Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] Read online

  He stared for a long moment, then turned and slowly walked behind his desk. There he opened the window, then faced her. He was flushed. “I will always help you, Francesca, in any way, be it as police commissioner or as friend.”

  She smiled a little, because she knew he meant his every word. “A child is missing,” she said.

  “Tell me what I can do.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1902—10:00 A.M.

  “JULIA!” ANDREW CAHILL LOOKED up in real surprise at his wife. She stood in the doorway of his study, fully and fashionably dressed in a fitted ensemble in hunter green. While Julia arose every morning at eight, she never left her suite until noon, as she was busy with household management and her social correspondence. His wife was a very beautiful woman, with rich blond hair and bright blue eyes, her figure still pleasingly trim in spite of her middle years. Andrew both respected and admired her. Now, however, he knew why she was in his den, and his knowledge had nothing to do with her serious expression and everything to do with how well he knew his wife.

  “Good morning, Andrew. May I come in?” Julia smiled briefly.

  “Please do,” he said, standing.

  She swept forward and came to stand before the large mahogany desk where he worked. He had been born the son of an honest, hard-working, and generally poor farmer and had not risen to the top ranks of society by luck. Sheer fortitude coupled with organization and discipline had made him a millionaire. His desk was clean of clutter, several business files stacked neatly in the top left corner, his business correspondence in the right top corner, personal correspondence below that.

  “May I assume you have come down at this unusual hour to discuss my afternoon appointment with Calder Hart?”

  She planted herself firmly in front of his desk. “I want Francesca to marry Calder Hart, Andrew,” she said warningly.

  He did not want to battle with her—they had fought too often of late, mostly over their son, Evan, whom Andrew had threatened to disown, but hadn’t been able to go through with it. Not that it mattered. His errant son had quit the firm, moved out of the house, broken off his engagement to Miss Sarah Channing, and continued to gamble and incur monstrous debt. Worse, every time Andrew heard of him he was told that the scandalous Countess Benevente was on his arm. “Julia, please sit down,” Andrew said evenly.

  “He will be here at any moment!” Her tone rose. She did not sit. “He is the best thing that has ever happened to Francesca! A man like that! Andrew, he is one of the wealthiest men in this city, and the most eligible bachelor as well.”

  “The man keeps company with divorcées and widows, and you know as well as I do that they are his lovers, Julia. He keeps a mistress. He has no social grace. He mocks social rules. For example, it was absolutely unacceptable for him to announce an engagement to Francesca! I have not approved and you know as well as I do that he should have spoken with me first. We would have held an affair and made the announcement then. And did I forget to mention his art collection? Everyone knows he has a shocking life-size nude sculpture in his front hall and some frankly anti-Christian paintings.”

  Julia folded her arms across his chest. “I think he adores our daughter, Andrew. I have seen it in his eyes. As for his behavior, well, I do believe his wealth allows him to do as he pleases.”

  “And you condone his behavior?”

  “I like him, Andrew,” she warned again.

  “I do not. You say he adores Francesca. He may—for a moment. But what about a year from now? Or two, or three? One does not teach an old dog new tricks. Do excuse me, Julia, but this man is oversexed. He changes lovers the way you change your gowns. He will never remain faithful to Francesca, and while she may act like a sensible bluestocking, these past few weeks have proven her to be a passionate and hopeless romantic. Besides, she is in love with Rick Bragg.”

  Julia threw both hands into the air. “That is a foolish infatuation—and he is married! And Andrew, every rake has his day.”

  They stared at each other. Julia was the first to speak. “Do not refuse him, Andrew, please.”

  He said softly, “Is it Francesca’s welfare you are thinking of, or how the rest of society will applaud you for attaining such a groom for your daughter?”

  She gasped. “It is Francesca I am thinking of!” she cried, but she had paled. And it crossed her mind that she had been thinking about the ladies she would have lunch with that day. She knew the only topic of conversation would be that the notorious Calder Hart wished to marry her daughter. Julia had been anticipating that luncheon all morning.

