Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] Page 2

  “We most certainly are, so get dressed,” Connie said. “Oh, and by the by, Papa is quite annoyed. He cannot find today’s Sun, and you know how devoted he is to all three morning papers.”

  Francesca smiled, and it was false. “Poor Papa. The paperboy must have made a mistake. Or perhaps we have a new boy on our route.”

  “Yes, that must be the case,” Connie said.

  Francesca’s fingers were crossed behind her back. What were the odds, she wondered, that Papa would not see a copy of that day’s Sun at the office or on a newsstand?

  Because if he did, it would be almost impossible for him to miss the headline glaring across the front page. In fact, the paper with its headline was under her own canopied bed. But Francesca felt no guilt.

  For the headline read:

  MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER CAPTURES

  KILLER WITH FRY PAN

  Above her head, the Ninth Avenue El thundered past, leaving a cloud of smoke and soot. Francesca winced until the elevated train had passed.

  She stood on the corner of 23d Street, having just got off the train. The street was icy and the snow mostly black; wagons loaded with wares rumbled past her, while the pedestrians moving about the street were mostly immigrant workingmen. In this neighborhood, German was spoken as frequently as English. Two women in drab brown coats with scarves on their heads hurried into a brownstone, which Francesca knew was a factory. But those women had been speaking Russian. She glanced around for a cab.

  It had been the worst morning. She had not been able to concentrate, worrying about the feature story in the Sun. On Thursdays, Francesca had two classes, Biology and French Literature. She was behind now in both courses, due to the past two cases she had helped Bragg solve. Her Biology teacher had actually given her a warning that her grades were dropping at a precarious rate. Francesca had not gone to all the trouble of secretly enrolling and scraping together the tuition, some of which she had borrowed from Connie, in order to fail.

  It was extremely hard being a student and a sleuth at the exact same time, she thought grimly.

  She stared into the sun, hoping for a cab. A horse-drawn omnibus approached, and she considered taking it. She just knew her father was going to see the Sun, and if that was the case, Francesca did not think that she could cajole him to keep her recent endeavors a secret. Not this time, and never mind that she was the apple of his eye and he was immensely proud of her. He would go directly to Julia, and God only knew what would happen next. Francesca was truly worried. Her mother would be furious, and Julia Van Wyck Cahill was not a woman to cross. She was a woman who moved mountains when she so chose; she was renowned for bringing various parties together within society for social, financial, and political purposes, all to everyone’s gain. Had she ever failed in a cause or lost a battle? Francesca did not think so.

  But what could Julia now do? After all, Francesca was a grown woman, and punishments were for children. And even as a child, Francesca had been much as she now was—determined, a champion of the underdog, and a budding bluestocking. At the age of six she had begun to read anything she could get her hands on, and had begun her lifelong love affair with the written word. At seven, she had realized that there were children in Chicago, which is where her family was from, who were hungry and without families. She had sold lemonade for a year outside of her church to raise money for those orphans.

  She had only been punished once. Shortly after relocating to New York, when she was eight, she had stolen out of the house alone to explore her new city. There had been hell to pay for that. Francesca had been made to stay home from school for two days—and no punishment could have been more effective, as she had loved school the way most children hated it.

  Francesca saw a black coach with a bay in the traces. Her hand shot up and she dashed out into the street—only to slip wildly on a patch of dirty gray ice and fall hard on her backside. “Darn it,” she breathed, shaking her head to clear it. Perhaps she should have gone directly home from the Barnard library. She had a feeling this day was only going to become progressively worse.

  “Are you OK, miss?” A hand closed on her elbow.

  Francesca looked up, into the eyes of a middle-aged man clad in a brown suit, coat, and bowler hat. “Yes, thank you,” she said, allowing the gentleman to help her up.

  “You should be more careful,” he said, but politely, and he tipped his hat and walked off.

