Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (34 page)

The cage arrived. Francesca was about to open it—there was no elevator man in this building—when someone tapped her shoulder. Francesca turned, and instantly her heart sank like a rock to her feet.

For the small reporter who had tried to question Mary Randall outside of the church, and who had then had his notebook torn out of his hand by Bragg, stood facing her with bright eyes and a wide smile. “Might we have a word, Miss Cahill?”

The last person she wished to speak with was a darned reporter; she knew now from experience how much trouble that might bring. “I’m afraid I am late.” She felt how brittle her smile was—it felt more like a baring of her teeth—and she started to move into the elevator.

He barred her way. “Do you think Calder Hart is guilty?”

“No, I do not,” she snapped.

“Why? Even Bragg thinks him guilty.”

“Oh? Has he said that? And I do not recall your name, sir,” she said coldly.

“Walter Isaacson, with the
Trib.
If Bragg does not think him guilty, then why drag him downtown? And how well do you know Hart, Miss Cahill?” He smiled at her.

She stiffened. “I will not even presume to tell you why the commissioner does anything. You will have to ask him that. You are blocking my way.”

“Calder Hart is rather notorious. And he’s the city’s most eligible bachelor. Is he courting you? Is that why you are so eager to defend him?”

She felt herself flush and saw the light in his eyes, which reminded her of a cash register ringing.
Aha!
it seemed to say. “I have only met Mr. Hart for the first time the other day. Not that I see how it is your business, Mr. Isaacson. But I am a very good judge of character, and I feel certain he is innocent of the Randall Killing.”

“What did you and Hart talk about at the church today? Did he escort you to the service?”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“I saw the two of you sitting together. Clearly you have known him more than a few days. Where was he on the night of the murder? He has refused to speak with the press, and that has not been a good idea. The city wants answers, Miss Cahill. Perhaps you can provide them?”

She looked down at the small, wiry man, despising him. “I have nothing to say. Now, will you excuse me or should I call the police? And then who shall explain that you will not allow me to get into the elevator?”

He stepped away. “I do apologize, Miss Cahill, if I have inconvenienced you,” he said, seeming sincere. “I am only trying to get to the truth.”

Briefly their eyes met. Walter was, she thought, about her own age, and he wore large wire eyeglasses, making his eyes seem huge behind the lenses. Briefly, he seemed to be telling the truth.
The truth.
She wanted to find it, too. “Good day.” She nodded and stepped into the cage, pulling the slatted iron door closed with effort. She released the lever, then looked through the iron bars at Isaacson. He stared and she stared back as the cage began to ascend to the second floor. Finally, he was out of sight.

Thank God.

Bragg’s office was on the second floor. Francesca had no intention of taking a seat on the wood bench in the hall outside his door. None of the passing police officers paid her any mind, the doors closest to his office were closed, and at the end of the hall everyone worked in one room, with small desks on top of desks. Francesca went right up to his door. The top half was thick frosted glass, and she could not see through it. But she could certainly hear.

They were arguing.

And as she had feared, it was about to become a brawl.

Francesca dashed inside.

M
ONDAY,
F
EBRUARY 3, 1902—2:00 P.M.

Hart walked into Bragg’s office, his hands moving to his hips. As Bragg shut the door behind them, Hart glanced around at the Spartan quarters. He saw two desks, piles of files and folders, books, and journals. The desk where his half brother worked contained a telephone. It was not a comfortable room. There was one chair, with a rattan back, that rocked behind the desk, and two worn and shabby chairs in front, for visitors. He eyed Bragg but did not make a mocking comment, even though one would be richly deserved.

Hart watched Bragg move to his desk, but he did not sit down. That left both men facing each other in the center of the room. Because it was the middle of the winter, the room’s single window was closed, effectively shutting out all of the sounds from the street below. The office had a rather unpleasant view of almost the entire block of Mulberry Street and its inhabitants, all of whom were riffraff and crooks—and that included the police. Just below the window, Bragg’s automobile could be seen. It was ridiculously incongruous, gleaming, expensive, brand-new, sitting there amid the muck and grime of the street and its residents.

“Why the false alibi?” Bragg asked calmly, cutting into the brief silence.

