Deadly Illusions (20 page)

Francesca thought she heard a noise on the stairs and she jumped. She quickly pushed closed the closet door and ran across the bedroom to the door, then peeked out.

Wilson was not standing there in the salon, staring accusingly at her.

She took a breath and exhaled. She had found nothing of
value, she thought grimly. Then she corrected herself. Wilson did wear a gold ring.

And where had he been last night?

An idea struck her with stunning force.

Very quietly, making sure each step was soundless, Francesca went downstairs. As she did so, their voices became louder. Hart remained in the repair shop with Wilson, encouraging him to explain the intricacies of clockwork to him.
Good man,
Francesca thought, and she fled down the hall and into the front shop.

There, she did not pause. She went outside, closed the door and rang the doorbell just once.

A moment passed and Wilson opened it. His pleasant smile vanished the moment he saw her.

But Francesca smiled at him.

He could hear the doorbell from his shop, oh yes, he could.

Wilson had lied.

 

H
ART HAD LEFT HER
at headquarters after gaining a promise from her that she would not leave Mulberry Street until Raoul had returned to take her wherever she chose. His appointment with the ambassador was at half-past twelve, and with midday traffic, it could take him an hour to get to Bridge Street. Francesca had wished him a successful interview and had proceeded upstairs to Bragg's office.

Unfortunately, she found him with the chief of police, Brendan Farr.

She hesitated in the open doorway, the strangest feeling of dread instantly forming in her chest. Both men were seated, and Bragg was the first to see her. He stood with a smile. “Come in.”

Farr turned and also stood, his smile barely discernible and not reaching his cold gray eyes.

“I did not mean to interrupt,” Francesca said.

“You are not interrupting,” Bragg said firmly, leading her in. “Farr had Maggie look at the mug book this morning. She did not recognize anyone.”

Francesca stared at Farr and imagined him knocking at Maggie's door with some of his bullies at an ungodly hour and forcing her to go to headquarters. “Was she late for work?” There was no way she could have been on time, as Maggie's shift started at eight in the morning.

Farr smiled at her. “We have a murder to solve, Miz Cahill. Two murders, actually.”

“I hope her supervisor was understanding.” Francesca heard how cool her own tone was.

Farr's smile never moved. “Mrs. Kennedy seems smart enough. I imagine she's taken care of herself all these years, with no man to look after her and not even you, and she can do so now.”

Francesca decided to ignore him, making a mental note to make certain that Maggie had not been dismissed for her tardiness. “When you have a moment, I'd like to speak to you.”

“We're almost through. Why don't you wait outside.” Bragg's gaze met hers and it was calm, rock steady and oddly reassuring.

And Francesca was relieved. Whatever game Farr was playing, Bragg would figure it out and do what he had to do to take care of matters. Farr wasn't half as intelligent as Rick, but she knew better than to underestimate him.

“I understand that Miz Cahill is working on the case,” Farr said flatly. “Do you have some information that would be use ful to us?”

“I'm afraid I know nothing more than you.” She hesitated. “What are you going to do about Sam Wilson?”

Farr smiled. “He should be here at any moment. I sent two men to his shop to bring him downtown. Meanwhile, we are trying very hard to locate John Sullivan. He seems to have disappeared after not paying the rent at his last known address.”

“Well, you are the city's finest. I am sure you will find him,” Francesca said.

Farr saluted her. “Anything else, C'mish?”

Bragg told him no, and a moment later they were alone.

He closed the door and faced her. “What have you learned?”

“Wilson gave me a false alibi. We saw him this morning, an hour ago, really, and he claimed to have been in his repair shop last night.” Francesca then proceeded to tell him what had happened.

“That was clever,” Bragg said. “What do you think?”

“In spite of Kate's belief that the Slasher is a gentleman and a foreign one, he could be our man.” She frowned. “It's just that there is something off about him.”

He accepted that. Then, “It was the Slasher last night. Same knife, same dull blade, a right-handed assault.”

“Does the coroner have any idea if she was cut after she died or not?”

“No. He shed no clues on the sequence of the assault. But he found some dark gray thread under Kate's nails.”

“Kate insisted the Slasher wore a dark gray suit. Charcoal, to be exact.”

Bragg nodded. “I know.”

Francesca suddenly sat down. “Poor Kate—and poor Francis, if Wilson is our man!”

“We need to locate John Sullivan, even if he is only a carpenter and not a gentleman.”

“Yes, we do. Have you spoken with David Hanrahan?”

