Deadly Illusions (18 page)

God knew he wouldn't help Bridget if she was in danger, but his presence might be enough to forestall the Slasher.

The carriage, pulled by a single bay, passed. A pebble flew
out from its wheels and skittered her way. Casting one more glance behind her, she rushed across the cobbled street, thinking about how late it was, how dark. She was ready to weep.

Damn David. He had always been good for nothing and while she could not wish that she'd never met him—he was Bridget's father—she could wish that she'd never married him and had borne her child alone. She reminded herself that the Slasher struck on Mondays, and today was Thursday. He also assaulted women, not children. But Bridget looked fifteen, not eleven, and she was so terribly beautiful. Men older than Gwen turned to ogle her all the time. And last month that awful man, Timothy Murphy, had abducted her to add her to his ring of beautiful child prostitutes. God, hadn't they suffered enough?

Gwen knew she only had two more blocks to go but it felt like two miles. She tried to continue to run, but she was exhausted and her legs were failing her now. She faltered, panting terribly and holding on to a street lamp for support. And then she felt the eyes, boring into her…

And she felt him there behind her…

As she realized he was there, he seized her arm.

Incapable of screaming, filled with terror, somehow knowing the Slasher had found her this time, Gwen whirled.

Slowly, he smiled.

 

“T
HIS IS VERY WICKED,”
Francesca said with a sigh. She smiled at Calder as she sat on a sofa in one of the many salons in his home, her jacket unbuttoned, her kidskin shoes on the floor, her feet tucked up beneath her. She took another sip of the very old scotch and positively sighed. “Sooo wicked.”

He sat in a facing chair, watching her with a smile, making no effort to taste his own drink. “I'm very glad you appreciate a finely blended and very old scotch whiskey.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “Accepting your invitation to dine with you here, alone, could be even more wicked.” How she hoped so.

His smile widened and he stretched out his long legs. “Our supper will be ready at any moment.”

“Are you avoiding me?”

He chuckled. “Most definitely, darling. My full house is empty tonight. Rathe and Grace are out to supper. My cousin, D'Archand, is out on the prowl, I think, and Lucy went home last week. Other than the staff, we are very much alone.”

The crisis they had just weathered felt very far distant, but the interlude of being in his arms did not. Francesca smiled at him, thinking about how nice it would be to be in his arms right now, enjoying a few kisses before their meal. She set her glass down.

“I should like to meet your second possible suspect, Francis O'Leary's fiancé.”

Francesca had just stood up; she started. “You would?”

He sipped his scotch and eyed her over its rim. “I am a very good judge of character,” he murmured.

She stared, debating his motives, hands on her hips. “You wish to distract me,” she declared.

“I do.” He grinned.

She approached, feeling very seductive, indeed. “Alfred will knock. No one is home. A kiss between fiancés is hardly unusual.”

“A kiss,” he said, smiling as he watched her very carefully now.

She came up to his side, her heart racing with excitement, enjoying being the predator, oh yes. She stood behind his chair. “A simple, little, tiny kiss,” she breathed, leaning over him. Her bosom flattened against his upper back.

He turned his head to meet her gaze and he seemed somewhat amused. But his eyes held a familiar gleam and she knew he was hardly immune to this new game. “Do you really think to seduce me?”

She grinned. “Yes. And if that is a challenge, I accept,” she said, delighted to be goaded.

“A challenge,” he repeated, shaking his head. “It is not a challenge, Francesca.”

“A warning, then…darling?” She laid her hands on his shoulders, caressing the strong muscles there. And his body tensed.

“A warning you will not heed,” he murmured, his head tilting back.

She stroked the hair at his nape. “You know how I hate being told what to do.” She bent lower and whispered, her mouth on his ear, “Let's wager, then. Can you resist me—or not?”

He shifted and met her gaze. His smile was lazy, but it did not reach his eyes. “And what do you wish to wager, darling?”

Their gazes locked. His eyes smoked and she thought with surprise and a rush of delight that he was as aroused and enthralled as she was. Somehow, he never did act very jaded around her. She leaned over him, brushing her mouth against his, his cheek now pressed solidly into her breast. Desire stabbed through her with unyielding, consuming force. She paused, briefly stunned at how playful passion could so quickly change into something so powerful, and she said, her tone odd and husky, “I want a few more hours in your bed, exactly like the last time.”

