Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ the woman had been in her underclothes, then she had been murdered either first thing in the morning, or in the evening before bed. “Rick, I had read that the first two victims were Irishwomen in their twenties. Is that true?”

      He leaned over the woman and moved her long, tangled dark red hair away from her neck. Her throat was brutally slit. Francesca wanted to gag; instead, she closed her eyes and breathed hard. No matter how many cases she had, she was certain she would never grow accustomed to violence and death. Of course, there had only been six investigations thus far. Her career as a sleuth had begun last January when her neighbor’s son had been abducted. She had tried to help, never imagining how it would change her life.

      Bragg straightened. “Both victims were Irishwomen in their twenties, yes. Both were estranged from their spouses. From the look of this cut, I would say the Slasher has been at work again, but this time with deadly results.”

      Francesca stared, forgetting all about her fiancé. She fought her queasiness. “This woman is not Irish. The name Cooper is as American as apple pie.”

      “A pattern remains. Three attractive young women, each without means, assaulted on subsequent Mondays.”

      Francesca agreed. “Do you think she was killed accidentally? Or is murder now the Slasher’s intent?”

      “I have no idea. But if she was murdered Monday, and if the Slasher holds true to the course he has set, there will be another victim in six days exactly.” He faced her and their gazes met.

      “We will find this killer, Bragg. And I do mean it.”

      He started and, finally, began to smile at her. “If anyone can find him, you can.”

      She was thrilled at the gesture of intimacy and she smiled back. “I also assume the Slasher is a man, but we cannot rule out a woman. Remember, the Cross Killer turned out to be Lizzie O’Brien,” she said, referring to a previous case.

      “Of course I remember,” he said, and then his expression changed and she thought he was remembering everything that had once been between them. He cleared his throat. “The two previous victims were Kate Sullivan and Francis O’Leary. Neither woman saw the Slasher, as he assaulted them from behind. But it was a man.”

      She nodded. “Who alerted the police?”

      “A Mrs. O’Neil found her. Apparently, she has the flat next door.”

      Francesca stiffened. “Bragg! Not Gwen O’Neil?” An image of the striking redhead assailed her mind.

      His tawny eyebrows lifted. “Yes, that is her name. And she is at headquarters. She is very upset,” he added. “Do you know her?”

      She seized his arm. “Not only do I know her, you know her, too!”

      AFTER SPENDING AN HOUR or more with Bragg at the crime scene, Francesca went two buildings down to visit the seamstress who had become her dear friend, Maggie Kennedy. As she went up the narrow staircase to the flat Maggie let, she was thoughtful. A killer was on the loose, unless the last victim had been accidentally murdered. All three victims had several characteristics in common: they were young, pretty, working class and they all resided within two square blocks. The first two victims, Francis O’Leary and Kate Sullivan, also lived alone. Apparently Francis O’Leary’s husband had vanished two years or so ago, while Kate Sullivan had left her spouse. Margaret Cooper had not worn a wedding band and there had been no sign of a male occupant in her flat—apparently, she had been single, too, although that they would have to confirm. All the victims had been assaulted on a Monday, each a week apart. There was almost no doubt that there would be another assault next Mon day and the likelihood was high that it would be somewhere in the ward and that the victim would be pretty, young, working class, single and female.

      Fortunately, the first two victims were alive, which meant she could interview them, perhaps even that afternoon. Although the police had spoken with them, she had not a doubt they had missed crucial clues. Bragg had not been personally involved in the case at that time. Then she remembered her mother’s dinner party and sighed. She would have to attend or there would be a vast price to pay—Julia Van Wyck Cahill was not to be crossed lightly. The interviews would have to wait, as it was well past six already. And then there was Gwen O’Neil. Francesca intended to interview her, too. She wasn’t thrilled that Gwen and her daughter, Bridget, lived right next door to the last victim, just as she wished Maggie did not reside so close by with her children, either. However, the neighborhood was filled with impoverished young women.

      As she paused before Maggie’s flat, she thought about the distance now separating her and Bragg. Perhaps she had been a fool to think that he could reconcile with his wife and she could marry another man and somehow they would remain friends. She could not help but be saddened. On the other hand, it was clear to her that he loved his wife, and she was certainly infatuated with Hart. In fact, he had gone to Chicago on business almost two weeks ago and it had been very hard not to think about him constantly.

      At least Leigh Anne would be leaving the hospital and going home tomorrow. She wondered if she dared to call on her at home. Then she heard childish shrieks and laughter. Francesca began to smile as she knocked upon the door. Maggie was a widow and was raising four children by herself.

      Eleven-year-old Joel Kennedy, once a pickpocket and now Francesca’s invaluable sidekick, promptly answered her knock. He had pitch-black hair and fair skin and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He knew the city like the back of his hand and had helped her out of danger too many times to count. His face was flushed and he looked extremely annoyed. When he saw Francesca, though, he brightened. “Miz Cahill!”

      She glanced past him into the one-bedroom flat, which was usually tidy. Now, goose feathers floated about the family room. Joel’s two young brothers, Matt and Paddy, had clearly been in a pillow fight. The boys were on the floor, holding the mostly empty pillows, howling with laughter. They had clearly eaten, as she saw plates with bread crumbs on the kitchen table. Joel followed her gaze and scowled. “Idi’ts,” he said. “Mum will be fierce unhappy when she sees them down feathers all wasted like that.”

      “I see there has been no homework today?” Francesca asked. She knew that Maggie had Matt in school, unlike many other working-class families. Too many of the city’s impoverished classes needed the extra income their children could generate. There was also a question of extreme overcrowding and under-funding for the city’s public schools. It was a shame.

      Joel, who could read and no longer attended school, shrugged. “He got some letters to do. But he don’t want to do homework now. I didn’t want to fight about it. Got better things to do.”

      Francesca closed the door behind her as Joel’s little three-year-old sister came stumbling out of the bedroom, clearly having been napping. “Joel, if they have eaten, Matt should sit down and do his letters. You know how to read—don’t you want your brother to have the same skills and advantages as you? Hello, Lizzie!” She tousled the sleepy child’s silky black hair.

      Joel scowled at her. “Are you here on business, Miz Cahill? It’s been awful quiet for way too long.”

      Francesca set her purse down on the sofa. “Yes, I am. And I agree with you—it has been a quiet spell for us. Shouldn’t your mother be home at any moment?”

      “She should be home real soon. So what case are we on?” he asked with an impish grin. His dark eyes sparkled.

      She patted his shoulder. “We are of a similar nature, you and I,” she said fondly. СКАЧАТЬ