  The cab had stopped beside her. Francesca opened the door and settled inside, her left hip aching. “Three hundred Mulberry Street, please,” she said, her heart racing as she spoke.

  “Isn’t that police headquarters?” her driver asked with a distinct Irish brogue.

  “It most certainly is,” Francesca said, smiling widely.

  The cabbie turned and glanced back at her. “You seem terribly chipper for a lady going to the coppers,” he said.

  Francesca merely grinned at him. And as she settled against the leather squabs, the mare’s hooves softly clopping on the snowy street, a trolley going by them from the opposite direction, she smiled a little, her body tense with anticipation. She had not seen Bragg in two days. In a way, it seemed like two years. She had never called casually before at police headquarters. In the past, she had always come by with a new clue pertaining to a case, one that could not wait, one that Bragg would be eager to see.

  She did not think Bragg would mind a social call now. Of course, it was terribly bold. But it wasn’t even a social call, now was it? He had to have seen the Sun, and he would commiserate with her, perhaps even advise her on how to diffuse the situation with her parents. He would want to talk to her about the story, she knew.

  And perhaps he was even worried about her.

  She was somewhat breathless as she walked into the frenetic lobby of the police station, trying to appear brisk and businesslike. Police headquarters was housed in a squat brownstone building in a neighborhood filled with hooks and crooks, as well as pimps and prostitutes. It never ceased to amaze Francesca that the neighborhood’s thieves, swindlers, and trollops carried on with their sordid and illegal affairs right beneath the police’s noses. In fact, it amazed most of the city, and since his appointment, Bragg had doubled the roundsmen working Mulberry Bend.

  Inside, the telegraph and telephones were pinging and ringing. Several sergeants stood behind the long desk, dealing with civilian inquiries and complaints. One shabby drunken man was being booked at the other end of the room, not far from the elevator cage. And two newsmen were standing behind the criminal, notepads posed in their hands, firing questions at the arresting officers.

  Francesca recognized one of them as Arthur Kurland, who had come to be her nemesis in the past month. He was also the one who had put her story on the front page of the Sun.

  She had been about to pause at the front desk to ask if she could go up, as one did not just prance into the police commissioner’s office. But now she wanted to race for the stairs before Kurland saw her. For the man seemed to be present every time she called on Bragg, and he might very well begin to make something of it.

  He might very well begin to suspect the truth.

  Kurland’s back remained to her, as he spoke with one of the arresting officers, hunting for a story. Francesca hurried forward, ignoring the chaos around her. Reaching the stairs, she walked calmly up to the first landing. As she turned the corner, she glanced down into the hall below.

  Kurland had detached himself from the officers, the other reporters, and the criminal, and he now stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring thoughtfully up at her. He was a slim man in his thirties. Their gazes met; he smiled and waved at her.

  Francesca felt herself flush and she quickened her steps. Kurland would, she knew, make more of her visit to the police commissioner than he had any right to. She would probably find a story in tomorrow’s Sun: “Millionaire’s Daughter Enamored of Married Police Commissioner.”

  Her heart lurched as she reached the second floor and she dismissed K
urland from her mind. Thus far he was an irritation, but no more. Perhaps in the future she should actively try to avoid him. And perhaps, now that she knew Bragg was married, she should not be such a frequent visitor at police headquarters.

  That thought was sobering. Nor was it a happy one. She was determined not to lose his friendship now. How could she? He was a reformer as she was. He was one of the most noble and civic-minded men she had ever met. She admired him so.

  And they made a great investigative team.

  Before Francesca was a long hallway lined with doors. One of the very first was Bragg’s office; across from it was a conference room. At the farthest end of the hall was an open area filled with desks where most of this precinct’s detective force worked. Now it was fairly quiet, consisting of the hushed murmur of voices, a typewriter’s staccato sound, and someone’s brief and coarse laughter.