He looked at her, unsmiling, and she knew he was remembering every moment of that wild interlude.

He reached for her and pulled her down and their mouths fused.

The door slammed open. “I heard Francesca was—” Rourke stopped.

Francesca leaped away from Hart, cheeks burning, heart rushing, feeling as if Rourke Bragg had just caught them in bed—with her in the dominant position. She smiled brightly at him. “Hello,” she cried, tucking too many tendrils of stray hair to count behind her ears. Then she remembered she was shoeless, and she tried to hide her feet beneath her skirts.

His cheeks blotched pink. “I'm sorry.”

Hart slowly stood. “The door was closed,” he drawled.

Still blushing, Rourke said, “It was. I'll come back at another time.”

“Don't leave. Francesca needs a chaperon,” Hart said, laughter in his tone. “Scotch?”

Rourke, who took after the Bragg men with his dark, golden-brown hair, amber eyes and sun-kissed complexion, nodded and glanced at Francesca. “I seem to have left my good manners in Philadelphia.”

“It's all right,” Francesca said, meaning it now that she'd had a moment to recover her composure. She was terribly fond of Rourke and not because he looked like Rick Bragg's younger but nearly twin brother. He was a compassionate, considerate gentleman and he'd been rather heroic on several occasions, as well as helpful on more than one investigation. “I heard you have applied to Bellevue Medical College?” she asked with a wide smile.

“I had an interview yesterday and I believe it went very well,” he said, returning her smile and accepting the scotch Hart handed him. “My final examinations end in mid-May and I will relocate then.”

“I will be more than glad to lease you a room,” Hart said with a straight face.

Francesca laughed but Rourke said, very seriously, “I doubt I could afford to lease a room from you. My tuition is very expensive and my personal budget doesn't leave much for rent.”

Francesca was very surprised, as his family was extremely wealthy.

As if reading her mind, he said, “I'm not comfortable being lackadaisical with my family's money. Rathe and Grace have wanted to buy me a house, but I refused. I'm single and I can get on well enough in a room. It's really enough that they are paying my tuition and all my living expenses. I try to be frugal.”

“Well, I cannot say I am surprised,” Francesca said.

“Rourke, I was in jest,” Hart said. “You'll stay here. I have dozens of empty bedrooms. Take as many as you want.”

“I'll think about it,” Rourke said. “Thank you.”

“You'll save yourself the cost of renting a flat,” Hart pointed out.

Francesca tugged on Rourke's sleeve. “He needs the company—and the moral guidance you can offer him, as well.”

Rourke laughed.

Francesca smiled at Hart, who smiled back, but she was actually serious about the former issue. When she had first met Hart, he'd been living completely alone in this huge house of his. But since Rathe and Grace had returned to New York with young Nicholas D'Archand, Rathe's nephew, they had been staying with him. Rourke's visits had also become frequent, and he also had been residing at Hart's when in the city. Francesca felt certain that the Calder Hart she had met at the end of January had been a lonely man, although he would deny it to his dying day. She was as certain that he enjoyed having so much family around him now.

Hart went to Rourke and clapped him on the shoulder. “She's right. Now that I am to give up my rakish ways, I need some severe moral support.”

“He is being transformed before my very eyes,” Rourke said to Francesca. He was smiling, but he seemed very earnest.

Francesca looked directly at Hart. “Actually, he is not.” Her smile vanished. “Nothing's changed except that a prickly outer layer, meant to conceal, is finally being peeled away to expose what is really there.”

Hart stared at her, and his cheekbones seemed to have a flush.

Rourke murmured, “It must be love.”

And Francesca thought, you are noble and good, Calder, and I have not one doubt.

“She has a heart of gold. One must be a cold-blooded killer
for Francesca to think ill of him.” Hart turned away, fiddling with his drink.

“As I said, it must be love,” Rourke said, glancing at his half brother and clearly meaning now that Hart was the one stricken by Cupid's arrow. Hart shrugged.

Alfred appeared but no servants and no supper cart were with him. “Sir? There is an urgent telephone call.”

Hart started for the door.

“Sir? It is for Miss Cahill,” the balding butler said.

