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BOOK: Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]
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Until suddenly there was a hard piece of wood beneath her neck, a solid seat beneath her back, one leg dangling off, awkwardly, and Bragg’s solid body was moving off, away. She looked up at the ceiling of the cab, which was torn, and then she started to sit and she looked at him, stunned.
He stared, his eyes still dark and heated. “Are you all right?”
She realized she was not quite dressed; she pulled up her bodice and rearranged her skirts. “Are you all right?” she asked cautiously.
He made a sound. “Yes. And no. I lost control, Francesca. I didn’t mean to ravage you in the cab.”
She wanted to touch him but, oddly, was afraid to. “I’m glad that you did.”
“I’m not.”
His words were a blow. “What?”
“This is too hard.”
Fear paralyzed her. It was a moment before she could speak. “I am an independent woman. I am glad we love each other, no matter the circumstances! Bragg, I have no regrets!”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes!”
He suddenly flopped back fully in the seat, his eyes closed, his face upturned to the torn canopy. “God damn it,” he said.
She stared at his taut neck, his strained profile, and dared to glimpse the rigid outlines of his entire body. Dismayed, she sank back in her seat. Why couldn’t he say to hell with everything and take her as his lover? But then, that was why she loved him so. “I don’t care, Bragg, about my virginity,” she said somewhat bitterly. “I wish gladly to give it to you.”
His eyes flew open. “Don’t talk like that!”
“But it’s the truth. I have thought about it. You are the one. Nothing will ever change my feelings.”
He turned his head to stare but otherwise did not move. The cab continued to rumble through the city. “We’ve had this conversation before. I am not going to ruin you, Francesca. I love you too much.”
“But I don’t care!” she cried. “I am never going to marry anyone else, so what difference does it make?”
“You don’t know that,” he said, sounding bitter now. He faced her more fully, his gaze now oddly intent.
And instantly she became rigid and fearful. “What is it? Why do you want to speak to me?”
“On Thursday I told you I intended to divorce Leigh Anne. Yet you haven’t said a word about it, not then, not since then. Granted, we have not really had a moment alone together. But I know you. You would find that moment to discuss our future. Yet you have not,” he said grimly. “I know you very well. You aren’t happy, are you? Something’s changed. Yet I don’t know what.”
She was so stiff with tension she could hardly breathe. “I know you would never say such a thing on a whim.”
“A whim? A man only marries once. This is not about a whim, Francesca.”
She found it hard to breathe properly now. A man only marries once. He was giving himself away. And this was what she wanted, but not this way. Not over the carcass of his wife and career. She would never let him destroy himself—she would never be the cause of his destruction.
“I haven’t changed my mind. I wrote Leigh Anne a letter telling her that I have decided upon a divorce,” he said stiffly.
“Have you really thought this through?” she asked with dread. How had the evening boiled down to this? Just a moment ago they had been in the throes of ecstasy. Now they were on the verge of anger and argument.
“The words—and expression—of an ecstatic woman. I have thought of nothing else in the dark hours between midnight and dawn.” He seemed angry now. “But I cannot tell her in a letter. That would be unfair. Later this week I will go up to Boston and tell her in person, myself.”
She thought of the note, which she had left at home.
“My dear Miss Cahill, … I wish to meet you at your convenience.
” Then she recalled Lucy’s furious outburst.
“I hate her. After all she did to Rick …”
“What did she do?”
“Do you have to even ask? She broke my brother’s heart.”
Francesca began to perspire. She knew she should not raise this topic now, but she had to—she had to know. “Lucy said that she broke your heart.”
“What?” He was startled.
She wet her lips. A little voice inside her head said,
Don’t do this. He loves you, he has proven it; he just made love to you
. “Lucy said Leigh Anne broke your heart.”
His jaw tightened. His face hardened. “I don’t want you gossiping with her about my marriage.”
She flinched as if struck. “Did she break your heart?”
“No.”
“Then why would Lucy say such a thing?”
“How would I know?” he exploded.
