Deadly Kisses (32 page)

Bragg drank. “Are you all right?” he asked cautiously.

Hart managed a smile this time. “I have never been better.” The smile died. “I was actually hoping you had brought me some good news.”

“I have,” Bragg said. “The knife we found in your coach is not the murder weapon.”

Satisfaction slowly began. “You would think that whoever was framing me would have the good sense to do so with the murder weapon.”

“Yes, you would.” Bragg finished the drink. “Do you mind?”

“Help yourself,” Hart said. He watched as his brother replenished his drink and it occurred to him that the usual animosity they shared seemed strangely absent in that moment.

“The knife is too small to have been the murder weapon,” Bragg said. “Not only that, Heinreich feels certain the blood isn't even human.”

“It's animal blood?”

“He thinks so. I can't see the difference on the slides, but apparently he can.”

“What are you thinking?” Hart asked, settling down in a chair.

Bragg also sat. “You were deliberately framed, Calder. That much is clear. Perhaps the murderer got rid of the weapon and only decided to frame you well after the murder, when he or she learned you had been present at Daisy's that night.”

“That is a theory I could agree with,” Hart said thought
fully. “But that means that framing me was incidental to the murder.”

“Yes, it does. There is another possibility.”

“Which is?”

“Maybe the murderer didn't frame you, and someone else did.”

Hart absorbed that. “I like your first theory better. But I have plenty of enemies and any one of them could have taken that opportunity once the news of the murder broke the following morning.”

“I also prefer my initial theory,” Bragg said. “In any case, you have been moved down the list of suspects.”

Hart drank and then eyed him. “Is it not a very short list?”

“It is,” Bragg admitted. “I cannot rule out Rose. And while I do not agree with Francesca, I do admire her instincts, and she is convinced that Judge Gillespie lied about knowing that Honora was Daisy—although we have no proof.”

Hart grimaced. “You do not seem to be making any headway, as far as I can see.”

“It has only been a few days.” Bragg stood and he hesitated.

Hart slowly rose, aware that Bragg had something else to say. “What is it?”

“It's not about the case,” Bragg said, and he flushed.

Instantly, Hart knew. Bragg had come to ask him for money. The devil in him told him to wait and enjoy this single moment when his brother was reduced to asking him for help. But some other more sensible and reasonable part of him stepped forward. “I already told you that I would give you the funds you need. I am happy to do so.”

Bragg's jaw was set. “I need fifteen thousand dollars.”

Hart didn't blink. He walked across the room and paused before a large landscape painting. “Help me with this,” he said.

Bragg joined him. “I will repay every penny.”

“So you will not arrest O'Donnell?”

“Leigh Anne is in terror. She is nervous to the point of exhaustion. I have decided to get this thug out of our lives once and for all.”

“It will be quicker,” Hart agreed, surprised that his brother would succumb to buying off a thug, but he understood. If such a blot were on his and Francesca's life, he, too, would remove it in the timeliest manner possible. “You do not have to repay me,” Hart said as the two men removed the large painting from the wall. “I don't need the money and I don't want it back.”

Hart opened the safe that was now revealed and removed several stacks of bills. “I
am
repaying you,” Bragg said.

Hart shrugged and they replaced the painting. “I have an extra case that you can use to carry the funds.”

“Thank you,” Bragg said tersely.

Hart saw that he was perspiring, his jaw remaining tight. “Why is this so hard for you? I seem to recall a childhood in which you were always watching out for me. Why can't I repay you this one time?”

Bragg started. “It is a matter of pride,” he said after a pause. “And I am your older brother. It was always my place to take care of you.”

“Actually, Lily was supposed to do that,” Hart said, an ancient ache piercing through him.

“She worked long hours and then she was ill,” Bragg flashed. “She did the best that she could.”

The money in hand, Hart moved to the desk. His brain told him that Rick was right, but he still couldn't accept it or understand it.

“What are you two doing?” Rourke asked.