“Why not?” Hart smiled and shrugged. He would never give his half brother an inch.

“Might I presume you wished to make the investigation of your father’s death a more difficult one? Or did you only hope to make my life more difficult—as usual?”

Bragg had remained calm. Hart grinned. “Would you have believed me if I had told you the truth?” he challenged.

“No.”

“I did not think so.” Hart moved to the scarred wood mantel over the fireplace. It needed beeswax and hours of polishing. He lifted a framed photograph of Rick standing with a beautiful red-haired woman, who was exactly Hart’s own age, with two boys and a little girl. Everyone was smiling. The woman was Rick’s half sister, Lucy Savage, and the children were hers.

He considered Lucy a sister, but she wasn’t his sister, for they shared not one drop of blood.

There were other pictures on the mantel, including one of Rick with the city’s mayor, Seth Lowe, and another of him standing on the steps of a building that was perhaps a federal one with Theodore Roosevelt. Hart wondered where the rest of the family photographs were. Undoubtedly Rick had dozens.

Bragg sighed and walked over to his desk. He lifted a thin folder from it and turned back to Hart. “Spending a part of the night alone in a mansion like yours will not hold up in a court of law. In fact, a good prosecuting attorney will work such an alibi against you very quickly, and very easily.”

“I have assumed so,” Hart said. Softly he added, “And you will hardly shed a tear if I am carted off to jail.”

Bragg stared, his gaze hard. “Not if you are guilty, Calder. Not if, this single time, you have gone too far.”

“And if I haven’t?”

“If you have not broken the law, then I will find out who has.”

“Such determination,” Hart mocked. “As always, the good brother rides his white charger in the pursuit of liberty and justice.”

Bragg’s jaw tightened and he stepped up to his brother. They stood almost eye-to-eye. Bragg was an inch taller, actually, and Hart knew he was about ten pounds heavier, for his frame was larger, his shoulders wider. “Why in God’s name did you dismiss the staff for the evening?”

“I felt like it,” was Hart’s easy reply.

Bragg stared. “I happen to know how much you have hated Randall your entire life. I was there, remember?” he said softly—and not pleasantly.

Hart refused to ever think about their childhood, before Lily had died. “I will even swear to it in court,” Hart returned easily. “Yes, Rick, I hated my own father. Tsk-tsk. What a horrid man I am.” Hart shuddered and then he laughed.

“Save the theatrics for an audience who is interested; I am not,” Bragg snapped. “The real question is, did you or didn’t you do the deed?”

“I am not going to keep repeating myself.”

“So why the lie? Please answer me, Calder.”

“Let’s just say that I have an amazing instinct for self-preservation,” he said.

Bragg stared. “Yes, you do. You always have.” He sighed. “The truth is, I think you are too smart to have murdered Randall in such a stupid manner. The truth is, while you are extremely hot-tempered and as passionate, you are one of the most intelligent men that I know. The crime was not one of passion. It was premeditated. Randall was shot from behind. Someone followed him to Miss de Labouche’s with the intention of killing him there.”

“Bravo,” Hart said. He happened to agree with Bragg.

“As much as you hated your father, you have hated him for years. So why murder him now? I cannot find motivation,” Bragg said.

Hart watched him closely. He did not speak.

“Oh, come. Or do you hate me so much that you will not share your insights with me?”

Hart smiled. “It’s not my place to do your job. I mean, you did take this thankless position.” He shook his head. “Even though we grew up together, your ambitions never cease to amaze me. Why would anyone want to be the city’s chief of police?”

“I am the city’s police commissioner—I have yet to appoint a chief of police. And someone has to take on the corruption in the ranks.” Bragg sank one hip down on the edge of his desk. “But I do not expect you to understand what, precisely, motivates me.”

“Doesn’t being so good all the time get old? Tiresome? Boring, even?” Hart knew that it must.

“We are talking about who might want Randall dead.”

“Other than myself? I have no idea. I have had nothing to do with the man. As you should know.”

“I heard you dined with him on Tuesday. Did he seem anxious, upset? Even frightened, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Why the sudden friendship? And when was the last time you sat down with your father?”

