Deadly Kisses (18 page)

“Mama and Papa will unite against your union, of that I have no doubt,” Connie said. “Will you elope? I know you and Hart already discussed it.”

“Eloping will be a last resort.” Francesca knew that Connie was right. “And that is why I need you as an ally more than ever. I need you to help me win Mama and Papa back over.”

Connie studied her with obvious resignation. “I have one more point to make. What if Daisy and the child had lived? Would you have been able to cope with Hart's having another family?”

Francesca winced. “What does it matter?” she asked, suddenly imagining Daisy, alive, with a small child in her arms.

“It matters. What if, one day, some other past lover appears—with his bastard in tow?”

Francesca's heart lurched. What would she do? Would there even be a choice? “I don't know,” she said slowly. “Maybe we would have raised the child together, if Daisy would have allowed it.”

Connie gave her a look. “Only you would come up with such a selfless solution.”

“It doesn't matter. Daisy is dead. The child is dead. It's a terrible tragedy, but I am going to focus on the investigation at hand.” Francesca stood.

Connie also rose to her feet. “You are so brave,” she said. “How does Hart feel about your involvement?”

Francesca hesitated. She was afraid to tell her sister this last part.

“What aren't you telling me?” Connie asked slowly.

Francesca turned away, fighting the desire to confide the entire truth to her sister. But she had never needed a best friend more than she did now. She faced Connie again. “Hart's first reaction was to push me away. Hart doesn't want me involved, or hurt by association with him. He almost ended our engagement tonight, Con.” She trembled at the recollection.

It was a moment before Connie spoke. Even then, she did so with care. “I would be very pleased if Hart forced you to withdraw from the investigation,” Connie said. “And, at least temporarily, from his life.”

Francesca worried now. “I should go,” she finally said. “Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

Connie stopped her. “Fran? Please think very carefully about what you are doing. I know you love him, I really do. But you are about to become the victim of a monstrous scandal. Do you really need the heartache and the grief?” Connie bit her lip. “I hate to be the one to say it, but I love you, so I will. You should think about a future without Calder Hart in it.”

Wednesday, June 4, 1902—5:45 a.m.

R
AOUL DROPPED
F
RANCESCA AND
Joel off at Grand Central Depot. As they hurried with the crowd toward the entrance of the huge limestone building, she heard a street vendor hawking newspapers. “Come an' read all about it! Murder's the name of the game! Come an' read all about it! Mistress slain!”

Francesca stumbled, praying she had misheard the young man. She turned, instantly locating a gangly adolescent boy in a felt cap, standing with a stack of news papers, accepting a nickel from one gentleman. He started to shout at the rushing throngs again. “Come an' read all about it! Murder's the name of the game!”

“Miz Cahill? We got a train to catch,” Joel said urgently.

Francesca heard him but did not reply, for she was already racing toward the newspaper boy. Before she reached him, she could see that he was selling the
Sun
—and she could see the prominent headline. Her heart lurched in dismay.

Ex-Mistress Slain; Calder Hart Suspect

Francesca seized the newspaper, instantly noting that Arthur Kurland had written the piece.

“Miss? That's five cents,” the newsboy protested.

Francesca realized she would have to read the article on the train. She dug into her purse, the steel of her small gun hard against her gloved fingertips, and handed him the coin. Then she glanced toward the central tower of the depot where a huge clock faced the arriving world. It was ten minutes to six.

“Francesca,” Hart said.

She gasped, whirling to face him. Hart was attired similarly to the other gentlemen on the street for a day of business, in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. He never wore a hat, and his black hair glinted in the early-morning sun. He did not smile at her. “What are you doing here?” she cried in alarm.

“I need to speak with you,” he said, taking her arm.

“Hart!” She had a terrible inkling of what he wanted to say. “Not now! I need to make a six-fifteen train!”

“I know. You told me so last night.” His eyes were dark and filled with unfathomable shadows.

“Don't do this!” she whispered.

“I care too much for you to hurt you this way,” he said. “We can't go on, Francesca. I am a murder suspect. Today, the scandal erupts. And I won't have you a part of it.”

“No,” she protested frantically. “Damn it, Hart, I am not leaving you!”

His gaze became moist. “No, you're not. I am leaving you. Goodbye, Francesca,” he said roughly. Before he turned to leave, he paused. “You are a miracle, Francesca.”

She was in shock. She watched him pushing through the crowd, somehow comprehending that he had just ended their engagement—and their relationship. But he could not do this, because she would not, could not, let him. She ran after him, seizing his arm from behind. “I am not giving up on you!” she cried as he faced her grimly. “I am not abandoning you, not now and not ever!”

He disengaged himself, his face so taut it seemed in danger of cracking. He did not speak. He just looked at her, long and hard, and his eyes filled with tears. Then he turned away again. This time, his stride was brisk, carrying him swiftly away from her.

She was shaking like a leaf as she stared after him until the crowd swallowed him up. Tears were blurring her vision and she
cursed, swiping at them. How could he do this? Why? But she knew why—he thought to protect her.

“Miz Cahill,” Joel said tersely.

She recalled that Joel was present and that she had a case to solve—she had Hart's name to clear. She in haled, wiping away the last of her tears, never having had more resolve. “Come on, we have a train to catch.”

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.”

 

I
T 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.

 

C
ONNIE 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 cornering 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.