Chapter 16 #5
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Then she glanced away. “He called me that.”
He felt his world still and reality intruded, ugly and dark. “Who?” But he already knew.
“O’Donnell. It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Rick, we shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, making love to you is right.”
Leigh Anne tried to sit. Instantly he helped her to do so. “Everything has changed. If we didn’t have the girls, I would set you free, Rick, so you could be with a real woman—not a crippled one.” But her gaze was searching.
He understood what he was fighting for and he chose his words with care. “You are a real woman. And we have the girls. But even if we didn’t, I would not let you go.”
She studied him and he smiled, just a little at her. “I want to take care of you no matter what—and I would like it very much if you also took care of me.”
Her eyes were wide. “How?”
“I think you know how.” He touched her face. “Please don’t turn away from me now. Please.”
She simply stared, appearing torn.
Although he very much wanted to make love to his wife again, he got up. His shirt was open and he began to button it. Hart’s image came to mind. He saw himself groveling before him, and how Hart would gloat. Then he saw O’Donnell in some dark, dank cell, waiting for his turn in the electric chair.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I am going to borrow fifteen thousand dollars,” he said.
The main branch of the Bank of New York was downtown and not far from Hart’s Bridge Street offices.
It was a large, handsome building built well over a century ago.
Inside, the oak floors gleamed with wax beneath several large Oriental rugs, a huge chandelier dominating the wood-paneled room.
Francesca had inquired after Robert Miller and had been asked to wait in a small reception area, set somewhat apart from the tellers and the vaults.
She had made it clear to the bank officer that she was there as an emissary of Mr. Hart.
She gave herself a moment of pure release and sank deeply into the plush blue velvet sofa.
She was so tired. The truth was, the strain of this separation from Hart was frankly unbearable.
Thus far, she had been focusing on the case and avoiding any thought of the future.
But now she could not help think about it.
She had not been able to identify herself as Hart’s fiancée to Robert Miller.
Fear twisted inside her, edged with panic.
What if she had really lost Hart? What if he never came back to her?
There had to be a way, when this was all over, to convince him that letting her go served no one, that it was not in her best interest. But she knew him so well now.
Once Daisy’s murder was solved, there was still the issue of her missing portrait.
Francesca knew he had been blaming himself for ever commissioning that portrait.
And even though she had agreed to pose nude, he insisted that it was his fault.
She knew he was not going to change his mind and share the blame.
He could be such an impossible man. She missed him. She had never missed anyone more.
“Miss Cahill?” A short, slim man with a goatee approached, smiling. He was immaculately dressed and had an unmistakable air of authority. “I am Robert Miller,” he said, extending his hand. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
She realized he knew who she was. “Thank you. Calder directed me to you, Mr. Miller, in regards to the current case I am on.”
He nodded. “Come into my office,” he said, and they traversed the spacious hall where a few customers were at the long, gleaming counter, conducting their banking affairs. “May I be so bold as to ask how Mr. Hart is?”
“He is doing as well as can be expected, considering the nature of all that has happened,” Francesca said as he closed the door behind him. His office was a smaller version of the public room outside. “And he is innocent, of course.”
Miller smiled. “I had no doubt. How can I help you?” he asked as they took seats.
“Miss Jones made two unusually large deposits into her account in May, for eight and then twelve thousand dollars. We need to know where that money came from,” Francesca said.
Miller stood. “As a favor to Mr. Hart, I will see what I can find out. Why don’t you make yourself at home? I will be right back.”
Five minutes later he came back with a file in his hands. “I think I may have some useful information for you, Miss Cahill.”
“Do you know where the money came from?”
“Yes, I do. Miss Jones deposited two bank checks from First Federal of Albany.”
Francesca felt her world still. The money had come from Albany. “Is there any way to find out who drew those bank checks in the first place?”
“Yes, but it will take some time. And you would have to approach First Federal directly. I think they might need the police to request the action, Miss Cahill.”
“Consider that done.” Her excitement grew. “How much time?”
“Days, I should think. You would need to send someone to Albany to go over the bank records there.”
“Can we send a telegram and wire instructions to the bank there?”
“I suppose so.” He hesitated. “Miss Cahill, what is this about?”
Her day had become exceedingly bright. “This is about uncovering the identity of a murderer, Mr. Miller.” And as she left his office, she was almost ready to skip her way out of the bank. Clearly, Judge Gillespie had sent Daisy the money. Now the only question was why.
She paused outside of the bank, unable to stop smiling.
Daisy had never let go of her father and the clippings were proof of that.
As far as was known, Gillespie had been to see her twice in May—but not at any other time.
Only in May had she received money from him.
Francesca was ready to conclude that Gillespie hadn’t known his daughter’s whereabouts until then.
Had he merely been giving his long-lost daughter funds to supplement any allowance she was already receiving?
After all, that was what fathers did for their children.
On the other hand, Daisy had been a huge embarrassment to him, and his lying about knowing her when she had first confronted him in Albany was proof of that. Had she been enough of an embarrassment for him to murder her?
It was a leap, but Francesca was close to the truth now and she could feel it. She had to discover the real reason Daisy had left home in the first place. It was the missing puzzle piece.
She needed to see Bragg. Maybe they could decide on a plan in which to pressure the judge.
And of course, the police had to contact the Albany bank.
She had yet to learn about the knife discovered at Hart’s last night.
By now, that report should be in. She started toward the curb, raising her arm to signal Raoul to bring her coach from farther down the block, where he had found a place to park.
The person passing by her turned around.
From the corner of her eye, still focused on her driver and coach, Francesca saw a gloved hand being raised, a dark object there, but it was too late.
Pain lanced the back of her head and, with it, the realization that she had been attacked. Then there was only darkness.