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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Bragg joined them. “Shoz, we need to talk. Now. In an unofficial capacity, before the police arrive.”
Shoz’s mouth curled. “I wish you hadn’t called in the police, Rick.”
Bragg looked him in the eye. “Are you planning on hanging him and then carving him up?”
Shoz started. Then, his smile chilling, “Maybe.”
“Shoz!” Lucy cried. “No!”
He looked at her. “I don’t want you here. Grace, take her upstairs. Join the children. Stay there until I say so.”
Francesca lifted a brow. He was very imperious.
And Lucy said, her eyes flashing, “I am not going to join the children; I want to help.”
“No,” he said flatly. Then he softened, and he pulled her close. “I will get Chrissy back. Alive. Trust me,” he said.
Lucy’s eyes shimmered with tears and she nodded. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
He suddenly seized her chin and kissed her hard. “I will take care of everything,” he promised her, as if they were the only two people in the room.
Lucy nodded. “I know you will.”
Grace was waiting for her. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs and let the men plan their course of action. I think it would be good for Roberto to be with you now. He’s very brave and trying to hide it, but I can see how worried he is.”
Lucy nodded, but before she left she took her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “I love you.”
He smiled but did not answer her; still, his silver gaze never left her until she and Grace were out of sight. Then Shoz turned and looked at Francesca, hard.
“This is Francesca Cahill,” Bragg said, interpreting the look. “She has helped me solve three major cases; she is a sleuth. She stays.”
Francesca would have been thrilled with his matter-of-fact description of her another time, but not now. She smiled a little at Shoz.
His nod was curt. “Who took Chrissy? When did the blackmail start?”
Hart moved past Francesca, closing the door to the library. He did not look at her once, clearly ignoring her now.
“Joseph Craddock.”
Shoz absorbed that—and started. “Joe Craddock?”
“I take it you recall him?”
Shoz’s straight nose flared. “Hell, yes. A sonuvabitch from the tip of his toes to the top of his head. I’m going to kill him.”
Bragg gripped his arm. “Craddock is blackmailing Lucy. He appeared in Paradise a month or so ago. On Sunday he handed her a note threatening the children and demanding five thousand dollars today at noon. Then he abducted Chrissy.”
Shoz was trembling. “I should have killed that sonuvabitch a long time ago.”
Francesca winced, because he clearly meant it.
“What does Craddock have on you, Shoz?” Bragg asked, his gaze unwavering.
Shoz smiled, and it was hard. “He hates my guts. This isn’t about money—this is about revenge.”
Francesca shivered. “Why?”
His cold gaze shot to hers, and clearly he did not like or appreciate the question. Francesca forced a smile. “If you don’t mind, it is probably important.” She felt as if she was making a terrible mistake in even addressing this man. He was not a man to cross.
Someone moved to stand beside her. The gesture was a protective one; Francesca started and managed to tear her gaze from Shoz. She looked up and, although he wasn’t looking at her, Hart stood at her side.
Her heart skipped a beat and lurched oddly.
“Let’s just say I stole his woman,” Shoz drawled. Then he added, “We ran guns together before I met my wife. Back in ’96, ’97.”
Francesca glanced at Bragg. He stepped forward, appearing determined. “Who murdered Randy Cooper?”
Shoz shrugged, his smile hard, mirthless. If he was surprised by the sudden question, one would never know it.
“The prison held seventy-one men. Any one of them—or all of them—could have done it. My guess is it was Craddock and a few of his hoodlum buddies. No one cared that Cooper got it; even the warden was glad to be rid of him. The case was closed before it ever began,” he said flatly. “What does this have to do with my daughter?”
“You escaped a week later. And Cooper was tortured before he died, not to mention that you took his name as an alias.”
Shoz seemed amused. “You accusing me of something … Rick?” he asked, whisper-soft.
Francesca froze, her heart lurching with dread. She looked from one man to the other.
Before Bragg could respond, Rathe stepped between them. “No one is accusing you of anything,” he said firmly. “We’re wasting time. We need to find Craddock, now.”
