Deadly - Deadly Desire Part 1

DEADLY DESIRE.

Brenda Joyce.

Chapter One.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1902 - 10:00 A.M.

Francesca Cahill began to plot how to steal out of the house the moment she awoke. She was in the habit of arising at an unfas.h.i.+onable hour, or so her mother accused, but then, Julia Van Wyck Cahill was as fas.h.i.+onable as one of the city's reigning social matriarchs could be. Francesca never deceived herself-not only was she a bluestocking and a radical reformer through and through; she felt rather certain that, behind her back, she was also sometimes labeled an eccentric. No mind. She did not give a whit for fas.h.i.+on anyway, or parties or shopping or teas. She had secretly enrolled at Barnard College, hoping to attain her degree and follow in the footsteps of her idol, the journalist and reformer Jacob Riis. But in the past month, since January 18 to be exact, her plans had somehow, fatefully, changed. It had all begun with the abduction of her neighbor's six-year-old-boy. Francesca Cahill had discovered the odd, not-quite-a-ransom note and, more important, had been crucial to the city's police department in investigating and then solving the case. In fact, she had worked very closely with the city's new police commissioner, Rick Bragg.

She smiled as she paused in the huge front hall of the house that had been built eight years ago and dubbed "the Marble Palace" by the press. She directed her smile at the new doorman, who she thought was named Jonathon. He was her own age, and, as blond and blue-eyed as she, he smiled back.

The note had arrived fifteen minutes ago. It had been in a sealed and unmarked envelope, which in itself was some cause for alarm. The scripted contents had been a nearly indecipherable scrawl. It read:

Dearest Francesca, We are in dire need of your help! Do come immediately.

Your friend, Mrs. Richard Wyeth Channing.

The note had been written by Mrs. Channing, her brother's fiancee's mother. And apparently it had been written in extreme haste, as the handwriting was so poor it might have been executed by a child in grade school, not to mention the fact that the envelope had not carried Abigail Channing's name or address. Francesca had not a doubt that the Channings were in trouble.

But how?

She smiled bravely at the doorman. "Jonathon, if you do see my mother, is there any chance you might not mention that you have seen me go out?" As she spoke, she glanced guiltily down the hall, where huge Corinthian pillars were set at intervals until a wide white alabaster staircase led to the three floors above. She had badly burned her right hand while saving the life of Maggie Kennedy-a poor seamstress with whom she was starting to have something of a friends.h.i.+p. Now it was thoroughly bandaged, and she had been ordered to remain in her bed-or close to it-for an entire week. As much as she had no wish to gain an infection, the doctor had told her two hours ago that she was healing quite nicely. In fact, her hand no longer hurt her at all.

And how could she refuse a call for help from the woman who would one day be her brother's mother-in-law and, by familial extension, a second mother to her?

Francesca was very glad now that she had refused to take laudanum that morning, which she had instead discreetly thrown away. Francesca suspected that her mother was hoping to do far more than merely obey Dr. Finney's instructions to keep her at home for an entire week. She thought, but could not prove, that Julia wished to dull her own daughter's personality with the laudanum, in the hope of keeping her out of further jeopardy and any more criminal investigations. Her entire family had been thoroughly undone by this latest incident; in fact, almost everyone she knew was quite upset that she had been so badly hurt while attempting to protect Mrs. Kennedy.

Jonathon had turned white, apparently rather fearful of her mother. "Miss Cahill, er, if she does ask-"

"You have not seen me," she instructed with a cheerful smile, as she was simply thrilled to have a new case on her hands. "I promise you, Jonathon, no harm will come of it. My mother is quite used to my headstrong and independent ways."

Jonathon looked very unhappy indeed.

Taking a big breath, Francesca stepped outside into the frigidly cold air, the huge front door closing behind her. Her right hand was bandaged and so she wore only one glove on her left. She began to smile, a bit exultant. It was a rare day indeed that one outwitted Julia Van Wyck Cahill.

Of course, she must not gloat. There was serious business ahead, if her instincts served her.

The sweeping front lawns were crusted with hard, white snow. Francesca paused below the front steps, sighing with relief. Her gaze swept past the circular drive, the wrought-iron gates,