“Stop.” She seized his arm. “Why are you shouting at me? What have I done? I am asking a simple question.”
He was furious. “I was young. Naive. I trusted her. And more significantly, the woman I loved did not exist. Did she break my heart? It took me some time to recover from the fact that I had married a whore. Now. Does that answer your question?”
“She broke your heart,” Francesca whispered, shocked. And something inside her own heart broke, and while it was only a small spoke, while the other spokes remained intact, the entire wheel was forever changed. It would always wobble now.
“I did not grieve, Francesca,” he warned.
“You just said ‘the woman I loved,’ You loved her.” She was reeling.
He slammed his hands down on the seat. “I was in love, yes, but not with Leigh Anne. I was in love with the most beautiful and perfect little angel to set foot on the earth. Except the woman I loved was an illusion. Now—have you finished your interrogation?” he asked tersely.
“You told me it was lust. You lied—to me,” she whispered.
“It was lust. Because you can’t love a figment of your imagination,” he said.
Francesca turned her back to him to stare out her window, gripping the edges of the seat.
The most beautiful and perfect little angel
… . how his words hurt. She wanted to vanish, to die.
“Francesca? I am sorry,” he said softly now. “But the mere mention of my wife still has the power to upset me. I did not mean to shout at you.”
“I think you are still in love with her,” Francesca heard herself say slowly. How she hated her own words, but now, oh God, she knew that they were true.
He gripped her arm. “I love you,” he said flatly. His eyes seemed black. “She is the worst thing to ever have happened to me. You are the best thing to ever have happened to me. I am going to ask her for a divorce. I will give her the shirt off of my back if she will agree, and if not, I will fight her,
for as long as it takes. And then I am going to marry you,” he said. “Francesca, will you marry me?”
She looked at him and shook her head slowly. “No. I cannot,” she said.
His eyes widened. “What?”
She inhaled and reached for his hand. “I can’t let you divorce her,” she said.
He pulled his hand away. “Why not?”
“Because your career in politics would be over,” she said, frightened now. His face was so hard.
“I see.”
“No, I don’t think that you do! I can’t let you divorce Leigh Anne because it would destroy everything you have dreamed of and worked for your entire life! I could not live with myself, Bragg, if I were so selfish!”
His jaw was tight. “Isn’t it my decision to make?”
“I would never forgive myself, and maybe there would come a time when you would hate me!” she cried.
“I could never hate you.” He stared at her so intently she wanted to squirm. His gaze narrowed. “Is there someone else you wish to marry?”
“No! The question is absurd!” But she grew uneasy, because she knew exactly where their conversation was now heading.
“Is it? I do believe a very infamous art collector is desperate for your portrait,” he said coldly.
“Do not bring Hart into this,” she warned. “He has nothing to do with how much I love you.”
“Do you love me? You would not be the first woman to marry a divorced man.”
“It is because I love you that I cannot accept your offer,” Francesca said, feeling ill. The world seemed to be spinning—but in the wrong direction. She was refusing a marriage
proposal from the man she loved. How had her life come to this?
He was silent for a moment. “Stay away from Calder,” he said coolly.
Francesca could hardly believe her ears. “
What?
Then,”What does Calder have to do with anything?”
“He has been coming between us ever since his father was murdered,” Bragg said flatly. “Which was when you first met him.”
She stared, stunned that he had injected Hart into their conversation, now. She was about to tell him that he was wrong and that Hart had not come between them, but she could not speak. Not after the horrible encounter she had had with him earlier that day. Not after he had told her that he wished to take her to bed but would never do so, because he so treasured her as a friend. “He is only a friend,” she finally said, and was aghast, because her tone sounded pitifully weak to her own ears.
“Stop. You can tell yourself until you are blue in the face that his intentions are merely platonic. Lie then if you will. But not to me.”
“I am not lying,” she managed. “Do not accuse me of lying!”
