Deadly Kisses (35 page)

“No,” she whispered. “I lied. I never had a customer. I'm not stupid—I know how it looked. I knew you'd think about all the fights I'd had with Daisy after she took up with Hart. And I really thought he did it…but now I am not so sure.”

Francesca was eager. “What has changed your mind?”

“Her father,” Rose said, her tone stricken. “I have been thinking about him all night, ever since you told me that you found Daisy's family. Then I read in the newspaper this morning that
he is here to bury her. And I can't let that happen!” She began to cry.

Francesca put her arm around her. “What is it that you are not telling us? Why don't you want Daisy's father to bury her? Rose, what do you know?”

“I promised,” Rose wept. “I swore to Daisy, and I promised I would keep her secret forever. But how can I do that? She's dead and I think her father did it.”

Francesca trembled. “Rose, whatever you promised Daisy, if keeping this secret is preventing us from finding her killer and bringing him to justice, she would want you to come forward now.”

“I'm not sure she would ever want me to come for ward, Francesca. We only spoke of it once, long ago, when we first became friends.”

“Rose, you can be subpoenaed to testify in court. Refusal to do so would merit charges and a jail term,” Bragg said quietly.

She looked at him through glazed eyes, and then at Francesca. “Daisy hated him. She hated him with a passion. She wished him dead, Francesca! He was the reason she ran away from home.”

Francesca nodded. “Why? Why would she hate her own father so much? Did he betray her mother—did she catch him with another woman? Was he cruel, or punish her with force?”

“Did she catch him with another woman?” Rose laughed bitterly, hysterically. “She
was
the other woman, Francesca.”

For a long moment, Francesca did not understand.

Bragg said, “Are you saying what I think you are?”

She nodded. “She was only a child. She was twelve years old when it started—that is what she said. Gillespie was sharing her bed.”

Friday, June 6, 1902—Noon

F
RANCESCA WAS IN SHOCK.
She looked at Bragg, whose expression was filled with revulsion. She finally began to understand. Daisy had been molested by her father, perhaps even raped. No wonder she had left home.

“You may have to testify to this in court, Rose,” Bragg said.

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

Francesca faced her. “Did you know Gillespie was in town last month?”

“She never mentioned it, Francesca, just like she never mentioned the money,” Rose whispered hoarsely. “Just like she never told me she was with child.”

Francesca ran to the door, tearing it open. Bragg raced after her. “Wait! You had better let me handle this.”

Francesca did not pause. “How much do you want to wager that Daisy was blackmailing her father? No wonder he claimed he did not know who she was!”

Bragg seized her arm outside of his office door. “You are too upset to interrogate him!”

“Upset? That hardly describes how I feel—I am ready to commit murder myself! That man deserves the death penalty, Rick.”

“There is no death penalty for molestation or rape.”

“There is for murder.” She turned and pushed open the door.

Gillespie was standing by the window, staring out of it. Abruptly, he turned. “Am I free to go?”

“I don't think so,” Francesca said.

Bragg took her arm. “Your daughter was blackmailing you, wasn't she?”

Gillespie stepped back. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Francesca shook Bragg off. “We know why she ran away. And we have a witness—Daisy's best friend—who will testify in court that you were molesting your own daughter when she was twelve years old.”

Gillespie stared, and then his face began to collapse.

“You horrid, despicable, inhuman man!” Francesca exclaimed, shaking. And tears finally filled her eyes.

“Francesca, stop,” Bragg said softly.

Gillespie sank into a chair and began to quietly cry.

“Don't you have anything to say for yourself?” Francesca demanded.

“I didn't know she hated me so much until I saw her last month,” he whispered, not looking up. “I loved her. I loved her so much. And she hated me. She said such ugly things. She told me she was a whore, she told me about all of the men. She was so cruel, so hateful! And then she wanted money. I didn't even have it, but she threatened me. My beautiful, beautiful daughter! I only loved her and I never meant to hurt her…I dreamed she would come home one day. I never meant for any of this to happen.” He looked pleadingly at Francesca. “I love her.”

Francesca was ill, but she could not look away from the quivering, depraved man sobbing in the chair. “Bragg, he has motive, he has means.”

“Judge, I am afraid you are not leaving, not yet,” Bragg said. “I'm sure you know the law. I can hold you for twenty-four hours and that is what I intend to do.”

Gillespie leapt up, realization dawning. “I didn't do it! I didn't murder my own daughter!”

