Deadly Vows (24 page)

Francesca halted in her tracks. Mary had escaped. “So Mary vanished from Bellevue Hospital into thin air?”

“I doubt she vanished. And I think we both know who helped her escape.”

They stared at each other. Mary could not be their thief. She had been in custody in April, when the portrait was stolen. “If only we knew when she escaped,” Francesca said in a whisper.

And Bragg, of course, was reading her mind. “Mary is a small woman, but I believe she could have taken that portrait down from the wall with sheer adrenaline.”

If Bill Randall had stolen it, he had gained an accomplice, but how recently? Francesca wondered. Bill would have stolen the portrait from Sarah's studio, acting alone.
But had Mary helped him lock Francesca in the gallery and retrieve the portrait on Saturday? She was chilled. Mary was deranged and that made her even more frightening than her brother.

Bragg gestured. Hating the idea that Mary was on the loose, Francesca stepped into the conference room.

A long table dominated it. Inside, the light was pale and yellow. Daniel Moore was clad as if for a holiday in a darker sack coat and pale trousers. He was seated as they walked in, Farr standing nearby, Inspector Newman seated across from him. Newman, a rotund man, was doodling on a notepad. A uniformed officer stood by the door in case he might think to escape. Moore leaped to his feet.

Francesca smiled. “Hello, Mr. Moore.”

“I am outraged,” he said. “I have done nothing wrong!”

Bragg walked over to him and pushed him back into his seat. “Really? Lying to the police—even mere obfuscation—is a felony, sir.”

Moore blanched. “I haven't lied!”

“Not only do we have your financial records, we have witnesses who saw you at the gallery last Saturday morning. Yet you told me on Saturday night that you had not been to the gallery since you closed it on Friday for summer hours,” Bragg said.

“You have witnesses?” Moore was incredulous.

Francesca knew that the children's testimony would never hold up in a court of law, but the woman's surely would. “Apparently you were not alone, Mr. Moore. Would you mind explaining this discrepancy?”

Moore stood again. “Very well. I went to my gallery that morning, but only because there was a leak in the bathroom faucet! A plumber was with me. That is not a crime!”

Francesca glanced at Bragg, who said, “And who is this plumber, Moore? Obviously he will have to corroborate your story.”

“My story? But I have done nothing wrong. Someone broke into my gallery and imprisoned Miss Cahill there. I had nothing to do with her abduction or the stolen portrait!”

Francesca glanced at Farr. He smiled at her. She turned quickly away. “Would you mind explaining why a deposit of one thousand dollars was made last Thursday into your East River Savings Bank account?”

He gasped. “That was from the sale of a painting!”

Francesca realized that was an entirely credible answer. Bragg said, “Then you will show us the receipt?”

Moore said, “Of course.”

Bragg nodded at Newman, who lumbered to his feet. “Escort Mr. Moore to his gallery, please. Bring back his receipts—all of them.”

Farr's eyes glittered.

Francesca turned. “Don't we need a warrant?”

“I will arrange for one immediately,” Bragg said.

“And what about my wife?” Moore asked, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

“You can wait for her in the lobby,” Bragg said.

Moore cried out. “What do you want with Marsha?”

“We have a few questions for her, that is all,” Francesca said. He was as nervous as a very guilty man.

She preceded Bragg from the conference room. Before opening the door to his office, she said, “Do you really think to get a warrant after the fact?”

He smiled. “There won't be any receipts, Francesca. I feel certain that he was paid off by Randall, or whoever originally stole that painting, for the use of his gallery. I don't believe him a thief, just an accessory to the theft and your abduction. I can smell the guilt on him.”

“I happen to think you are right,” she said.

He reached past her to open the door. It did not occur to her to move out of his way, and his arm brushed her. Instead of stepping back, she smiled at him. He smiled back, then pushed open the door for her. About to walk past him and inside, Francesca hesitated.

Farr was coming down the hall. If he had noticed anything, he gave no sign. He stared at the floor as he passed them.

She felt as if they had been caught in a compromising position. Of course, Bragg had only opened the door for her. However, they were so obviously close. Neither one stood on propriety.

