Deadly Illusions (21 page)

“What?” Francesca gasped.

“It might be a suicide. It sure looks like one. You agree, C'mish?”

“Suicide!” Francesca said, stunned.

“I think we should examine the weapon he is holding and the bullet in Sullivan's head before leaping to any conclusions.
Newman, make a sweep. Perhaps that is not the murder weapon. If it is not a suicide, I want to find the gun that killed this man.”

“Yes, sir,” Newman said, rapidly leaving the flat.

As he did so, he almost collided with a very thin man with dirty-blond hair, not much older than Francesca. He gripped the door as if to keep standing upright, crying out, “What the hell happened?”

Bragg walked over to the interloper as one of the roundsmen in the hall moved to block his path, making no effort to be discreet. “Are you a neighbor?” Bragg asked.

The man turned away, as white as a sheet.

Francesca went to a window and yanked it wide open. She breathed in deeply, her mind racing in disbelief. Had Sullivan killed himself? And if so, why? Was his murder related to that of his wife's? She heard the man finally say, shaken, “No. I live here. What happened to Sullivan?”

“I'm afraid he's dead,” Bragg said. “And you are?”

“Ron Ames.”

“Let's step outside. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Francesca turned as Bragg and Ames stepped into the hall. Farr was rummaging through some drawers and Francesca wondered what he was looking for. He finally produced a framed photograph that had been hidden amongst some other items. It was a photo of Kate. She was smiling and holding the hand of a young man in a dark suit. He seemed a bit older than herself. “Who's the gentleman?” she asked.

“Don't know,” Farr said in inordinately good spirits.

Seized with avid dislike, Francesca stepped outside. Ames was saying, “About a year. Yeah, we been rooming together about a year, and a few months ago Josh Bennett leased a bed with us. The fourth bunk is empty.”

“Do you know any reason why Sullivan would commit suicide?” Bragg asked.

Ames shrugged. He had recovered his composure remark-
ably, and his pallor had eased. “Why wouldn't he? He's been out of work for months, he's behind on the rent he owes me, fer crissakes, he got no woman, he got nothing but the booze.”

Francesca stepped forward. “Did he ever refer to his wife?”

“Kate?”

Francesca was surprised Ames knew her name. “Yes, Kate.”

“Yeah, he spoke about her every time he got drunk—that is, just about every night.” Ames grinned. “Do the police have women on the force now?”

Francesca glanced at Bragg, not bothering to answer. Here was something, then. “How long were they separated?”

“Since before he met me. Over a year, I guess. You a police
woman?
”

“I am a sleuth, Mr. Ames. But yes, I am working with the police. Did he still love her?” Francesca asked briskly.

And Ames thought that was amusing, because he laughed, hard. “Love her? I don't think so, miss. He hated her, he did. He hated her with a vengeance, in fact, for being such a slut, for walking out on him. All he ever talked about was how he couldn't wait for the day that she got hers.”

 

T
HEY SAT IN THE
Daimler in front of police headquarters, making no move to get out. Francesca's mind was racing and she knew that Bragg was immersed in his own thoughts, too. She finally twisted to face him. “Do you think it's a suicide?”

“It certainly appears that way, but we will know within a few hours for certain.” His gaze locked with hers.

“He hated her with a vengeance, Bragg.”

“I know. I heard—I was there.”

“Could Sullivan have been the Slasher?”

Bragg smiled a little at her. “What brings you to that conclusion?”

“He hated Kate with a vengeance.”

“So you are thinking that John Sullivan is the Slasher?”

“We need to go back to his flat and see if he has a suit in the closet.”

“There was no closet, and I did not see a suit on the wall pegs, but just about every working man has a Sunday suit.”

“Of course you're right.” She stared grimly at the police wagon parked in front of them.

He touched her hand. “Why assault her and let her live? Why assault Francis first? Why kill Margaret Cooper? And why go back to finish off his wife if she was the one he hated enough to murder all along?”

