Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 03] (5 page)

She saw the white snow below, racing toward her face, and she thought,
Oh, dear, this is it. It is all over now.

Whomp.

Francesca landed hard on her shoulder and her side, not her face, her head smacking down last. And then she was spitting out snow.

God,
she thought, dazed. Was she intact? Had she broken anything?

She began to move. The snow was not as frozen as she had thought it would be; it was not rock-hard, surprisingly. She wiggled her toes and fingers in the snow, moved her hands and legs.

She froze.

Had she just touched something? Something beneath the snow? Something
sticky?
And
solid?

Francesca sat up shakily, and as she stood, she looked down at her own hands.

One was pale and white in the moonlight; the other was dark and splotched in places.

She had an inkling. She did not move. She recognized those splotches.

Her heart pounded.

She rubbed her fingers together.
Oh, no.

Francesca was on her knees, tearing at the frozen snow. As she moved the top layer away, she found a piece of garment. She stared at a patch of brown wool, and the dark, still not thoroughly frozen, stain on it.

She touched the fresh blood; someone had been recently buried in the snow. Maybe the person was still alive!

Francesca pawed the snow frantically, shoving it away in clumps, until she saw the woman’s face. The open, sightless blue eyes were glazed in terror. They were also strangely familiar. Then she saw the woman’s throat.

Francesca stood, and, unable to help herself, screamed. For carved in the once pristine-white skin was a perfect, bloody cross. But Francesca screamed because she recognized the dead woman, dear God.

It was the woman who had almost approached her at the Plaza Hotel two days ago; it was the woman who had fled in terror instead.

T
HURSDAY
, F
EBRUARY
6,1902—10:00
P.M.

Francesca tried to make herself invisible—no easy task. Two roundsmen stood guarding the woman’s body, and two detectives were walking around the yard, looking for clues. A police wagon was coming down the block, apparently with more officers, and Bragg’s sleek, shiny motorcar had just pulled up at the curb.

She almost cringed, but she was far too upset to do so. There was no mistake. The dead woman had been in the crowd behind the reporters on Tuesday as she had begun the interview. She had been staring at Francesca, clearly a woman in trouble and in fear. And when Francesca had tried to approach her, the woman had turned and fled, almost being run over by a coach in the process.

Oh, dear God. Francesca closed her eyes, finding it difficult to breathe. If only they had spoken, that woman might now be alive!

Francesca tried to regain her composure, hearing Bragg’s car door slam. After finding the body, she had quickly looked around the grounds, but the killer had made sure to cover up all his tracks. The only footprints were hers. Spending no more than a few moments in a brief search of the scene, she had pounded on Mrs. Hopper’s front door—only to realize she was at No. 42 East 30th Street, and that Mrs. Hopper lived next door. The couple who lived in the house she had been erroneously spying upon sent a servant to the police station, as they did not
have a telephone. Instead of waiting inside with them, Francesca had gone back outside, walking along the street and looking for the murder weapon.

Bragg had told her once that it was usually found close to the victim. But she had not seen a knife anywhere.

Now, she watched him approach. Her breath stuck in her chest, but her emotions had little to do with eagerness to see him.

She did not know what he was doing there, but she could guess. One of the detectives, Murphy, knew her from the past two investigations. He had asked her to remain at the scene of the crime, only briefly questioning her. Somehow, he must have relayed to Bragg that she was present.

Their eyes connected in the dark, across the bloody expanse of turned-up snow. Hatless, his brown, wool overcoat open and swinging about him, he walked directly to the body. He knelt down, then began speaking with Murphy. Francesca wished she knew what they were saying.

How angry, she wondered, would he be at finding her at another murder scene? But this was no fault of hers, she thought defensively. And then she felt ill and guilty again.

He stood up, not brushing the snow from his knees. Then he approached her. She could not smile. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said tightly.

“I am in shock,” he said, not smiling. His eyes held a dangerous light.

“Bragg, this is not what you are thinking. This is not what it looks like.”

“Did you, or did you not, find the corpse?” he demanded.

Her chin went up. “I did.”

“So tell me not to think what I am thinking!” he cried. “Francesca, this is simply unacceptable.
One week ago,
I found you with another corpse. Or have you forgotten?”

“Bragg, please.” She touched his bare hand. “That was different! Miss de Labouche hired me to help her dispose
of the body. This time I
fell
on the body, purely by chance.” She realized that she was trembling.

“You
fell
on the body?” He was disbelieving.

She nodded and looked up at the tree. “I was up there.”

“In the tree?” He was even more incredulous.

She nodded grimly. “I am lucky I did not break my neck,” she added, strategically.

“Are you all right?” he asked instantly.

Her ploy had worked. She showed him her abraded and raw hands. They looked much worse because she had the victim’s blood on her right one.

He turned her hands over, staring. Then he dropped them and looked at her. “I can see I am going to chase you all over the city, Francesca,” he said tersely. “What were you doing in the tree? No, let me guess. You are on a case.”

His anger had been diffused. But she had forgotten all about their wager, which she had lost. She stared in dismay at his striking features, imagining the evening of theater, dancing, and dinner that they would not share.

“You have a new client,” he said grimly.

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I do. Bragg—there is more.”

His jaw seemed clenched. “I gave you two weeks.” He shook his head. “It was more like two hours, Francesca.”

She inhaled. “Yes, it was. Bragg—”

“Who hired you and what were you doing in that tree?”

She opened her mouth to tell him and closed it. “Bragg, that is confidential.”

He smiled, not pleasantly. “Who hired you and what were you doing in that tree?” he repeated, his tone very hard.