He was in the doorway. Now he strode in, his gaze going back and forth between the two brothers and to the money on the desk.
Hart did not flinch, laying the six stacks on the desk. “You need to rediscover the socially acceptable behavior of knocking,” Hart said.

Rourke was mildly taken aback. “The door was ajar. That's a lot of cash.”

Hart ignored the comment, retrieving an attaché case and laying it flat on the desk. He opened it and placed the money inside.

“This is not your concern and I expect your discretion,” Bragg said.

Rourke faced his brother, appearing uncertain. “This feels like foul play.”

“This is not your concern,” Hart repeated Rick's words firmly, buckling the case closed.

“Fine!” Rourke threw up his hands in annoyance. “I need to speak with you, Calder.”

“Can it wait?” Hart asked mildly, and then he did a double take. Rourke's expression was grim. He recognized that the little brother was gone, replaced by the doctor. His heart leapt in alarm. “Is this about Francesca?”

Rourke nodded. “She is resting now, but you both should know that she was attacked this afternoon.”

 

C
ONNIE HAD INSISTED THAT
they play cards. Francesca had never liked card games and thus far, her sister had won every hand while she brooded about the nature of her attack and the identity of her attacker, the money from Albany, and Gillespie's lie that he did not know about Daisy. She had removed her shoes and stockings and she remained seated on the sofa, her legs folded up beneath her skirts. Her head barely throbbed now. One conclusion was inescapable. The money was tied to Daisy's murder. Otherwise, why would anyone try to stop her from uncovering the source of the funds? And had the assault been a warning—or an attack with lethal intent?

Connie sighed as someone pounded on the front door. “Gin. That must be Hart.” She laid her hand down on the ottoman that was between them.

Francesca thought so, too. Then she heard voices in the hall. Bragg was asking for her and she was disappointed. Still, they had to discuss the case, and the sooner the better.

Connie gave her a look. “It's the police commissioner,” she said softly. She stood and went to the door way. Bragg and Hart appeared there. She greeted them and slipped out.

Hart's gaze instantly connected with Francesca. He was clearly distressed. Before he could say a word, she smiled at him. “I am fine.”

He strode past Bragg. “You are not fine!” he exclaimed. “Rourke told me you have been hit on the head. He thinks it possible that you have a concussion! What happened?” He sat in the chair her sister had vacated, taking her hand, his gaze on her face.

She felt certain he did not know that he had reached for her hand. “I was leaving the bank where Daisy had her account,” she said. “Someone hit me on the back of the head with a sterling cup. I was hailing Raoul. Apparently, he saw the entire incident and he carried me to the coach.”

“I may dismiss him for this,” Hart said with tightly controlled fury. “He is supposed to protect you!”

“How could he stop the assault?” Francesca cried. “He was waiting in the street and I was on the sidewalk. This isn't his fault.”

“Did you see the assailant?” Bragg asked quietly.

She met his gaze. “No. I saw his or her gloved hand—and we found a man's dented shaving cup on the street. Raoul glimpsed the attacker from a distance and thinks it might have been a woman, or a slender, short man. Rick, Gillespie is on the short side and he is of medium build. The assailant wore an overcoat and fedora.”

“You think the attacker was Judge Gillespie?” Hart asked sharply.

“Someone doesn't want me investigating the deposits Daisy made in May. So I am sure they are tied into Daisy's murder,” Francesca said eagerly.

Bragg and Hart exchanged a glance.

“I have saved the real news!” Looking back and forth between both men, she smiled. “The money was a bank check—from First Federal of
Albany.
”

Bragg's brows arched upward. “That could mean Gillespie was giving his daughter some additional funds. Now we have proof that he did know all about Honora's new life. You were right—he lied to you and to the police.”

“Oh, it gets even better! Homer has told me that Gillespie came to see Daisy at her house
twice
in May.” She grinned, waiting for both men to react. When neither spoke, she said, “Has Gillespie climbed to the top of your list of suspects?”

“Obviously,” Bragg said somberly. “Francesca, he may have lied about knowing Daisy merely to protect his reputation.”

