Chapter 10 #3
Francesca quickly learned that the district court where Gillespie was seated was located in the city’s civic center.
A few moments later they reached the small two- or three-block area, where a handful of stately brick buildings had been built a century earlier.
A quick inquiry to a passing gentleman yielded the information that the judge’s offices were in the court building on the second floor.
Several gentlemen, all carrying attaché folders, were coming and going as she and Joel climbed the wide front steps of the courthouse.
Inside the spacious lobby, where several plaster columns formed a rotunda, Francesca saw a number of closed doors.
Clearly, several court proceedings were in session.
Above her, she saw gentlemen passing by on the mezzanine.
To her right was a wide wooden staircase.
She and Joel started up the stairs, Francesca hoping that Gillespie was not in session.
A moment later she found his office, his name engraved on the brass nameplate beside the door. Francesca told Joel that he could wait outside in the hall. A clerk with graying hair and spectacles opened the door to the office. “I am here to see Judge Gillspie,” she said.
He seemed surprised. “I don’t think the judge has any appointments scheduled for today, miss.”
Francesca followed him into the antechamber where the clerk had a small desk. An equally small sofa was against one wall. The judge’s dark wood office door was closed. The clerk went to the calendar on his desk. “No, he has no appointments today. I thought he might be in session until late.”
Francesca glanced at the closed door. “But he is out of court?”
“Yes, but I am sorry. He won’t see you without an appointment. However, I can make an appointment for you for next week.”
Francesca smiled, handing him her calling card.
“I am afraid that won’t do, and I am sure the judge will see me.
I am here to investigate a murder and I have traveled all the way from New York City today.
More important, I am working with the police on this matter, as I frequently do.
Commissioner Bragg encouraged me to meet with the judge.
We both feel he could be helpful in solving this case. ”
The clerk was wide-eyed. “You’re that female—I mean, that lady sleuth I read about!”
Francesca could not help being pleased. “Yes, I am. And this is terribly urgent. I’m afraid it cannot wait until next week.”
“Let me ask the judge if he will see you,” the clerk said to her. “I will do my best.”
Francesca thanked him and paced nervously. Only an instant passed when Gillespie’s door opened and he came out with his clerk.
The judge was of medium stature and build, with features that had remained distinguished and handsome in spite of his years.
He had graying hair and blue eyes, and he greeted Francesca with some surprise and bemusement.
“I am afraid I have not read about you as my clerk has,” he said, shaking her hand and then glancing at her card.
“But he tells me you are a very famous investigator and that you have solved some sensational cases.”
“I am not certain I am all that famous,” Francesca said with a smile. “But I have solved a number of cases. In each one, I worked very closely with the police, and I am assisting Commissioner Bragg now. Might I have a few moments of your time, Your Honor?”
“Of course,” he said, seeming pleasant enough.
He gestured, and she preceded him into his office.
Unlike the Spartan antechamber, his office was wood-paneled and one wall contained a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with tomes.
Behind his desk, a pair of windows looked out over the city square between the city government buildings.
It was a lovely view of the small park, with some pedestrians passing through, and the horses and carriages queued up on the street.
Gillespie closed the door behind them, offering her a seat. Francesca took it and he sat down behind his desk. “How can I help you?”
Francesca spoke directly. “Do you know Miss Daisy Jones, Your Honor?”
He looked at her blankly. “I do not recall the name. It is unusual,” he said, “almost comical, so I should think if I had heard it, or if I had met Miss Jones, I would at least vaguely recall it.”
His blank look was at odds with his previous expressions—or so she thought. His denial almost seemed as if it was forced.
She had the strongest feeling that Judge Richard Gillespie knew Daisy Jones. “I have a sketch, made by a newspaper artist. Maybe you will recognize her.”
He seemed indifferent. Francesca handed him that morning’s Tribune, which she had snatched up just outside of her train’s gate. A beautiful rendering of Daisy was on the front page, next to the headline, “Prostitute Stabbed to Death.” Anyone who knew Daisy would recognize her from the portrait.
Judge Gillespie took the page, glanced at it, and Francesca saw his hand begin to shake. He knew her—he was lying.
He quickly handed the front page back to her. He had become pale, but he smiled at her. “I am afraid I do not know Miss Jones,” he said. His tone was strained.
Francesca slowly stood. “Your Honor, I am afraid I do not quite believe you,” she said.
He gripped his desk, not rising.
Francesca thought he seemed distraught. “She knew you, and well, I think,” Francesca said more softly. “I found an entire box of news clippings in her bedroom, and every single one of them contained a mention of you, Your Honor.”
He continued to grip the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. “I did not know Miss Jones.”
Francesca leaned over the desk toward him.
“She was brutally murdered two nights ago, Judge Gillespie. Someone viciously stabbed her to death six times with a bowie knife. I am going to bring her killer to justice, but I need some help. If you knew her—and I am certain that you did—then help me find her killer. You are a judge. Your life is dedicated to the pursuit of justice!”
He did not look up at her. “I did not know her,” he whispered harshly now.
Francesca felt her temper rising. “Well, she certainly knew you!” She took another card and laid it on his desk, not far from his hands.
“I feel rather certain that the New York Police Department will want to speak with you. Whatever you know, we need to know it, too.” She hesitated.
“Daisy did not deserve to die. Her child did not deserve to die.”
He flinched and looked up at Francesca. “She was with child?”
“Yes, she was.”
And Gillespie moaned and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders began to shake. Stunned, Francesca realized he was weeping. She went behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I am so sorry for your loss. But please, help me now, so I can find her killer.”
He pulled away. “You may be right. I think—” He choked, unable to continue.
Francesca was puzzled. “What do you think?”
“I think that she is my missing daughter.”