  “Andrew,” Julia said slowly. “I really do think Calder is smitten with Francesca, but . . . what if I am wrong and you are right? I have been enjoying every moment someone has come to me and congratulated me on an outstanding match. I have so wanted to see Francesca suitably wed and I never dreamed it would be to a man like Calder Hart.”

  He left his desk and embraced her. “I know. And I did not mean to imply that you were only thinking of yourself, because no one knows better than I how much you love our children. I don’t think Francesca can manage Hart, Julia. I really don’t. For all her intellect, she is so naive. And she only sees the good, even in the face of the bad. I don’t want her unhappy and I don’t want her hurt.”

  Suddenly Julia’s confidence in the match collapsed. “I don’t want her hurt and unhappy, either, Andrew. But what if? What if Calder Hart proves to be a wonderful husband? It does happen, you know.”

  “Yes, it does happen. But the fact that he chose to indifferently announce an engagement without our approval first speaks volumes. I do not like or trust him, Julia.”

  “And I so like him,” she whispered. “Oddly, I also trust him.”

  He smiled a little. “That is because you are a woman, my dear. Let me interview him and we will take it from there.”

  She nodded, praying Calder would prove himself the man she wished him to be. “Very well,” she said.

  At the front desk, Bragg asked Captain Shea for the month’s list of missing persons reports. Francesca stood beside him, having told him everything she had learned about Emily’s disappearance, including how odd Will Schmitt had been. A moment later, Shea returned with a thin sheaf of papers. He handed it to Bragg, who thanked him.

  It was a relief to no longer be in Bragg’s office alone with him. Yet it felt good to have him at her side on another investigation. There was no one she trusted more while on a case, and no one she would rather work a case with. Would it really be possible for them to continue to work together when they were both so torn? “And why did you suggest we look at these reports?” she asked him with a small smile.

  He smiled back, and suddenly it was as if the intense and terrible exchange a few moments ago had never taken place. “There may be something in the report that the O’Hares forgot to mention.”

  Francesca glanced at the top page—the missing person was a woman in her thirties. She started through the pile, remarking, “I never did ask the O’Hares if they filed a report, but if they went to the police, I assume that they did.”

  “And if they did not, they shall, as this is now an official police matter,” Bragg said.

  She paused, facing him, their gazes meeting. “Thank you, Rick,” she said softly.

  His gaze, which was topaz, moved slowly over her features, as if he enjoyed looking at her. He said, “Things will never be the same, will they? When you call me Rick, it is all I can think of.”

  Francesca glanced at Shea, but he had moved aside and was looking at a document just handed him by a clerk. If he had heard, he gave no sign. “I don’t know why I called you Rick. It just slipped out.”

  “I know.” His gaze slipped to her mouth, then jerked back to her eyes. “I will ask Farr to assign a detective to the case.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Francesca returned, not meaning it. She hardly wished to have a partner who would be reporting directly to Farr. Did thi
s also mean Bragg had no intention of teaming up with her? And that saddened her no end. God, was she making a huge mistake in accepting Hart’s proposal? She flipped through four more reports. “Here it is!” Excitement filled her. “Emily O’Hare listed as missing this last Monday.” Then her excitement vanished as quickly as it had risen. “Bragg, there is absolutely nothing in this report that we do not already know. Who is in charge of this bureau?”

  “It’s hardly a bureau,” Bragg said. “Cases are passed along. In fact, most of these missing persons cases are runaways—children who decide to leave home and spouses who decide to abandon their marriage or their families. The worst cases turn out to be homicides. A murder will become linked when it is solved with a missing person, so Homicide ends up solving a good portion of the real missing persons cases.”

  “This report doesn’t say who took it. No one has signed it, Bragg.”

  He took the page from her, scanned it, and said, “That must be an oversight. Captain Shea? Is Newman at his desk?” Bragg asked.