He inhaled. “I am sorry. Clearly you have convinced yourself that that is the truth. I don’t want to fight with you, Francesca. But I do not trust my half brother, not one whit. He would love nothing more than to stab me in the back—and steal the woman I love out from under my nose.”
“That’s not true.”
“No? So now you are an expert on Calder?” He gave her a sidelong look. “As always, you defend him blindly. When will you ever learn? He is not to be trusted, Francesca. Not even by you.”
Francesca did not answer now. Bragg was wrong. Oddly, she did trust Calder, and she realized now that he had been right—it was herself that she did not trust when they were together. It was a horrible realization to have, especially in that moment.
“Again, will you stay away from him?” Bragg was demanding.
She was, to her amazement, torn. “This is not fair.”
“Why can’t you simply agree? Sit for that damned portrait if you must, but otherwise, avoid Calder at all costs.”
Somehow she knew he was not giving her a choice. “You are strong-arming me.”
“Yes, I am.”
She closed her eyes, and Hart’s image blazed there in her mind, darkly amused yet oddly tender. She sighed and looked at Bragg, then almost recoiled at the fierce and intent look in his eyes.
This would be for the best
. “I will avoid him socially,” she said. “But considering that I have promised to uncover the ruffian responsible for the vandalism of Sarah’s studio, I may need Hart’s insights into the art world.”
“I can accept that,” he said flatly. “If I asked you to reconsider my proposal, would you?”
She stiffened, surprised at his rapid reversal back to his marriage proposal. She met his dark, disturbed, and even angry eyes. Her mind was made up, but she could not refuse him now. “Of course.”
His face hardened. “You are being glib. Do not tell me you will think this over when your mind is firmly set.”
“Sometimes it feels like you are inside of my mind,” Francesca whispered, shaken and tearful now.
“It is because we are so alike,” he said flatly, but the anger remained there in his eyes, flashing and black.
She hesitated. “But how can you be so certain that you would really give up your career for me? How, Bragg?”
And he hesitated. “I don’t want to lose you to someone else. I cannot bear the notion,” he finally said.
She trembled, wondering if he somehow thought he might lose her to Hart, which was preposterous. And he had hesitated before answering, and somehow his answer did not seem like the right one. Yet she knew that he loved her. What had just happened in the cab proved that, as did all the moments they had shared on the past three criminal investigations they had solved. But she also felt that he still loved his
wife—and she felt it very strongly. That love might be perverse, and it might be odd and angry. But somehow, it still was love.
She touched his arm. “Tell me the real truth. Do you
really
want to give up everything you have worked your entire life for?”
He turned and stared at her.
“Bragg?” she prompted. “What if I never married another man? What if I devoted myself to crime-solving and reform, growing old as a spinster? What would your choice be then?”
It was hard to tell in the darkness of the cab, but he seemed to flush. He inhaled harshly. “I do not want to end my own career. How could I? There is so much to be done! The police department in this city is just the beginning. If I lived to be a hundred, I could not accomplish all that I must.” He was excessively grim. “But this is not a perfect world, Francesca. One must compromise and make choices. Your scenario is absurd. You are an amazing and unique woman. Perhaps I am the only man to fully understand and appreciate you, but did you not see how many men wished to make your acquaintance at the Channing ball? If I do not come forward, and soon, one of them will. I have made my choice, Francesca.”
She looked at him and now he looked away. She sensed then that his choice was not as absolute and firm as he had made it out to be. He was a great man, a natural leader, and a true reformer. He did not want to really give it all up. But he did not want to lose her, either. How could she solve this dilemma? “I am going to make you a promise, Bragg,” she said thoughtfully.
His gaze met hers.
She smiled just a little and took his hand in her left one, squeezing it hard. “I will
never
give my heart to another man. My heart will
always
belong to you,” she said.
His face softened. “This is why I love you so.” He swept her up into his arms, hard, and held her that way briefly. When he released her, he said, “You are twenty years old. I
refuse to accept such a pledge. For God forbid there might come a day when you regret it.”
“I will never regret it, and you have it, now,” she whispered. “I am the kind of woman to only love once, Bragg.”
