Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (2 page)

Joel grinned at her as they raced up the slick, snow-covered driveway. “Looks like we’re in business again,” he said happily.

Francesca raised her hand. “Cabbie! Cabbie!” she cried. The driver of the hansom saw her, yanked hard on his horse’s reins, the animal and cab veering abruptly toward the curb. The driver in the following carriage cursed, slamming on his brakes to avoid a collision, the two bays in the traces rearing in order to stop.

Panting, Francesca reached the hansom. “Yes, Joel, we most certainly are in business once again,” she said, and smiled.

But it was a grim smile, as murder was always a deadly affair.

The murder had taken place at 202 East 10th Street, which was just off Third Avenue. As Francesca and Joel climbed down from the hansom, the El thundered by overhead. She winced, as the noise was deafening, the train even causing the street beneath her feet to shake. But once the Elevated had passed, leaving a cloud of thick smoke in the otherwise cool, clean air, she surveyed the scene.

The buildings lining 10th Street had once, in years gone by, been extremely fashionable single-family brick homes.
Francesca recognized their style as being Georgian—they had undoubtedly been constructed at the turn of the previous century. Three and four stories high, they had been converted into apartments. One gaslight illuminated the entire block, and poorly. Frozen snow, black with dirt and other refuse, covered the sidewalk. Patches of black ice gleamed here and there.

Several roundsmen in their blue serge uniforms, carrying heavy nightsticks and in their leather helmets, had congregated outside Number 202. A police wagon was parked there as well, and behind it was Bragg’s snow-dusted black Daimler. Several ragged young boys had gathered about the Daimler, pointing at it, while ignoring the cold looks sent their way by the policemen. Francesca did not like the look of the boys—they were all young adolescents, on the verge of manhood, with sullen and calculating expressions. A very drunken old lady, carrying her beer in a bucket, was sitting on an adjacent door stoop, apparently engrossed in the evening’s entertainment. Every now and then she cackled at the policemen; then she began muttering to herself.

“Mugheads,” Joel growled beneath his breath.

Francesca had been about to cross over the short distance to the sidewalk; instead, she froze. “Joel?”

He shot her a look. “You seen ’em before. Looks like their turf been growin’ a bit. Either that, or they’re on the road.”

Francesca glanced in the direction of the four boys, all bundled up in torn wool coats, with rags on their hands and dirty wool caps on their heads. “Yes, I have. Wasn’t that on Avenue C and Fourth?” If she recalled correctly, she had been investigating the Cross Murders at the time.

“Dunno, but yeah, that’s about the right hood,” Joel said.

The gang was certainly out of its home turf. “Do they usually wander about so far from their usual location?” she asked.

“Not really. C’mon. Let’s get outta here.” Joel tugged on her hand.

Francesca realized that the four boys had seen them.
They were all still now, and staring at her and Joel as if they might be fresh meat for their dinner plates. She inhaled for courage, took Joel’s arm, and they crossed to the sidewalk. The roundsmen stood between them and the Mug-heads now.

“Excuse me, miss.” An officer moved to bar their way. “There is a police investigation under way. No one is allowed inside, not unless you happen to live there.”

Francesca smiled. “I am a personal friend of the commissioner. He has asked for my assistance on this case. Which apartment is he in?”

The officer, a young man hardly older than she, blinked. And then a very familiar face appeared behind him—a face dominated by beefy red cheeks and thick gray sideburns. Inspector Newman’s eyes met hers. “Let her go in, Wallace. Good evening, Miss Cahill. C’mish is expecting you. He’s in Apartment Seven.”

“Good evening, Inspector,” Francesca said with a slight professional smile. “Thank you. Come, Joel.”

As she went past the wide-eyed Wallace, she heard him exclaim, “Hey, she’s the lady who got the Cross Murderer!”

“That’s right, and she works closely with the commissioner,” Newman replied, respect in his tone.

Francesca could not help being pleased. But she had worked very hard to earn the respect of the few men who worked directly with Rick Bragg.

“Hey.” A lanky youth who was almost six feet tall barred her way. His eyes were shockingly blue, and red hair curled out from under his wool cap. “What
business
could a lady have here?”

Francesca tensed with some fear but stiffened her spine and her shoulders. “I don’t believe that is your affair. Please step aside.” She could feel Joel bristling beside her.

