Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] Read Online Free PDF Page B

tart, but there was a line in the sand, and he must keep to his side of it.
    “Whatever you say, darling,” he said contritely.
    He was far too meek, but she would worry about it later.
    They followed Kennedy outside, into the chill and moonless night.

CHAPTER
TWO
    T HURSDAY , M ARCH 27, 1902—10:00 P.M .
    H ART’S COACH WAS A lavish affair, a six-in-hand with elegant velvet and leather appointments. As the carriage sped through the night-darkened city, Francesca began asking Joel about Emily O’Hare: “Do you know anything about her disappearance?”
    Joel shook his head, a negative. He sat beside her in the forward-facing seat, Hart having settled on the opposite squabs where he lounged far too comfortably. Francesca kept her regard where it belonged. “Only that she went out on Monday with a nickel for a fresh loaf. An’ she ain’t niver come back.”
    Joel had already given Francesca the missing child’s home address—the O’Hares lived in the same tenement as his own family, on Avenue A and 10th Street. It was a grim neighborhood, where gangs of kids ran wild amidst a strong criminal element. However, hard-working and honest folk such as Joel’s mother, Maggie Kennedy, also livedthere, doing their very best to raise their children in the most genteel manner possible. Francesca sighed. “Does Mrs. O’Hare have any clues whatsoever?”
    “Don’t think so. Didn’t know what to ask her, Miz Cahill, with you bein’ gone and all,” Joel said.
    “Has she gone to the police?” Hart interjected calmly.
    Joel nodded. “Them flies told her people disappear in this city all the time, that’s what they said.”
    Francesca simmered with anger. Thank God she had come home. She finally looked at Hart, whose presence in the coach was actually a distraction. They shared a knowing glance. Had little Emily’s home address been Fifth Avenue, her disappearance would have been attended to within hours. Francesca knew this for a fact, having worked on a child abduction case before.
    Abruptly she looked away from him, recalling the many times she and Bragg had worked so closely together. They had been far more than a professional investigative team. She finally wrapped her arms across her chest, suddenly saddened. It was odd, Hart being with her now.
    She stared outside at the passing buildings. Winter was abandoning the city. When she had last been home, dirty ice had covered the streets, muddy snow patches on the sidewalks. Now the gaslight cast by the tall wrought-iron street lamps revealed clear walks and cobbled streets marred only by an occasional puddle. The coach had turned off Fifth Avenue and was passing Madison Square—where Bragg let a pleasant older house. A homeless man in a potato sack had decided to spend the night on an iron park bench. She glanced past the square, at Bragg’s Victorian brick house. The lights were on in the upstairs window, which she knew from her own experience was the master bedroom. Was he making love to Leigh Anne?
    “Perhaps you should solicit my brother’s help on this case,” Hart cut into her brooding.
    She jerked and saw he had been watching her and knew where she had been gazing. She opened her mouth to tell him that she had been considering just that, but then sherefused to lie, even whitely, to him. She faced him grimly. “He will certainly assign a detective to the case.”
    “Yes, he will,” Hart agreed. “As he would never refuse you.”
    She shifted uneasily, then tried a smile out on him.
    He did not smile back.
    “He would never refuse to pursue justice, Hart,” she said softly.
    Hart made a sound. “Of course not.”
    Francesca glanced aside. The one thing Bragg was, was a man of the most honorable inclinations. A reformer at heart, just as she was, he had been appointed to carry out the unpleasant task of reforming the city’s notoriously corrupt police department, an on-again and off-again affair—dependent upon which party was in power. Bragg’s