“I hate to tell you, Francesca, there are many different ways to love. Life’s paths are surprising. You might be surprised, one day, when you find yourself on a road you never dreamed of.” He was very serious now.
He simply did not understand. “Does this mean you have realized a divorce is not a good idea?” she asked.
He hesitated. “No.”
“You are still going to approach Leigh Anne?” she asked, alarmed.
“Not immediately. Perhaps I am rushing things.” He smiled just a little and pulled her against his side. “Maybe if you and I continue this discussion, we can come to terms that satisfy us both.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
He smiled. “You realize you cannot live without me and agree to become my wife while supporting my decision to divorce.”
His tone was light now, so she smiled. But she began to tremble, with fear. He remained set in his decision, too. There was, however, one solution to this terrible impasse. It was a long moment before she could speak.
“There is another solution, here,” she said hoarsely. “A way to navigate through the waters of the present before we must face the seas of the future.”
He met her gaze, mildly perplexed. “Is there?”
“Yes,” she cried. “Make me your mistress, Bragg.”
His answer was instantaneous. “Absolutely not.”
 
The cab had halted in the snow-dusted driveway before the front steps of the Cahill mansion. Neither one of them moved. Francesca sat in the far corner of the backseat, angry and upset. Bragg was staring out his own window. The driver coughed.
“One moment,” Bragg said. “I wish you to wait for me.”
He pushed open his door then and jumped out, slipping a little on the frozen, icy snow. He turned and looked into the cab.
Francesca finally met his gaze. “Why not?” she asked, choked up with tears. “I have thought about this very carefully.”
“No, you haven’t thought about this at all. Either that, or you do not know me at all,” he said grimly. He held out his hand.
She took it reluctantly and allowed him to help her down from the cab. His hand touched the small of her back. It felt so right—it felt so wrong. They started carefully up the short stone walkway to the front steps of the imposing limestone house. “I know you the way I know myself,” she said. “Sometimes we think the exact same thoughts, or it is as if you read my mind.”
“No. You do not know my thoughts.” He clasped her hand hard and pulled her about to face him. “You deserve more than being a man’s plaything, Francesca. You deserve to be a man’s wife, his partner, the mother of his children. I would be afflicted with guilt every time I looked at you if I took you as a mistress. Do you know how corrosive guilt is?”
Tears began to moisten her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered.
“And I also know that sooner or later you would have many conflicting emotions. Most important, sooner or later there would be shame. Because our secret would not last long.” He touched her cheek. “How long would you remain in love with me, while filled with shame?”
She pulled away from him and crossed her arms tightly, so tightly it was hard to breathe. Or maybe the air had changed, becoming thick and unpalatable, or maybe it was something else.
“And how would you feel if the day ever came when you came face-to-face with my wife, while you were my mistress?” he asked simply.
“Stop!” His words felt like a knife now, inside her heart.
“I told you once I respect you far too much to treat you the way other men treat women like Georgette de Labouche
and Daisy Jones,” he said softly. “Don’t cry. My respect for you is no less than what you deserve. And what about Andrew? Good God, he is my friend. I respect and admire your father, Francesca. I could never betray him by using his daughter in such a manner.”
Everything he said was right, which was why it hurt so much. “So where does that leave us?” she asked. “Where, Bragg? If I cannot let you divorce your wife and you will not make me your lover, then where do we go from here? And how do we get there?”
He stared, dropping her hand. And something impossibly sad crossed his face, filled his eyes. “I don’t know. Our friendship is becoming an impossible one.”
“
No
.” It was a gasp, a horrified one.
He held her gaze, not speaking.
“Do not even think it!” He had
not
been about to suggest they end their friendship. “The one thing I refuse to do is lose you as a friend. It is simply not a possibility, Bragg!” she cried desperately.
“We shouldn’t be alone,” he said bluntly. “And you know it.”
She stared, but he was not in focus. She realized that her vision was blurred from all her tears. “I had better go inside,” she said stiffly. “Thank you for seeing me home.”