“Yes. He has a rather solid alibi—he was drinking with two pals at a waterfront bar last night. Both men have corroborated his story. However, they are highly disreputable types, and I personally believe he could have conned or bribed them into saying anything he wished.”

“What you are saying is that David remains a suspect,” Francesca said.

“Wouldn't you agree?”

“Yes, but I can't shake the feeling, Bragg, that the Slasher is a gentleman, in a hat and a dark gray suit with an elegant gold ring.”

“Wilson isn't elegant.”

“No, he isn't, but he is hiding something, I would bet a small fortune on it.”

“Hart's?” He actually joked.

“Hmm. He might not appreciate that. Besides, apparently his fortune is rather large. How are you, anyway?”

He hesitated. “Would you call on Leigh Anne?”

“Yes, of course. I said I would and I should love to do so.” She stood. “Is she having a difficult time?”

“Yes, an extremely difficult time. And I feel helpless. I can't reassure her—I don't know how.”

“Just tell her that you love her, that you always have and always will,” Francesca said softly.

He made a sound of disgust. “That is easy for you to say!”

“But if it is how you feel—”

“I don't know how I feel anymore and I am tired of trying to decide what, exactly, I am feeling,” he cried.

She started in real surprise.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized instantly. “That was uncalled for.”

“I'll visit tomorrow,” Francesca said, touching him lightly.

He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Francesca smiled back. She took his hand and squeezed it.

A police officer that she did not recognize poked his head in. “C'mish, sir! Newman sent me—we got a lead.” His eyes were huge and he was flushed with excitement.

Francesca dropped her hand. Bragg said, “What is it?”

“We found Sullivan. But there's a problem.” He took a breath. “He's dead.”

Friday, April 25, 1902 1:00 p.m.

H
ART WAS GOING
over the representation he intended to make to support his growing monopoly of the trade in gold bullion from Hong Kong when his personal clerk stepped in. “Sir?” Edwards was flushing a deep shade of crimson.

Hart could not gather why. He sat back casually in his chair. “Send Sir Lawrence in.”

Edwards, a young, fair man, turned an even brighter shade of red. “The ambassador is not here yet. There is a woman—a lady—to see you.”

As Edwards and his entire staff knew to admit Francesca with no formalities, he was mildly bemused. “Does she have a name?”

“Yes, sir.” Edwards fought to breathe. “Miss Jones.”

He was very surprised—and he was not an easy man to surprise. Only Francesca had the ability to consistently do that. But then, she was entirely unpredictable and it was one of the reasons he found her so intriguing. He now paused. Daisy had never before come to his office. Nor should she—it was out of the question to have his mistress or ex-mistress anywhere near his place of business. It was not about morality or convention, although for another man it might be. Hart had no time for any dalliance when he was immersed in his business affairs.

He hadn't seen her in almost a month. He sent her the allowance he had promised her and paid her bills. He had not a
clue as to the cause of her sudden appearance at Bridge Street. “Send her in,” he finally said.

Daisy walked into his office, every bit as gorgeous as he remembered, in the most ethereal way. She seemed to float as she moved, as if she could defy gravity with her slim, sensual body. He studied her clinically; his manner had always been objective toward every woman he met. There was only one woman who had so swiftly and easily swept aside that particular barrier, and that was Francesca. He could never look at her and feel even remotely detached about her presence, her appearance or her behavior and affairs. Daisy
was
beautiful and if he were not on the verge of wedlock, he would still be enjoying her favors. There would be no reason not to. But he was engaged, and so thoroughly distracted and preoccupied by his future bride that he could not find the remotest desire for the other woman. Then again, in the past few years his desire had become clinical, too: a matter of function, a means to pass the time, a means of escape from the gray that was his life.

He stood and approached her, taking her hand and politely kissing it, his lips never making contact with her skin. “Good afternoon. I must admit, you have succeeded in surprising me by your call.”

Daisy had dressed very well for the occasion in an expensive pale blue gown that was modest, fashionable and elegant. Still, any man would know with a single glance that Daisy was not a lady. She smiled softly at him. “I do hope it is a welcome surprise. After all, we remain friends.”

He had but one friend, his fiancée, but he did not dispute her. “Frankly, I never mix business with pleasure. But I assume there is some urgency to your cause, otherwise I know you would not have ventured so far afield, much less to my place of business.”

“I'm afraid I have disturbed you,” Daisy said, downcast. “I
apologize, Calder, but I did not think it appropriate to call on you at home.”