and the light vehicular traffic on Fifth Avenue. A four-in-hand was coming down the street, aswere two hansoms and a very elegant brougham. Even from this distance, she could seepast the trees bordering Central Park, and several horseback riders were on the riding path,while a woman and two children strolled beside it. It was actually, in spite of the cold, abeautiful day. And then a man she had quickly come to despise-and fear-spoke into her ear. "Good afternoon, Miss Cahill. It is a beautiful day, is it not?" Francesca nearly jumped out of her skin as she whirled to find Arthur Kurland, the dastardlyreporter from The Sun, standing behind her. He had been hiding behind two man-size Greekurns just below the mansion's front steps. Francesca was breathless. This man was extremely skilled at uncovering secrets, and shecertainly had a secret or two that she wished to hide. She tried to smile. "Mr. Kurland. Wereyou about to call on someone in my family-or were you lurking about the hedgestrespa.s.sing?" He smiled and stepped forward. He was in his thirties, dark-haired, and of a medium build.His appearance was nondescript. But there was nothing nondescript about the articles hewrote for The Sun or his perceptiveness and acuity. The man missed nothing-unfortunately."I suppose I am guilty as charged." He grinned. "I am waiting for you, Miss Cahill." "Then you are wasting your time, as I have had a touch of the flu and I have nothinginteresting to report to you." She started walking briskly down the drive toward the avenue.Her intention was to hail a cab, as her father, Andrew Cahill, had his coach and Julia wouldbe out to lunch shortly in the other Cahill vehicle. "Surely the police commissioner brought you some interesting news for me to scoop," hesaid, falling into step beside her. He smiled. "I do believe he has called on you every daysince the Cross Murderer was apprehended. What happened to your hand?" Francesca halted in midstride, facing him with a dreadful feeling. Was he insinuatingsomething? He had seen her and Bragg together too many times to count-they hadinvestigated three politically sensitive cases together, starting with the Burton Abduction. "Miss Cahill?" Arthur Kurland gripped her arm. "It is so interesting-but hardlynewsworthy-that Commissioner Bragg has been calling on you every day since the CrossMurderer was incarcerated. Or is it newsworthy?" He grinned. "If the commissioner's social life is newsworthy, then you are in dire trouble, indeed, as anewsman," she said tartly. "Bragg goes way back with my father, in case you did not know." "I know all about your father's political a.s.sociations. He is even closer to Bragg's father,Rathe Bragg, who has just returned to the city, by the way." Francesca started. Bragg hadn't said a word about his father returning to the city. Kurland grinned. "An exchange of information, Miss Cahill. You do recall how we work? Igive you something, and you give me something." She had been conned by this man once before, with the terrible consequence of betrayingBragg's brother Calder Hart. She fought to recover from her surprise. "I truly have noinformation for you." "Somehow, I doubt that," he said as she began walking even more briskly toward FifthAvenue. He kept pace with her. "I think Bragg has been making condolence calls. Did youknow that the Cross Murderer is in Bellevue Hospital, with second-degree burns?" "Really?" Francesca was cool, hardly feigning surprise. He smiled again. "What happened to your hand, Miss Cahill?" "I broke it," she snapped, but her anger was only a mask for her fear. "Why do I always get the most distinct impression that you are hiding something from me?"he asked, with obvious delight. "Why do I have the strongest feeling that you and Bragg arehiding something from me-from the city?" She didn't have to look at him to know that he was grinning. "You are like a gnat," she saidvery rudely. "No one is hiding anything." "Not really. But I do have a sting, my dear, one that can be fatal."

She froze in midstep and faced him. Real fear seized her. This man was a prize-winningjournalist. And he had no compunctions, no morals. It was only a matter of time before hepieced together the puzzle of all of their lives. And then what? Her heart beat hard. "What do you want?" "Tell me something important, something that I do not know." His eyes were suddenly hard. "I have nothing to tell," she said tersely. "Really? Then why is guilt written all over your face?" Kurland asked. If she gave him what he wanted, he would be satisfied and go-at least for now. "Very well.You win. But you shall owe me for this." He whipped out a small notepad and a lead pencil. "Yes?" he asked eagerly. "I stopped the Cross Murderer from striking again. I am the one who set the fire, and that iswhy my hand is burned." He began to smile at her. "I knew you were involved, Miss Cahill. I simply knew it." "How clever of you," she said, feeling ill. She would make the news yet again, and her familywould not be happy about it. "You see, a street urchin was handing these out yesterday not far from Union Square." Hereached into his pocket and handed her a calling card. Of course she recognized it. After all, it was hers. It read: Francesca Cahill.

Crime-Solver Extraordinaire.

No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City.

All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small.

The Channings daringly lived on the West Side, which residents like Francesca felt was akin to Texas or the moon, as it was so distant and remote from the rest of the city. Francesca had been shaken from her encounter with Kurland but resolutely dismissed it from her mind.

Sarah Channing had become a good friend since her engagement to Francesca's brother, Evan. Although they were nothing at all alike in appearance or manner, Sarah and Francesca were actually quite alike. Sarah was a pa.s.sionate artist and, in fact, a bohemian at heart. Like Francesca, she had no use for society, its rules, displays, and etiquette. In fact, quite shockingly, Francesca had heard Sarah say she wished to never marry.

Francesca had recently decided that she would never marry, either, never mind her mother's plans. If Sarah's mother was in trouble, Francesca was determined to help. And it never crossed her mind that she might not be able to do so.

Francesca paid her cab fare and approached the mansion, which was quite new and horrendously Gothic, not to mention huge. The horse trotted away as a trolley approached, its bells clanging. Francesca paused on the top step before a pair of wooden doors that would have been beautiful had they not had gargoyle heads in each center. When Sarah's father had died, her mother, a rather frivolous and harmless socialite, had inherited his millions and promptly built their new house. Mrs. Channing was not known for her elegance or good taste.

Francesca's knock was promptly answered, and she was told by the doorman that neither Miss nor Mrs. Channing was receiving visitors. "Would you care to leave your card?" the liveried doorman asked. His uniform was red and gold.

Francesca realized with dismay that Sarah must be at work in her studio. Although one would never know it to look at her, given her plain appearance and shy demeanor, she was a brilliant, even pa.s.sionate and bold painter. "Actually, I received a note from Mrs.

Channing, and I do believe that she will see me."

"I am afraid that she is in her rooms and has said that she will not come down," the doorman said gravely.