 

V
ERY SLOWLY, FEELING FAR
more ancient than her twenty-one years, Francesca walked up the corridor of the sixth floor where the Gillespies had their suite of rooms. She was sick to her stomach and she had the urge to flee to Hart and bury herself in his arms, where she could cry for Daisy's life, but that would not solve the case. She had no doubt now that Daisy had hated her father enough to threaten him with exposure—her own exposure. The problem was that Gillespie's denial had rung true. As mentally ill as he was, as sexually depraved, she could not be certain that he had murdered his own daughter.

Poor Daisy.
The words were a litany in her mind. She could not imagine how the twelve-year-old girl had felt or what she had gone through. But now, somewhat, she could understand the woman she had become. No wonder Daisy had wanted Hart back. He had given her a life of freedom and independence and he had been kind.

Francesca paused before the Gillespies' door, struggling for some composure. Had Martha known what was going on under her very roof? Had Lydia? She needed to learn exactly what mother and daughter really knew. If Gillespie was innocent and if Rose was also innocent, then she was at a loss for suspects and she was running out of clues—and time. Family members usually filled out the roster of suspects, but for the life of her, she could not imagine why either Martha or Lydia might want Daisy dead. If anything, she thought grimly as she knocked, they would want to murder Gillespie instead.

But Francesca knew Lydia was hiding something, and it was time she came clean.

Lydia opened the door, looking surprised to see her. Francesca tried to smile. “May I come in? I have some questions for you and your mother.”

“Of course.” Lydia opened the door and stepped aside so Francesca could enter.

Francesca glanced around the elegant sitting room, but
apparently Martha remained in one of the bed rooms. She waited until Lydia had closed the door. “I just saw your father.”

Lydia's expression was strained. “What is it that you wish to say, Miss Cahill?”

“I have learned why Daisy ran away.”

Something flickered in Lydia's eyes. She walked away. “Then maybe you should share that information. I would like to know why my sister abandoned me.”

Francesca went to her, mulling over Lydia's choice of words. She decided to take a terrible risk. “Did he go to your bed, too?”

Lydia jerked. “I don't know what you are talking about!”

“I know that Daisy was molested by your father, Lydia. I am horrified, and I am very sorry.”

Lydia stared, her expression frozen into unreadable lines. “You need to leave.”

“I know this is a painful subject—”

“I think you know nothing, Miss Cahill, nothing!” Lydia was trembling but her face remained as tight as a drum.

“Did you know what was happening? Did you share a room with your sister? Or was she in her own room down the hall?”

Lydia's eyes became moist. “I have no idea what you are talking about! What difference does it make if we shared a room or not?” Her voice caught.

“They had their own rooms—with an adjoining door between.”

Francesca whirled to face Martha Gillespie. She stood in the doorway of the bedroom, clad in a black mourning dress, her alabaster skin starkly pale, her eyes red from weeping.

“Miss Cahill was just leaving,” Lydia said tersely.

Francesca looked at Lydia, wondering if she was protecting her mother. She turned her shocked gaze on Martha. Surely Martha was not the killer here. Daisy—Honora—had been her
daughter. But why was Lydia being such a watchdog? What were they hiding?

“I'd like to ask your mother a few questions,” Francesca said, her gaze riveted on the older blond woman.

“My mother is in mourning! Can't you see that? She needs to be left alone!” Lydia almost shouted, and she appeared desperate.

This family had already suffered terribly, Francesca thought. She didn't want to be the cause of any more suffering. And while she wanted to ask them both if they thought the judge capable of murdering Daisy, in order to gauge their reactions, her compassion won the day. “I am very sorry for your loss,” Francesca said to Mrs. Gillespie.

She nodded, a white-knuckled grip on her handkerchief.

“Please, Miss Cahill. This is not a good time,” Lydia said hoarsely.

Francesca hesitated, looking from daughter to mother. “I know you both want justice for Honora,” she said. “But I need your help. So please, consider another interview—at your convenience, of course.”

Martha Gillespie just stared. No one could be more despondent.

“Please go,” Lydia cried.

Francesca nodded. She let herself out, but the moment she had closed the door, she pressed her ear against the smooth, polished wood. Her reward was instantaneous.

“She is going to find out,” Martha said, her tone choked.

Lydia said, “No, she won't. Not if you do not say
anything.
”

 

B
RAGG KNOCKED ON THE
door of O'Donnell's flat. The thug was not expecting him and Bragg hoped that he was home. As he waited for a response, the wrapped leather handle of the case burned his hand. The money inside felt terribly heavy, like an anchor, dragging him down.

Images of Leigh Anne came to mind, tearful and afraid, begging him to fix this crisis, begging him to pay O'Donnell off so he would leave them alone. Another image followed, and Dot grinned at him, waving one chubby fist, while Katie regarded him out of her huge, questioning and somber eyes.

