Deadly Illusions

She could barely respond, she was so livid. “You have the social grace of an ape, Mr. Kurland.” And she stalked away.

He followed. “It’s why I’m such a good reporter. Sure you don’t have a lead for me? Anything?”

She halted in her tracks and whirled and he crashed into her. They leaped apart. Panting, she said, “Are you attempting to blackmail me?”

“Moi?” He was incredulous. “Never, Miss Cahill.”

“A wise decision.” She wondered if she dared tell Hart about how dangerous this man was becoming. But then she would have to reveal the extent of her prior relationship with Bragg to him. And that would be dangerous, indeed. “Good day.” Her tone was final and she hurried up the stairs.

He stood at the bottom landing and called up, “And to answer your previous question, Miss Cahill, I haven’t decided what it is that I want from you.”

She glanced down and met his cool gaze and stumbled. As she righted herself, he tipped his hat in the most disrespectful manner and walked away. Filled with unease, she stared after him.

She knew she must warn Bragg. Quickly she turned and hurried up the hall to his office. His door was ajar but not open, solid wood on the bottom, the glass opaque on the top. She knocked and it swung wide.

His desk faced the door, a window that looked out over Mulberry Street behind him. She expected to find him up to his elbows in work—his desk was always stacked high with files—but instead, she found him sitting there, staring off into space, looking impossibly sad. She froze.

This was not the time, she realized, to burden him with Arthur Kurland. But what was wrong?

He started as he realized that she was present and jumped to his feet, smiling slightly, but Francesca knew him well enough to know the expression was forced. He was preoccupied and disturbed. And she had not mistaken the sadness in his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said, coming forward. There was a fireplace on the other side of his desk with numerous photographs on the mantel, mostly of his vast family, although several were of him with President Roosevelt or with the mayor. But there had never been a picture there of Hart, his half brother, or of Leigh Anne, his wife. Now the first thing she saw was a huge portrait of Leigh Anne in an oval silver frame. It dominated the mantel and every other photograph placed there.

She quickly tore her gaze from the photograph, managing a smile. “Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting.”

And suddenly his facade vanished. His smile gone, he took her arm, guiding her to one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. “You could never be an interruption,” he said.

She did not sit. “What’s wrong, Rick?”

Instantly he turned away. “Nothing.”

She didn’t move, staring at his back until he sat down be hind his desk, facing her once again. He lifted a file. “Heinreich is almost certain that the same knife was used on all three victims.”

She did not want to discuss the case now. Something was terribly amiss. “Has something happened? Are the girls all right?”

“The girls are fine. The Slasher is at work, Francesca, and now the question is who will his next target be, and will he strike again on Monday?” Bragg handed the file across the desk. “I am glad you are on this case,” he added. “We don’t have much time.”

She took the file but did not open it; she could only stare. He looked away. Clearly he did not wish to discuss anything personal with her. Yes, everything had changed, because not very long ago he would open his heart to her without a moment’s hesitation. The urge to be his friend—a real friend—and to help him now overcame her, but so did guilt. What right did she have to the happiness she had just been feeling when his life was causing him such anguish? Surely, whatever was wrong, it could be fixed. Surely she could help! She had to help. Otherwise she was no friend at all.

But now was not the time to push or pry. As hard as it was to back away, she would do just that. She took a deep breath and opened the file. “Margaret Cooper was killed Monday afternoon, between noon and 4:00 p.m.,” she read from the file’s notes. A chill tickled her nape and she knew she was missing something very important. “So Margaret was not attacked at night like the others.”

“No.”

She glanced back at the file. “Her neck was cut with a blade no more than three inches long.” Surprised, she looked up. “Would that not be a common pocketknife?”

“Yes.”

Diverted now from Bragg’s private dilemma, she saw that it had not been an easy task to sever Margaret Cooper’s jugular. Some sawing had been involved. And the same dull blade had been used on all three victims, the cutting from right to left. She looked up. “In all likelihood, the Slasher is right-handed.”

“Yes.” He was intently focused on her now. “Apparently there is a nick on the murder weapon, a small indentation on what Heinreich believes to be the right side of the blade. That nick has caused a slight vee on the track of the slit on Miss Cooper’s throat. He said he noticed it on Kate Sullivan’s wound as well, but at the time thought nothing of it.”

“That is a wonderful clue!” She handed the file back to him and sat staring at him, wide-eyed. He stared back as thoughtfully. Her mind raced, but not conclusively. Something continued to nag at her, but she could not identify it. She heard herself wonder, “Is he going to sharpen that knife? And if so, will the nick be filed out?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Bragg rocked in his cane-backed chair. “I hope not,” he added.