He folded his arms across his chest, sensing a new game in the making. But why would Daisy think to play with him when he continued to be so generous with her? She remained in the house he had bought for her, and would do so for another three months until their agreement was over.

“If you had sent me a note, I would have made an appointment and called on you.” He grew impatient. “I have a significant meeting, Daisy, so I suggest you tell me why you have called.”

“May we shut the door?” she asked, appearing somewhat hurt.

He wasn't moved. “I see no reason to cause gossip,” he said. He hardly feared being alone with her—in fact, his lack of desire was amazing, considering he had once slept with every beautiful woman who was not of good character who dared cross his path—but he did not want Francesca hurt by gossip.

“First, I wanted to tell you how truly happy I am for you. You have been nothing but kind and generous with me and you deserve a wonderful woman like Francesca,” she said so earnestly another man would have believed her.

But he did not. She was standing in his place of business for a reason, and he wanted to get to it now. “Thank you.”

She went to him and took his hands in hers. “But I miss you, Calder, I really miss all the time we have shared,” she said so softly that anyone passing in the corridor beyond his open door wouldn't hear.

He moved away from her. “If you have come to seduce me, I would rethink my position. I promised Francesca that I would be loyal to her, and I have no intention of breaking that vow.”

She stepped back, her thin shoulders squaring, her chin jerking high. Was that anger he saw in her eyes? She had no reason to be angry with him. She was a whore, very beautiful and somehow elegant, but a whore nonetheless. He knew her
background was genteel, although he had never asked her story, but she had chosen to sell her body and could expect nothing except for gifts, cash and favors in return.

It was a moment before she spoke. “I saw Francesca the other day.”

He stilled. He sensed an attack on Francesca and that would be a very dangerous mistake. “Really?”

Daisy smiled a little. “In the Lord and Taylor store. That is a stunning ring you gave her. You must be smitten.”

“Is there a point?”

Daisy shrugged a little, but she said, “She seemed so radiant, so in love with you, Calder.”

In spite of his resolve to remain in control of himself, his heart leaped. If Francesca did love him, after all, he realized suddenly how thrilled he would be.

Daisy looked at him almost slyly. “Rose and I have been so concerned for her, because she is so naive. We really thought she would never be able to manage you, but clearly we were wrong.”

“That's right,” he said. “As I have no intention of being the kind of man that Francesca must
manage.
”

She smiled and laughed. “You need not worry. She appeared radiant, but that must have been due to another cause. Francesca made it clear that she is not really in love. She is only marrying you because she cannot marry Bragg. But you already know that, don't you?”

He tensed. He knew damn well he should not continue this conversation. “Is that what she said?” And there was dread, but also anger.

“Very directly, I might add.” Daisy came up to him and laid her small hands on his shoulders, pressing her slim, trembling body against his. “How ironic this is! We both know you are the last man in the world to be faithful to any woman, yet you have promised fidelity to Francesca. But she is in love with
someone else.” She shook her head, her expression at once dismayed—as if she cared—and disbelieving.

He set her away, refusing to be shaken. “Do you really think to seduce me back to your bed with these antics? Francesca and I are basing our marriage on friendship and respect, not love.”

“Yes, that is exactly what she said. And I won't pretend I don't miss you in my bed, Calder. How could I not?” She stared, no longer smiling. “You are the first man to awaken me. You are the first man to genuinely give me pleasure.” Her voice had dropped, turning husky.

It was hard to pay attention to Daisy now. All he could think about was whether or not Francesca had really said that she was marrying him for friendship and respect—and only because she could not have his damn half brother. Even though he knew he was being conned by his ex-mistress, he could not stop thinking about it. He knew damn well that this was what Daisy wanted—to interfere in his relationship with Francesca, although he could not consider why in that moment.

Could Francesca have really shared such a confidence with his ex-mistress?

Such an ingenuous utterance sounded exactly like his impulsive fiancée.

“I'm afraid those days are over.” He was abrupt. “I gave my word to Francesca and I intend to keep it.” He heard himself speak as if he were an outsider viewing the scene. Did she still really love Rick? After all the times she had been in Hart's arms? Was it at all possible? And he closed his eyes, trying to thwart the anger, but his heart pumped with it.
Damn it.
He had to admit that he had started to think that finally she was falling in love with him.
He wanted her to love him, not Rick Bragg.

And he was so stunned by his comprehension that briefly he could not even breathe.

Daisy said, her tone harsh, “Darling, do you really think to reform for a woman who doesn't even love you?”

