Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] (34 page)

“I am sorry it has come to this. The article in the
Times
was fair. In any case, I will issue an official announcement as to the state of the investigation. The press has been scheduled for one this afternoon.” He smiled at her. “In it, I shall state unequivocally that, while we are following all leads to their conclusions, your brother is not a suspect.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “But I am afraid the harm has already been done.” She sighed heavily.

Bragg stood. “Only to Evan’s reputation, and that will be resolved when we bring our killer to justice, Francesca. Are you up to another interview with Hoeltz? I think it is time we find out why he lied about knowing Sarah.”

She shot to her feet. “I am more than ready, Bragg.”

He smiled at her and, with his hand on the small of her back, guided her out.

Bertrand Hoeltz did not look happy to see them. Upon answering the doorbell, he merely opened the door an inch or so and stared out at Francesca and Bragg. Joel, who as always had refused to come up to Bragg’s office, was with them. He remained by Bragg’s roadster.

“Mr. Hoeltz, it is I, Miss Cahill. I need to speak with you again.”

“I’m afraid I am occupied,” he said, beginning to close the door.

Bragg stuck his foot there so the door could not close. “Mr. Hoeltz, we have not met. Rick Bragg. Commissioner of police.”

Hoeltz sounded as if he moaned. But he opened the front door to the building, allowing them in.

Francesca exchanged a glance with Bragg. “I saw you at the Gallery Duval last night,” she said.

“Really?” Hoeltz appeared confused. “I was only there
for a moment or two; going out was a mistake.”

“And why is that?” Bragg asked.

“Why? Surely you know that my dear friend Miss Neville is missing. I am desperate for word on her whereabouts!” he cried.

Francesca again exchanged a look with Bragg. “Mr. Hoeltz, Sarah Channing was in my party last night. She was eager to say hello to you.”

Hoeltz paled.

“Did you not tell Miss Cahill that you did not know Sarah Channing?” Bragg asked.

Hoeltz choked. “I lied! I have been caught! I lied because I am so afraid!”

“Afraid of what?” Bragg asked calmly.

“Afraid of what?” Hoeltz gasped. “Mellie has vanished! Mellie is gone! I am afraid of being accused of her murder!” he cried.

“No one is accusing you of anything,” Bragg said.

“I didn’t kill her!” Hoeltz was near tears. “I adored her! I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Mr. Hoeltz,” Francesca said firmly. “No one has insisted that Melinda is dead.”

He blinked. “But that is what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Francesca said, and it was hardly true. By now, Melinda Neville was dead. It was merely a matter of time before they found her body. “But perhaps that is what you think?”

He paled. “If she isn’t dead, then why hasn’t she come home?”

Bragg took his arm. “Mr. Hoeltz, I’d like to continue this conversation downtown.”

“Downtown?”

“At police headquarters.” Bragg was firm. “So, please, if you will?” And it was not a question.

Hoeltz seemed excessively nervous as Bragg led him outside. As they paused in the bright winter sunlight, Inspector Newman came hurrying toward them. “Sir! Sir!” he cried, flushed with exertion.

Keeping a firm hold on Hoeltz, Bragg asked, “What is it?”

Newman paused, gulping air. “Found . . . witness,” he said.

“You’ve found a witness?” Francesca asked quickly, with a rush of excitement.

Newman nodded, not yet capable of full speech.

“Who is it?” Bragg asked as quickly.

Newman nodded eagerly. Then, “That lady . . . the portrait . . . Miss Neville did!” he cried.

Comprehension came. “Mrs. Louise Greeley? She is your witness?” Francesca asked.

“Yes!” Newman cried, finally finding his voice. “She was a friend of Miss Neville’s—ever since she sat for the portrait. They had brunch on Sunday last. And Miss Neville was distraught. You see, she had decided to end it with Hoeltz, and planned on telling him that night.”

Hoeltz chose that moment to jerk free of Bragg’s grasp. He started to run.

But Bragg had the reflexes of an athlete. He set chase—and an instant later had smashed Bertrand Hoeltz up against the building wall. “You are most definitely coming downtown, Mr. Hoeltz,” he said.

S
ATURDAY
, F
EBRUARY 22, 1902—4:00 P.M.