She continued to think. “I see that there was no forced entry at Margaret Cooper’s. Did he pick the lock? Attain a key? Follow her inside?”

“There was no forced entry at Sullivan’s or O’Leary’s, either. None of the two women have any idea how he got inside their flats,” Bragg said. “I take it you will interview both women today?”

“I intend to try,” Francesca said grimly. And then she knew what she was missing and she shot to her feet. “Bragg!”

His eyebrows lifted and he stood. “What is it?”

“Bridget O’Neil stayed home from school on Monday! She had a cough. She was at home—alone—when Margaret Cooper was murdered.”

For one moment, he simply stared back at her. Then, “I cannot get away for a few hours.”

She almost smiled, for she knew exactly what he was thinking. “I did not notice her coughing yesterday. She is probably in school now, anyway.”

“Yes. How does 4:00 p.m. sound?”

“I’ll meet you at the O’Neils’.”

IT WAS NOON WHEN she stepped out of a hansom cab in front of the attractive limestone building that housed the Lord and Taylor store on the corner of Nineteenth Street. Paying the driver, she thanked him and hurried up Fifth Avenue to the wide, arched entrance. Once inside, Francesca saw that the ground floor was already crowded with dozens of ladies. Bragg had told her that Francis worked at the perfume and soap counter. She had not been to Lord and Taylor’s in some time, having no personal inclination for shopping, so she had no idea where that counter might be amongst the many others.

Facing her was a long counter filled with gloves, surrounding shelves of hats. Francesca glanced aside and saw a counter selling French and Belgian chocolates, and then she froze in disbelief. Had she just seen Hart’s former mistress at the glove counter?

Slowly, she looked back toward that glove display and her heart lurched wildly. Standing there, pulling on a delicate pair of beaded evening gloves, was none other than Daisy Jones.

Francesca felt hot. She started to fan herself with her purse. Daisy had yet to see her, and of course, Hart no longer visited her. Not only had he promised Francesca fidelity from the moment she had accepted his proposal, she had been eavesdropping on him when he had bluntly told Daisy of his intention to one day marry Francesca. That had been well before Francesca had had any intention of ever accepting him, and his words to his mistress had been a shock. He had coldly told Daisy that their relationship would be over from the moment Francesca became his fiancée.

Fanning herself did not help and she unbuttoned her gray jacket. She had gotten into a lot of trouble that day, for she had also watched Hart and Daisy indulge themselves in a bout of raw passion. She would never forget what she had seen.

She was at a loss, unsure of whether to approach Daisy or not, as once they had been on friendly terms. Of course, that had changed with her engagement to Hart—and the realization that she really wanted to marry him, that she had very strong feelings for him.

Francesca decided that there was no point in greeting the other woman. Because Daisy and Hart had originally agreed to a six-month liaison, he continued to allow her to live in the house he had bought for her, in spite of their breakup, until that six-month period had lapsed. There were still three full months left on that arrangement and Francesca knew that for a fact. But as she was about to hurry away, Daisy laid the evening gloves down, apparently declining to buy them, and turned and saw Francesca.

Her beautiful blue eyes widened.

Francesca halted and smiled so widely her face seemed to turn to plaster. “Daisy!” she cried as if the other woman were her very best friend. “I haven’t seen you in so long! How are you?” She went forward and grasped the slim woman’s shoulders while pecking her cheek.

Daisy smiled back. She was one of the most beautiful women Francesca had ever seen, so delicate and fragile in appearance, as pale as an alabaster statue with her platinum hair and fair complexion. Francesca knew exactly why Hart had made her his mistress and as always, when faced with just how lovely Daisy was, she failed to understand how he could refuse her bed now. There was simply no way that Francesca could ever compete in beauty, grace and elegance. The other woman also happened to be from a genteel background, although Francesca had never learned why she had become a fallen woman. When confronted with Daisy in the flesh, Francesca always felt tall, overweight and gauche.

“Francesca, this is such a pleasant surprise,” Daisy said softly in her wispy, childish voice. “Are you shopping?” She seemed mildly incredulous.

“Actually, I am on a case. I am here to interview someone.” Francesca continued to smile, although it had become painful. Of course, Hart would choose the most beautiful woman in the city to warm his bed, just as he bought the most controversial art, the most handsome and modern carriage, the fastest, most elegant horses. So the real question was, why did he wish to have Francesca in bed?

She could understand his rationale for marriage. They were friends. Hart admired and respected her and had never, not once in his life, had a friend before. But why not marry her and keep women like Daisy for his sensual entertainment? Now Francesca was sweating. She reminded herself that Hart did want her in bed, and he had proven it to her more than once, including last evening.