Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (15 page)

“That’s me,” he said, and he did not seem drunk, never mind that he had been located in a saloon before noon.

“I am so sorry about your wife,” she said, watching him closely.

He folded his arms. “Yeah? Why?” he challenged bitterly.

“Why? Because she did not deserve her fate, and she left behind a young girl.” Her child had already been sent to an orphan asylum. Francesca had learned that Kathleen’s murder had taken place on January 10.

She hadn’t even known Bragg then. They had met on the eighteenth.

Mike O’Donnell shrugged. “Fate’s fate.”

Francesca inhaled. “Can we ask you a few questions?”

“Why?”

She felt like telling him, “Because your sister and your wife were murdered in the exact same way!” Instead, she said, “Maggie Kennedy is a good friend of mine.”

There was no reaction to Maggie’s name from Mike.

“She was very close with your sister, Mr. O’Donnell.”

“Yeah? So what’s it to me?” He shrugged and started toward the saloon entrance.

“Your sister and your wife are dead—both murdered—within the span of a month. I must ask you some questions!” Francesca cried, rushing after him.

“Only if you buy me a drink. I got one hour and I’m back to work.” He did not look back at her.

Francesca started, looking at Joel, who seemed uncertain what to do. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s quite all right.” She patted his shoulder and hurried inside after O’Donnell, with Joel behind her.

The saloon was crude. A rough oak bar was on one side of the large room, some stairs directly beside it. A woman’s laughter came from upstairs. Inside, Francesca saw five rickety tables, all square, all occupied. A very large man was tending the bar. Clearly he could toss out any patron that he wished, in spite of his age—he was in his fifties, she thought.

O’Donnell was at the bar. Francesca went to stand beside him. The white-haired bartender stared, but not quite curiously. O’Donnell said, “The lady’s buying.”

The bartender put glasses down in front of them both. He poured what appeared to be whiskey into them.

O’Donnell lifted his, smiled sourly at Francesca, and belted down his shot. The bartender poured instantly.

“When did you last see your wife, Mr. O’Donnell?” Francesca asked, removing a notepad and lead pencil from her purse.

He eyed her accoutrements, then said, “Dunno. A year.
Two.” He shrugged. “Why? You think I done it?”

She blinked, taken by surprise. “I never said that.”

He grinned and sipped his second shot.

“You did not visit your daughter on a regular basis?” She had already noted that both murder victims had daughters, not sons.

“Nope.” He eyed her over the rim of his glass. “Kathleen didn’t want me around. Said I was a bad influence.”

Francesca tried to determine if he had cared at all about his wife or what she had said, but he seemed absolutely indifferent. “When was the last time you saw your daughter? I believe her name was Margaret.”

“Dunno.” He finished the shot.

“Can you try to remember?” she asked.

“It was a long time ago!” he exploded. “But it was the winter, maybe just before Christmas, or was it before Thanksgiving? Last year, the year before, I don’t know!” He was angry now. He shoved his glass toward the bartender, who promptly filled it up.

Francesca said, “I am not trying to upset you. What about Mary? How often did you see her?”

Not looking at her, he said, “From time to time. Maybe every week or so.”

She could not tell if he was lying. “So you were close.”

He looked at her. “I didn’t say that.”

She hesitated—if he didn’t care about his own daughter, would he care about his nieces? “Dot and Katie need a new home now that their mother is dead.”

He eyed her. “An’ I hope they find it.”

She met his blue gaze. Did this man have any compassion inside him at all?

He returned her gaze, sighing loudly. “I don’t know why they’re both dead. But don’t pin the rap on me! I didn’t have nuthin’ to do with either of ’em. An’ I’m a busy man. I got no time for the girls.” He was defensive.

“I never said you had anything to do with either your
wife’s or your sister’s murder. I hadn’t even thought such a thing,” Francesca said, a vast lie.

His face became anguished. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for ’em both!” Suddenly he cradled his head with both hands. “I wouldn’t kill Kathleen. I . . . loved her. She’s the one who hated me. I never wanted to go. She wanted me out.” He did not look up.

“I am sorry,” Francesca said, meaning it. “Have the police spoken to you?”

