Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (14 page)

“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 mind. “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.

“Bragg?” she asked warily, as if sensing the new and unwanted direction of his thoughts.

He turned them off, with an effort. “I doubt we will learn much from his staff at the Royal,” he said, turning away.

“No, but we could learn quite a bit from his customers there.”

“That is an effort I will make alone, Francesca,” he warned quickly, facing her. “The Royal is no place for any lady, and especially not for you. You would be recognized by dozens of gentlemen there, and your reputation would never recover. Do not even think of setting one foot inside that door!”

She stood. Her eyes flashed. “You coddle me. I would hardly be in any danger by entering a fancy gambling hall, and I think my reputation is already in shambles, as the entire city knows I prefer being a sleuth to a bride.”

He sighed. “I want you to stay away from LeFarge. He worries me. He is a dangerous man, never mind his false smile and pretense at surprise.”

“I know that. Look at what he has done to my brother!” Francesca cried.

He went to her and touched her chin. “But Evan is on the mend, and LeFarge has been warned.”

Francesca nodded grimly. Her eyes had grown moist.

He almost pulled her close, into his embrace, but he knew better—he knew the gesture meant to comfort would quickly turn into a kiss. Instead, he let her go. “I cannot go either to a gallery or back to the scene now, as I have some work to do before a luncheon engagement. You are free to enter the flat at any time, Francesca. The warsdman posted there will let you in.”

“Then I will take Joel and do some sleuthing on my own,” she said huskily. “He is waiting outside.” She stood, her eyes unwavering upon him.

Bragg stared back. “I suppose the little cutpurse will hate me for all time.”

“He will come around,” she said quietly as he helped her on with her coat. He walked her to the door and said, “Be careful. If anything new develops, please come to me first before chasing a lead that could be dangerous.”

She finally grinned at him, both tawny brows lifted. “I am hardly a china doll.”

“It is that very attitude which keeps me awake at nights!” he exclaimed. That and his unrequited desire, he thought grimly. And a future that was looking darker and darker by the moment.

“I promise to exercise caution and good judgment,” she said with a smile.

He doubted it. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

She hesitated, pressed her lips to his cheek, and quickly spun about and left.

Bragg stared after her until she had disappeared from view. He realized he was smiling once more. But Francesca
was the woman who could always put a smile in his heart as well as upon his face.

He had never felt that way about Leigh Anne.

The smile disappeared. He would have to send her a note about the upcoming evening. The tension that had vanished instantly riddled him again. He could think of nothing less pleasant or more distasteful than escorting his wife to the opera that night.

The sooner he convinced her to return to Boston, where her father was ill and perhaps dying, or to Europe, where she kept a string of lovers, the better.

But yesterday had got away from him and he had never found the time to call on her in order to discuss the impossibility of the present being maintained in this way. Or had he avoided what would become an extremely unpleasant confrontation?

“Rick?”

Bragg started, not having heard his chief of police, Brendan Farr, come to the door, which he had left wide open. The constant pinging of the telegraph and the intermittent ringing of telephones had become familiar and pleasant sounds to him, music to his ears, so to speak. “Come in, Brendan,” he said with a brief smile. He was glad to be distracted from his personal life.

Brendan Farr was six-foot-four, broad-shouldered and leonine, with a head of iron gray hair and similarly colored eyes. After quite a debate, Bragg had promoted him from inspector to his current position. He had felt that Farr’s loyalty to him for such a promotion would outweigh the man’s previous history of disloyalty, self-service, and corruption. The one thing Farr was, was clever. He should know which side his bread was buttered on, but Bragg had begun to regret his choice. During an investigation last week, Farr had engaged in some questionable actions, and Bragg wasn’t sure if he was loyal or not.

“Everything all right, Rick?” Farr asked, taking the chair in front of Bragg’s heavily cluttered desk as Bragg gestured for him to do so.

Bragg sat down opposite him. “Just the usual preoccupations.” He smiled.

“You seem worried,” Farr commented. “If anything is troubling you, I would be more than glad to help.”

“Low has asked me to cease the Sunday saloon closings,” Bragg said, leaning back in his cane-backed chair. “But the Moral Right demands it.”

Farr lifted two bushy brows. “I will support whatever choice you make. You are caught, though, between a rock and a hard place.”

How true that was. “I expect no less,” Bragg said noncommittally. Then, switching the topic and aware that Farr had not given him a single clue as to what he was really thinking, he said, “So what may I help you with?”

Farr leaned forward. “I just learned that we have a murder investigation on our hands. I would appreciate it if you would tell me when a high-profile woman has been strangled, Rick. I was an admirer of Miss Conway’s.”

Bragg knew he should not be surprised that Farr had somehow learned of an investigation taking place at headquarters; after all, if the mayor knew, so did half the political world. Not one to underestimate his chief of police, Bragg tensed. How much did he know? And could he trust Farr or not? “I have assigned Newman and Hickey to handle the preliminary investigation,” he said blandly.

“Yes. I spoke with them both at length, last night,” Farr said. He was grim but gave no clue as to whether he knew of Evan Cahill’s involvement with the actress. “She was so beautiful. I saw her once at the Empire Theater. It was a show I will never forget.”

“She had many admirers, apparently. We found a great deal of fan mail in her apartment.”

“Care to fill me in?”

“Well, it all seems to begin with the vandalism of Sarah Channing’s studio on Friday, February fourteenth,” Bragg said. “Miss Conway was found strangled Tuesday evening by her neighbor Louis Bennett. She was in an apartment belonging to Melinda Neville, an artist, and her studio was
also vandalized. Miss Conway lived across the hall from Miss Neville.”