If Shoz was relieved, it did not show on his impassive face. The man was probably an extraordinary poker player. Francesca had to briefly close her eyes, breathless now.
Shoz was guilty
. She simply knew it.
A heavy, tense silence fell.
There was a knock on the door.
Hart answered it, not looking at her as he turned to do so. “Alfred?”
“The police are here, sir,” Alfred said.
Hart hesitated and turned to Bragg, Shoz, and Rathe. Then he sighed and faced Alfred. “Show them in.”
Francesca now had a very bad feeling. It was intensified when the chief of police walked in.
Brendan Farr took one look at the cast of players assembled in the room, and said, “I heard the terrible news, Rick. I decided to take over the case personally.” And he smiled.
Francesca was stunned; she met Bragg’s gaze briefly. He was as surprised; he quickly recovered. He said, “I shall appreciate your help, Chief. Time is of the essence now. We must locate Joe Craddock, and I want every precinct notified. Wardsmen should begin beating the streets. Someone must have seen him recently. I want Craddock found
before
a ransom note arrives.”
Farr said, “Craddock took your niece?” His eyes glinted with surprise while his face remained rather impassive. But he glanced at Francesca.
Hart now drifted over to their small huddle. His gaze narrowed on Farr.
“That’s right.” Bragg looked the chief of police right in the eye. “I believe you have read his file?”
“Oh, yes,” Farr said. “But his style isn’t abduction and ransom; it is blackmail.”
“Apparently his style has changed,” Bragg said.
“And the child’s parents?”
Shoz stepped forward. “The child’s name is Chrissy Savage. She is my daughter; my wife is upstairs.” His eyes continued to blaze with anger. His fists were clenched.
Farr studied him. “Any idea of why Craddock wished to pick on you, Mr. Savage? Other than the fact that your daughter is Derek Bragg’s great-granddaughter?”
Shoz’s mouth curled. “Isn’t that a good-enough reason? My father-in-law adores Chrissy. He’d do anything to get her back.”
Farr studied him, then said, “When did you marry into
the family? Is this the wedding I read about, the one that took place in Heaven, Texas?”
“It was Paradise, Texas,” Bragg said. “Chief, I need men out on the streets, now.”
Farr smiled; it was benign. “May I use the telephone?” he asked. Being polite did not suit him. Francesca thought she saw suspicion in his eyes.
Bragg gestured and Farr walked over to Hart’s massive desk. He did not sit down as he dialed headquarters and began to instruct the captain there on the wording of the telegram that would be sent to every station house in the city. Francesca quickly stepped over to where Bragg and Hart stood. She spoke in a whisper. “He wants motive, Bragg. This is not good.”
His gaze met hers. “I am aware of that. I do not want him interviewing Lucy. Not now, not later, not ever.” He turned his hard gaze on Shoz. “And you give him nothing, Shoz. Not one detail of your life. I don’t want him figuring out that you served even a day with Craddock.”
Shoz’s response was a mirthless flash of teeth. “My pardon is an official record, Rick. He’ll find it if he digs deep enough.”
“I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”
“He is already suspicious,” Hart remarked flatly. His gaze locked with Rick’s. “You do not have a loyal subordinate, Rick.”
Bragg’s jaw flexed. “I am aware of that.”
Hart stared; Bragg stared back. “A knife in the back,” Calder finally murmured. “We must all watch our backs now.”
They exchanged glances, the four of them, absorbing that. Francesca felt that Hart was right. She tugged on Bragg’s sleeve. “We need to find J.C. first,” she said in a whisper. Then she let go, as she heard Farr hanging up the receiver. He returned to their group. Now they were all conspicuously silent.
Farr looked from Bragg to Francesca, then at Calder, and
finally at Shoz. “I’d like to speak with your wife,” he said to Shoz.
“She’s sleeping. She’s extremely upset and I don’t want her disturbed,” Shoz returned flatly. He spoke in a way that was not open to debate.
Farr glanced at Bragg. “It would benefit the investigation if she could be awakened.”
Bragg said, “I can fill you in. I know every detail of the case. Now is not a good time to speak with Lucy. She is hysterical, Chief.”