It was no longer impossible to see in the room. Days ago, her eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, although her lungs had not adjusted to the stale air, and her wrists and ankles had not adjusted to the shackles placed there. She knew the small room she was imprisoned in was a cellar. The floor was earth, dank and damp; she could smell it. But she did not know where it was. She had been brought there unconscious and blindfolded, after being viciously assaulted in her flat. Her dear friend and neighbor Grace Conway had heard her cries and had tried to help—and in the end, she was the one who had been murdered. Every time Mellie recalled the sight of her friend choking to death, she wept.

Attempting to escape her bonds was useless. She had tried that when he had first tied her up, and had only succeeded in rubbing her wrists raw. He had found her bleeding, and that had amused him. It had made him laugh.

She tensed with dread. Soon he would return, because he returned twice every day, and she could not bear it. Why hadn’t someone found her? Surely her neighbors had noticed that she was missing. Dear God, why hadn’t help come? Would she ever be rescued? She was not ready to die!

She had screamed until she had no voice left, but wherever she was, it was far removed from society.

Outside the locked door, footsteps sounded on wooden planks.

She began to cry.

The bolt was lifted, the padlock unlocked. Her breathing became shallow and rapid.

The door opened, and briefly his tall silhouette appeared in the doorway.

She began to pant in panic.

He closed the door and slowly walked over to her, reminding her of all that he would like to do to her, that he had thought about doing to her, but that he wouldn’t do because she was a whore. He hated whores. Why did she have to be like all the others? Were there no decent women, no ladies, left? How could she do this to him! He bent and gripped her face in his large hand and she whimpered.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I am not killing you yet.”

She tried to breathe; she tried to speak. “Please, let me go. I won’t tell.”

He laughed, seizing a hank of her hair now and twisting her head back. “I’m never letting you go, but I think you already know that, don’t you?”

She managed to meet his gaze. He had the eyes of a sadist and a madman, burning with lust and genius. And the worst part was, she knew him, and somewhere deep inside herself she had always, secretly, been afraid of him. Now she had to admit her darkest fears—that he would never let her live to tell the world who he was . . . and what he was.

“They’ll never know it was me!” he crowed, and he let her go.

He untied her so she could use the chamber pot, tossed her bread and cheese, retied her hands and feet, and then he was gone.

Melinda Neville wept.

S
ATURDAY
, F
EBRUARY 22, 1902—5:00 P.M.

“H
AVE YOU SEEN THIS
, Andrew?” Julia asked the moment her husband walked in the door.

Andrew handed his bowler hat, his ivory-tipped walking stick, his coat and gloves to the doorman. Julia dangled the
Sun
at him, her expression set and severe. “Yes, I have seen it. How could I not?” Worry rushed over him yet again, for perhaps the hundredth time that day.

Julia stared grimly. “Please come into the parlor,” she said, and it was hardly a request.

He sighed, preparing himself for battle and wishing it weren’t so. He followed her into a small salon, mostly used for entertaining family and close friends. He knew she remained angry with him for the terrible argument he’d had with Evan, the result of which had been Evan’s decision to move out of his house, attached and adjacent to their own, and the terrible assault on last Monday. She didn’t have to tell him she was angry; he simply knew it. But he was angry, too. “I do not control the newsmen of this city,” he said.

Julia shut the door behind him. “Why not? You have enough money to control whomever you choose.”

“Are you now blaming me for this news article?” He was incredulous.

“We both knew Miss Conway was Evan’s mistress. I blame myself for turning my gaze the other way and pretending I did not know of the very improper affair. But I blame you for not doing something to prevent these kinds of insinuations from getting into the newspapers!” she cried. “We have enough to worry about, do we not? Connie is melancholy, Evan is gravely hurt, there have been two murders and he is connected to both women, and Francesca is chasing after a married man! Our family is falling apart and I cannot manage it, not another moment.” She sat down on the sofa and seemed close to tears. But Julia rarely cried and she did not do so now. “How have we come to this, Andrew?”

