Chapter 9
Noon
Francesca had been told that she could wait in Bragg’s office, as he was in a closed meeting in the conference room.
Having been left alone there, she paused by his desk and saw, among the many files and folders there, a notepad with his handwriting on the page.
His scrawl was very rushed and careless, so unlike the man.
She saw that he was composing a report for the mayor.
It wasn’t her affair, of course. But she hoped his internal police investigation would yield the results he wanted, or ones advantageous to him and his career.
Unable to help herself, she wandered over to the hearth.
There was no fire lit, as May was around the corner and the morning newspapers had promised the city a day that was seventy degrees Fahrenheit.
She glanced at the mantel and stared at Leigh Anne’s photograph.
She knew it had been taken some time ago, and Leigh Anne looked very young and very innocent. She was smiling at the photographer, unabashedly happy, seated in a chair in a lavish salon. Francesca wondered how she was convalescing. She hoped that she was now happy to be home.
She turned her back to the photograph. Hopefully there would be an explanation for the incomplete police report on Kate Sullivan.
Francesca thought about the pretty blonde as she stared vaguely across the room and out the window behind Bragg’s desk.
Like Francis O’Leary, Kate had been severely traumatized and as a result, she remained very frightened.
Francesca thought about the fact, again, that all the victims were young, pretty, female, unattached and Irish—or at least, in Margaret Cooper’s case, of Irish descent.
Still, Margaret Cooper felt somehow mismatched—perhaps because she hadn’t ever been married.
Francesca couldn’t help thinking that Gwen O’Neil matched the pattern set by the first two victims far more precisely than Margaret.
Could Gwen have been the Slasher’s intended target? Had he attacked and murdered Margaret Cooper by mistake?
Francesca reminded herself to interview Sam Wilson. She wondered if the police were making any progress in locating Thomas O’Leary. And she would not yet put too much credence into Kate’s claim that the Slasher was a gentleman.
Bragg walked into his office and she quickly turned.
He was clearly surprised to see her. “I didn’t know you were waiting for me.
” Behind him, Francesca saw several men walking down the hall, including Inspector Newman and the tall, gray-haired chief of police, Brendan Farr.
Farr was glancing her way and when she briefly met his cool gaze, she flinched.
She more than disliked Farr; she did not trust him. She smiled at Bragg. “I was told to go up and wait for you here. I hope you do not mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” he said, returning her smile. He shut his door and approached. “I’m assuming this is not a social call?”
She hesitated. Once, she had actually made social calls, right there at his office. Those days were long since gone. In a way, she wished she could drop by whenever she had the urge to do so. Somehow, she missed those days.
So much had changed. Aware of his wife’s photograph behind her back, she said, “It’s not a social call, but may I inquire after Leigh Anne?”
His smile vanished. “Of course.” He walked to his desk and busied himself with arranging the folders there.
“Is everything all right?” she asked somewhat timidly, well aware that the question was quite out of bounds.
“Everything is fine,” he said, not looking at her.
She did not think so. “I guess it might take some time for her to adjust to being at home in a different circumstance.”
“Yes.” He faced her, forcing a smile. “She does need some time.”
Francesca hated this delicate dance. “Rick…would it be awkward if I called on her? I wanted to call on her at the hospital, but I was a coward, a terrible coward!” she cried, relieved that she was finally being honest with him. “I like Leigh Anne. Maybe I can be of some help.”
His face collapsed. “Of course you can call on her,” he said softly. “Francesca—” He stopped.
“What?”
“I am at a loss,” he whispered.
She really knew very little now of his intimate affairs, but she sensed his distress and wanted to take him in her arms. She did not. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” He smiled grimly at her, recovering his composure.
“Are you certain I can call? I don’t want to upset her.”
“I think it would be helpful if she had callers—if she had the same social life she used to have. She was never idle, Francesca.”
Francesca nodded. She had an odd and terrible image of Leigh Anne sitting in her new wheeled chair in the old Victorian house Bragg had leased, never going out, a prisoner of a lack of desire.
“So what brings you here?” he asked, gesturing at a chair.
Jerked away from that horrific image, she quickly went to him, having no wish to sit. “The police file you have on the Slasher is incorrect.”
He started. “What do you mean?”
“I read it very carefully after Margaret Cooper’s murder. Kate Sullivan’s statement is incomplete.”
“You spoke with her?”