He nodded and walked her to the front door, this time not touching her.
And when he was gone, Francesca stared blindly out a window at the deserted and snowy avenue, in the throes of sheer fear.
This could not be happening.
“Nuthin’s changed,” Joel Kennedy said with a scowl. “Ain’t been no flood or hurricane.”
They had just alighted from a cab and now stood in front of police headquarters, a squat brownstone building that Joel was clearly unhappy to see still standing. Mulberry Street
was eerily deserted, but then, it was quite early on a Sunday morning and Francesca suspected that most hooks and crooks had been up into the wee hours of the morning the night before. Bragg’s motorcar was not parked in front of the brownstone building. She was relieved.
What had happened between them the night before was terrifying. She could not face him just yet. It was still hard to think clearly; she only knew that she did love him and they would, somehow, find a solution to the terrible impasse they now found themselves in.
It
was
cold. Last night the temperature had apparently dropped to eight degrees above zero; today it remained about the same. “Let’s get inside,” Francesca said, shivering. “How do you like your new gloves and hat?” she asked.
As they walked past two uniformed policemen who seemed oblivious to them, Joel grinned. “Real leather an’ lined with wool. I like ’em a lot, Miz Cahill. Thanks.”
She smiled at him. “They’re lined with cashmere,” she said. Joel had been wearing rags on his hands. She’d sent one of the housemen out to buy him the hat and gloves.
“Cashmere?” His eyes widened to impossible dimensions. “No kiddin’? I thought cashmere was only for rich folk!”
“There’s no law that I know of which bars you from wearing cashmere,” Francesca said, smiling.
Inside the precinct station, it was as quiet as outside. Captain Shea was at the front desk, but he was reading a newspaper and sipping a mug of steaming coffee. Another officer whom she recognized but did not know was actually snoring as he dozed, sitting in a chair behind the front desk. Francesca realized she had never been down to headquarters this early on a Sunday. It was so
quiet
. Not only were no complaints being lodged, but there were no fisticuffs or disgruntled felons about, and the constant pinging of the telegraph was absent. She realized she had come to like the sound.
Shea saw her and put down his paper. “G’morning, Miz Cahill. What brings you downtown this early?” He was a black-haired fellow with graying temples and a pleasant smile. Francesca knew from her conversations with Bragg
that Shea was actually honest. At one point, Bragg had considered promoting him—and appointing him chief of police. That would have been unheard of. In the end, he hadn’t done so, admitting that Shea was just not strong enough for the job.
“I am on a case,” Francesca said, walking up to the front desk. Actually, she was on two cases—Lucy’s and Sarah’s. Lucy’s predicament seemed the more pressing, however, and that was where she would start. She wanted to dispatch the character who had accosted her as swiftly as possible, before any real harm was done.
“I thought so. Hey, Tom! Sleepyhead, wake up! C’mish’s friend is here.” He jabbed Tom in the ribs but smiled at Francesca. “Police c’missioner isn’t here, Miz Cahill. But can we help?”
“I do hope so,” she said, disappointed in spite of herself. An image of Bragg’s hard expression the night before swept through her mind. She shoved it aside, as she simply had too much to do.
Besides, some people went to their graves without ever having found what she had found—which was the other half of her soul, a man who could complete her and make her whole.
“Is there any chance I can take at look at the Rogues’ Gallery?” she asked, referring to the infamous mug book begun by an even more infamous—and crooked—earlier police chief, Thomas Byrnes. “I am afraid I can’t divulge any information, as the relationship between myself and my client is a confidential one, but Bragg has said that he does not mind.” She added for effect, “I had dinner with him and his entire family last night.”
“Why don’t I set you up somewhere nice an’ private, say the conference room? An’ you can take all the time you need to look at the book.”
Francesca thanked him, then winked at Joel when Shea wasn’t looking. Thank God there was a case to solve; otherwise she might be in bed, brooding.