“Just about anything that happens around here is my
affair
,” the redheaded boy said, mimicking her genteel vowels.

“Bugger off, Reid,” Joel growled.

Reid laughed. “Like you can tell me what to do?”

“Please,” Francesca began, but it was too late. Joel stepped aggressively forward—a diminutive four-foot-ten and perhaps a hundred pounds—and Reid stuck out his foot. Joel went facedown in the dirty snow. Reid laughed raucously.

“That was uncalled for,” Francesca said, trying to control her anger. And she looked the redheaded miscreant right in the eye.

“Oh, yeah? Well, get this. We ain’t in no fancy ballroom, Miz Cahill,” he spat with sudden anger. “You don’t belong here. Go home.”

He knew of her—somehow. Francesca reached down to help Joel up. She did not think this boy read the newspapers. So how did he know her name? “Let’s go, Joel,” she said, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. She knew he wanted to attack the bigger boy. She had little doubt he would be quickly humiliated—and even hurt—should he try.

“You stay out of our way,” Joel snarled.

Reid laughed again. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, ass-wipe?”

Joel started for him. A knife appeared in Reid’s hand. But at that exact same time, Francesca yanked Joel backward by the collar of his torn overcoat. “I would put that away, if I were you,” she said softly. And, from the corner of her eye, she recognized the man who had just appeared on the doorstep of Number 202.

He was tall and broad-shouldered. The gaslight illuminated him, revealing sun-streaked hair, a bronzed complexion, and a tan greatcoat. He was handsome in an unusual way. Indian blood ran in his veins. And he was already striding purposefully toward them.

Her heart sped. She could not help smiling. They had agreed to remain friends, to fight the attraction that had formed, but dear God, could they really do so? Francesca had never fallen in love before. She knew she would never do so again.

Reid looked over his shoulder, saw Rick Bragg, and
tucked the knife away. Whistling for his three friends, he hurried across the street, weaving in and out of the several carriages passing by. Bragg paused beside Francesca and Joel, for one moment staring after Reid with hard, unwavering eyes. Then he turned to her and their gazes met and held.

And her heart skipped wildly. So much had happened and so quickly. . . . She did not ever want to hurt this man. She simply cared too much.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his amber gaze softening.

She smiled then, as always, no matter the circumstance she found herself in, glad to see him. In the course of four difficult and confusing investigations, he had become her best friend and perhaps even an anchor for her. “Of course. I am hardly afraid of one delinquent boy.” The exaggeration was a slight one, but she so enjoyed seeing respect and admiration in Rick Bragg’s eyes when he looked at her.

“He has a record a mile long. And he’s fifteen going on sixteen, which makes him a young and dangerous man. When he was Joel’s age, he was also a kid.”

Francesca knew by now that
kid
meant a “child cut-purse.” Before she could comment, Joel said, “He’s mean an’ smart. An’ he buzzed molls. Still does, from time to time.”

Francesca blinked. Bragg said, “He preys upon the ladies, Francesca, so watch your purse the next time he is about.”

“I can take him,” Joel declared, two bright spots marring his pale cheeks.

Bragg raised a brow. “He’s twice your size, Kennedy. I’d think twice about such an act of folly if I were you.”

Joel spat into the street, precariously close to Bragg’s feet. Fortunately, the spittle missed his shiny polished shoes.

“Joel,” Francesca said in reprimand.

“We got a murder to solve or what?” Joel said angrily. He slipped past Bragg and hurried toward the front door of the building.

Francesca and Bragg watched him. He was not willing to give up his hatred of anyone associated with the police.
But then, he had been in trouble with the police for most of his young life. He was a pickpocket with his own criminal record. She tugged on Bragg’s sleeve. “You are so patient with him. Thank you.”

“Do I have a choice? When my favorite sleuth has made him her assistant?” A smile was in his tone.

She smiled and he smiled back. And in that single moment, the past few hours—and weeks—disappeared. In that single instant, his terribly beautiful wife did not exist, and neither did Calder Hart, his dangerously provocative half brother. In that instant, the moment when Leigh Anne had faced Francesca and demanded she stay away from Bragg had never happened—as if she had not returned from her four-year absence in Europe in order to reclaim her marriage, as if she had not confronted Francesca to discourage her and Bragg’s friendship and to warn her away. Leigh Anne had, in fact, shaken Francesca’s confidence thoroughly. For she had insisted that she shared a bond with her husband that Francesca could never sever.

