Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (37 page)

“She seems a determined businesswoman,” Francesca tried.

“Do not try to cheat her,” Dawn laughed. “You won’t last a minute if you do.”

Francesca almost winced. Cheating undoubtedly included conning and lying, didn’t it? “How long has she been the madam here?”

“I don’t know.” Dawn straightened from her indolent position beside Francesca. “Are you interested in Solange, Emerald?”

“What?” Francesca gaped.

“Oh.” Dawn laughed then. “I thought maybe . . . ” She trailed off and lightly touched Francesca’s hand.

“I am interested in having a mutually productive relationship with her.”

Dawn smiled. “Let’s have a glass of wine.” She stood, her robe gaping open again, this time revealing bare, plump breasts.

Francesca looked quickly away. “She seems very fair,” she said unevenly.

Solange had pulled a chilled bottle of white burgundy from a wine cooler. She shrugged. “I adore Madame. Everyone does.”

Francesca sensed the opposite was true. Clearly, Dawn
had no wish to discuss their employer. “Does she ever entertain?” Francesca had asked curiously, recalling how Hart had suggested she entertain him by sleeping with Rose.

Dawn faced her, a glass of white wine in each hand. “Very rarely,” she said briskly.

Francesca decided to change topics before her questions became suspicious. “We are allowed to imbibe?”

“As long as we don’t get drunk,” Dawn said, handing Francesca a drink and sliding her hand over her shoulder. “Madame Marceaux prefers alcohol to drugs. And she does like us to be uninhibited.”

The hand slid away, a soft caress. Francesca stiffened, alarmed. Was this woman making a sexual overture? She glanced across the room at her purse, now on the bureau. In it was the vial she had gotten from Daisy.

Dawn sank down on the sofa, somewhat close to Francesca. She smiled. “Yummy,” she said.

Francesca took a hasty sip. “What can I expect tonight? A Spanish prince?” She laughed and it sounded nervous to her own ears.

Dawn eyed her. “Just about anything. But I am sure Madame told you if it gets too rough, you may call for help. Most of the men here, though, are not interested in violence. They prefer perversions.”

“Perversions?” Francesca said with real worry.

“One man wished for me to perform for him with a dog,” Dawn smiled.

Francesca’s shock was acute. She quickly began sipping her wine. It was hard not to choke.

“He brought his Great Dane,” she laughed then. “It was so odd.”

Francesca swallowed and took a breath. Her fertile imagination rescuing her, Francesca said, “Yes, dogs were quite popular in London.”

“Kittens are nice,” Dawn now purred. She gave her a look. “We don’t even need a man for that.”

Her mind raced. What was Dawn talking about? And
this was off the track, oh yes. “Kittens are lovely,” Fran-cesca agreed.

Dawn smiled. “All those little tongues. I can get us some kittens if you wish.”

Francesca stiffened. Her gaze locked with Dawn’s. There was simply no mistaking her meaning.

Dawn stood. “I want to make love to you—for pure pleasure . . . forus. Not for some fat old bastard with rotten breath.”

Francesca also stood. “Is that allowed?” she managed to ask.

Dawn shrugged. “Solange prefers us to make money with our bodies. She doesn’t have to know. However, I do have a client coming tonight. He would love to watch us, Emerald. If you are afraid of Solange,” she added slyly.

Was this really happening? “Yes, of course,” she breathed. She quickly debated the best way to get out of the situation she was now in. Running out the front door seemed the wisest course.

Dawn seized her arm. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asked quietly, unsmiling, her dark eyes penetrating.

Francesca blinked. “Of course I have—”

“You’re a virgin and a lady, aren’t you?” Dawn asked as quietly. Her stare never wavered.

Francesca could only stare back in return. And then she looked at the door. It was solidly closed.

“Why are you here?” Dawn asked. But she didn’t seem angry. She was wary and watchful, but not angry.

Francesca swallowed hard and took her hand. She could not believe her own audacity, but if Dawn was attracted to her, she would use that now, for the sake of the children. “I am a sleuth,” she said, “and I am begging you for your help.”