A few moments later, Francesca and Joel were seated at
a long conference table in the room opposite Bragg’s office. His door was solidly closed. The upper half was a heavy frosted glass. Francesca knew he wasn’t there; still, she found herself staring at his door, as if expecting him to walk out at any moment.
Shea entered, the mug book in his hands. “Here it is,” he said cheerfully. “Hope this helps. You need anything, just holler.”
“Thank you,” Francesca said. When he was gone, she opened the book, Joel standing by her shoulder.
“What did you say he looked like?” Joel asked. Francesca had already filled him in on most, but not all, of the details of what had happened. He did not know, however, that Lucy Savage had been accosted and that she was Bragg’s sister.
“He is of medium build, but quite husky. His hair is dark and long; his eyes are blue. And there is a small scar on his right cheek.” Small, but it had been ugly.
“Don’t ring no bells,” Joel remarked cheerfully, for he was also happy to be back at work again. They began carefully studying each page of the book. Each photograph was accompanied by the culprit’s name and a brief description of his or her vice. There were cutpurses and sandbaggers, cracksmen and moll buzzers, and almost every woman identified by the book was a shoplifter. They were all shady characters indeed. Francesca turned the page—and froze.
There he was.
“‘Joseph Craddock, rowdy, sharper, and rounder,’” Francesca read aloud on a long breath.
“That’s him? That’s the thug?” Joel asked with excitement.
“It most certainly is, only here he does not have his scar,” Francesca said, equally excited.
“Should I put the word out on the streets?”
“Absolutely.” Francesca faced him, leaving the book open. “Let’s offer a small reward for anyone who has information as to where he can be located. Say fifty dollars?”
Joel’s eyes widened. “That ain’t no small reward!” he exclaimed.
She patted his dark head. “I do want results. I must speak
with this crook, sooner rather than later. I am sure he will approach my client again, Joel, but what if it isn’t for a few days? Then we shall lose valuable time.”
He shook his head, grimacing. “I can’t let you throw away good money like that. Offer twenty, lady. It’ll do just as good.”
“Just as fine,” she corrected gently. Still, she remained thrilled. Then she sobered. “Joel, what exactly is a rowdy, sharper, and rounder?”
He laughed. “A rowdy’s lots of trouble. Probably been busted for fightin’, drinkin’, bullyin’, an’ all that. Sharper is a real crook, someone good at the swindle and the con. As for a rounder, that just means he’s been at it again and again.”
“A repeat offender,” Francesca murmured. “Let’s find out if he has been in jail more than the one time that I know of.” She stood.
Joel followed her downstairs. “Someone like that been in the calaboose more ’n once, I’d bet.”
“I think so, too. I hope there is a big fat juicy file on him.” She smiled at the thought as she hurried to the front desk, the book tucked under her arm. “I do hope you can help, Captain,” she said with a wide smile. “For we have found our man.”
“Let’s see what you got,” Shea said amiably, setting the paperwork he was now involved in aside.
Francesca laid the mug book on the counter and opened it to the page with Craddock’s picture. The sergeant, Tom, came over curiously. “That’s the culprit. Craddock. Joseph Craddock. Do you know of him? Can I see if there is a file upon him?”
“Hmm, he looks somewhat familiar, but after a few years on the job, they all start to look alike, don’t they, Tom?”
“He’s as mean as the rest,” Tom agreed. “Name is familiar, though. I’ll bet we got a file on him a mile wide.”
“Could you check?” Francesca asked eagerly.
Tom looked at Shea, who nodded. Then the taller police officer left—only to return within a moment, a folder in hand. “We got him, all right.” He laid the folder on the desk
and said, “I glanced at it. He got sent up to Kendall for extortion. But he’s been in and out of the Tombs a dozen times. Drunk ‘n’ disorderly, fistfighting, mostly. Still, he was charged with murder once. See?” He pointed at the page and Francesca did see. Someone named Lester Parridy had been strangled to death, and there had been a trial—the charges had been dropped.