“Bragg, those are my questions exactly. But consider this scenario. Maybe the assaults began as acts of anger, without the intention of murder. But then his rage escalated and he killed Margaret Cooper—and it felt good in his sick mind. So he went back to finish off the real target of his twisted rage—his wife.”

“That is a credible theory,” Bragg said. “And now he killed himself in belated grief?”

“Or belated guilt,” she said very seriously. Then she recognized the carriage parked at the end of the street. It was a very handsome black affair drawn by six black horses. She started. “Oh dear! I promised Hart I would wait for Raoul to return before I went anywhere! In the heat of the moment, I simply forgot.”

“So Raoul is now your driver?”

She glanced at him to gauge his reaction to that fact, but his expression was impossible to read. “I think Hart intends for him to be more of a bodyguard than anything else,” she said.

“I heartily hope so,” Bragg said. “Raoul was one of the Rough Riders in the war for Cuba's independence. In fact, he was a part of a secret operations unit and he is a very skillful man.”

Francesca could only stare. “Hart never mentioned it.”

Bragg shrugged and got out of the motorcar. As he came around for her door, he said, “You should take advantage of
the situation. Raoul could certainly be useful to you in your various adventures.”

Francesca smiled her thanks as she got out of the roadster. “Will I see you tonight at my sister's?”

He didn't hesitate. “No.”

“I understand,” she said softly. “I'm sure in some time Leigh Anne will want to get out and about again.”

He shrugged. Before they could move toward the entrance of the building, a woman came running down the front steps, crying out. It was Francis O'Leary. “Miss Cahill! Miss Cahill! Please wait!”

Francesca hurried toward her, wondering at her state of hysteria. “Is everything all right?” she asked in concern.

Francis had been crying. Tears streaked her cheeks and her eyes and nose were red. “Is everything all right? How can anything be all right when my fiancé is in jail and the police refuse to release him?” she cried, trembling. “How could they suspect him of anything? How could they suspect him of being the Slasher?” She began to weep. “Please, help me get him home! He is innocent!”

Francesca took her hands. “Francis, try to calm yourself. They aren't charging him with any crime. I think they merely wish to question him.” She glanced at Bragg. He nodded at her, urging her to ask the question now on both of their minds.

“He is a good, kind man, not some monster!” Francis said. “He would not hurt anyone, much less stalk and murder them!”

“He seems like a very good man,” Francesca agreed, putting her arm around the woman. “Francis, do you have any idea where Sam was last night?”

“When Kate Sullivan was killed?” she asked sharply, eyes huge and wide.

“Yes,” Francesca said. She smiled encouragingly. “Sam claims to have been in his repair shop, but frankly, it was clear
that he was not telling us the truth. Unfortunately, we have caught him in a lie. But if he is innocent, why would he lie?”

Francis stared speechlessly.

“Francis?” Francesca felt terribly for her now.

She swallowed hard and began to turn red. “He was with me,” she whispered, her voice so low it was almost inaudible.

Francesca doubted that. “Francis, please do not perjure yourself.”

“He was with me,” she said again. She glanced wildly from Francesca to Bragg and back again, highly flushed. More tears welled in her eyes.

Francesca stroked her back, but she was trembling and too agitated to be calmed. “Well, if that is the case—”

“No, he was with
me.
” She was crimson. “All night…the first time…it was our first time and you see, he couldn't have killed Kate Sullivan.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He didn't tell you the truth because he was trying to protect me.”

Francesca realized what she meant. Thoroughly startled, she searched her gaze as Bragg said, “I will see to his release. But I am afraid we will need your sworn statement, in writing.”

Francis nodded, but she stared back at Francesca, continuing to shake.

“Well, clearly Sam has an alibi,” Francesca said after a pause. The problem was, she knew it was a lie. She could see it in Francis O'Leary's eyes.

Friday, April 25, 1902 7:30 p.m.