Dawn stared into her eyes and then down at their clasped hands. A frisson of fear swept over Francesca as Dawn
looked up at her, now tightening her grasp on Francesca’s palm. “Tell me what you want. And maybe, I can be convinced to help.”

And Dawn smiled a little at her before letting her go.

M
ONDAY
, M
ARCH
31, 1902—5:00
P.M
.

H
IS HEAD WAS BLEEDIN
’ again. And it hurt like the dickens. Joel had left the deceptively pleasant brick house where he and Bridget had been imprisoned at a run—now he was limping and finding it impossible to breathe. He’d sprained his ankle in the fall, or worse. He had a hammer bangin’ in his head. But Mulberry Bend was around the corner.
He had made it
.

But Bridget remained in that place with those two bad men. Joel’s first instinct had been to rush uptown to find Miss Cahill, but that would take too long. Going downtown to Bridge Street to get help from Mr. Hart would also take too long. As much as Joel hated and feared the police, the brown six-story building that was police headquarters had just come into view. His limping gait increased. So did his fear.

What if no one believed him? What if they threw him in the cooler and hid the key? It might be days, weeks,
months, years before anyone found him, before he could go home and be free! He’d heard stories like that, terrible stories, of the damned flies taking innocent boys and men away from their families, puttin’ ’em in the Tombs, throwing away the key, and laughin’ about it. He hated the flies more than he hated anyone.

But the boss of the flies wasn’t as bad as the rest. Joel had to grudgingly admit that. He paused before the stone steps leading to the reception lobby, trembling. He’d never walked in alone, not of his own free will, before. But there’d been plenty of times when he’d been dragged in by his hair or his ear, caught in the act of snatchin’ a purse or just after. Then he thought of Bridget.

What if they were hurting her even as he stood there, bein’ a real jackass, a real coward?

He launched himself up the steps.

Two of the flies were coming out the front doors as he went in. They didn’t look at him, not even once, as if he didn’t even exist, as if he were invisible or something.

Joel froze, staring at the reception counter, in real dismay. He didn’t recognize any of the officers on duty there.

He heard some arguing and saw two drunks in the holding pen. He looked back at the front desk, debating what to do. Maybe he should just go upstairs and find Bragg.

He turned and started running for the stairs.

“Hey! Hey! Hey, you! Kid, stop!”

Joel ran faster, reaching the stairs.

“Stop that kid!”

Joel bounded up the first flight and turned the corner as two men who were detectives were coming down.

“Stop him!”

The detectives realized what was happening and reached for him. Joel dodged one hand, then another, making it to the landing. He raced up the hall, footsteps sounding behind him with more cries.

The door to Commissioner Bragg’s office was closed. There was no time to knock. Joel grabbed the knob, barging
in. And he halted, incredulous and disbelieving, because the chair behind the desk was empty.

A beefy hand clamped down on his thin shoulder from behind. “Got you!” the man said.

Joel tried to turn but could not, as his hands were quickly twisted behind him and manacled. “I got to speak to the commissioner!” he screamed.

“Like hell you do, boy,” a big, beefy detective sneered. “Looks like we got us a breakin’ and enterin’, now don’t we!”

The other detective and an officer who had been at the front desk came into the room. “Crazy kid,” the officer said, shaking his head.

“I ain’t crazy!” Joel cried, and to his horror, he thought of Bridget, and tears filled his eyes. “Me friend’s been abducted, her name is Bridget, but I escaped and she needs help before they hurt her!”

“Yeah, right,” the big detective laughed. “Toss him in the pen with the drunks. I’ll file the charges.”

The officer seized Joel by the elbow and began to pull him from Bragg’s office. “Kid’s bleedin’ in the head,” he remarked. “Think we should look at it?”

“What is this, Bellevue?” The detective was mocking.

“Ye got to help me friend!” Joel cried. “Please! Or at least tell the commissioner. He’ll help, I know he will!”

“Shut up,” the detective said, slapping Joel across the face.