“Are you all right?” Bragg asked, his gaze searching.

She met his warm amber regard. She wanted to tell him that she was becoming worried because she hadn't spoken with Hart since last night. “I am fine.” She cleared her throat and walked into his office. He followed, closing the door behind them.

Marsha Moore was sitting before his desk, clutching a handkerchief. Her eyes were red from crying.

She leaped up. “He is a good man, really.”

“What aren't you telling us?” Francesca asked in her kindest manner. She clasped the woman's shoulder.

“He hasn't done anything wrong!”

“Mr. Moore is allowed to lease out his space to whomever he chooses, Mrs. Moore, so you are right about that. It is also true that he is not responsible for the fact that someone lured me to his gallery and trapped me inside.”

“Then why are we here?” she cried fearfully.

“If he knew what was about to happen and was paid for his participation, then he is an accessory to my abduction,” Francesca said, rather exaggerating the facts. A
good defense attorney would argue that she hadn't actually been abducted.

“And he might even be accused of fencing stolen goods,” Bragg said. They both knew that mere knowledge of a crime was not a criminal offense.

“Of course he didn't know that you were locked up, and he would never deal in stolen paintings!” she cried, ghastly white. “We already have so many problems. Dear Lord, we hardly need any more!”

“Then why are you so frightened?” Francesca asked.

“We are trying so hard to make ends meet. It isn't easy these days. But you wouldn't know about that, would you, Miss Cahill?”

“Who approached your husband and asked to lease the gallery for a single day?” Bragg asked firmly.

She looked frantically at him. “I don't know! He doesn't tell me anything. He keeps me in the dark, he does. It wasn't always that way.” She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.

Francesca felt sorry for her. “Mrs. Moore, I am certain that your husband had no idea what would happen when he leased out his space. I am also convinced that he is being threatened not to reveal the name of the man who paid him to use his gallery on Saturday. If he will simply tell us the truth, there will not be any charges. I will make certain of it.”

Marsha stared tearfully at her now.

Bragg came up to them. “I won't press charges, Mrs. Moore, nor will the D.A., if your husband is an innocent victim of this thief, as Miss Cahill is.”

“He never tells me anything,” Marsha breathed.

There was a knock on the door and Bragg went to get it. Francesca didn't move. “I know how worried you are. Are you certain he didn't tell you that he meant to lease his space out for a single day?” she tried.

Before Marsha could respond, Bragg returned. He was holding a framed photograph in his hand, and he gave it to Marsha. Francesca instantly recognized Bill Randall, standing arm in arm with his small, pale sister and mother. “Is this the man you saw outside the gallery and outside your flat?”

She stared. “No. That is not him.”

Francesca started. But that was impossible!

Bragg was as incredulous.

“Are you sure?” Francesca cried.

“I am certain. I have never seen that man before.”

 

F
RANCESCA WAS SUDDENLY
aware of just how tired she was. It had been a very long day, but she had yet to manage an investigation where the hours weren't exhausting. Pausing on the threshold of the front hall, she asked, “Is anyone home, Francis?” She wouldn't mind having the house to herself. She could curl up in her father's study with a hot meal and a glass of wine, and make notes about the case.

Of course, what she really wanted to do was freshen up and call on Hart. Shouldn't he be told that Bill Randall might not be the thief? That Mary had escaped? She trembled, imagining Hart's reaction to that bit of news. Maybe he would cease blaming himself for their current predicament.

In that moment, she decided she would rush upstairs, wash her face, apply rouge and perfume, and go over to Hart's. Sometimes, one must simply take the bull by the horns. “Mr. and Mrs. Cahill have gone out to supper. They will be at the Metropolitan Club, if you wish to join them,” Francis said dutifully. “But, Miss Cahill, you have a caller. She has been waiting here for the past hour.”

Francesca was dismayed. “Is Sarah Channing here?” She turned toward the salon on her left as Francis closed
the front door. Then she froze as a woman got up from the gold brocade sofa where she had been seated.

Rose Cooper hurried forward. “We have to talk—and I don't have much time before I have to get back.”