A butler sailed into the entry hall. "Goodard? Who is it?" "A Miss Francesca Cahill." The butler sailed to a stop before her. "Mrs. Channing will see Miss Cahill, Goodard." Hegave the doorman a significant look. "Due to the Crisis," he said. "There is a crisis?" Francesca asked quickly. "I shall inform Mrs. Channing that you are here," the heavyset butler intoned gravely. "Harold? Who is it?" Francesca stepped forward at the sound of Mrs. Channing's voice. A not-quite pretty womanwith reddish blond hair who was extremely well-dressed, yet overdressed, and whosomehow reminded one of a flighty and mindless bird was entering the foyer, her slippersclicking on the marble floors. "Francesca! Thank G.o.d!" She clapped her hands together, b.u.t.tears filled her wide eyes. One of her rings was a diamond the size of an acorn. Francesca smiled. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Channing. I received your note. Are you all right?" Abigail Channing shook her head wordlessly. She rushed to Francesca, her teal skirtsbillowing about her. "Thank the Lord you are here!" she cried. "I have been praying that youwould come!" Francesca looked into her widened eyes-as there was little else to do, with the otherwoman's face a mere two inches from her own. "Is everything all right, Mrs. Channing? Youseem upset." "I am hardly upset-I am at my wits' end, at a complete loss." "What has happened, Mrs. Channing?" "We are in the midst of a disaster," Mrs. Channing said, tears coming to her dark eyes. "Itold Sarah we should call for you! But she refused, saying you were recovering from thathorrid encounter with that Cross Killer, that we must not disturb you! But you are a sleuth,and we do need a sleuth now, so I sent you that note! You see, the police were here, but I donot think they care at all to help us." "What has happened?" Francesca repeated, thinking there must have been a crime. Afamiliar tingle was now running up and down her spine. "Come with me!" Mrs. Channing exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely. "This is something that words cannotdo justice to, that words cannot describe." And she slipped free of Francesca's arm andbegan hurrying into the hall. Francesca started and followed, not bothering to hand off her coat, hat, and single glove.What could have possibly happened? Had a bedchamber sneak been at his work? Thiswas the most common kind of crime in the homes of the rich. She quickly realized, as theymoved down one hall and then another, that they were not heading in the direction of abedroom, as all bedrooms would be on the second floor. They were moving toward Sarah'sstudio. She was perplexed. If not a burglar, then what else had transpired? Suddenly Mrs. Channing turned and placed her back against the door of Sarah's studio, asif to bar the way. "Prepare yourself," she warned rather theatrically. But her eyes were hugewith dismay. Francesca nodded, more than intrigued now-she was worried. Apprehension filled her. "IsSarah all right?" "Sarah has taken to her rooms, and she will not come out," Mrs. Channing said. Francesca stared. Mrs. Channing gave her an abrupt nod as if to say, "Oh yes, this is grave indeed," and shethrust open the door. Francesca stepped inside. The room was all windows, a true artist's studio, so it wasbrilliantly lit. She cried out. Someone had been on a rampage in the large, airy room. At a glance, it appeared to have been ransacked. Canvases, palettes, paints, and jars were overturned. Two windows were broken, as ifsomeone had smashed them with an ax or thrown an object through them. Gla.s.s covered the floor by them. Paint in the primary hues had been splattered across the floor and walls, the effect vivid, brilliant, disturbing. Because amid the yellows, blues, and greens there was dark, dark red and slashes of black. It was almost as if another artist had formed an abstract collage of colors upon the floor.

And for one instant, Francesca thought the red was blood.

She rushed forward, kneeling, dabbing her finger into one drying pool of dark red. It was paint, not blood. Relief flooded her instantly.

Then she saw the canvas lying face up on the floor.

Whatever that canvas had once been, it was now unrecognizable. It had been saturated with the same dark red paint that looked exactly like blood, and then it had been slashed into ribbons.

Chapter Two.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1902 - 11:00 A.M.