Joel cried out in response to the painful, brutal slap. Now he tasted blood from where he had bitten his lip. As he was dragged down the stairs, he found his voice. “Fuck you,” he snarled. Hatred filled him.

The detective turned to strike him again.

Joel couldn’t stand straight and tall; he flinched.

The officer grabbed the beefy detective’s arm. “Don’t beat on the kid,” he said.

Joel’s heart was pounding hurtfully in his chest. He smiled rudely at the fat detective.

The beefy man smiled as meanly back. “Guess we’ll add
petty theft to those charges, boy,” and he shoved some pencils and paper clips into Joel’s pockets.

Joel stared in growing horror. Breaking and entering, petty theft—he was going to go to jail for real this time!

The detective laughed and walked past them.

Tears filled Joel’s eyes. “They’re going to hurt Bridget,” he whispered forlornly. “I need to speak to Bragg, please.” He knew he was begging and couldn’t stop as he faced the somewhat kindly officer. “Tell him it’s Joel Kennedy. He’ll speak to me.”

“The commissioner is not coming in today, boy,” the officer said as he approached the cell holding two drunks. One was sleeping on the floor now, the other urinating in a corner. “Hey, you, Artie! Use the damn pot, okay?”

Artie nodded with a foolish grin, continuing what he was doing.

Joel was desperate. “Then I got to find Miz Cahill,” he said. “Please, sir, I got to speak with Miz Cahill!”

The officer halted in amazement. “Francesca Cahill? The sleuth?”

He nodded eagerly. “She’s my friend. An’ I work with her. She’s on a case right now, her and the commissioner, and I know where the missing girls are kept. I just come from there, sir. An’ that’s why I got to speak to Commissioner Bragg or Miz Cahill or both of them.”

The officer stared. Then, reaching for the key ring hanging outside the cell, he said, “I’m not bothering the commissioner, not when his wife is in the hospital. But I’ll try to get a message to Miss Cahill. Not that I think you’re telling the truth, because I don’t,” he added. “But it can’t hurt to send a man.”

“Number eight-ten Fifth Avenue,” Joel cried eagerly. “That’s where she lives!”

The officer was opening the cell; he blinked, wide-eyed, taken aback. “Maybe you are telling the truth,” he mused. “Go on, boy.”

Joel entered the cell, gripping the bars. “Just find Miz Cahill,” he said.

The door closed; a moment later it was locked.

They were all there, just as he had expected them to be. Hart stared from the threshold of the hospital room. Bragg sat slumped in the chair closest to Leigh Anne, and, although holding her hand, he appeared to be asleep. Grace sat beside him. Rathe stood by the window, staring out, and Rourke sat on a stool at the foot of the bed, thumbing through an issue of
Harper’s Weekly
.

The toll appeared to be telling on them all, Hart thought. Grace was pale and appeared exhausted; Rathe looked strained and unshaven, as did Rourke. And as for his half brother, well, he looked more like a zombie than a living man.

Pity stirred. Hart pushed it away. He refused to feel sorry for the man who held Francesca’s heart so carelessly in his own two hands.

“Refreshments, anyone?” Nicholas D’Archand appeared beside Calder, a tray containing mugs of coffee and pastries in his hands. “Hello, Calder.” His smile turned into a grimace.

Everyone started, turning, except for Rick, who awoke and yawned, rubbing his face. Nick entered the room, setting the tray down on a cart and handing out coffee as if a soldier on duty in a battlefield. Hart still hadn’t stepped into the room. He stared again at his brother’s slumped shoulders. Rick now leaned forward, tucking some wisps of hair behind Leigh Anne’s ear. She looked, Hart thought with pity he could no longer control, like death warmed over.

Rourke approached. “About time,” he remarked dryly.

Hart met his gaze. “Is there any good news?”

Rourke hesitated, their gazes locked. “I’m afraid not.”

So this was it, then. The moment of truth approached. For Francesca—and for himself
.

And Rourke knew. He clasped Hart’s arm. “I’m sorry. Thank you for coming, Calder,” he said quietly.

Knowing the end was so near—not just for Leigh Anne, but for him and Francesca—made it hard to speak.