“I'll send you downtown in a cab,” Francesca said quickly, surprised. Taking her arm, she guided Rose back into the blue-and-gold salon. Recovering from her surprise, she closed the door and faced her. “I am so surprised that you would come all this way to see me, Rose.” She saw that Rose had been served tea and biscuits. “What is wrong? You seem worried.”

“I
am
worried!” Rose said, her green eyes flashing. “Francesca, this is about your portrait.”

Francesca went still.

Rose paced, casting an odd, sidelong look at her. “I lied to you. And I am so sorry. You helped me so much when Daisy was murdered. Last night I dreamed about her. She was so beautiful!” Tears filled Rose's eyes. “When I awoke, it was as if we had really visited. I knew she would be angry at me for lying to you, when you are always so damn kind.”

“What did you lie about?”

Rose hesitated. “I knew about your portrait. Daisy told me about it.”

Her thoughts raced wildly. How had Daisy known about the portrait? “Daisy told you about my portrait?”

“Yes.”

Francesca stared closely at her. Had Rose seen it? Did she know it was a nude? What did she want, really? Was she the thief? Was she cleverly toying with her? “I didn't even know that Daisy knew Hart had commissioned my portrait. He stopped seeing Daisy after I accepted his proposal on February 28. So he must have told her about it before that, when she was his mistress.”

“I don't know when Hart told her, or if he did. I only
know that Daisy told me about it. She was jealous of you, once it became clear that Hart was so enamored.” Rose looked away.

Francesca tried to sort this out. Hart wouldn't have mentioned the portrait after Francesca had agreed to marry him, she was certain. That meant that Daisy had known about the portrait in mid-February, shortly after he had made her his mistress. She hadn't been asked to pose nude until the end of March. Hart would have never mentioned that to anyone, much less Daisy. “Do you know where my portrait is?”

Rose's eyes widened. “No!” She seemed fearful. “You are one of the kindest people I have ever met and it didn't seem right, to have lied to you. You help people, Francesca, all the time, and you helped me. I don't want to see you hurt.” She finally looked directly at Francesca.

Francesca felt her heart racing. “What else do you wish to say, Rose?”

Rose bit her lip. “Nothing.” Francesca waited. “I wish I knew where your portrait was. I'd help you if I could.”

Francesca felt taken aback. Why did her words seem rehearsed?

She focused. “Who else knows, Rose?”

“I don't understand.”

“Did you tell Farr?”

Rose stiffened. “I don't recall discussing you or your portrait with Chief Farr. That pig has one thing on his mind when he is with me.”

She let that unpleasant fact go.

Rose and Farr had been lovers, and lovers spilled their deepest, darkest secrets. That bothered her terribly, still. “I appreciate your honesty,” she finally said. “Because if that portrait is ever displayed in this city, I would be destroyed.”

Rose's expression remained controlled. “I hope you
find it,” she finally said. “I imagine you have made a lot of enemies, doing what you do.”

Francesca smiled grimly. She had thought Bill Randall to be their man, but the mystery had deepened, and there were many pieces of the puzzle to examine. Still, something was nagging at her. Something was very wrong with Rose coming forward like this.

Was she an enemy or a friend?

A knock sounded on the front door. Francesca opened her purse and handed Rose cab fare. “I appreciate your coming here to tell me the truth. And I hope we are friends, Rose, because I wish you well.” She meant it. But the other woman flushed and glanced away. “Please, use this to hail a hansom.”

“Thank you,” Rose said, starting out of the salon.

Francesca fell into step with her, almost certain that she was hiding something. She hoped Rose was not the thief. But now, she had another reason to speak with Hart. She would do so immediately.

Joel was in the front hall, his face stark white except for an agitated flush. She instantly knew something was amiss. Rushing past Rose, she cried, “Joel? What is it?”

Joel ran toward Francesca. “Someone stole Lizzie!”

Tuesday, July 1, 1902
8:00 p.m.

T
HEY WERE MERE
moments from Maggie's flat. Avenue A was ghostly, with no traffic at all. A few pedestrians were about, mostly leaving the ward's various pubs and saloons in a rather inebriated state. Because of the hour, they had made good time getting downtown.