"Sarah! I cannot believe what happened!" Francesca cried. She had been pacing in agilded salon, which was as overdone as the outside of the house. A bear rug with a growlinghead and vicious fangs competed with the Orientals on the floor; chairs had hooves andclaws for feet, and one lamp had a tusk for a pull cord. Mr. Channing, G.o.d rest his soul, hadbeen a hunter and a collector of strange and exotic objects. Apparently his widow wascontinuing his hobby. Sarah had just entered the room. Today she was wearing a drab blue dress covered withsplotches of paint. Francesca had never seen her with her dark hair down-today it rioteddown her back to her waist in Pre-Raphaelite curls. It quite made Sarah appearethereal-like a tiny angel. She appeared very pale, her nose and eyes red. Clearly she hadbeen weeping. "Francesca? What are you doing here?" she asked softly-brokenly. Francesca forgot all about her own problems. She rushed forward and embraced her friend."You poor dear! Your mother sent for me. Who would do such a thing?" . Sarah trembled in her arms. "I told Mother not to call you! An inspector was already here.You have a badly burned hand and you are recuperating, and not just physically!" Francesca took Sarah's hand with her own good one. "How could you not call me? I am yourfriend! Sarah, we must catch this miserable culprit! Who could have done such a thing?" "Yes, that is the question, is it not?" Sarah returned hoa.r.s.ely. She had big brown eyes, thecolor of chocolate, now tear-filled. "I am so devastated, I cannot think clearly. Every time I tryto consider who might have done such a thing, my mind becomes useless, racing inincoherent circles. I just found out this morning at five-fifteen, when I usually begin work,"Sarah said, and she was shaking visibly. "I cannot even imagine how you must feel," Francesca returned softly. And it was the truth.She tried to imagine how she would feel if someone had gone into her room and destroyedher notes, her journal, her books. It was an impossible stretch of the imagination, and shewas not a brilliant artist, merely an intellectual woman. She knew it would be awful, but shedid not think it would be the same as what Sarah was going through. Besides, every instinct told her that there was a terrible symbolism to the blood-red paint. Sarah turned her liquid brown eyes upon Francesca. She had a way of looking so directly ata person that one almost wished to run and hide. "Francesca, how can you take my casenow-when you are hurt? Besides, didn't you promise to cease all investigative work for afew weeks?" Francesca had, and clearly she had mentioned her resolve to Sarah in the past twodays-and just as clearly, she had been under the influence of laudanum when she hadspoken. "Never you mind, my hand is healing very well; Finney said so himself. I would neverlet down a friend in need, Sarah. These are extenuating circ.u.mstances." Sarah seemed too distressed and miserable to debate. Francesca smiled and guided her to a couch, where they both sat down. She leaned forward eagerly. She had every intention of solving Sarah's case and bringing the ruffian who had done this to justice. "Tell me everything about last night, Sarah." "We had an early evening last night, and I was at work- on your portrait, actually-around half past ten. At midnight I felt somewhat satisfied with several different compositions, and I left and went to bed. Actually, it was ten past midnight," she added. Her face collapsed. "I was so excited to begin your portrait for Mr. Hart. Now, now..." She could not continue. Francesca took Sarah's hand, tensing terribly. Calder Hart was one of the city's wealthiest and most infamous citizens. He was infamous because he did not follow any of society's rules of etiquette; in fact, he openly flaunted his absolute disregard for polite society. Because he was so rich, he could get away with it, and he remained on everyone's party list in spite of his shocking manners and his penchant for speaking as he pleased. He was also notorious for being a ladies' man and would be the first to admit it. But most important, he was also a fervent, if not fanatical, world-famous art collector. Francesca could commit murder herself for his insistence that Sarah paint her portrait. Of course, he would soon lose interest in her portrait, as he had only suggested it to annoy her when he had found her in a rather disheveled and sensual state at the Channing ball. But then, that was Hart-he enjoyed shocking society, causing trouble, creating a sensation. And recently, there had been moments when they had been at odds. Francesca sighed. "As soon as the police are finished with the studio, which is now officially a crime scene, we can have it cleaned up and made as good as ever." She then smiled brightly, encouragingly-not adding that the studio might be off-limits and in an investigative limbo for some time. "This is my chance to become an artist of some repute," Sarah whispered. "To have Mr. Hart commission your portrait was like having G.o.d whisper in my ear that I would be famous." Francesca was not surprised that Sarah would be sacrilegious, not since she had come to realize her soul was a bohemian one, even if she did appear conventional. "Mr. Hart has asked for delivery as soon as possible-I a.s.sured him I would complete the portrait by April the first. And he a.s.sured me he would hang it in his front hall! I have heard he hangs his favorite, more irreplaceable pieces there!" Tears flooded her eyes. "How will I ever paint now? How?" Francesca had already known that she would have to go through with the portrait, as it was Sarah's chance to gain real recognition in the art world. "You need a few days to recover from what has happened, and I am sure Calder will understand if you deliver the painting at another, later date." Hart's dark, handsome image came to mind. "In fact, I know he will be very understanding, as there is nothing the man cares more about than his art." That wasn't quite true. Hart had once told her that his life was about wealth, art, and women, in that order. She had been shocked, but only briefly-he had grown up terribly poor, and had he not attained his wealth, he would not be the collector that he was ... and he would not have the most beautiful women in the world as his lovers. In fact, every time she ran into him socially, he was with a different woman, and they were all married ladies. "I don't know if he will understand. He is a very hard man. He frightens me," Sarah said. Now she faced Francesca, wide-eyed and fervent. "He is very fond of you. Please tell him what has happened, Francesca. Make him understand there will be a delay." Several tears slid down her cheeks. "Sarah, I know Calder will be more than understanding, and you do not have to be frightened of him," Francesca said, meaning it. "I will gladly speak with him, as soon as I can." It had already crossed her mind that he might be able to help in this particular investigation, as he was so immersed in the city's art world. "Thank you," Sarah whispered, collapsing on the couch. Francesca stood, not really hearing Sarah's frightened whisper. Then she decided she must dismiss Hart from her mind, as he had the knack of annoying her even when he was not present. It was his problem if he wished to waste his money on her portrait and hang it next to his sacrilegious Caravaggio. "We have a case to solve. In fact, I shall go home, fetch Joel, and see if there is any word out on the street about the who or the why of this. And then I shall go down to police headquarters to report this crime. It will be far better if I speak with Bragg directly instead of Mrs. Channing having to deal with a pair of roundsmen and then an inspector. First, however, I wish to interview Harris, the doorman." She did want a head start on the case before the police became involved. She simply could not help herself- this was her case. Mrs. Channing had made that abundantly clear. Sarah nodded. "I can see that, in spite of the unhappy circ.u.mstances, you are thrilled to be back at what you love most-sleuthing." Francesca smiled a little. "I cannot seem to help myself, I guess. We are very alike, Sarah, you and I." "I realize that. Although no one would ever know it to look at us, as you are so beautiful and so full of life, while I am drab and shy." "You are not drab! You are not shy!" Francesca rushed to her and hugged her. "In fact, with your hair down and your big brown eyes, you are beautiful, Sarah, but most important, you are so unique." "I do not mind being drab and I hardly care if everyone thinks me a timid little mouse. You know I do not care what others think. I only care about my art." Her eyes changed, and suddenly there was the heat of anger within them. "Why, Francesca? Why?" "I don't know. But I shall find out. I will not let you down, Sarah." And it was a vow. Police headquarters was at 300 Mulberry Street. It was a slumlike neighborhood of hooks and crooks, pickpockets, wh.o.r.es, and thieves. Francesca was quite accustomed now to the sight of drunks loitering across the street from the police department's front steps. She did not bat an eye as she walked past a young gentleman handing several silver dollars to a woman with a garishly rouged face and flaming red hair. Francesca did smile, though, as she pa.s.sed Bragg's very handsome black motorcar, which was parked right in front of the brownstone that housed police headquarters. Two roundsmen in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets and carrying nightsticks were keeping an eye upon it. They did not bat an eye upon seeing her as she walked past, as she was now a familiar figure at police headquarters. An undeniable tension filled her. And it had far less to do with the bloodlike red paint that had been spilled everywhere in Sarah's studio than it did with the antic.i.p.ation rising so strongly within her. She and Bragg had spent days and days together, solving three gruesome crimes. They had traveled throughout the city, into some of its worst and most dangerous wards. There had been interrogations; there had been violent confrontations-and she had been with him through it all. They had engaged in hours of debate and problem-solving; and recently, there had been more than one earth-shattering kiss, including their last one, at the Channing ball. Francesca s.h.i.