Farr shrugged. “Very well, then I am going to go back to headquarters,” he said. “It will probably be a few hours before we have any rumors to go on.”
Bragg nodded and slapped his shoulder. “Thanks, Chief.”
Farr met his gaze and nodded at them all, his gaze lingering on Francesca. She did not flinch or flush. He said, “Perhaps we might speak privately, Miss Cahill?”
Alarm filled her.
Bragg said, “Miss Cahill is on her way home.”
Farr smiled oddly—clearly aware that he was being thwarted at every turn—and walked out.
Francesca would have fanned herself if she had a fan.
Shoz said, “I’m hitting the streets, too. I am not going to sit around this house waiting for someone else to find my daughter.”
“Money buys just about everything,” Hart said coolly. Francesca realized he was still ignoring her. He hadn’t looked at her since Bragg had arrived at the house. “I think we should split up and begin dispensing large amounts of cash in order to buy what information that we can.”
“I agree,” Bragg said. “Craddock’s last known address was Eighteen Allen Street. No one’s seen him there in over a year, but that may be a good place to start.”
“Actually, until last week he had taken a room over a saloon on West Tenth and Broadway,” Hart said.
“I’ll go,” Shoz said, his silver eyes glinting with what Francesca was afraid was blood lust.
“I think the rest of us should begin by canvassing this
area. Maybe someone saw the abduction. I want a description of the coach and the driver. I’m going to go to Mrs. Van Arke’s. It’s a long shot, but maybe she has an idea of where Craddock is or how he can be reached. Everyone should check back at this house in three hours so we can analyze what we have learned.”
Francesca had drifted away from the group of men to stare out the window. She was rewarded when she saw Brendan Farr on Fifth Avenue, speaking with two detectives. Her heart lurched with more unease.
If Shoz was guilty, then this man could destroy the Bragg family.
She did not trust him.
“Francesca?” It was Bragg, having moved to come stand beside her. “Farr is going to try to find out why you were interested in Craddock the other day.”
“I know. He will have to tear off my fingernails to get any information from me. I am very worried, Bragg.”
“I can see that. Care to share why?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the men, but they were making plans and speaking among themselves. “Shoz is guilty. I feel certain of it.”
Bragg started and stared. Then he expelled his breath. “God, I pray you are wrong!”
She gripped his hand. “I want to follow Farr, Bragg. He is up to something. Did you see his face when he realized Craddock had abducted Chrissy?”
He looked at her.
She said, “He is not going back to headquarters. He is hailing a cab.”
Bragg’s gaze shot to the window and the avenue that was across an acre of snowy lawns.
“He is hailing a cab when he has a coach and driver of his own. Now isn’t that odd?” Francesca murmured.
Bragg hesitated. “Very. I’m coming with you,” he finally said.
 
 
“What is he up to?” Bragg breathed in her ear.
His breath was warm and disturbing; it reminded her of his equally disturbing touch the night before. She shifted; they were both seated in the backseat of a cab and parked a few carriage lengths away from the front door of a seedy hotel on Forty-fourth Street and Fourth Avenue. Just a few blocks away was Grand Central Depot. Farr had walked into the hotel a moment ago, with two detectives. “Is it possible that Craddock is here?” she asked with excitement.
He placed his hand on her arm, restraining her. “Let’s wait and see,” he said.
It was hard to be patient now. She nodded, briefly meeting his gaze; then, as there was no sign of either the chief of police or his two men, she shifted in order to face Bragg. This was hardly the time or the place, but she had to know. “What did Leigh Anne want?”
His eyes widened, and then he sighed heavily, raking a hand through his sun-streaked hair. The gesture was not characteristic of him. “God knows.”
That was hardly a satisfactory answer. “She wants you back, doesn’t she?” She found it hard to breathe properly as she spoke. But she simply had to know.
He stiffened and their gazes met. “What she does not want is to become a divorcée,” he said.
“You told her?” she gasped.
“I despise the woman,” he said harshly. “Yes, I told her. I’m not sure what her game is, Francesca. But she can cause me tremendous trouble, and she can hurt you, too.” His gaze darkened as their eyes met.
