Chapter 15 #2
He started and memories he did not want flooded him then.
He had shared Daisy’s bed several times with her lover, Rose.
There had been other times in his life, in Europe, when he had sexually indulged himself with more than one woman.
But he hadn’t given a thought to such decadence in a long time—not since he had met Francesca.
The boredom, the ennui, the growing disinterest in sex—all of which had led him to such occasions—had miraculously vanished.
Now, he felt paralyzed. Daisy had just verbalized his worst fears—fears he had not dared admit even to himself.
He had once had a dark sexual side and he was afraid he had merely repressed it; that it would never die.
He was horrified.
Daisy laughed softly, touching his arm. “You are the most darkly sensual and sexual man I know. That dark side will never disappear because it is who you are! So why bother? Why bother to give a woman who doesn’t even love you such an absurd promise? It’s a promise you cannot keep.”
And the fury came, so huge it shocked him. “Get out.” His heart was racing with terrible force as he seized her arm, dragging her to the door. “You have gone too far,” he said, very low. “You may pack your things, Daisy, and vacate the premises of my house immediately.”
She stiffened in shock, impossibly pale. “But you know I am right! You know Francesca will soon bore you! And then what will you do? You will come back to me, or Rose, or someone else, won’t you?”
“Edwards!” he said furiously, shaking. “Show Miss Jones out.”
Edwards appeared, flushing. “Miss Jones?”
Daisy’s expression hardened. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you will merely corrupt Francesca to satisfy your appetites. She is a very curious woman, isn’t she? Who knows? Maybe you will show her that she has her own dark side!”
He stalked into his office, slamming the door closed behind him. And only then did he tear loose his tie and breathe. But the room had become airless, claustrophobic. He stormed to a window and shoved it wide. The fresh air, tinged with sweet salt, did not help. He gripped the sill, panting.
She was right.
He was a bastard in every sense of the word, a sexually depraved man with no morality whatsoever, a man with a huge and ugly past, and she had just proven it, hadn’t she? Because no matter how hard he tried, images he did not want were haunting him now.
He covered his face with his hands. He was such a fool, thinking he could change, wanting to change—wanting to become someone else, someone better, finer, someone noble for a woman who did not even love him.
For a woman who loved his own brother.
Well, it was over now.
A leopard simply could not change his spots.
But now he was afraid. The last thing he wished to do was drag Francesca down into the gutter with him.
They went across town en masse, with Inspector Newman and Chief Farr.
Two roundsmen and a junior detective were at the scene when the foursome arrived there.
John Sullivan’s flat was just off of Eighth Avenue in a particularly squalid ward.
Francesca glimpsed a single room with two bunk beds, a stove, sink and rickety table with four chairs.
She instantly saw Sullivan and she halted in her tracks.
Bragg crashed into her and his arm went around her. “Christ,” he said.
The body which had belonged to Kate’s husband lay on the floor near the table, half of his head resembling the smashed pulp of a watermelon. “Oh God,” she cried, seriously ill, turning away and into Bragg’s arms.
Bragg held her for another moment. “You don’t have to come in,” he said quietly. “Let the police handle this.”
Francesca fought to recover her composure and not to retch. She held his eyes as he released her. “What happened?”
“Shot in the head,” Farr intoned.
Francesca turned but made no move to enter the tiny, sordid room. She avoided gazing at the body but Farr knelt over him, Newman standing behind him. “Yeah, he was shot point-blank,” Farr remarked. “In the side of the head, from the look of it, at real close range.”
She wondered if Chief Farr had any feelings. Francesca had to look—peripherally. “Is he holding a gun?” she asked, glimpsing the dead man’s right hand and the gleaming black weapon there.
“He sure is,” Farr said cheerfully. He stood. “It’s been fired, too, from the smell of it, and I’ll bet that bullet is the one lodged somewhere in his head.”
“What?” Francesca gasped.
“It might be a suicide. It sure looks like one. You agree, C’mish?”
“Suicide!” Francesca said, stunned.
“I think we should examine the weapon he is holding and the bullet in Sullivan’s head before leaping to any conclusions. Newman, make a sweep. Perhaps that is not the murder weapon. If it is not a suicide, I want to find the gun that killed this man.”
“Yes, sir,” Newman said, rapidly leaving the flat.
As he did so, he almost collided with a very thin man with dirty-blond hair, not much older than Francesca. He gripped the door as if to keep standing upright, crying out, “What the hell happened?”
Bragg walked over to the interloper as one of the roundsmen in the hall moved to block his path, making no effort to be discreet. “Are you a neighbor?” Bragg asked.
The man turned away, as white as a sheet.
Francesca went to a window and yanked it wide open. She breathed in deeply, her mind racing in disbelief. Had Sullivan killed himself? And if so, why? Was his murder related to that of his wife’s? She heard the man finally say, shaken, “No. I live here. What happened to Sullivan?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead,” Bragg said. “And you are?”
“Ron Ames.”
“Let’s step outside. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Francesca turned as Bragg and Ames stepped into the hall.
Farr was rummaging through some drawers and Francesca wondered what he was looking for.
He finally produced a framed photograph that had been hidden amongst some other items. It was a photo of Kate.
She was smiling and holding the hand of a young man in a dark suit.
He seemed a bit older than herself. “Who’s the gentleman? ” she asked.
“Don’t know,” Farr said in inordinately good spirits.
Seized with avid dislike, Francesca stepped outside. Ames was saying, “About a year. Yeah, we been rooming together about a year, and a few months ago Josh Bennett leased a bed with us. The fourth bunk is empty.”
“Do you know any reason why Sullivan would commit suicide?” Bragg asked.