+vered, pausing before going into the front lobby of headquarters. How could she have not fallen in love with Rick Bragg? she thought, but helplessly. She had fallen in love with him the moment they had met, at her own home during a party. He had been resplendent in a tuxedo, with his darkly golden skin and eyes, his tawny, sun-streaked hair, and his high, high cheekbones. And she had recognized him instantly before any introductions, having seen his caricature in most of the city's newspapers. His appointment as police commissioner had been widely speculated upon, as he was expected to reform the city's notoriously corrupt police department. Rick Bragg was a rather public figure. And as soon as her father introduced them, they had instantly become engaged in a thrilling and highly charged debate. Briefly, Francesca closed her eyes, suddenly afraid. The Countess Bartolla Benevente had discovered them in a moment of pa.s.sion at the Channing ball. She had a.s.sured Francesca that her secret was safe. But the countess was not the only one to know of Rick and Francesca's misguided feelings for each other-Francesca had confided in her sister, Connie, the Lady Montrose, and Calder Hart had instantly surmised the situation. And then there was that dastardly Arthur Kurland-he had even spied upon Francesca as she had been leaving Bragg's home at No. 11 Madison Square, unchaperoned and at an unusual hour. And perhaps this last bit frightened her more than anything. Kurland could be so dangerous. For what he did not know-what very few knew-was the fact that Bragg was a married man who had been and remained separated for four long years. In fact, he had not seen his wife even once since she had left him, all those years ago. It still hurt, thinking about the terrible fact that he did have a wife, even if he despised her. Francesca had only learned this fact a few weeks ago, shortly after they had first met. It was undeniably tragic. His wife had left him when he had decided to represent the poor and the indigent, the insane, the criminally accused, after graduating from law school. She had been furious that he had not accepted an offer to join a large and prestigious law firm in Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. She had spent the past four years flaunting her lovers throughout Europe while spending all of his hard-earned money, careless of how moderate the income of a determined public servant was. And Francesca understood the need for discretion now. Bragg was in public office. He was the city's police commissioner. A marital separation was not acceptable to society. They would tar and feather him and chase him out of office, and he was the best thing that had happened to the city since Teddy Roosevelt. More important, his political aspirations were vast. Bragg might be the city's police commissioner now, but he aspired to even greater offices in the future, and those reform activists around him and the Citizen's Union party had the very same ambitions for him. Francesca knew his greatest dream was to run for the Senate. She knew he would succeed. It was her dream for him as well. He was, she had no doubt, destined for greatness. She took a huge breath, in order to compose herself. She must not think about his life now, as there was a madman on the loose yet again-of that she had no doubt. She had come downtown for legitimate reasons. And as Sarah Channing was a family friend, she knew Bragg would personally involve himself in the case. She pushed through the precinct's front doors, which were slightly ajar. Summoning up a friendly smile, she waved at Captain Shea, who was behind the front desk. Several gentlemen were there arguing loudly, with a bored-looking Sergeant O'Malley standing over them. An unshaven man was seated on the wood bench before the front desk, his hands in cuffs, a roundsman beside him. As always, there was a good bit of raucous conversation in the lobby, to which was added the background noise of the constantly pinging telegraph. It was the telegraph that connected all of the police stations in the city. And every now and then, a typewriter or a telephone could be heard. "I am going up!" Francesca called to Shea. "He is in?" He waved her on. "G'day, Miz Cahill. He most certainly is." She loved being well-known at headquarters. She loved being waved on up as if she belonged there even more. And in a way, she did belong there now. Bragg had admitted that he could not have solved any of the past three cases without her. Not to mention the fact that she herself had been the one to bag the Randall Killer and the Cross Murderer, she thought with a satisfaction she simply could not deny. As usual, she skipped the elevator, although it was present on the ground floor, its iron cage door open. She ran up the stairs to the second floor and realized that Bragg was hardly alone. His frosted gla.s.s door was open. Bragg was with an older man and woman, another gorgeous woman hanging on his arm. Two toddlers were on the floor, pulling books out of his bookcase, and a dark boy of about ten or eleven seemed to be watching over them. Francesca recognized the people present instantly, from photographs she had seen. It was a family reunion, and she was frozen, suddenly, uncharacteristically, shy. His mother, Grace Bragg, was a handsome older woman with red hair, a pair of spectacles slipping down her nose. She clung to his arm, smiling. Francesca knew she was an extremely politically active woman and that in her day she had been a leading suffragette before the movement became a popular one. His half sister, Lucy, who was perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, clung to his arm, speaking rapidly and excitedly. He had a good-humored smile upon his face, and he was nodding at everything she said, clearly being patient. And he looked so much like his father, Rathe Bragg, who stood beside him, that Francesca felt he would mature exactly the same way, into a very handsome older man with silvery blond hair, a dimpled grin, and sparkling amber eyes. Suddenly one of the toddlers howled-the boy, who was as dark as his sister was fair-and Rathe swooped up his grandson. Bragg suddenly saw her. His gaze widened and his smile vanished. Suddenly Francesca realized she was intruding upon a very special moment. She felt herself flush and would have signaled to him and quickly backed away, but the room had fallen stunningly silent. His mother, his father, and his half sister all turned to look at her. Then so did the swarthy boy and the two toddlers. It was an awful and embarra.s.sing moment. "Gimme!" The gibberish was a feminine shriek. Francesca blinked and saw the little golden-haired girl on the floor pointing an accusing finger at her brother, who remained in her grandfather's arms. The little boy held a toy horse. "Mama!" came another ear-shattering cry. Lucy rushed over, scolding the little girl gently and lifting her quickly up. She turned and stared again at Francesca. "Francesca." Bragg strode forward and their eyes locked instantly. "Is everything all right?" he asked quietly, pausing before her in the doorway. His gaze was now searching and concerned. He, of course, knew she was under house arrest or, at least, the doctor's arrest. "Yes. No. I am intruding.... I had no idea," she said breathlessly, tearing her gaze from his-never an easy task- and finding herself still the center of all attention. She felt her cheeks flaming. She had so wanted to meet his parents, but not like this, absolutely unprepared and fl.u.s.tered and undone. But he gripped her arm. "Come in. I want you to meet everyone." His subsequent smile went right through her. It was so warm it could melt a block of Hudson River ice. He sent her another glance, and Francesca knew that he knew she wished to discuss a business matter with him. But then, it was always this way. He seemed to be able to discern her thoughts so effortlessly. "Rathe, Grace, I'd like you to meet Miss Francesca Cahill. She has become a good friend of mine. In fact, she is pa.s.sionately dedicated to reform." He smiled at his stepmother. "You both have a lot in common." His father was regarding Francesca with open interest, at once curious and kind. She felt certain that Bragg would look exactly like Rathe in thirty years. His mother, however, was not smiling. In fact, she was looking from Bragg to Francesca and back again, her brows knitted. And Francesca's world seemed to tilt wildly beneath her feet. She desperately wanted his parents to like her. She wished Grace was not looking at her with suspicion. Francesca tried to smile and failed. Grace knew. Somehow, she knew they were not simply friends and professional partners. "h.e.l.lo," Rathe said amiably, his eyes the same shade of amber as his son's. "It is good to meet you, Miss Cahill. I do believe I have dined with your father on several occasions, most recently in Was.h.i.+ngton at a fund-raiser for President Roosevelt." Her interest was piqued. "I remember when Papa went. I begged to join him, as I am a huge supporter of the president." She was rueful. "I was refused." "Andrew made a mistake; the evening was an interesting one." His smile was identical to his son's. "Are you the woman who helped my son bringing Randall's killer to justice?"