“Lots of civvy complaints against him, too. Some ladies been scared by him, it seems. Here’s one, Mrs. Van Arke. But she dropped her complaint an’ we dropped the charges then, too.”
“The complaint was blackmail,” Francesca breathed. Extortion, blackmail, murder. She shivered. Was Lucy’s plight far worse than it seemed?
“Yep. Just two years ago.”
Francesca saw that the Van Arke file had been opened in April of 1900 and closed the following month. The woman’s address glared up at her—No. 250 Fifth Avenue. That would be an older home, far downtown, now swallowed up by a neighborhood of department stores and specialty shops. “When was Craddock released from Fort Kendall?” Francesca asked.
“Looks like he got out in ‘96.” Shea blinked. “He didn’t go in until ’88. They sendin’ them up for six years now for extortion, Tom?”
“Musta been a lot more than extortion.”
“Either that or he was a real bad boy up there in the hold,” Shea said, shaking his head.
“Can I copy this file?” Francesca asked. There was just too much valuable information. “And is that his last known address? Eighteen Allen Street?”
Shea had opened his mouth, as if to agree, when he blinked, stiffened, and became oddly still.
Francesca felt a breath on her neck, and she quickly turned.
Brendan Farr, New York City’s newest chief of police, smiled at her. It did not reach his iron-gray eyes.
“Chief,” she heard herself gasp, taking a step back, as he
stood so closely to her. And then she smiled, but inwardly she tensed. “Goood morning,” she somehow said.
Farr continued to smile, his gaze moving slowly, leisurely, past her. It fell on the open mug book and then on the equally open file. “Good morning, Miss Cahill. My, it is a surprise to see you here at headquarters on such a beautiful Sabbath morning.” He now gave her the same slow and careful scrutiny, but this time it was insulting, the once-over a man who is not a gentleman gives to a woman who is not a lady.
She swallowed and told herself that she could manage this man and that she did not need to be intimidated. Nevertheless, he unnerved her. “I am waiting for the commissioner,” she lied. “And I was chatting with your men.” She tried out another false smile.
It had no effect. “I see that.” He was a very tall man, in his late forties, with a strong, solid build and hair as gray as his eyes. He walked past her and looked at the mug book and then at the file. “I do believe you are studying police files, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca glanced nervously at Shea. “I am on a case, and I have asked for some help. I hope that was all right?” She smiled yet again. How ingratiating could she be?
He snapped the book closed and then the folder. “I am afraid it is not all right, Miss Cahill. Police affairs are exactly that—police affairs.”
She was so stiff, a pain began going up and down her neck. “My business is not police affairs. I have a client who has requested my services.”
He smiled at her—it was not pleasant. “And I have a police force to run. There are rules. Rules and regulations. In any case, police files are confidential and not available to the public.” He stared. “Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded. “I am sorry if I have overstepped my bounds. I did not know.”
“Now you do know.” He smiled at her, the same mirthless smile that failed to reach his eyes. “Perhaps your client might better direct his or her requests to the police,” he said softly.
Francesca could not think of a good reply. “I shall suggest it.”
“Good.”
“Sir?” Shea said nervously. “She’s a close friend of the c’mish, an’ he lets her do as she wants around here.”
Francesca winced. Oh, how bad did that sound!
“I am well aware of just how close Miss Cahill is to our commissioner,” Farr remarked suavely. Was there an innuendo there? Francesca thought so. Worse, she did not think Farr the kind of man to miss a single trick. “Nevertheless, rules are rules, and we do not share our information with civilians, Shea.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir,” Shea said, as if he were in the military.
“Do not let it happen again.” Farr gave him a chilling look before sending an identical glance at Tom. “Suspensions will be in order next time.” He nodded at Francesca. “Good day, Miss Cahill.”
There was no mistake about it; he was suggesting—strongly—that she leave.
“Good day,” she said, and then she tensed again as he took the folder and tucked it under his arm and walked away. She glanced at Joel, unhappily surprised, then looked at Shea and Tom with real dismay. “I am so sorry,” she said.

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