His eyes widened fractionally, and then he recovered his poise. “No.”

Francesca bit her lip. She was going to have to tell Bragg that she had found O’Donnell. He would not be very happy that she had been the one to locate him.

“I ain’t talkin’ to the fuckin’ leatherheads,” he said harshly. “They’re all scum, every last sotted one of ’em.”

“Don’t you want to find Kathleen’s killer?” Francesca asked. “Mary’s?”

“People die here every day. Every day, every hour. Most of ’em meet a rude end. No one’s goin’ to find out who killed Kathleen or Mary. Why bother? They wasn’t like you.” He gave her a hard look. “They were just poor Micks. The leatherheads ain’t gonna care to find out who done it.” He glared now at the bartender.

The bartender refilled his half-empty shot.

But Mike O’Donnell did not reach for it. His gaze held Francesca’s, and he seemed angry.

“I have one more question,” she managed after a short pause.

He made a disparaging sound.

She took it to mean “yes.” “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Kathleen or Mary dead?”

He pushed off the bar. “You mean, do I know who killed them? The answer is no. But I know who hated my wife. Oh, yeah.”

“Who?”

He grinned. “Her boyfriend, Sam Carter.”

Joel had insisted upon waiting outside, never mind the cold. Francesca knew him well enough, as she left him hanging about the front steps of police headquarters, to know that he hated the police and had no desire to go into the station. She waved at Captain Shea as she crossed the reception room. He was speaking to a citizen, another officer in blue serge beside him. Shea saw her, smiled, and waved her on through.

Francesca looked away and
whomp!
She collided with another person.

“I am so sorry,” she began, disengaging herself from the man.

“Hello, Miss Cahill,” Arthur Kurland said.

Her smile vanished.

“What? You are not thrilled to see me?” the reporter from the
Sun
asked with a grin. He was of medium build and height, dark-haired, about thirty. He was a man she should never underestimate.

“How pleased I am to see you,” Francesca recovered.

“So, you are visiting your ‘friend’ the police commissioner?”

“Is that a crime? Or a newsworthy tidbit?” She was far colder than she meant to be. She did not want him to know how she disliked him—and even feared him.

“It is not a crime, and right now, I doubt it is newsworthy.” He was as relaxed as she was not. “You know, Miss Cahill, I do admire you. For your fortitude, intelligence, and all the good works you are involved in.”

Francesca stiffened. “Have you been investigating me?”

He smiled. “How could I write the story I did without doing a bit of background on you? You are a
most
interesting woman. I can well understand why a man like Bragg would find your friendship so essential.”

He did not inflect on the word “friendship,” but his meaning was clear. She started past him. “I must go.”

“In a hurry?” He followed her.

“Yes, I am.” She did not look at him now.

“Well, the biggest news to hit this city is the O’Shaunessy and O’Donnell murders.”

She whirled, facing him. Of course he would have linked the two murders.

His smile widened. “Are you aiding the police yet again? Perhaps you have missed your true calling in life, Miss Cahill. Perhaps you should become an investigator, instead of a reform activist?”

“This is a social call, nothing more.”

“Bragg has taken in O’Shaunessy’s girls. How odd.”

“You are despicable!” she cried. “Can you not leave anyone’s life alone?”

His gaze locked with hers. “But what do you have to hide?”

She inhaled sharply and loudly.

He did not move.

She whirled, and even though the elevator was available, she fled past its cage, having no desire to leap in and become trapped there with Kurland. She gripped the banister and ran up the stairs and down the hall to Bragg’s office. Today the door was solidly closed.

The top half was a thick frosted glass that she could not see through. She leaned on the wall beside it, panting and breathless. If Kurland did not guess her feelings for Bragg already, he soon would. He was too determined and too astute and, worse, far too unscrupulous to not use that information one day, somehow.

She wanted to cry. She must guard her secret at all costs. No, she must guard
their
secret!

An image of the envelope addressed to Bragg with his wife’s title on the back assailed her mind’s eye. She faced his door grimly and knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice warmed her thoroughly. She pushed open the door and saw him standing near his desk, speaking to a big, brawny man with a head of thick gray hair. The badge on his blue uniform was inescapable—so this was the new chief of police, Brendan Farr.