"Yes. How did you know?" Would he-they-approve or disapprove of her sleuthing? "We read the New York papers even when we are not in New York," Rathe said with aninfectious grin and two deep dimples. "Did I not hear something about a fry pan?" Francesca had apprehended this particular killer with a large iron pan. "There was no otherweapon available to me," she managed. "Francesca is no ordinary debutante. She has been indispensable to several policeinvestigations," Bragg said, sending her a smile. Francesca's heart turned over and she looked at him, absurdly pleased. "Thank you." "But it is the truth," he said simply. "Surely you are not a professional sleuth?" Grace asked quietly. Francesca started, facing the older woman. She felt like a delinquent schoolgirl. In fact,sleuthing had ceased being a hobby when she had been hired by Lydia Stuart to solve acase. And now Mrs. Channing had requested her services. But her parents were close withthe Braggs, and as far as Francesca was concerned, they must never find out about her newprofession. Bragg saved the day. "Francesca has fallen into several investigations, purely by chance,"he said. She sent him a grateful smile. She had no intention of ever lying to either one of his parents. "And I am Lucy, Lucy Savage." The beautiful redhead put her daughter down and cameswiftly forward. She extended her hand. Francesca took it. "Rick is my brother. I am sopleased to meet you!" She smiled widely, but her blue eyes were filled with curiosity. "I amvery impressed. I have never met a sleuth before, especially not a female one." Instantly Francesca liked her. "Are those two adorable children yours?" Lucy laughed. "Yes, and so is Roberto. But the twins are hardly adorable-they try thepatience of everyone who attempts to contain them! They are twin hurricanes, truly. They dotake after their father," she added. "Roberto, come meet Miss Cahill." The dark-skinned boy came forward and politely shook Francesca's hand. He did not seemat all related to the rest of the family, and Francesca wondered if he was related by bloodand, if not, how he fit in. "We live in Texas. That is where my wonderfully impossible husband, Shoz, and mygrandparents, Derek and Miranda Bragg, are. Paradise, Texas." Lucy grinned. "Andbelieve me, it is a little piece of paradise, right here on earth! I am on a bit of a holiday," shesaid brightly. "At the very last moment I could not resist a trip to the big city! So tell me howyou solved the murder." "Lucy, Francesca has just stepped through the door, hardly expecting to find a Braggreunion in progress, not to mention my extremely garrulous little sister. Can you slow down?"Bragg asked with a fond shake of his head. "Perhaps I can show you the city," Francesca said, now glancing at Grace Bragg again. Shewas watching Francesca carefully, not missing a single word, as if carefully sizing her up.Francesca prayed she would like her. She sensed this woman would not fall for any tricksand that she would not be easy to impress, either. "Oh, that would be fun," Lucy said. "Of course, I did grow up here-before my handsomehusband abducted me and carried me off to Death Valley." She grinned. Francesca blinked, diverted. "Death Valley? He abducted you?" "It is a long story," Bragg remarked calmly, before Lucy could speak. "But I want to hear about how you caught the man who murdered Hart's father!" Lucy cried."When shall we get together? What about right now?" "Lucy," this from Rathe, and his tone was fatherly and stern. But he was smiling, and he saidto Francesca, "My daughter is a whirlwind. She was born that way-and marriage andchildren have not calmed her down." Francesca smiled. Lucy sent her a conspiratorial glance that meant, "ignore him." Then,"What happened to your hand?" she asked. Francesca hesitated, instinctively looking at Bragg.