Ames shrugged. He had recovered his composure remarkably, and his pallor had eased. “Why wouldn’t he? He’s been out of work for months, he’s behind on the rent he owes me, fer crissakes, he got no woman, he got nothing but the booze.”
Francesca stepped forward. “Did he ever refer to his wife?”
“Kate?”
Francesca was surprised Ames knew her name. “Yes, Kate.”
“Yeah, he spoke about her every time he got drunk—that is, just about every night.” Ames grinned. “Do the police have women on the force now?”
Francesca glanced at Bragg, not bothering to answer. Here was something, then. “How long were they separated?”
“Since before he met me. Over a year, I guess. You a police woman?”
“I am a sleuth, Mr. Ames. But yes, I am working with the police. Did he still love her?” Francesca asked briskly.
And Ames thought that was amusing, because he laughed, hard. “Love her? I don’t think so, miss. He hated her, he did. He hated her with a vengeance, in fact, for being such a slut, for walking out on him. All he ever talked about was how he couldn’t wait for the day that she got hers.”
They sat in the Daimler in front of police headquarters, making no move to get out. Francesca’s mind was racing and she knew that Bragg was immersed in his own thoughts, too. She finally twisted to face him. “Do you think it’s a suicide?”
“It certainly appears that way, but we will know within a few hours for certain.” His gaze locked with hers.
“He hated her with a vengeance, Bragg.”
“I know. I heard—I was there.”
“Could Sullivan have been the Slasher?”
Bragg smiled a little at her. “What brings you to that conclusion?”
“He hated Kate with a vengeance.”
“So you are thinking that John Sullivan is the Slasher?”
“We need to go back to his flat and see if he has a suit in the closet.”
“There was no closet, and I did not see a suit on the wall pegs, but just about every working man has a Sunday suit.”
“Of course you’re right.” She stared grimly at the police wagon parked in front of them.
He touched her hand. “Why assault her and let her live? Why assault Francis first? Why kill Margaret Cooper? And why go back to finish off his wife if she was the one he hated enough to murder all along?”
“Bragg, those are my questions exactly. But consider this scenario. Maybe the assaults began as acts of anger, without the intention of murder. But then his rage escalated and he killed Margaret Cooper—and it felt good in his sick mind. So he went back to finish off the real target of his twisted rage—his wife.”
“That is a credible theory,” Bragg said. “And now he killed himself in belated grief?”
“Or belated guilt,” she said very seriously.
Then she recognized the carriage parked at the end of the street.
It was a very handsome black affair drawn by six black horses.
She started. “Oh dear! I promised Hart I would wait for Raoul to return before I went anywhere! In the heat of the moment, I simply forgot.”
“So Raoul is now your driver?”
She glanced at him to gauge his reaction to that fact, but his expression was impossible to read. “I think Hart intends for him to be more of a bodyguard than anything else,” she said.
“I heartily hope so,” Bragg said. “Raoul was one of the Rough Riders in the war for Cuba’s independence. In fact, he was a part of a secret operations unit and he is a very skillful man.”
Francesca could only stare. “Hart never mentioned it.”
Bragg shrugged and got out of the motorcar. As he came around for her door, he said, “You should take advantage of the situation. Raoul could certainly be useful to you in your various adventures.”
Francesca smiled her thanks as she got out of the roadster. “Will I see you tonight at my sister’s?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No.”
“I understand,” she said softly. “I’m sure in some time Leigh Anne will want to get out and about again.”
He shrugged. Before they could move toward the entrance of the building, a woman came running down the front steps, crying out. It was Francis O’Leary. “Miss Cahill! Miss Cahill! Please wait!”
Francesca hurried toward her, wondering at her state of hysteria. “Is everything all right?” she asked in concern.
Francis had been crying. Tears streaked her cheeks and her eyes and nose were red.
“Is everything all right? How can anything be all right when my fiancé is in jail and the police refuse to release him?” she cried, trembling.
“How could they suspect him of anything? How could they suspect him of being the Slasher?” She began to weep.
“Please, help me get him home! He is innocent!”
Francesca took her hands. “Francis, try to calm yourself. They aren’t charging him with any crime. I think they merely wish to question him.” She glanced at Bragg. He nodded at her, urging her to ask the question now on both of their minds.
“He is a good, kind man, not some monster!” Francis said. “He would not hurt anyone, much less stalk and murder them!”
“He seems like a very good man,” Francesca agreed, putting her arm around the woman. “Francis, do you have any idea where Sam was last night?”
“When Kate Sullivan was killed?” she asked sharply, eyes huge and wide.
“Yes,” Francesca said. She smiled encouragingly. “Sam claims to have been in his repair shop, but frankly, it was clear that he was not telling us the truth. Unfortunately, we have caught him in a lie. But if he is innocent, why would he lie?”
Francis stared speechlessly.
“Francis?” Francesca felt terribly for her now.
She swallowed hard and began to turn red. “He was with me,” she whispered, her voice so low it was almost inaudible.
Francesca doubted that. “Francis, please do not perjure yourself.”
“He was with me,” she said again. She glanced wildly from Francesca to Bragg and back again, highly flushed. More tears welled in her eyes.
Francesca stroked her back, but she was trembling and too agitated to be calmed. “Well, if that is the case—”
“No, he was with me.” She was crimson. “All night…the first time…it was our first time and you see, he couldn’t have killed Kate Sullivan.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “He didn’t tell you the truth because he was trying to protect me.”
Francesca realized what she meant. Thoroughly startled, she searched her gaze as Bragg said, “I will see to his release. But I am afraid we will need your sworn statement, in writing.”
Francis nodded, but she stared back at Francesca, continuing to shake.
“Well, clearly Sam has an alibi,” Francesca said after a pause. The problem was, she knew it was a lie. She could see it in Francis O’Leary’s eyes.