  Shea turned back to them. “No, sir. He’s in the field. A murdered gent, sir. His body was found around dawn this morning in some old lady’s basement.”

  “Have Newman come to my office when he returns.” Bragg faced Francesca. “What is your next move?”

  “I think I shall go back to the neighborhood and start knocking on doors, asking questions. Someone had to have seen something. I also wish to speak with Mrs. Sarnoff, Mrs. Polaski, and Mrs. O’Brien.”

  He smiled. “Schmitt’s three regular Monday customers. Canvassing an entire neighborhood could take some time. I have an important meeting at noon, but I could help you if you wish, for an hour or so.”

  She was surprised—and then she was delighted. It would be like old times—almost. Smiling, she said softly, “I’d love your help. I would never refuse such an offer.”

  He smiled back at her. A real, genuine smile, one that excluded the present and the past. “I’ll round up a few men to help us. Shea, get me some eager rookies—say, a half-dozen men.”

  Shea hurried off.

  Francesca pushed the pile of reports away, then paused. An idea tried to form in her head but failed. She stared at the reports. There was nothing new or significant in Emily’s report, was there? Unsure of why she was doing it, she pulled the pile of reports back across the counter.

  “What is it?” Bragg asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, the hairs on her nape tingling. She found Emily’s report and read it over again, but this time slowly and word for word. No, there was nothing there. Oddly consternated, she stared at the pile. There was really no reason to go through these reports, none at all. But the urge to do so was strong, never mind that she had no idea of what she was looking for. And as she began to go over them, she said, “Emily was very beautiful. Hart thinks Emily may have been offered an unsavory position by some rich and depraved gentleman.”

  Tersely, Bragg said, “I am not surprised Hart would reach such a conclusion.”

  His comment was rude, but Francesca did not respond. She went through the reports one by one, rejecting case after case involving women and men, and then froze. Her heart leaped. “Bragg.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Listen to this!” she cried. “Deborah Smith disappeared March second while on her way home from school. The disappearance was on Fourteenth Street, just a few blocks from where Emily disappeared. She is twelve years old, blond and blue-eyed, and according to this report, unusually pretty. The case is open. A Detective Moynihan has signed this.” Francesca looked at him, wide-eyed. And now, even the fine hairs on her arms stood up.

  “There is no reason to suspect a link between Deborah Smith’s disappearance and Emily O’Hare’s. There is a public school on Fourteenth between Second and Third Avenues.”

  Francesca trembled. “Yes, there is really no reason to suspect a link, but both girls were about the same age, both were very pretty, and they both simply vanished.”

  He stared. “Of course,” he finally said, “we should leave no stone unturned. Where do the Smiths live?”

  “On Fifteenth and Second,” Francesca said with a smile, as they always did think alike. She quickly checked the last two reports, but one was an older man and the other a boy of eighteen, and the detective who had worked the latter case had scrawled “runaway” on the page.

  Shea returned with several blue-coated policemen. “Here’s Keene, Livingston, O’Dell, and O’Donnell, sir.”

  Francesca looked at the officers, all so baby-faced that she doubted any one shaved, and she smiled. They looked her own age or even younger. But they were as bright of eye as beavers, and they would probably bend over backward to help.

  “Let’s retire to the conference room, gentlemen,” Bragg said with a gesture. He was also hiding a smile, and the first officer, who had pale skin and carrot-red hair, was so flushed he looked like he might faint. “I am assigning you to a missing child’s case and I will brief you there.”

  The tenement was no different from any other. Francesca removed her driving goggles, which were coated with spots of mud and dirt, as Bragg turned off the engine to the Daimler. He removed his goggles as well, and they both climbed out of the once gleaming and now rather dirty roadster. As they were on 14th Street, a major thoroughfare crossing town, traffic was heavy around them, and noisy as well. Omnibuses, trolleys, hansoms, private carriages, and drays jockeyed for position, passing them by. Pedestrian traffic was heavy as well. Francesca skirted several muddy puddles and made it safely to the sidewalk.