F
RANCESCA PAUSED BREATHLESSLY
in the reception hall of her sister's home, a mansion just around the block from the Cahill home on Madison Avenue. She was late, but other guests were still arriving, too. As she handed off her wrap, she searched the crowd that was mingling in the room and overflowing into a large salon not far from the stairs. In that salon, the furniture had been removed and the buffet that would serve a hundred guests was against one entire wall. Huge floral arrangements of white lilies were set on pedestals throughout the room, towering above the guests. Dozens of tables, each seating eight and covered in linen, crystal and gilded dinnerware, surrounded a dance floor. A pianist, accompanied by a violinist, was already playing a waltz.

Francesca was looking forward to the evening, her first social engagement on Hart's arm. At the few previous affairs they had attended, they had been secretly engaged and had arrived separately. Smiling, she espied her sister at the far end of the reception room.

Connie was her best friend. As always, she was stunningly beautiful and terribly elegant in a lavender chiffon evening gown. She was smiling as she conversed effortlessly with several guests. But then, her sister was always the perfectly gracious hostess. Once, not so long ago, her life had seemed perfect, too.

Francesca did not want to recall the terrible way in which
the new year had begun for Connie and her husband, Neil. For one more moment Francesca stared, noting that her sister seemed her usual self again—genuinely happy and truly at ease. Francesca was relieved.

Francesca had yet to see anyone else that she knew, other than her handsome brother-in-law, who stood close to the front door, greeting the guests as they came in. Where was Hart? Was he late as well?

“Hello,” a warm, familiar voice said.

Francesca smiled, turning to face Rourke. “Hello! I am so pleased you are here,” she said, meaning it. “I don't know a soul, do you?”

He smiled at her. “Rathe and Grace are in the salon and your fiancé is somewhere about.”

Her heart fluttered. She was wearing the very daring and provocative dark red gown that Sarah had portrayed in her portrait, just for him. “He must be hiding, otherwise I should have seen him instantly.”

He took her arm. “Come. Let's wander into the other room and see who we can find.”

They made their way through the crowd, pausing before Connie. “Francesca,” Connie cried in delight, embracing her warmly. “I haven't seen you all week—I was beginning to worry.” Like Francesca, Connie was blond and blue-eyed, although every aspect of her features was simply paler. Her hair was almost platinum, her eyes baby blue, her skin ivory. She was considered to be a great beauty and Francesca agreed heartily with that acclaim.

“I am on a case,” Francesca said with a grin. She lowered her voice. “We are after the Slasher, Con. And I am afraid that last night he murdered another young woman.”

Connie glanced at Rourke. They exchanged greetings and then she said, “Fran, Mama told me that you and Bragg are working together again. Do you think that wise?”

“We are partners, nothing more,” Francesca said, flushing
because Rourke, who was Rick's half brother, stood there at her elbow, listening to their conversation. “And we do make a very fine investigative team.”

Connie frowned just a bit—a real scowl would be far too unladylike for her. She lifted a pale eyebrow and nodded at the salon where the ensemble would dine. “I know how enthusiastic you are about this new hobby of yours,” she said. “But you are engaged now. Maybe you should start planning the wedding. In any case, Hart is inside.”

Francesca followed her gaze and saw Hart in his tuxedo, impossibly virile, impossibly male, leaning against one of the eight columns in the room. His posture was undeniably indolent, an irreverent habit that he had. A flute of champagne was in his hand. She was about to smile and wave in an attempt to catch his eye when she realized that he was chatting with a very stunning brunette she had met once before. She stiffened instantly, all eyes now.

“Isn't that Darlene?” Rourke murmured.

Francesca stared, some dismay beginning. Darlene was clearly flirting with Hart, and it was not the first time. She re minded herself that she was now Hart's fiancée and it was official. Darlene had to know about the engagement, as it was all the talk, indeed. But then why did she keep touching Hart's arm as she spoke? And was she mistaken, or did he not seem to mind her attention? Francesca reminded herself that she had no reason to be jealous. Still, she knew a flirtation when she saw one. “You work with her father, do you not? He's a doctor at the hospital in Philadelphia where you are in your residency.”