He did not look like a corrupt officer now. He had an air of authority and power, and he seemed more than respectful toward Bragg.

“Francesca.” Bragg seemed surprised to see her. Then his surprise vanished and his amber eyes warmed. His look was enough to melt her bones. “Farr, Miss Cahill. As I am certain you know, she was indispensable to the solutions of both the Burton Abduction and the Randall Killing.”

Farr extended his hand. “I have read all about you. You are a brave little lady, Miss Cahill. Imagine that. Capturing a killer with a fry pan. Who would have thought?” He smiled. Francesca had opened her long wool overcoat, and his gaze slid over her chest, in spite of the fact that her fitted jacket was buttoned to the throat, with a touch of white silk peeping past the lapels.

While his words were pleasant enough—except for the “little lady” part—Francesca sensed that condescension hung behind them. She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

“Sir,” Farr said. “The moment we resolve this matter, I will be the first to let you know. And I shall do so personally,” he added.

“Thank you,” Bragg said.

Farr left. Bragg and Francesca remained silent until he had closed the door behind him. She turned. “I found O’Donnell,” she said abruptly.

“What?” His eyes widened. Then, “I thought we had agreed that you were not to become involved in this case.”

“Actually, I never agreed to any such thing. Have you forgotten that Mary tried to come to me for help before she was murdered? Not to mention that I promised Maggie
Kennedy I would solve the murder of her friend.” She folded her arms firmly across her chest.

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked darkly.

“You admire me because I am intelligent and determined. You have said so yourself.”

He was silent, but only for a moment. His golden gaze slipped over her. “That is true. But what do my feelings have to do with anything now? This murderer is extremely dangerous, Francesca. And you know that. I do not want you hurt,” he added.

She was always pleased when he worried about her, but now she was unsettled, Kurland’s presence downstairs disturbing her, as did the letter he had received from his wife and the fact that two women had been gruesomely murdered and they still did not know why. She sighed. “Do you want to know what O’Donnell said?”

He studied her for another moment. “Yes.”

She smiled. “We found him in a saloon by Water Street. I do not know whether he is a killer or not, but he claims to have loved Kathleen—and he claims not to recall when he last saw her. He said her boyfriend, Sam Carter, hated her. He gave me the name of the warehouse where he works.”

“I have had twelve men scouring the docks, attempting to locate O’Donnell. They have been at it since yesterday afternoon, but you have succeeded where the professionals have not. I wish to be exasperated. Instead, I find myself resigned.”

She plucked his sleeve. “I am a young woman. People like O’Donnell don’t mind talking to me, or if they do not wish to speak to me, they are eager to speak to Joel, as he is one of them.”

Their eyes locked. Francesca did not drop her hand from his arm. A long moment ensued in which neither of them moved. Finally, she let her palm fall to her side.

“What am I going to do with you?” he finally murmered.

She was a heartbeat away from walking into his arms and saying, “Just kiss me.” She remained utterly still—and it was a terrible battle that she waged. Finally she murmured as softly, “We make a wonderful team.”

“We do.”

“I like working with you.”

“So do I.” He was grim.

“No one has to know.”

“Francesca . . .”

“Bragg! You love me because I am this way. You would not want me to become a wallflower.”

He began to smile. “We have enough wallflowers—and debutantes—in this city as it is. I wish more of the women in town were as original and concerned about our issues and affairs as you.”

She also smiled. Victory was at hand.

He brushed a tendril of golden hair away from her eyes. “I suppose no harm has been done . . . yet.”

“I will stay out of danger,” she promised fervently. She debated telling him about her gun and decided against it. He might not be as enthused as she.

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and suddenly he took her hand and pressed it, knuckle side up, to his lips.

It was stunning, what such a simple and chaste kiss could do. Francesca felt its heat all the way through the core of her body and to her toes. She realized, in that moment, that not having him was unacceptable. She loved him—he loved her. It was a tragedy that he had an awful wife. But should that fact bar them from finding happiness?