFarge did have lunch from one to three Monday at the Waldorf Astoria," he said.
"What kind of business did Mr. Levy have with LeFarge?"
"He is an importer of silk and other expensive fabrics. Apparently LeFarge wishes to redecorate his gambling halls and the meeting was one of legitimate business concerns."
Francesca didn't believe it. "And that morning?"
Bragg shrugged. "His butler, Keebler, claims he was in his library. But we can hardly trust the statement of his paid manservant."
"Too bad we can't put him on the witness stand with his hand on a Bible," Francesca remarked dryly.
"It may come to that." He had to smile.
"Do you think LeFarge is our killer?" she asked, her expression and tone terse.
"I honestly don't know, but the man is as smooth as a river stone and as slippery as a snake. The attack upon Sarah's studio could have been a threat which your brother missed."
"But why murder Miss Conway at the same time he attacked Evan?"
"Perhaps it was a double threat—or a mistake."
"LeFarge is clearly without the slightest morals," she said darkly. Then, "I apologize for being so utterly unprofessional yesterday, Bragg."
He laid his hand on her slim shoulder. "I understand. You don't have to apologize."
She smiled up at him.
And as he stared at her he quickly recalled what it was like to take her in his arms. Francesca was the most honest and open woman he had ever known—and it was one of the reasons he cared for her so. She did not have a sly or calculating bone in her body—unlike his abhorrent wife. No two women could be more different.
It was never easy being alone with Francesca. There was always an attraction, a passion, pulsing between them. Sometimes it felt like a powerful magnet. How many times had he been so very close to giving up on his self-control and making love to her? Somehow, he had done what was right in the end.
And her passion was explosive. He knew that now.