“Yes, Paul Fischer is a fine internist. Shall we?” he asked, holding out his arm.

Francesca had not stopped staring and she could feel her cheeks heating now. She was jealous, never mind the fact of their engagement. She wanted Hart to look her way, see her in her daring red dress and smile reassuringly at her. “Yes, we
should go over and make our presence known,” she heard herself say.

“Darlene is terribly coy,” Rourke whispered, patting her hand. He smiled at Connie when Francesca made no response, continuing to stare instead. “Your home is lovely,” he added to his hostess.

Connie thanked him and leaned close. “Fran, do behave. At all costs!” she whispered in her ear.

And every single word Daisy had uttered suddenly seared Francesca's mind. But it was too soon for him to wander from her side.

Rourke guided her into the salon. “Francesca, you seem upset.”

“Is Hart flirting with that witch?” she heard herself ask before she could stop the words.

Rourke stumbled. “I don't think so. Hart is used to the admiration of females. He is very eager to marry you. I am sure he is merely being polite.”

Hart suddenly saw her, and her breathing became suspended. He stared. She waited for him to smile at her in that seductive way he had. Instead, he leaned more comfortably against the column, his glance moving over the dark red dress she wore.

She smiled uneasily at him.

He smiled back, waiting for her to approach. But his smile was very reserved—it was, in fact, distinctly odd.

Darlene was speaking to him but Hart's gaze remained on Francesca. And in that instant, in spite of the distance separating them, Francesca knew that something was very wrong.

“Are you all right?” Rourke asked quietly.

Unable to look away from Hart, she said, “Something is wrong.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She finally glanced at him, unsmiling. “Something is wrong with Hart. He is upset.”

Rourke's expression was bemused. “And you can tell all of that with half of a ballroom between you and him?”

“Yes, I can,” Francesca said. Suddenly Darlene tugged on Hart's hand, and as she forced him to return his gaze to her, she stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. Francesca felt her fists clench. Perhaps a single inch separated the brunette's bosom from Hart's chest.

“Be calm,” Rourke advised. “Calder has never been anything but respectful of you. I have actually been impressed by the gentleman he has become. Come, Francesca, we both know that Darlene isn't the first woman to chase him, and she won't be the last. Unfortunately, engaged or not, there will always be women out there who do not care what his status is.” He smiled gently at her. “You may have to get used to it.”

She inhaled hard, because she really felt like starting a cat-fight. But Rourke was right and she knew it. “Would you dance with me? I am in the mood to pull the hair off of someone's head and I need a moment to compose myself.”

“Don't do that!” Rourke laughed, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor. He said, “You have his undivided attention now.”

Francesca wanted to look back over her shoulder, but she refused to do so. Still, she badly wanted to give Darlene a piece of her mind. And as she slipped into Rourke's arms and began to follow him about the dance floor, she wondered what she would do should she ever find Hart with a woman in a far more compromising position. If she was so disturbed by his allowing some eighteen-year-old beauty to flirt, then how would she feel if he genuinely strayed—the way Daisy had promised he would soon do?

She would never survive, she thought grimly. “What are they doing?” Rourke was an excellent dancer and she had only to remain light on her feet as he turned her about the dance floor.

“Hart is watching you like a hawk. I wouldn't worry too
much, Francesca. I imagine he will be on his way over here in an instant.”

She moved closer to Rourke, looking up at him and smiling. “I hadn't realized I could be so jealous or so possessive.”

Rourke hesitated. “Passion makes for some strange bedfellows. I would ignore women like Darlene if I were you, Francesca. I have never seen Hart behave with any other woman the way he does with you. I have never seen Hart smile as often as he does since he has met you, Francesca. But do not misunderstand me. You have chosen to marry a very complicated man, and I would be surprised if your marriage was not, at times, a difficult one.”