Francesca had never seen Joel as upset. He had told her every detail of what had happened. While the children played outside on Tenth Street, a thug had grabbed Lizzie and thrown her in the back of a wagon. The man had leaped in after her, and someone else was driving. The facts were stunning—and senseless. Francesca held his hand. He let her, a sign of how scared he was. Sometimes, she forgot just how young Joel was, only a little boy of eleven.

Ahead, Francesca saw a police wagon, shining brightly beneath a streetlamp, one big brown horse in the traces. Several officers were milling about it, mostly with their hands on their billy sticks. A crowd of neighbors, all gawking, had gathered. She scanned the crowd for Bragg and saw him instantly.

Her heart leaped with relief. The first thing she had done was call Bragg, who had still been at police headquarters.

“The c'mish is already here,” Joel cried, leaning eagerly forward. “Mebbe they already found Liz!”

Bragg was conversing with Maggie, his expression professional and restrained. They were standing directly under a gas lamp and she could make them out clearly. Maggie looked terrified and had been crying. She was so clearly trying not to cry now. Paddy was clinging to her skirts. Matthew stood with them, hovering anxiously. Surely they would find Lizzie alive and well!

Evan was nowhere in sight.

“They ain't found her yet,” Joel said, seeing his mother. He cursed, enough so to make her blush. “Why didn't I watch her like I was told to?”

She reached for him. “Joel, this is not your fault. Surely you do not think you are to blame?”

“Who else is to blame? Mr. Cahill told me to watch the boys an' Lizzie,” he said with anguish. “I knew he wanted to kiss me mom, so I took 'em all outside! An' I took my eyes off her so I could chat with Tom O'Leary an' his sister! Damn it!”

The Cahill coach halted. Joel was already rushing out the door before she could try to reassure him. Francesca followed more slowly. Bragg had seen them and he was striding toward her as she got out. He was very grim.

“There is no news?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We do not even have a lead. A ‘big' man simply seized the child and tossed her in the back of a waiting wagon. He climbed in with her as the driver took off.”

Real fear began. “Why would anyone abduct Maggie Kennedy's child? She can hardly afford a ransom.”

“But Evan can,” Bragg said seriously. “And so can you. This abduction was planned carefully and for a reason.”

She was briefly surprised and she mulled that thesis over.

“Francesca, you have an unusual friendship with Maggie. I am sure it has aroused speculation and interest—just as I am certain that Evan's interest in her has been the talk of the town.”

“You don't think this is related to my stolen portrait, do you?” She lowered her voice. “Surely whoever thinks to torture and destroy me isn't now lashing out at my friends and family?”

“I hope not.”

Their gazes met. He was uncertain, and more dismay crested. “How will we find Lizzie?”

“My men are interviewing everyone, but I believe we will shortly receive a ransom demand.”

She glanced past him at Maggie, who remained in tears. “Maggie is distraught. Where on earth is Evan?”

“Apparently he took off on his own search the moment the first police detail arrived.” Bragg hesitated. “Evan isn't gaming again, is he?”

She instantly recalled the deception she'd undertaken with Hart, accusing Evan of doing exactly that so he might lend her money for the blackmailer. “Not that I know of.” She knew Bragg was considering every angle—including one of Evan's creditors seizing Lizzie as leverage against him.

“Should we make certain we are on the same ground?” she asked briskly.

He smiled slightly at her. “Please do.”

“Joel said he was watching the children while peeling potatoes on the street, but then he was distracted by a friend, Tom O'Leary, and his sister. Before he knew it, Lizzie was by the street, where a large male stranger simply seized her, put her in a wagon and drove off, another rough at the reins.”

“That is exactly what Paddy and Matthew have said. And we have three other witnesses—two fellows who
were leaving the bar across the street and a neighbor, Mrs. Hannity.”

She looked toward Maggie, who was in the arms of an older woman. She could not believe that Evan wasn't there to comfort her. “Did my brother say specifically where he was going?”