“He may have killed to protect his reputation,” Francesca said to him, desperately wanting Hart off that list.

Hart understood. He stood, releasing her hand. “Francesca, I also have news. The knife the police found in my coach was not the murder weapon.”

Francesca was thrilled.

“But I happen to agree with Rick,” Hart said grimly. “Gillespie would not be the first father to benevolently send his daughter funds. It is a rather common gesture. I was hoping the deposits would lead us to someone Daisy was blackmailing—someone who had motive, someone who wanted Daisy dead. I cannot imagine Gillespie murdering his own child.”

Francesca wanted to take his hand, but he had paced away, his expression strained. She studied him for a moment before looking at Bragg. “Rick, Daisy has had no clients since February,
when she became Calder's mistress. It is unlikely an old client decided to suddenly murder her, and, anyway, we have ruled out the clients who were consistently involved with her. Very little has happened in her life since February. Then, in May, for the first time in eight years—or at least, that is how it appears—her father visits her twice. He gives her a large sum of money, twice. A few weeks later, she is dead.”

He understood. “Do you think she was blackmailing her own father?”

Francesca hesitated. “I can't help it!” she exclaimed. “She hated home enough to run away and become a prostitute. That is beyond extreme! She wasn't mildly unhappy—she had to have been miserable. And what mementos did she keep for eight years? Clippings of her father! I think she may have been obsessed with him. I think she may have hated him! What other conclusion is there?”

“We simply don't know that she hated him, and certainly not enough to blackmail him,” Bragg said.

“We need to speak to Gillespie and trap him in his lies,” Francesca said.

“Daisy may have loved her father,” Hart said bluntly, facing them. “She may have missed him and her family and that is why she kept the clippings.”

“Then why run away in the first place?” Francesca asked. “Something is very wrong in that family. By the way, Lydia also admitted that Daisy left her a letter, telling her she was never returning home. Oddly, she never showed that letter to her parents or the police. I think she knows even more than she has told me.”

Hart resumed his seat beside her, taking her hand again. “You need to rest,” he said quietly. “These are good clues, but I mean it. You must rest, Francesca.”

“I
am
resting,” she said, feeling hopeful. He had come running
to her side, just as she had wanted. “Calder, you
were
framed. That is very good news, is it not?”

“Yes, it is.”

She longed to move into his arms, overcome with her feelings for him. She glanced at Bragg. “Well, if that isn't proof of his innocence, what is?”

Bragg eyed her and then turned away, pacing to the marble fireplace.

Francesca pressed further. “It is highly unlikely that he murdered Daisy and some extraneous person decided to frame him, as well!”

“It is highly unlikely,” he agreed, glancing once at his brother. “But stranger events have happened.”

“Rick,” Francesca said. “Do you want to meet me to morrow at the Gillespies'?”

“Why don't you come to headquarters at noon? I'll have Newman bring him in for questioning then.”

She nodded. “Meanwhile, tomorrow you need to send a telegram to First Federal in Albany. Direct them to reveal who ordered those two bank checks. We can lock that lead up.”

He walked to her. “I'll have it done by the time the banks open,” he said. He leaned down, squeezing her hand. “Try to follow Rourke's advice, Francesca. A concussion is no laughing matter. Get some rest and we'll work on Gillespie tomorrow.”

She would always be pleased by his concern, she thought. “I have every intention of obeying the doctor's orders,” she said with a smile. “And Rick? I'd like to see that report on the knife tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He glanced at Hart. “I'll be in touch,” he said, his demeanor strained.

Hart shrugged. “Don't worry about it.”

Bragg hesitated. “I am very grateful,” he said. And then he left.

Francesca studied Hart, who turned his dark blue eyes back on her. “What was that about?”

He touched her cheek briefly. “That,” he said, “was about a private matter between Rick and myself.”

“You lent him the money!”

He sat back in his chair, just eyeing her. Finally he said, “Can the matter remain a private one, between me and my brother?”