"I can answer that one," a voice from the doorway said. Francesca froze. The voice had been lazy and sensual in tone. There was only one man who spoke in such a languid and amused drawl. "Calder!" Lucy shrieked, flying past Francesca. She turned and watched the gorgeous redhead mauling Calder Hart. And he was grinning-a flash of very white teeth in extremely swarthy skin. He lifted Lucy off of her feet. "I like that greeting," he said, and it was brazenly flirtatious. Francesca realized in that moment that they were not really related. Bragg and Calder were half brothers, but they shared the same mother, not the same father. Hart did not have one drop of Bragg blood in his veins. She felt paralyzed and oddly annoyed. "Keep looking at me that way and Shoz will kill you," Lucy breathed, grinning up at him and still in his arms. "But you like keeping him on his toes," Hart said easily, looking pleased with himself. "And he's an old man now." "He is very jealous," Lucy said, clearly with satisfaction. "But he isn't so old that he can't teach you a thing or two." She did grin. "You are probably right." Slowly Hart released Lucy, and finally he looked directly at Francesca. She flushed. "So much for bedrest," he said. And then he shrugged, as if it was not his problem, as if he did not give a d.a.m.n. He looked at Rick. "We should have bet on her. I was going to give her three or four days. Clearly, I would have lost." "Calder," Bragg said tersely with an abrupt nod of his head. He wasn't thrilled to see his brother and it was obvious. Hart entered the room, as always a rather devastating sight. He was darkly, dangerously handsome, and he favored brilliant white s.h.i.+rts and pitch-black suits. Only he could carry off such a look and not look like a funeral home manager. Grace was smiling-and tears sparkled on her lashes behind her spectacles. She had taken both Hart and Bragg in when their mother had died when they were young boys. She cupped Hart's cheek. "Why has it been so long? Why, Calder?" Hart hesitated. "It is good to see you," he said, and Francesca was startled, as she had never seen Hart unsure of himself before. He was usually terribly-insufferably-arrogant. "It is wonderful to see you! Are you sure you don't mind all of us staying with you? I hate to inconvenience you," Grace said softly. He shrugged again, but now he was flus.h.i.+ng. "G.o.d knows I have plenty of room." His house was the size of a museum, Francesca thought. Rathe had clasped Hart's shoulder, as warm as Hart was stiff. "You are looking well. It is good to see you, Son." Hart nodded, turning away quickly, so no one would see how emotional he was. But Francesca had seen, and she suspected he had a tear or two in his eyes. She realized that Bragg was watching her. She felt guilty, so she smiled at him, but he did not smile back. Hart had turned to Lucy. "Francesca fancies herself a sleuth," he said lightly. He gave her a disapproving glance. "She likes to put herself in danger-I imagine the rush is rather similar to that experienced by gamblers ... or illicit lovers." Francesca frowned at him. "Please." She did not need this now. Bragg sighed in exasperation. "Enough, Calder." He ignored his brother. "Do you not get a rush of adrenaline when you confront a maddened criminal, Francesca?" Hart drawled. "A rush that I imagine is exactly the same as when you are wildly kissing the man of your dreams?" Both dark brows slashed upward. As he had practically caught her in Bragg's arms at the Channing ball a few days ago-the cause of his commissioning her portrait-she knew he was referring to the pa.s.sion she felt for his brother.