  “I am sorry, we should have taken a cab,” Bragg said.

  She glanced at her navy blue coat, which was spotted with mud. “It’s actually a beautiful spring day—the mud notwithstanding.”

  “It wasn’t that bad this morning. The puddles were still frozen over from last night.”

  “If I don’t care about my coat, you shouldn’t, either,” Francesca said as they approached the building where the Smiths lived. “Bragg, how are the girls?” she asked, referring to Katie and Dot. Their mother had been murdered, and the children were being fostered at Bragg’s until the right adoptive family could be found.

  He smiled. “They’re doing very well, although they both have asked for you repeatedly. Katie has the appetite of a horse. Dot’s little mistakes are fewer and farther between. Of course, that nanny your mother found has been a true blessing.”

  Francesca hesitated. She missed the children terribly, but in order to visit them, she would have to enter a home where Leigh Anne now reigned as lady of the house. “May I visit them?” she asked.

  “Of course!” he cried, as if shocked. “Any time, Francesca.”

  She avoided his gaze as they entered the building. Inside, it was dark and dank. She smelled rotting potatoes and, unfortunately, urine. “I do not want to intrude.”

  He gripped her arm. “You could never intrude!” he said vehemently.

  She met his fervent gaze. “It will be awkward,” she heard herself say.

  “Do you want me to arrange a time when Leigh Anne is not there?”

  In that instant, Francesca remembered that his wife was having her luncheon that day. Dread filled her—she really did not want to go. But her many good causes were far more important than her own personal feelings, and she would also be able to see the girls. “I forgot,” she said quietly. “Connie told me about Leigh Anne’s luncheon. I intend to go. If I can, I hope to recruit any number of the women present at some future time for some of my charities.”

  He simply stared.

  “You do not think it a good idea?”

  “Not really,” he said rather tersely.

  “Why?”

  He hesitated. “I just don’t like you being around her. She is clever, Francesca, so promise me that anything she says, you will not heed.”

  How odd his comment was. And Francesca no longer believed Leigh Anne to be the scheming witch he made her out to be. In fact, she wasn’
t sure just how bad—or good—his wife really was. “I’ll try,” she said. Then, “How does she feel about the children being in your home?”

  He hesitated, looked away. Then, “Oddly, they do get on.”

  Francesca was surprised—and dismayed. But she quickly told herself that her dismay was extremely selfish—for if they got on, it was wonderful for the children. “Are there any prospective adoptive homes for them, Bragg?”

  He was grim. “Yes.” Then, “I have become very fond of them, Francesca. I just don’t know if I can let them go. But of course, I must.”

  She took his hand. “You are a wonderful father.”

  “I am not their father.”

  “You are wonderful with them,” she said, and her eyes suddenly teared. She dared to recall a time when she had dreamed of having his children, and when she had seen him with the girls, she had even dreamed of the four of them becoming a family.

  She dropped his hand, lifted her skirts, and started up the stairs. “Apartment Three, is it not?”

  “Yes,” he said, following her after a pause.

  Her knock was answered by a bare opening of the door after the removal of a bolt. Francesca met a single blue eye. “Hello. I am Francesca Cahill, a sleuth, and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about Deborah Smith?”

  The crack widened slightly and Francesca met two wide blue eyes, a small nose, and pale brows. A voice bellowed from the back of the flat, “Who is it?”

  The door was now ajar by several feet. Francesca smiled at the woman, who did not smile back. She seemed frightened. “It is a sleuth, Tom,” she said. “A lady who wishes to ask us about Deborah.”

  “Tell her to get the fuck out of this house!” he cried, and a large man in an undershirt and patched trousers came into view.

  “I only wish to help,” Francesca said quickly, placatingly.

  “Shut the door, Eliza,” her husband ordered.