“Yes, this morning. She said the Slasher is tall, but that was not in her statement. She also said he was a gentleman, that she saw his sleeve and his hand. The sleeve was charcoal gray and of a fine, expensive wool, his hand was unblemished and smooth and not the hand of a working man. He was also wearing a ring, which she did not see clearly, but it was gold and it had a stone. She is uncertain what kind of stone and she could not even recall the color. None of that is in the statement in that file, Bragg, and she insisted that she told all of this to the police.”
He gave her a dark look and strode to the door. Opening it, he seized a passing patrolman. “Have Inspector Newman report to me immediately.” He returned to Francesca. “I am assuming someone has been asleep on the job,” he said. “Someone inept.”
“Yes, I am sure that must be the case,” Francesca said. “But Inspector Newman is not inept—he is quite thorough.”
“Yes, usually he is,” Bragg said grimly.
Newman poked his head past the door, which was ajar. “You called for me, C’mish?” the rotund detective asked.
“Please sit down,” Bragg said.
Newman’s expression changed. He glanced at Francesca and then back at his boss and took a seat. “Is something wrong?”
“Who took Kate Sullivan’s statement?” Bragg asked.
Newman began to flush. “I did, sir.”
“Then why is the statement inaccurate and incomplete?”
Newman’s red color increased. “I’m not sure I know what you are speaking of,” he said, looking away.
Francesca was in disbelief. He was lying!
“Kate Sullivan remarked on the Slasher’s jacket and hand.”
Newman looked distraught. “Yes, sir, she did,” he mumbled.
“You recall all of this?” Bragg asked in the same disbelief that Francesca was feeling.
He nodded, appearing miserable.
“Then why was it not in the file?” he demanded tersely.
Newman stared at his knees. “I dunno, sir.” His voice was barely audible.
Bragg was as incredulous as he was angry. “So you failed to make an accurate report?”
Newman nodded.
“Why?”
Newman just sat there, hanging his head. “I dunno,” he finally whispered. He seemed close to tears.
“I need a reason—before I suspend you,” Bragg snapped.
Newman looked up, his eyes shining. “I didn’t want to lie,” he begged. “Sir, I didn’t.”
Francesca became still. And she had a terrible inkling, Brendan Farr’s chilly stare coming to mind.
“I suggest that you explain yourself.”
Newman inhaled, as if seeking courage.
Francesca had to intervene. “I have an idea as to what happened.” She did not look at Bragg, only at Newman, who stared at her as if she were his savior. “Someone didn’t want you to make a complete report, did he?”
Newman shook his head. “No, he didn’t.”
Bragg jumped in. “Farr asked you to withhold the facts of this case?”
Newman nodded. “Sir, I’m loyal to you, I swear! But Farr’s the chief! He can suspend me, fire me, he can hurt my—” He stopped abruptly. Numbly he said, “He’s chief, C’mish. He gave me a direct order. He gives me an order, I got to obey.” He was trembling.
For a moment, Bragg was still, and then he and Francesca looked at one another. Bragg faced the plump inspector. “I understand.”
Newman gasped. “You do?”
“Yes. And now I am giving you an order. Anytime Farr asks you to violate the oath you are sworn to as a police officer, you come to me.”
Newman nodded, ashen.
Bragg clasped his shoulder. “I do not condone what you have done, but I understand the position you have been placed in. I do not want you to breathe a word of this conversation to the chief. It never took place. Do you understand me?”
He turned beet red. “Yes, sir.”
“Did Farr say why he wished to delete the facts from the file?”
“No.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“No one, sir.”
“Good. Continue with the investigation. But all pertinent facts are to be reported directly to me from this moment forward. If Farr wishes to withhold more information, pretend to do so and seek me out privately. Is that clear?”
Newman nodded, appearing terribly relieved. “I never wanted to betray you, sir,” he said.
“I understand. Did you and Farr have a suspect that we do not know about?”
“No, sir. The only suspect we have so far is David Hanrahan. Farr thinks he might have killed Margaret Cooper by mistake—that he meant to kill his own wife, and that he assaulted the first two women out of anger.”
Bragg smiled at him. “Why don’t you take your lunch break.”
Newman stood. “Thank you, sir,” he cried.
When he was gone Francesca faced Bragg, wide-eyed. “What is Farr up to?” she demanded. “Why hide pertinent facts?”
“I do not know—yet.”
Francesca stared. “He hates women. I am sure of it. But surely he isn’t the killer?”
“That is a bit of a leap to make.”
“Then why?”
“As I said, we don’t know. But we will find out, sooner or later, now, won’t we?” He smiled and it was chilling.