Hart turned to her as Francesca came forward, puzzled. “But I sent Mama a note telling her I was dining here. Who else would call?” And even as she spoke, she knew.

It was the case; something had happened; it was Bragg.

“It's Police Commissioner Bragg, sir.”

Francesca bit her lip and looked at Hart. If he was dismayed—or anything else—she could not tell. For one more moment, she made no move to go to the telephone, awaiting his real reaction.

“Alfred, please show Francesca to the telephone. And I do believe supper has been postponed,” Hart said.

Francesca started eagerly forward when Hart took her arm and said, “Darling, your shoes.”

Thursday, April 24, 1902 9:00 p.m.

T
HE DOOR TO THE
flat was wide open and inside, Francesca saw Bragg and Newman in discussion, standing in the center of the single room. A roundsman in his blue serge uniform and leather helmet stood in the hall. Francesca nodded at him as she entered, Hart at her side.

Bragg looked up. His gaze widened when he saw his half brother, but only for an instant.

Francesca stared beyond him at the bed, where Kate Sullivan lay, very much dead.

She hugged herself, hard.

Hart touched her elbow as if to steady her.

“She was so afraid when I last saw her. That was only this morning!” she said in dismay. And Francesca was shaken. Today was Thursday. They had been wrong, incredibly wrong, to believe the killer would wait until Monday to strike yet again.

Bragg walked up to them. He appeared disheveled and grim, his tie askew, some golden hair falling across his forehead. Looking at Francesca, he said, “I'm sorry to interrupt your evening.”

She shook her head, briefly incapable of speech, her gaze on the young blond woman who lay fully dressed on the bed, arms flung wide, head turned so grotesquely to the side that her neck must have been broken. Her hair was down, cascading about
her shoulders, her chest, her neck. It was tangled and crusted with blood.

Hart responded in her stead. “We don't mind.” He stared at his half brother.

Bragg stared back. “Are you on this case now, as well?” There was tension in his tone.

Francesca tore her gaze from Kate, wishing she could have somehow prevented this terrible murder. She glanced at Bragg and then at Hart and almost stepped between them. As usual, a battle line had somehow been drawn. Hart's smile was clearly mocking. “He offered me a lift,” she lied quickly, before Hart could speak.

Bragg shrugged as if he did not care.

Francesca turned back to Kate. She didn't have to walk over to the bed to see that the body did not lie in a pool of blood. Instead, some splotches of blood were on the side of the bed and then a bloody trail led to the center of the room. Clearly she had been dragged from that spot, just beyond where they now stood, to the bed.

“He cut her here,” Hart murmured, noting what she had just deciphered. “But was she still alive when he deposited her in the bed? Is her neck broken?”

“It appears so,” Bragg said. “I am guessing she did not die from the knife wound but from the broken neck.”

Francesca shivered and was ill. “You think he broke her neck and cut her
afterward,
and then dragged her onto the bed,” she said, low.

Both men looked at her.

“We cannot know,” she said.

“You're right,” Bragg agreed. “We can't know. We can only know for certain that she was first cut while she stood in the center of the room and that he then dragged or carried her to the bed, where he laid her down. We also know that it is Thurs day, not Monday. Most serial killers do not deviate from the pattern they set.”

“You think we have a copycat on our hands?” Francesca asked, referring to slang recently coined by the press to denote a murderer who imitates the crimes of a previous killer.

“It's too soon to say. The coroner needs to examine the body.”

“Even though it is Thursday, even though her neck is broken, the culprit could still be the Slasher,” Hart commented. “I imagine that the victim fought the killer this time. That would explain her broken neck.”

Bragg eyed him coolly. Then he said, “Francesca, tomorrow we have a meeting with Dr. Lillington at Bellevue. He has the police reports up until the events of this evening and he has agreed to advise us on the case.”

Francesca had walked over to the bed, to Kate. She wanted to retch. She reached down for her hand; it was warm. She blinked back a tear. “She was killed very recently, in the last hour or two, I think.”

“Yes,” Bragg said, coming to stand beside her.

Francesca reached for the woman's bloody hair and moved it from her neck. The wound was raw and gaping and she briefly closed her eyes. Then, turning away from Kate's body, she said, “They could have struggled there in the center of the flat. He cut her—fatally. But as he dragged her to the bed she did not give up. She continued to fight even as her life was seeping away. He then snapped her neck. Accidentally.”