  The door to his small office was open. It contained two desks, including the one where he now sat and worked. He lolled in his cane-backed chair behind it, on the telephone. The moment she paused in the doorway, he saw her and their eyes met.

  Francesca smiled, not moving.

  He smiled back, not looking away.

  As he finished his conversation, Francesca studied him. His grandfather was part Apache. It was evident in Bragg’s nearly olive coloring and his achingly high cheekbones. But his hair was a tawny, sun-streaked gold, and his eyes were amber: he had the most unusual coloring. She had seen the way other women eyed him. There was no question that his looks were striking. He was the kind of man who turned heads and made hearts flutter, yet he was also the kind of a man who walked into rooms with a quiet power and authority, the kind of a man who gave people pause and made conversation stop.

  Bragg had removed both his jacket and vest, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. His lack of attire revealed just how muscular and fit he was. For he was a broad-shouldered man with a very trim waist and small hips, and unlike most men, he had not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His body was, in fact, hard and powerful. She knew that for a fact.

  She knew that from having been in his arms, not once, but twice. Of course, that must never happen again.

  He put down the telephone and stood. His gaze did not waver, and a smile was there, in his eyes, one that was so warm it could surely melt ice.

  Francesca felt her own answering smile. It crossed her mind that her feelings were so powerful that maybe this was just too dangerous, at least for her, if not for them both. But then she dismissed her thoughts, because she could see no alternative to the friendship they now had.

  She closed the door behind her.

  “Francesca,” he said, moving out from behind his desk. “This is a very pleasant surprise.”

  She smiled back at him. “I hope you don’t mind my calling this way. I do not have a case for us to discuss, Bragg.”

  “Thank God,” he laughed.

  She laughed a little, too.

  “So this is a social call?” he asked, touching her arm lightly.

  Francesca removed her mink-lined coat, which he hung upon a wall peg. “Yes, I suppose it is. I was on my way home from college, and I decided to say hello.” She wondered if he would put his vest on, at least. He did not, and it was somewhat distracting.

  “And how is my favorite bluestocking?” he asked with a teasing tone instead.

  Her smile faded and she felt it. Bragg knew about her studies, too. “I am quite behind. I may soon fail Biology.”

  “You? Fail? I doubt that. You would never fail at anything,” he said, his gaze upon her. “Not because of your intelligence, but because of your determination.”

  “You have so much faith in me,” she returned, but she was flushing with pleasure at his words.

  “Yes, I do,” he said evenly.

  She just looked at him and he simply looked back.

  It was too much to bear. The innocence of friendship vanished, replaced by something that was so much more. How close they stood to each other now. Francesca wished, fervently, that he were free. If he were a single man, undoubtedly he would pull her into his arms for an extremely intimate kiss.

  “I imagine you are behind,” he said, somewhat unevenly. He cleared his throat. “When do you have time to study? You are either studying, raising money, or solving murders—that is hardly conducive to attaining a higher education.”

  “It is very hard, being a reformer, a sleuth, and a student,” she said seriously.

  “Yes, it is. Francesca, what is wrong? I can see that something is bothering you. I hope it is your schedule and nothing more.” His golden gaze was penetrating.

  She wondered if he was referring to the truth that now lay, acknowledged, between them. The truth of the fact that he had a wife. Or was he referring to the Sun? “How could I have given an interview Tuesday? How, Bragg?” she asked. “Have you seen the Sun?”

  He seemed amused. “Yes, I have. You earned that interview, Francesca. Are you in trouble?”

  “Not yet. I hid today’s paper, and I have heard that Papa was very annoyed. I cannot even begin to explain to you what his morning papers mean to him. If he and Mama ever see that story, I am finished. I feel certain of that.”

  “Perhaps you should sit down,” he said, appearing amused.

  “Is this funny?” Francesca cried.

  He guided her to an overstuffed and shabby chair; the tweed wool fabric was torn in places. “No, I am sorry, not really.”