“No, he did not. But Evan dotes on Maggie and he would never leave her now like this unless he had an inkling of where to go to find Lizzie.”

A new tension began. She prayed Evan was not gaming again, and this incident had everything to do with her. She saw two men in their twenties, in plaid shirts and trousers, behind the couple. A heavyset woman sat on a chair by the front stoop of Maggie's building. “Are they our witnesses?”

“Yes.”

“Do we have a description of the thugs?”

“Only a generic one—he has been described as gray-haired and tall, with a portly or muscular build. And he was wearing a darker gray cap. The driver wore a red shirt and was much smaller.”

Francesca nodded and said, “Are your men canvassing the neighborhood?”

“Yes, they are, but without a ransom note, this feels very much like a dead end.” He was grim. “I think I will ask your brother for a list of his creditors—when I can find him.”

She nodded worriedly, not ready to make that leap. Bragg touched her arm. “Maybe Maggie knows what lead Evan thinks he is following.”

Francesca glanced at him. For a moment, their gazes held and she thought about how solid he was in a crisis, and how superb they were as an investigative team. In the next moment, she wondered where Hart was that evening. He was a powerful ally, always, and incredibly astute.
And sometimes, his jaded experience brought very interesting insights into their work.

The older woman released Maggie, who faced her, wiping her red eyes with one of Evan's embroidered handkerchiefs. “Who would take Lizzie?” she cried. “Oh, Francesca, you must find her!”

Francesca embraced the red-haired woman. “We will find Lizzie. Trust me, Maggie, please.” She stroked her hair.

Maggie nodded fearfully at her. “Why would someone take my daughter? I am a pauper, Francesca, not a princess like you.”

She hesitated. “I don't know. But we are friends—and you are friends with my brother. We can certainly meet a ransom.” She had no intention of discussing the myriad possibilities of what this abduction might truly mean and frighten her even more.

Maggie gasped. “You think someone will ask you or Evan for a ransom? That's mad!”

Francesca held her hand. “Yes, I think there will be a ransom demand, sooner rather than later.” She meant to be reassuring. Maggie was attentive now, as was Joel, who stood protectively with her and his younger brothers. “Maggie, where on earth is Evan?”

Her eyes welled. “He swore he would find Lizzie. The moment the police arrived, he rushed off.”

“Do you have any idea where he was going?” Bragg asked.

“No, I don't,” Maggie cried. “But…it was almost as if he had an idea of what had really happened to Lizzie.”

Francesca exchanged a look with Bragg. Was this about Evan's gambling after all?

Bragg said, “Maggie, I hate to ask, but I must. Is Evan back at the tables?”

She paled impossibly. “No. He is a good man, Commissioner! And he has sworn off gaming.”

She believed her every word, Francesca thought. She so hoped that Maggie was right. “Can you think very hard about where Evan went? Surely he said something that might give us a clue.”

“He didn't say anything,” she said miserably. She suddenly turned and hugged each of her sons, hard. “We will find Lizzie. She will be home very soon!” Then she looked fearfully at them.

Francesca stared closely. “What is it?”

She trembled. “I am sure it is nothing. Except I keep thinking about it.”

She stiffened. “If you have some inkling, you must share it with us.”

Maggie inhaled. Then she turned to Joel. “Take your brothers upstairs, Joel. It is getting late.”

He began to protest.

“No, I am telling you to help them get ready for bed. I will be up shortly.”

Very unhappy at being dismissed, Joel took Paddy and Matthew and returned to the building. Only when he was gone did Maggie face them. “I know I am making a mountain out of a molehill,” she said. “But I was threatened two weeks ago—I mean—the children were threatened.”

Francesca could not believe she was only telling them this now. “By whom and for what reason?” she cried.

Flushing, Maggie whispered, “The countess called. At first, I thought she wanted to become a new customer. But she was cruel and condescending.”

“Are you speaking of Bartolla Benevente, whom Evan used to see?” Bragg asked calmly.

She nodded. “She told me to stay away from Evan. She said she would hurt the children if I did not.”