Hart was purposefully putting her on the spot. He was purposefully referring to the fact that she and Bragg were in love-which he thought was l.u.s.t and nothing more. She felt like slapping him-but she had done that once and would never do so again. "The only rush I get is one of fear," she snapped. "Fear, Hart, not excitement, fear."

He laughed. "I somehow doubt that." He turned to Lucy, who was wide-eyed. "She enjoys danger. Soon, no doubt, it will become an addiction-if it hasn't already."

"Calder, do you wish to upset Miss Cahill?" Grace finally spoke with quiet censure.

Hart looked at his stepmother. "If my brother can't keep her in line, then someone should."

Francesca found herself rus.h.i.+ng to the rescue even though she was angry with Hart. "He hasn't upset me, Mrs. Bragg. I am sure that he doesn't wish to be abrasive. It is just a character defect." She smiled sweetly at Hart. "And do not blame Bragg-Rick-for my actions. That is completely unfair."

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. "Of course you defend him"

Bragg stepped between them, but he faced Hart. "This was an extremely pleasant gathering until you arrived, Calder. As always, you enter a room and do your best to cause trouble."

But Hart was speaking. "Oh, so now the fact that you allow her to engage in police work is my fault?" Hart shook his head.

"That's enough," Rathe said firmly. "Company is present- and the two of you haven't changed at all. It's like watching you both when you were boys. What's next? Fists and blows?"

Grace looked at her, Francesca. The older woman's eyes were wide and intent and....

accusing? But just what could she be accusing her of?

"I'm sorry," Bragg said instantly, to his father. "And you're right. We're acting like children."

"I apologize." Hart actually seemed sincere. "In fact, I give up." He looked directly at Francesca. "If you wish to endanger yourself, it is not my affair." He shrugged. "If you and Rick wish to rush around the city together, chasing murderers, so be it." He did not smile.

His eyes had become black. "Who knows? Next time instead of a mere burn, perhaps one of these madmen will place a bullet in you." His gaze locked with hers.

"I think I had better go," Francesca said tersely.

"I'll walk you down," Lucy said quickly, rus.h.i.+ng to her side. "Mother, please watch the children for me, just for a moment."

"I think Francesca can find her way downstairs," Bragg said firmly. Then he gave her an odd look. And there was a question in his eyes.

"I did want to speak with you, but it can wait until later," Francesca said. She truly wanted to escape, and as much as she liked Lucy, she wasn't ready for a tete-a-tete with his sister.

Perhaps she would call Bragg later on the telephone and fill him in on what had happened at the Channings'.

"Rick will lend you his Daimler," Lucy said, whipping her coat off a wall peg. "Isn't that right, Rick?"

"Peter will take you home." Peter was his man, and Francesca had come to realize that he was a jack-of-all-trades. "Lucy, Francesca has a burned hand. My understanding is that she is supposed to be at home for the entire week." He spoke quite calmly. "Do not try and subvert her good intentions."

"And to think I was under the impression that she was to remain in bed," Hart murmured.

Francesca flushed, even though his meaning had to have been innocent.

"I am merely walking her to the roadster," Lucy said demurely. "At least we can chat a bit."

Bragg capitulated. "Fine. But mind your manners, Lucy."

She shook her head. "I am a grown woman, Rick, not a child."

"I know." His smile was an affectionate one. "Mind your manners," he repeated.

She groaned and rolled her eyes.

Francesca turned toward his parents. "It was so nice to meet you." Then she glanced at Hart. He wasn't even looking at her. He was studying his fingernails, as if an insect had appeared upon them, making them a fascinating sight indeed.

"It was a pleasure, Francesca," Rathe said, smiling. Grace also smiled at her.

Lucy grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hall. "Well, you survived, and admirably, I think." She grinned.

Francesca was now weak-kneed. She realized she had been perspiring. And she might never forgive Hart for trying to humiliate her in front of the Braggs. "Do you think so? I mean, do you think your parents like me?" She and Lucy entered the elevator cage.

"What's not to like?" Lucy asked, hauling the cage door shut. She faced her. "So? What is going on?" she demanded, her hands on her hips.

"What?" Francesca had not a clue as to what Lucy was speaking about, but her tone caused no small amount of apprehension.

"Are you in love with my brother?" she cried.

The question was like a blow-right between the eyes. "What?"

Lucy grabbed her arm. "Are you in love with my brother?" she repeated. "And if so ... which one?"

Chapter Three.

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1902 - 4:00 P.M.

The elevator began to descend. Francesca was certain she had misheard. "I beg yourpardon?" Lucy was staring, her eyes eager and wide. "Are you in love with Rick ... or Calder?" Francesca could not believe her ears. What was she talking about? Lucy shook her head, suddenly amused. "Wait-you don't know?" "What are you talking about?" Was she mad? Yes, Francesca was in love with Bragg-forshe hadn't known he was married when they had met and begun working together on theBurton Abduction. He had been a perfect gentleman, but she had fallen hopelessly in lovewith him as they tried to decipher clue after puzzling clue. For he was everything sheadmired in a man. In fact, even now, those who knew him and his marital status had to admitthat if he were eligible, he and Francesca would be perfect for each other. Hart had said that, too. What was Lucy thinking? Hart was only a friend, and often an insufferable one, at that-ashe had just proven moments ago. "I am talking about the fact that Rick clearly admires you in a way that is not platonic. ButHart obviously cares about you, too, which is something I have never seen before. And whileyou clearly adore Rick, I see the way that you look at Calder. But, of course, most womenare mesmerized by Calder." She shrugged. "I know I am being very blunt-" "You are!" Francesca cried, suddenly panic-stricken. The elevator had stopped, but she didnot notice. All she could recall now was the way Hart had looked at her at the Channing ballwhen she had been wearing that horrid and provocative red dress. She was the leastfas.h.i.+onable woman that she could think of, as she preferred navy blue skirts and whites.h.i.+rtwaists or a tailored ensemble. When Hart had seen her in her new and extremely daringred gown, a gown that had not suited her at all, as she was not a siren, he had looked at herthe way a man looks at a woman that he wants. It was precisely then that he had, finally,found her alluring. It was in that single moment that a dangerous and ugly beast had raisedits head between them-one that would not now go away. Francesca wished the moment had never happened. She regretted ever wearing that red dress. "We can get out now," Lucy said very quietly. Francesca was jerked out of her thoughts. Her gaze met the other woman's and quicklyskidded away. Lucy was wrong. She was wrong about everything. "I have upset you. I am sorry." Lucy took her hand and led her out of the elevator. "I didn't mean to. I should have kept my thoughts to myself. I apologize. I just never expected this."