“You are determined to believe this is the Slasher.”

She looked at Bragg. “I know it is the Slasher. I can feel it.”

They stared grimly at one another, gazes locked.

He smiled finally, slightly, at her. “You have the best instincts of anyone I know.”

“Thank you.” She smiled as slightly back.

“He is upping the ante,” Hart said, interrupting them. “He dragged her to the bed, cut or not, neck broken or not, and took her hair down.”

Francesca blinked at him. Her mind raced. “He certainly did not have to drag her to the bed,” she said slowly. “Had everything happened over there in the center of the room, he could have left her there, on the floor. Margaret Cooper was found in her bed, and she was clearly killed there. But Kate was killed while she stood over there. Why drag her to the bed? And why do you think he is the one who took her hair down?”

“Darling, she is fully dressed. What woman do you know takes her hair down before undressing? The hair is the last to go.”

Francesca thought about it and had to agree. Every woman she knew left her hair intact for as long as possible. “Why?”

Hart shrugged. “I fear his intent has changed.”

She inhaled, glancing at Bragg. “Yes, murder is clearly the name of the game now. Margaret Cooper began a new pattern, I think.”

“There is more.” Bragg glanced at them both. “The door was left wide open.”

Francesca gasped. “He must have wanted someone to find the body right away!”

“I agree.”

“He wanted the police to find the body right away,” Hart said sharply. “He is toying with you both.”

Francesca stared at him, as did Bragg. “So now you are an investigator?” Bragg said.

She seized his hand. “I agree with Hart. This man is clever and capable and efficient. He would only leave the door wide open to alert us as quickly as possible to his foul deed. I truly sense a new game here.”

“I don't like it,” Hart said quietly, walking over to her. And his words were meant for her and her alone.

She met his gaze and understood. If the killer felt superior now—to the police, to her, even—then what would happen next? “Will he strike again on Monday?”

“He could strike again tomorrow,” Bragg said.

She glanced his way. “But why go back and kill Kate now? When he let her live last week?” Francesca asked. “What changed to make the killer return and finish what he began?”

“The killer is a madman. God only knows what he is thinking and why,” Bragg said.

That, of course, was true. “What has changed is that you and I have become very active on this case,” she said thoughtfully. “Hart is right—he must be toying with us now.”

Hart murmured, “Do I not recall you mentioning that she was separated?”

He had an amazing memory, she thought. She nodded. “She left her husband some time ago. I believe it was over a year and a half ago.” But she understood where Hart was leading. She turned to Bragg. “Can we locate her husband?”

“I've already put Newman on it. His name is John Sullivan and you are right, Kate left him a year and a half ago. When she was interviewed after the first assault, she said he was a drunk and that she hadn't seen him in a good year. She did not know where he was living. Hopefully he remains in the city and we can locate him before too long.”

Francesca rubbed her temples. Instantly Hart took her elbow. “Are you tired, darling?” he asked quietly.

She smiled a little at him. “I am worried,” she returned.

“You cannot save the world.”

“I can try,” she said, meaning it.

His gaze searched hers. She looked at him sadly. “Poor Kate.”

He released her and turned to Rick. “Will you give Francis O'Leary police protection?”

“Obviously,” Bragg said.

“What about Sam Wilson?” Francesca asked, worried now about Francis. “Do we know where he has been these past few hours?”

“I already sent two officers to pick up Wilson and bring
him to headquarters for questioning.” He stared at the bed and the body for a moment and then said, “I inspected the lock. I saw no sign of forced entry. I am beginning to believe that the killer has somehow followed the victim inside.”

“Who found the body?” Hart asked.

Bragg turned and looked directly at Francesca. “Maggie.”

Francesca cried out.

 

W
HEN SHE AND
H
ART
stepped out onto the street, she saw that a crowd had gathered. She faltered and Hart took her arm. Perhaps two dozen men and women stood in front of Kate's building, the men huddled in their ill-fitting jackets, some in flannel shirts, the women wrapped in scarves and shawls. Francesca saw nothing but worry and fear in the expressions facing her, and she also saw hopelessness.

“That's Miz Cahill,” Joel Kennedy cried with pride. “She's a famous sleuth!” He appeared in the front of the crowd, grinning at her.