  She sat and twisted to look up at him. He remained lighthearted and even amused. “Bragg, if I am punished like some small child, this will hardly be a subject for laughter.”

  “I am sorry. But you were in danger, Francesca.” And he gave her a penetrating look, and he was no longer smiling.

  Even though the subject they had turned upon was now a serious one, his golden gaze did odd things to her heartbeat. She gripped the arms of the chair. “I was briefly in danger,” she said.

  “So now you rebut? Francesca, you were tied up! To a bed—and by a killer and the killer’s accomplice, I might add.” His eyes flashed.

  “I hardly knew what would happen when I went over to the house,” Francesca said.

  “You were in danger, Francesca, and you know that I do not approve of that. Perhaps you should rethink this new hobby of yours. Sleuthing, clearly, can be dangerous work, and you are a young woman.”

  “But we are partners. And I am a good sleuth. You said so yourself.”

  “You are an excellent detective,” he admitted grimly.

  “I cannot just quit, now. Are you working on a new case?” she asked suddenly, brightly.

  He rested a lean hip on the edge of his desk. She felt herself blush and she looked away. He said, “My detective bureau woks on all investigations, Francesca. You know that. My personal involvement with Eliza Burton precipitated my interest in that case, and the fact that Randall was Calder’s father assured my involvement there.”

  Calder Hart was Bragg’s half brother. They shared the same mother, Lily Hart, who had died of cancer when Bragg was a boy of eleven, Hart two years younger. Bragg’s father, Rathe Bragg, alerted to the existence of an illegitimate son, had taken both boys into his own rather large family. At the time, Rathe was a political appointee of President Grover Cleveland, and the family was residing in Washington, D.C. Later the Braggs returned to New York, but briefly, for their daughter Lucy’s wedding brought them to Texas. Francesca had overheard that Rathe and Grace were soon returning to New York, with several of their five children. She assumed the oldest ones were living on their own.

  Calder Hart had been a suspect in his father’s murder, as he had grown up hating the man who had refused to ever acknowledge him or their relationship.

  Bragg sighed a little. “Why don’t you take a sabbatical from your new profession? That would be the best way to manage your parents, I think, should they learn of what happened in the Randall Murder, and it is also the best way to improve your grades.”

&nbs
p; “So there is no new case?” Francesca asked, somewhat glum.

  Bragg sighed. “Francesca, my immediate agenda is to appoint a chief of police, which I have yet to do after being in office for an entire month.”

  She sat up straighter, her interest piqued. “And have you found an honest man for the job?”

  His eyes twinkled. “There are a few honest men on the force, Francesca.”

  “Then I am glad,” she returned with a smile. The city’s police were notoriously corrupt. Bragg was a part of a reform administration, and police reform was on the top of the agenda. Graft and corruption ruled the day among the police, although last week Bragg had demoted 300 wardsmen while reassigning them to different wards, all in the hope of breaking the stranglehold of those officers in their precincts. “Do you have a genuine candidate in mind?”

  “I am thinking of promoting Captain Shea.”

  “Shea?” She was surprised. He was often at the front desk downstairs, and he seemed a mild fellow indeed. “Doesn’t an inspector usually get the job?”

  “Until now,” he said with a wink. “But Shea is honest, although not very forceful. I believe he might do well, with the right encouragement and incentive.”

  Her heart turned over with her admiration for Bragg and her smile failed and she looked at him and wished he were free.

  And he felt it, too, for he did not look away, and in the long moment that ensued, the space between them closed, becoming small and tense. How she wished that things might be different between them. If only he had not been so foolish and impulsive when he had been younger, when he had become infatuated with Leigh Anne. He had married her without knowing her, but that could not be changed.

  Bragg stood abruptly, as if to increase the distance between them. Francesca gripped her purse and did not move. Suddenly it was so terribly obvious—she wanted more than friendship. Instantly, Francesca was aghast at herself. She must never think in such a way again.