He sighed. His wife was a woman of steel. He truly adored her, and he had from the first moment they had met. And he knew that, in the case of Sarah Channing, he had done the right thing in forcing Evan to become engaged, in forcing a marriage upon him. Evan had no spine, no ambition. He was as different from both of his parents as night from day. He was the gravest disappointment Andrew had ever had. He wondered what he had done to deserve a lackluster son whose only interest was in gaming and tainted women. A son who seemed to despise him, a son who had shown no respect. For only absolute disrespect could cause Evan to disown his own father and his own birthright, all so he wouldn’t have to marry a proper woman like Miss Channing.

Andrew sat down next to Julia. “Our family is going through a difficult time, but we will prevail, Julia. I shall see to it.”

She looked at him out of moist eyes, but he saw hope there. And then she took his hand. “Thank you, Andrew,” she said.

He started but squeezed her hand, not wanting to relinquish it, thrilled with the contact. “For what?”

“For being my Rock of Gibraltar, once again.”

He smiled then. “I cannot let this family fall apart, Julia.”

“Nor can I.” She hesitated. “I am sorry we have been arguing so. But Evan’s sudden determination to disown himself from us has terrified me. I should die if I ever lost my son.”

Andrew took her into his arms. “I know.” And he did know how his wife adored her only son, how she saw only the good in him, and never the wastrel, the rogue.

“Please, please, let him end his engagement to Sarah,” Julia begged. “Please let him win this single time, so he stays with us.”

“This is not about winning!” Andrew cried, releasing her. “I only tried to do what was best for Evan! And now it doesn’t matter what I do, because he has decided to end the engagement himself—just as he has decided to leave his house and the business.”

“But if you spoke with him, if you apologized, if you said you had been wrong, I know he would stay.”

Andrew stiffened. “But I was not wrong.”

She also stiffened. “I know. I know why you wanted Sarah to be his wife, and I agreed with you at the time. But now, everything has changed. I am asking you to go to him and tell him he was right and that you are wrong. To mend the fence, Andrew. Please. I do not want to lose my son!”

He got to his feet, heavily. He loved Julia and would do anything for her, but he also loved his son. And to give in now served only Julia in the short run. It was time that Evan became a man. Spoiling him would accomplish nothing. “It is time that Evan grew up,” Andrew said quietly. “Please try to understand. He needs a path in life; he needs goals; he needs ambition. My coddling him will only make him more of what he is—a very spoiled young man.”

“I can’t believe you will let him quit the company and move out of his house!” Julia gasped.

“I have thought about it. I think it might be the best thing
to ever happen to him—better even than marriage to Miss Channing,” he said.

Julia cried out.

He reached for her. “Don’t run away from me, too. I am doing this for Evan. Julia, you have trusted me for twenty-five years. You must trust me now.” He hesitated and added, “Please. I need you.”

She stared. “I don’t know if I can, Andrew.”

“You are the strongest woman I know. You can let him go. Trust me, Julia, it is for the best.”

“You never loved him,” she whispered.

“No, you are wrong. I love him so much that it hurts.”

Maggie was surprised to find Evan not in bed but standing before the marble mantel of the hearth, leaning upon a cane. He seemed to be deep in thought, and she had little doubt why. Her heart ached for him.

And for a moment she had to stare, because he was as gallant and as handsome in appearance as a prince.

He suddenly turned his head as if he had sensed her presence. He saw her and slowly smiled.

She could not help smiling back.
You are such a sweet fool, Mrs. Kennedy, and too kind for your own good
.

Maggie refused to listen to Joe now. “Mr. Cahill, I just thought that I would call—I was told to come directly upstairs,” she said nervously.

“Do come in,” he said, continuing to smile as if he was very pleased to see her. He limped toward her.

Maggie rushed forward. “Should you be up and about?” she asked with worry. She noticed that the bruises were fading from his face, although he still wore the eye patch. That only gave him a dangerous air and, somehow, made him impossibly attractive.

“Finney approves,” Evan said. “And I cannot stand to be in bed another moment. Besides, I have some tasks I must do.” He gestured toward the open armoire then.

Maggie blinked, for the first time seeing a large valise
on the floor. “Are . . . are you going somewhere?”

“Yes, I am. I am moving into the Fifth Avenue Hotel,” he said.

She was stunned. “But . . . but why?”