But before she could smile back, a very worn and faded woman stepped forward, her dark eyes filled with fear. “Who did it, Miz Cahill? Who is murdering these good women?
Who?
”

Francesca bit her lip. “We don't know,” she began.

An angry murmur rippled through the crowd.

Hart's grip on her arm tightened. “Let's pass,” he said very quietly.

But Francesca balked, refusing to move. “I will find the killer,” she told the woman. “There will be justice, I promise you.”

Tears filled the woman's eyes. “Justice? For Kate and Margaret? For all of us? There is no such thing for an honest, hardworking woman.”

“Let's go,” Hart said firmly as someone male agreed too emphatically with the woman's statement.

Francesca stiffened, not allowing Hart to drag her past the
woman. “What is your name?” she asked kindly. “Were you friends with Kate and Margaret?”

“Francesca,” Hart said grimly, a harsh whisper in her ear. “This is not the time.”

Before the woman could respond and before she could jab Hart with her elbow telling him to have some patience, a heavy-set man in a plaid shirt and corduroy jacket pushed his way to stand before her. “You're gonna find the Slasher? A rich fancy
lady?
” He sneered. “Like you care about us! What's in it for you?” he demanded, his eyes burning with anger and hatred.

“Damn it,” Hart said with no inflection. He stepped in front of Francesca before she could insist that she wanted nothing but the truth and justice. “Move aside and let the lady pass.”

“Fancy snobbish highbrows,” the man shouted.

Some men in the crowd agreed, cheering and booing at once. “Tell 'em to go home! Back where they come from!” a young man shouted.

“Yeah, send 'em home. It's their kind that's killin' us, not the Slasher!” a woman screamed.

Francesca realized a riot was in the making. Just as she had that terrible comprehension, Joel darted to stand beside Hart, his face red, shouting, “Miz Cahill will solve this crime! She knows her stuff, she does, an' I can prove it!”

But no one heard him because Hart very calmly put his fist in the nose of the man in corduroy. “That is for not stepping aside when politely directed to do so,” he said.

The man held his bleeding nose, looking ready to assault Hart but clearly debating the merits of doing so.

And just as a few men stepped forward, looking ready to commit murder, a short, brawny man with curly black hair appeared at Hart's side. He was wearing a dark suit and he held a big black revolver that he aimed at the crowd. He did not speak.

“Thank you, Raoul,” Hart said. He turned and seized Francesca. “Now may we go?”

“Yes, that is a good idea,” she said somewhat meekly. And with Raoul covering them from behind and Joel in tow, they dashed down the block and around the corner to the building where the Kennedys lived.

 

G
WEN PUT THE TEAKETTLE
to boil with shaking hands. She was so upset she could not breathe, much less think. But she was acutely aware of the gentleman who sat at her kitchen table.

“Gwen,” Harry de Warenne said tersely. He cleared his throat and said, “Mrs. O'Neil. Please.” He stood up.

She didn't turn, fighting tears, remaining stunned. He was here, here in America, in the city, in her flat. But why?

“Gwen.” His tone was rough now. “I mean, Mrs. O'Neil. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I suppose I should have sent you a note.”

She must compose herself, she thought wildly. He must never know how deeply she had fallen in love with him—how intensely and how foolishly. She inhaled hard and slowly turned to face him. Bridget stood near the sink, her eyes huge in her utterly white face.

Harry—no, Lord Randolph—was staring at her with the blue eyes his family was famous for, a very grim expression on his masculine face.

“There is a killer lurking in the neighborhood,” Gwen managed to say. “My neighbor was murdered on Monday. You frightened me very much.”

“I know,” he said. “I read about it in the papers.” He hesitated and added, “How can you live here?”

She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with all the pride she had left. “This is our home now.”

He never looked away from her face. No, that was not right, he never looked away from her eyes, and she was drowning in his, drowning in a pool of blue nobility. “Do you like it here…in America?”

“Yes,” she lied, her smile brittle. She hadn't seen him in
five months, but he had changed so much. Oh, his face was the same, impossibly handsome, all high cheekbones, strong jaw and equally strong nose, but she remembered warm glances, soft, seductive smiles and more kindness than anybody had a right to bear. But all men were kind, she thought bitterly, when what they wanted was a woman's body.