And she cut into his brooding the way a whip cuts into naked flesh. He met her gaze but it was too late. He had realized what he wanted, what he needed, and it was going to be his Achilles heel. And before he could comment, she said, half smiling in a twisted way, “I know who you are. No one knows who you are better than I do. Because we are
exactly
the same.”

“That is hardly true,” he said, shaken to the core of his being. He didn't need to be loved—he didn't want love, not from anyone!

“No?” Now she smiled widely. “We both know you are going to become bored with your virgin bride. It's only a matter of time. Come, Calder. You're the man who has spent a dozen nights in my bed—with Rose there as well. We both know you hate the mundane, the ordinary.”

He started and memories he did not want flooded him then. He had shared Daisy's bed several times with her lover, Rose. There had been other times in his life, in Europe, when he had sexually indulged himself with more than one woman. But he hadn't given a thought to such decadence in a long time—not since he had met Francesca. The boredom, the ennui, the growing disinterest in sex—all of which had led him to such occasions—had miraculously vanished. Now, he felt paralyzed. Daisy had just verbalized his worst fears—fears he had not dared admit even to himself. He had once had a dark sexual side and he was afraid he had merely repressed it; that it would never die.

He was horrified.

Daisy laughed softly, touching his arm. “You are the most darkly sensual and sexual man I know. That dark side will never disappear because it is who you are! So why bother? Why bother to give a woman
who doesn't even love you
such an absurd promise? It's a promise you cannot keep.”

And the fury came, so huge it shocked him.
“Get out.”
His
heart was racing with terrible force as he seized her arm, dragging her to the door. “You have gone too far,” he said, very low. “You may pack your things, Daisy, and vacate the premises of my house immediately.”

She stiffened in shock, impossibly pale. “But you know I am right! You know Francesca will soon bore you! And then what will you do? You will come back to me, or Rose, or someone else, won't you?”

“Edwards!” he said furiously, shaking. “Show Miss Jones out.”

Edwards appeared, flushing. “Miss Jones?”

Daisy's expression hardened. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you will merely corrupt Francesca to satisfy your appetites. She is a very curious woman, isn't she? Who knows? Maybe you will show her that she has her own dark side!”

He stalked into his office, slamming the door closed behind him. And only then did he tear loose his tie and breathe. But the room had become airless, claustrophobic. He stormed to a window and shoved it wide. The fresh air, tinged with sweet salt, did not help. He gripped the sill, panting.

She was right.

He was a bastard in every sense of the word, a sexually depraved man with no morality whatsoever, a man with a huge and ugly past, and she had just proven it, hadn't she? Because no matter how hard he tried, images he did not want were haunting him now.

He covered his face with his hands. He was such a fool, thinking he could change, wanting to change—wanting to become someone else, someone better, finer, someone noble for a woman who did not even love him.

For a woman who loved his own brother.

Well, it was over now.

A leopard simply could not change his spots.

But now he was afraid. The last thing he wished to do was drag Francesca down into the gutter with him.

 

T
HEY WENT ACROSS TOWN
en masse, with Inspector Newman and Chief Farr. Two roundsmen and a junior detective were at the scene when the foursome arrived there. John Sullivan's flat was just off of Eighth Avenue in a particularly squalid ward. Francesca glimpsed a single room with two bunk beds, a stove, sink and rickety table with four chairs. She instantly saw Sullivan and she halted in her tracks. Bragg crashed into her and his arm went around her. “Christ,” he said.

The body which had belonged to Kate's husband lay on the floor near the table, half of his head resembling the smashed pulp of a watermelon. “Oh God,” she cried, seriously ill, turning away and into Bragg's arms.

Bragg held her for another moment. “You don't have to come in,” he said quietly. “Let the police handle this.”

Francesca fought to recover her composure and not to retch. She held his eyes as he released her. “What happened?”

“Shot in the head,” Farr intoned.

Francesca turned but made no move to enter the tiny, sordid room. She avoided gazing at the body but Farr knelt over him, Newman standing behind him. “Yeah, he was shot point-blank,” Farr remarked. “In the side of the head, from the look of it, at real close range.”

She wondered if Chief Farr had any feelings. Francesca had to look—peripherally. “Is he holding a gun?” she asked, glimpsing the dead man's right hand and the gleaming black weapon there.

“He sure is,” Farr said cheerfully. He stood. “It's been fired, too, from the smell of it, and I'll bet that bullet is the one lodged somewhere in his head.”