A woman scorned, Francesca thought grimly. And
Bartolla Benevente was no average woman—she was dangerously manipulative. But the question remained, was she also vindictive? “Well, we have a lead, at last.”

 

E
VAN'S FURY KNEW
no bounds as he strode up the walk to the Channings' front door. The night was eerily quiet, with most of the west side deserted in anticipation of the holiday weekend. His cab had been the only vehicle crossing the park. Now, Evan could barely breathe as he thought of Maggie's distress, or worse, what little Lizzie must be going through. He loved the little girl as if she were his own daughter. She must be terrified. He prayed that she wasn't harmed.

He'd taken a hansom uptown, leaving Maggie the moment the police had arrived. Now he used both the heavy brass door knocker and the bell, ringing again and again while pounding on the door. Surely Bartolla wasn't so amoral as to do something as despicable as abducting a child

A manservant appeared. “I am sorry, sir. Mrs. and Miss Channing are not available this evening.”

He rudely shoved past the manservant, who gaped at him in shock. “Is the countess Benevente in tonight? If not, I will wait.” His smile felt like a snarl. He was fairly certain she hadn't left town yet.

“She is in her rooms and has explicitly said she is not to be disturbed.”

His fury roiled. “Really?” But the single mocking word had barely erupted when he heard the swish of skirts. Someone was coming down the hall from the back of the house. He turned expectantly—viciously—but disappointment arose. Sarah entered the hall, wide-eyed.

“Evan? What is wrong? I heard all that banging and ringing. What has happened?” she cried.

Once, long ago, Sarah and Evan had been engaged,
the result of her mother's meddling. He had dismissed her then as a uselessly meek and mousy sort of woman, a woman he would never have been interested in. But he knew her a bit better now. Sarah was surprisingly clever and strong, and just a bit like his sister. “I am sorry to rouse you, Sarah, but this is an emergency. I must speak with Bartolla.”

Sarah's hands were smudged with charcoal. There was a smudge on her chin as well, and her shirtwaist was half tucked in and half pulled out of her slim navy blue skirt. Her gaze was wide. “I hope everyone is all right. You are so distraught!” She turned. “Would you please ask my cousin to come downstairs, Barnes?”

When the manservant had started up the stairs, she looked at him. “Do you wish for a drink? What has happened?”

He exploded. “Someone has kidnapped Lizzie Kennedy!”

Sarah stiffened. “You mean Maggie Kennedy's little girl?”

When he nodded and cursed, she cried, “But why?”

He looked at Sarah and realized that she actually cared. “God only knows,” he began, “but Maggie is beside herself.” As he spoke, he heard Bartolla's footsteps on the stairs.

Sarah took his hand. “I am sorry, Evan,” she said, meaning it.

For one moment, he looked into her eyes, and was ashamed that he had judged her so swiftly and unfairly. Then he pulled free and turned.

Bartolla was gliding down the stairs in a green silk dressing gown, her long red hair down. Crystals sparkled on her black velvet slippers as the robe parted over her ankles. He could tell she wore little or nothing beneath the robe and thought she had been expecting him. “I am
afraid you have caught me in a state of dishabille.” She smiled, clearly unashamed. “I am leaving for the Catskills tomorrow, and I have stayed in tonight to finish my packing.” She reached him and kissed his cheek.

He jerked away, thinking she still did not look pregnant. Sarah said, “Bartolla, we would have waited for you to change into something more befitting a caller.” But her tone was calm, not shocked.

“Oh, please. You know as well as I do that Evan was my lover until very recently. Why stand on formality when he has seen me in my robe many times?” She peered more closely at him. “Are you upset, darling? Shall we all share a drink?” She stroked his cheek.

He caught her wrist far too tightly for the gesture to be pleasant. She went still as he said, “Lizzie has been abducted, Bartolla.”

Her eyes widened. “Who?”

He jerked on her as Sarah made a sound of protest. “Don't play games now! Lizzie Kennedy has been abducted. Are you involved?”

Bartolla gasped and jerked her wrist free. “How dare you?” she said. “What is wrong with you? You must be speaking of one of those brats that belong to your seamstress. How dare you accuse me of…involvement.”