“Don’t you dare worry about me,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it.
“I shall always worry about you,” he said simply. He was so grim. “Can we discuss my wife another time?”
She nodded, then said, “Did she say anything about me?”
He sighed again. “Yes.”
“Bragg!”
He smiled slightly. “I could not resist. She asked if I loved you. I said yes.”
Her heart turned over so many times that she lost count of the flips. How had she even thought herself attracted to Calder Hart for even an instant? Love warmed her thoroughly now.
“Why are you staring at me like that? Is this news? Have I not told you how I feel, several times, in fact?”
Tears came to her eyes. She kissed his cheek impulsively. “Yes, but it is different now, isn’t it? I mean, with her here in the city.”
“The situation is different, yes. But my feelings have not changed.” His tone changed. “Farr is coming out,” he said tersely.
Francesca twisted and saw Farr standing on the bottom of the three small steps leading up to the Fourth Avenue Hotel. He was speaking to his men. They nodded in compliance to whatever it was that he had said, and then they all split up. Farr got into his waiting cab, and the moment it was out of sight, Bragg threw open his door and they both rushed out of the hansom.
“Wait right there,” Bragg shouted as they raced up the three front steps and inside the hotel.
At the front desk, which was no more than two foot long and stained with scars and tobacco, Bragg pounded on a bell. The small lobby, which had a single chair and table and an overflowing ashtray, and was more of a cubicle than anything else, was empty. A very heavy clerk came out of a back room. He yawned at them. “More flies? Ain’t here. Checked out yesterday.”
Bragg and Francesca turned to gape at each other. Then Bragg faced the clerk, saying, “Joseph Craddock checked out yesterday?”
“That’s right, but I already told the other copper that.”
Bragg and Francesca looked at each other again. Dread filled her now. “He knew—or thought he knew—that Craddock was here. And he never said a word!” she cried.
“I am aware of that,” Bragg said, his jaw hard.
“Why? When a child’s life is at stake? Why?”
His gaze was black. “He wants to find something to hold over me, Francesca. It is as simple as that.”
“That is hardly simple!” Francesca cried. She faced the big clerk. “Do you have any idea where Craddock has gone? Did he say anything? Leave any word?”
“Nope. He paid his bill and walked out, not even a ‘thank you very much.’” The clerk eyed her now with some lascivious interest.
“Show us to his room,” Bragg said.
The clerk nodded, and a few minutes later Bragg was unlocking the door to the room Craddock had used for an entire week. The shades were mostly down and the small, square room was cloaked in shadow. Bragg stepped in first and went to the single lamp by the bed. It was a gas lamp; he turned it on and lit it.
Francesca grimaced. The room was small and dirty and it smelled suspiciously like urine. The cot was unmade, the sheets appearing rather dirty. A rag rug that was torn and muddy was in the center of the floor. A few pegs were on one wall, as was a very poor watercolor painting of a vase of flowers. One lopsided bureau with a water pitcher and stained glasses completed the interior.
Bragg walked over to the bureau and began opening drawers. Francesca went to the single window and looked out on a small, black alleyway where a trash can lay on its side. Then she turned to the bed, not particularly wanting to touch anything. She lifted the sheets and looked under the pillows, but nothing was present.
“Come here,” Bragg said harshly.
Francesca turned and saw him holding a piece of newspaper. “What is it?”
“It’s an article about cattle ranching,” Bragg said quietly, reading. “It’s about the difficulties ranchers are facing today in the western part of this country, and it’s dated August 2, 1901.”
That was a half a year ago. “Does it mention your grandfather’s ranch? The one where Lucy and Shoz and their children live?”
“It mentions the D and M, all right,” Bragg said, looking up. “But only insofar as it is a model for other ranchers to follow. There’s a whole paragraph here on Shoz and some of the innovations he’s made.” Bragg stared at her. “It even mentions that Shoz was a lawyer, but the son of a rancher himself. It does not mention that he was in prison, or that my grandfather began the ranch. This article is about ranching and subsequently about Shoz as a rancher. There is not a word in here about my family,” he said, his gaze on hers.

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