“There have been times when I have wondered what I am doing,” she said frankly. “Rourke, I care so much for him, but it's his past that worries me so. Sometimes I wonder…” She hesitated before blurting out her concern. “I wonder if I can really hold his interest.”

He laughed a little. “I have a strong feeling that you can and you will. I actually think he will try to be a good husband, Francesca. I think he cares deeply for you.”

She was somewhat reassured. “Is he still watching us?”

“He is watching you. Do you want me to hold you a bit more closely?” Rourke asked with a devilish grin.

“Yes.” And as Rourke pulled her too close for propriety, she had to peek over his shoulder at the subject of their conversation.

Hart was coming toward them. He looked very annoyed. All indolence was gone.

“Well, I think you have won—he is coming this way,” Rourke said, low.

Hart tapped on Rourke's shoulder as they abruptly stopped dancing. “I think I will cut in,” he said to Rourke. “If you do not mind?”

“Of course not.” Rourke smiled. He gave Francesca an encouraging look and stepped aside.

Hart took her in his arms. Briefly, their gazes met. Francesca's moment of satisfaction vanished and she tensed, watching him now as he whirled her across the dance floor. His expression was dark. Something was wrong, oh yes.

“I take it you have had a busy day?” he asked politely, his smile distant.

Francesca gripped him more tightly, aware of the guarded look in his eyes, in his tone. His body rippled with a tension she could not identify.

If she were a woman like her sister, she would greet him warmly and not pry into the cause of his dark mood. But she was not her sister. As her mind raced, she said, “Yes. We found Kate Sullivan's husband. He's dead.”

He swept her around the dance floor, as effortlessly as Rourke had, but his hands were not Rourke's, oh no. They were large and strong and warm, one on her waist and the other holding her hand. “It was a recent demise, I assume?”

She nodded. “It might be a suicide. He might even have been the Slasher.” And she ceased dancing but she did not let him go.

He halted in midstep as well.

“What is it?” she heard herself ask. “I can see that something is wrong.”

He stared at her. It was a moment before he spoke. “Nothing is wrong. I have had a difficult day.” He hesitated. “I apologize. I am sorry if I have given you the wrong impression.” His smile was forced. “You are beautiful tonight. You are always beautiful, but you know how much I like that dress on you.”

She hesitated. Hart was one of the most charming men she knew, but now it was as if he spoke prepared lines of dialogue that he did not feel. Now there was no charm. “Are you angry with me because I did not wait for Raoul?”

He seemed indifferent to the notion. “I hadn't realized. Raoul did not mention it—he is not my spy.”

It wasn't Raoul, she thought, and she was terribly worried
now. “What is wrong, Calder? You seem very disturbed. Has something happened? Please, you must tell me.” She smiled a little at him. “We are engaged. You can share all of your deep dark secrets with me.”

He flinched, looking taken aback, and then he took her arm and guided her away from the center of the dance floor. “We are being remarked upon. People might think we are at odds.”

“It feels as if we are at odds,” Francesca said quietly. “Are we? You have always enjoyed sharing your thoughts with me.”

His jaw flexed. “No. I am not angry with you, Francesca, how could I be?” And this time he attempted a smile and utterly failed.

And even though his words rang with sincerity, his distress was obvious. She was shaken now. “Was it the meeting with the ambassador? Did it not go as you planned?”

He made a dismissive sound. “Even if it had been a miser able affair, I would hardly care. I am only expanding those ventures because it seems to be the thing to do. I do not need the extra wealth.”

If he wasn't angry with her and if nothing untoward had recently happened then she could only draw one conclusion. “Have you seen Rick today?”

“No, I have not.” His gaze darkened. “Leave well enough alone, Francesca. Would you like a drink?” And finally he smiled a little at her.

She seized his arm to prevent him from finding a waiter. A tiny voice in her head told her to let him be and try to dis cover the cause of his dark humor another time. But she said, “One day we will be married. Or at least, that is what we plan. But our marriage will never work if you shut me out. I can see very clearly that you are disturbed, even unhappy. Please, Calder, tell me what this is about.”