“I had never sat down with him before. He came to me. I was rather intrigued.” But he had been more than intrigued. Ridiculously, a boy still dwelled deep within him, and that boy had been eager to meet his father for a simple meal. Until the true reason for the invitation had come to light.

“What did he want? Or was he suddenly regretting never becoming better acquainted with you?” Bragg asked.

“He wanted money. I refused.” Hart shrugged.

“Just like that?”

He felt his jaw grind down. “Just like that. It was quite enjoyable, actually, to watch him grovel.”

Bragg stood. “I thought by now you might have changed a bit. But you haven’t changed. You were a cruel and troublesome boy, and you are still cruel and troublesome. Has it ever occurred to you that you might wish to grow up?”

That was it. Hart put his nose against Bragg’s. “Don’t you dare judge me. You are nothing but a repressed bastion of jumbled-up social mores, and all because you wish to please and appease Rathe and Grace. I find it appalling hypocrisy. At least I am honest. I hated Randall. I live for the attainment of pleasure. Which money buys, I might add—and which I have vast sums of. There is no hypocrisy here.”

“Like hell there isn’t. You are a desperate one, and do not deny it. You are desperate for attention, and thus you never cease your outrageous behavior. And it has worked!” Bragg exclaimed. “You turned my father’s hair gray. You made my mother cry herself to bed at nights. Until you ran away at sixteen—to find Randall, I might add—you had their attention, and mine, night and day! And until Friday night, you have gained the attention of most of this city, with your flamboyant and self-indulgent ways. But I do believe Randall’s murder has truly put you in the limelight. And if you weren’t so clever, I would be convinced that this, then, was the climax of your desperation.”

Hart was shaking. “I was very clear. I said do not judge me.” He clenched his fists hard, because he so badly wanted to smash his brother’s nose.

“Then stop breaking rules. Stop behaving like a delinquent child. Delinquent children get their ears pulled and their bottoms spanked. Unfortunately, Lily did not think to punish you, and so here you are, incorrigible to the end.”

“Do not ever speak her name to me again!” Hart shouted.

“She was my mother, too, and there is no reason we should bury her memory—she was a good mother, damn it,” Bragg said, his voice raised.

“Fuck this.” Hart strode for the door. He ached to throttle his brother. He hated thinking about their mother. Beautiful, tired, worn … hurt … dying.

Bragg grabbed his shoulder. “We are not through. I am certain you know something you are not telling me.”

Hart stiffened but did not turn. “Get your fucking hand off of me before I break it, Commissioner.” He meant his every word. Never had he exercised more self-restraint.

Bragg released him. “You know who killed Randall, don’t you?”

Slowly he turned. “And if I did, you would be the last person I would tell.”

“Why? Because you are protecting the murderer? Or because you hate me so?”

“Take your pick. Either answer might be right,” Hart snarled.

“If you know who killed Randall, I demand you tell me, Calder.”

Hart smiled. His mouth felt like plastic. “I know nothing. Enjoy your job. It suits you, Rick. King of the coppers.”

“Maybe a night in the Tombs will suit you.”

Hart froze. He turned. “Try it. My lawyers will have me out in one hour—if you dare to press any charges against me.”

“Maybe I should test the capabilities of your lawyers,” Bragg said.

Their gazes locked. It was there now, between them, in the open, the rivalry that Hart could not ever recall not being present, the hostility, and the need to know who was stronger, better, smarter. As little boys, their battles had usually ended in a draw. As often as Lily had dragged Bragg off of Hart’s back, she had dragged Hart off of his older brother. Once, there had been a piece of Bragg’s ear in Hart’s mouth as she did so. The scar Bragg still wore, to this day, was a tiny one, but it remained.

“Go right ahead,” Hart returned, relishing the war.

Rick just looked at him, and this time he did not take the gauntlet. He shook his head in disgust.

They stared at each other, and as they did, the door flung open, hitting Hart in the back. He flinched, about to murder the intruder.

But it was a woman, a very beautiful and interesting woman, and he calmed, growing watchful.

Bragg had his gaze on her as well. Of course.

“Please, stop!” Francesca cried wildly.

The surprise vanished from Bragg’s face. Annoyance replaced it.