Francesca had to pinch herself to remind her that the past few hours, days, and weeks did exist, very much so. That Leigh Anne had returned to the city and that she was Bragg’s legal spouse. That Calder Hart, in what had to be a moment of madness, had told her that he intended to marry her. She shivered, feeling very much as if she were wedged between a rock and a hard place. But at least now she was on familiar footing—a crime had been committed, she and Bragg had a case to solve, and once again they would be working together.

Bragg took her arm, guiding her across the icy street. “What happened?” she asked as they entered the building.

“I have spoken to one neighbor, Louis Bennett, in Number Five,” Bragg said, pausing inside a pleasant entry hall with a single chair, a table on the wall, a mirror above that. A small chandelier light burned above their heads. Joel had plopped down on the chair, swinging his thin legs. “Number Five happens to be across the hall from Number Seven, where Melinda Neville was murdered. He had come in at
half past seven, saw her door open, called out, and did not receive an answer. So he peeked inside. And then he saw the vandalism—and her body. He immediately ran outside and flagged down a roundsman.”

So the victim’s name was Melinda Neville. Francesca paused to study the heavy wood door they had just come through, which was painted a dark green. The lock was brass. It required a key. There was no dead bolt on the inside, for the obvious reason that too many people shared the house. “Is this door always locked?”

“Yes. But when Bennett came in, it was unlocked,” Bragg said. “I don’t think it is surprising that the murderer would flee without locking it behind him.”

“Of course not. Did Bennett see or hear anything at all? Anybody?” she asked.

“No. But he is extremely upset now, and I suspect he went into shock when he realized that Miss Neville was dead,” Bragg said quietly.

A wide staircase was just ahead of them. That was typical of Georgian homes. Bragg said, “There are three apartments downstairs and four on the next floor, three more above.”

Francesca nodded and started for the stairs, Bragg joining her and Joel leaping up. “Perhaps our killer is a tenant here,” she said.

“Perhaps. But there are ways to pick a lock, as you know. In fact, wait one moment. Joel?”

Joel faced him. “What?”

“Do me a favor, will you? See if you can open that door from the outside if I lock it from within.”

Joel narrowed his gaze at him. “I ain’t no bedchamber sneak,” he finally said.

“I know you are no burglar,” Bragg said, appearing very slightly annoyed. But then, it was growing late and it had been a very long day and he and the child had never quite come to friendly terms.

Joel turned and went outside. Bragg locked the door and glanced at Francesca. A moment passed, and then they heard something being inserted into the lock. Francesca tensed.
Joel picked at the lock from the outside without result for several minutes, and then they heard him run off. Francesca sighed and said, “I do not think he is quite done.”

“Nor do I,” Bragg said, his golden eyes on hers. They exchanged smiles. A moment later the lock clicked behind them and Joel pushed through the door, grinning in triumph. “Not so hard,” he announced with glee and pride.

“Well done,” Francesca applauded, ruffling his thick hair.

Joel pulled away, blushing and proud, and handed Bragg a set of keys.

Bragg looked at him. “And where did you get those?”

Joel laughed. “Took ’em right out of the pocket of Inspector Newman,” he said.

Francesca bit her lip to suppress her laughter. “Shall we go up?” she asked.

Bragg nodded. Francesca led the way, Joel on her heels. Number Seven was on her right at the top of the stairs. The corridor there was about twenty feet long. A faded blue runner was on the floor, and a wall sconce was between the two pairs of apartments on each side of the hall. The lighting was dim even though it was electric. Number Four faced Number Seven. Bennett’s apartment, Number Five, was adjacent to Number Four.

The door to Number Seven was open. Lights had been turned on within. A uniformed roundsman stood outside the door, clearly to keep any inquisitive civilians away, and he nodded at Bragg while glancing curiously at Francesca. Inside, another detective in plainclothes was on his knees, searching beneath a faded sofa for any possible clues.

Francesca smiled at the officer and stepped inside a small salon that had been turned into an artist’s studio. Two windows on one side of the room, which overlooked 10th Street, undoubtedly provided wonderful light for the artist to work in. Instantly Francesca saw Miss Neville lying on her side, her face turned away, about midway across the room. And from this distance, Miss Neville appeared to be untouched. There was no blood, and one arm was out-flung. She could have been asleep.