This was the right thing to do, Bragg reminded himself. Never mind that he was commissioner of police and his mandate was to uphold and enforce the law, not break it.
He had to protect his family.
The choice was clear. Leigh Anne was so fragile now. Every time he looked at her he saw the anguish and fear in her eyes. How much longer could she go on this way? Even Francesca agreed that the best course was to pay O'Donnell off and get rid of him instantly.

Bragg waited at the door, closing his eyes. The images in his mind were gruesome—O'Donnell gasping for his life as Bragg choked it right out of him, slowly, cruelly, purposefully. Everyone had a dark side and his had chosen this moment to assert itself. He had never hated anyone more—he had never feared anyone more.

But he would not succumb to such primitive rage. He was a rational man and he could control himself.

Bragg heard footsteps on the other side of the door. He stiffened. This was it, then.

He thought about how he knew O'Donnell as intimately as if they were lifelong acquaintances, because he had known men like him time and again. He was the scum of the earth, he would never be reformed, and he would come back to cause trouble, time and again.

He would come back, one day, for more money.

Sweat trickled down Bragg's temples. If he wasn't a man of the law, murder would be the only way to really ensure that the man never came back to harm them.

“Yeah?” O'Donnell opened the door.

Bragg stared.

 

F
RANCESCA STOOD OUTSIDE THE
closed front door of Daisy's house, waiting for Homer to answer her knock. The sadness she felt for Daisy remained, and its weight was crushing. She simply could not take it.

Homer opened the door. “Miss Cahill!”

She was surprised—he was not in his dark suit, but far more casual dress. “May I come in? Are you going out?”

“We have no duties now. The house is as clean as a whistle, considering we are not allowed to touch the study or Miss Jones's private rooms. Mr. Hart has left no instructions. I had hoped to visit my daughter on Staten Island.”

“I'm sure he wouldn't mind.” Francesca managed a smile that felt wan. “You need not stay here on my account. I came here to think.”

“Is everything all right?” Homer asked, his dark eyes on hers.

“Not really,” Francesca said.

“But…Mr. Hart has been released. He is innocent, is he not?”

Francesca tried out another feeble smile. “Yes, he is innocent. This isn't about Hart. I have just learned some very sad facts about Daisy. I wish she were alive. I wish we had never, ever exchanged a single harsh word.”

Homer was startled, and Francesca recovered her composure, which was shaky indeed. “Please, I prefer to be alone, actually. I don't need anything.”

Homer was hesitant, but Francesca encouraged him again, and finally he went to get his things so he could leave.

She was alone in the front hall, the door closed be hind her. Francesca glanced around at the pale, cream-colored walls, the smooth polished floors, and into the first salon, the doors of which were open. Suddenly Daisy appeared, rising from a sofa, her grace as fluid and elegant as ever. She was smiling.

Francesca sighed. It was so easy to imagine Daisy alive, the
way she had so recently been. She wiped some tears from her cheeks.

“I wish I had known you better,” she whispered, walking to the threshold of the salon where Daisy had entertained her several times. “I wish I hadn't been so frightened of you, but you were so beautiful, and I admit that I am insecure.” The empty beautifully furnished room was absolutely still. She realized she had been hoping to feel Daisy's presence, not that that would solve or change anything. But this room was entirely impersonal now.

Francesca walked out. There were more tears. How terribly had Daisy suffered as a child? How could any man behave so foully to his own daughter? Why hadn't someone realized what was going on and prevented it? She paused on the threshold of the study.

“I am sorry that we fought,” she whispered. “But I understand now. I really do.”

The study—small, dark and unlit, should have been cozy, but it was not. Even in the shadows, there were bloodstains all over the multicolored Persian rug on the floor. “Who did it? Daisy, I will find your killer, but I am currently at a loss. Did your father murder you?”

Of course, there was no answer. But this room did not feel empty and vacant, like the salon.

Francesca tensed. She was not alone in the small study. The hairs on her nape prickled and, filled with unease, she turned.

Martha Gillespie stood there. “Why won't you leave the dead alone?”

Before Francesca could answer, Martha raised a small gun.

“Why won't you leave
us
alone?”

 

I
N THAT MOMENT,
as he stared at O'Donnell, he wished he were more like his half brother. If the roles were somehow reversed, if it were Hart who was defending Francesca, he would
not think twice about really getting rid of O'Donnell. Bragg had no doubt.

Surprise and even fear flashed in O'Donnell's eyes. Then he saw the case Bragg carried and his relief was evident. Bragg walked past O'Donnell, thinking about the gun he wore, thinking about the East River, where so many bodies were tossed. An odd desperation had filled him. How had he gone from the pursuit of justice to a desire to commit murder?