She knew better than to press her luck. “Mrs. Lincoln Stuart suspects her husband of having an affair. I was spying upon the man. Except—I was in the wrong tree. The woman she suspects of being her husband’s lover is at No. 40, not No. 42.”

“You are slipping, Francesca,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” she agreed. “Bragg, I know the murder victim.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

She swallowed. “The woman who was almost run over in front of the Plaza Hotel. It’s she, Bragg. I told you that she wanted to speak with me, that she was in trouble, but you did not believe me!” Tears came to her eyes.

Instantly, he slid his arm around her. She sagged against him. “This is all my fault,” she said unsteadily. “Perhaps if—”

“Are you certain? This woman is the same woman who was in the crowd at the Plaza?”

She nodded, clinging to him, her gaze holding his. “I knocked her down to push her out of the way of the brougham, Bragg. I was on top of her in the street. I saw her face as clearly as if we were lovers. I am certain, Bragg, completely certain, and if only I had persisted, she might still be alive!”

“No! You are not to blame yourself. This is not your fault, Francesca.” He tilted up her chin, speaking with urgency. “Do not do this to yourself.”

She shook her head, briefly incapable of speech. “Bragg, did you see the cross carved in her throat?”

He was grim. “Yes, I did.” He studied her for a moment, and Francesca fought for her composure. Then he turned and walked away from her, back to the body and the detectives standing around it. There were now four. Francesca also recognized the shorter man as Inspector Newman. She followed Bragg, still miserable.

“I want her moved to the morgue as carefully as possible. I do not even want her hands disturbed,” he said. “But before she is moved, I want photographs.”

“Photographs?” This from Murphy, a tall man with a big belly. He was disbelieving.

“That’s right. Put two men on her until the sun comes
up. Find me a photographer tonight. First thing, I want photographs of the victim, exactly as she is now—exactly as she was found. I do not even want her eyelids closed.”

The detectives all looked at one another. Clearly they thought Bragg mad.

Francesca was bewildered. She wanted to know why he was asking for such a thing—it was unheard of. But it did seem like a good idea.

“I want this entire yard cordoned off,” Bragg added flatly. “I want a detail in here tonight. Find me the murder weapon, and barring that, anything else the killer might have left behind.”

“Such as . . . ?” Murphy asked.

“A piece of his coat. A match. A nickel. Anything you find in this yard, I want it, whether you think it belongs to the killer or not.”

Francesca stared at Bragg. Why was he taking this case on? He had enough on his plate with running—and reforming—the entire police department.

She was suspicious, concerned. Something was afoot, something more significant than it seemed.

“Sir, I beg your pardon,” a detective said. “But the yard’s got a foot of snow. How—”

“Shovel it up and sift it like flour,” Bragg said. He turned. “Miss Cahill? I shall give you a ride home.”

Francesca hurried forward, and together they walked toward his handsome motorcar. Accidentally, her hip bumped his. He said, “How badly did you disturb the scene?”

“I dug up her body and I walked around a bit.” She met his gaze and quickly looked away.

He paused and turned. “Murphy!”

Murphy hurried forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Send a roundsman to the Cahill residence. He shall collect the shoes she is now wearing. Before you shovel up the snow, check all the footprints. From Miss Cahill’s shoes, you shall know which are hers.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, practically saluting.

“If you find other footprints—and I doubt you will—have an artist draw them. Perhaps we shall one day identify our killer by the size of his feet.”

“Yes, sir,” Murphy cried, clearly impressed.

“That is all,” Bragg said. As Murphy left, he turned back to Francesca. “We have to borrow your shoes,” he said.

“I hardly mind. That was quite impressive. Why the photographs, Bragg?” she asked, very curious. But she was also haunted by two competing images of the young woman, vitally alive and gruesomely dead.

He looked at her as he opened the passenger door, but he did not answer.

She did not slide in. “Bragg?”

He sighed. “You will learn of this sooner or later, I suppose. I am sure one of the newshounds at headquarters will pick up the story.”

Her body tightened in anticipation—and dread. “What story?”

He faced her, resigned. “She is not the first. Another young woman was murdered the exact same way a month ago, shortly after I took office. Or at least, it looks like the same method.”

She stared. “There was a cross carved into her throat?” Her stomach turned at the terrible recollection.

He nodded. “Yes. And her hands were clasped upon her breast as if in prayer, too.”

Francesca had not noticed that. She trembled with fear. “Bragg? Is that why you have asked for photographs . . . in case it happens again?”

He nodded. “Yes, Francesca. In case our killer strikes a third time.”

She stared. “We are dealing with a madman.”

“It appears so,” he said.

The long black motorcar was purring like a cat. Francesca shifted so she could face Bragg more fully, even though a delay now could be dangerous—her parents always returned from an evening out by eleven. She had to get inside before that event.

Bragg remained silent and thoughtful during the short drive to her house. She knew why he was so preoccupied.

She, too, could not get that ghastly image of the poor, terrified woman with her throat cut out of her mind, but recalling her alive at the Plaza was even worse. And now, she could remember her hands, clasped over her chest. Briefly, Francesca closed her eyes, but the images would not disappear.

Why hadn’t she persevered? Why had she let that woman run away?

“Francesca, I do not want you involved in this case.”

She tensed, meeting his very serious gaze. “Bragg,” she began in protest. She was already involved, deeply so. Didn’t he know that?

“We are dealing with a madman. This is far more dangerous than either the Burton Abduction or the Randall Murder.”

She bit off her next words. “Very well.” Who had that young woman been? Clearly, she had known that she was in danger. But why had she been singled out by this killer? Was there a connection between the two victims?