Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce Read Free Book Online Page B

Bragg’s Daimler was being surreptitiously watched by another patrolman. All of this was in the midst of one of the city’s worst slums.
    Even now, a prostitute in a very revealing robe stood in the basement doorway across the street, taunting both the policemen and the male passersby. A drunk had just urinated on a tree, and several shabbily clad children were playing hooky from school. Francesca looked up at the bright blue, cloudless sky and she smiled, happily.
    Hart’s image filled her mind.
    Even now, she could feel his hard demanding mouth on hers.
    He was back, it wasn’t a dream—she was engaged to the city’s most notorious bachelor and she couldn’t be happier.
    Never mind his foolish jealousy of the night before. It would pass—it always did.
    â€œI’m not going inside,” Joel said flatly. To emphasize his point, he spat on the sidewalk near his boot-clad feet.
    He despised the police, having been apprehended, roughed up and incarcerated more times than he would ever admit. He also despised Rick Bragg, refusing to see past the fact that he was the police commissioner. Francesca stopped smiling and tried to be stern, no easy task when her heart was singing. Tonight she and Hart were dining at the Waldorf-Astoria, alone. She could hardly wait.
    â€œJoel, spitting is ungentlemanly and it was uncalled for.”
    He sighed. “Sorry. I’ll wait over there,” he said, gesturing with his head in some other direction.
    â€œI won’t be long,” she said, smiling again. She patted the cap on his head and hurried up the granite steps and into the reception room.
    As always, it was filled with civilians lodging one com plaint or another, newsmen looking for a scoop, recently apprehended thugs and rowdies waiting their turn to be formally charged and locked up, and the policemen and officers handling it all. Several staff were behind the long reception counter, including Sergeant O’Malley, and she waved at him. He nodded at her and called out, “He’s upstairs. Door’s open, I think.”
    She had become a frequent visitor at police headquarters and needed no formal permission to come and go. No one seemed to have noticed, though, that she had not been present at the station in several weeks. Turning to hurry upstairs—she never used the elevator—she bumped into a man.
    It was Arthur Kurland from the Sun, a snoop whom she thoroughly disliked. She should have expected this, as he was always at headquarters and just as often seeking her out. He smiled at her, steadying her. “I haven’t seen you at the station house in a long time, Miss Cahill. What brings you here?” He seemed delighted to see her.
    She did not even try to pretend that she didn’t dislike him. After all, he was privy to far too many secrets. He had uncovered her brief romantic attachment to Bragg and Francesca sensed he was waiting to reveal the fact of their past liaison when it would be the most harmful foreveryone.
    â€œGood morning.” She was brisk. “Surely you have heard by now that a woman was found murdered yesterday and that it might be the work of the so-called Slasher?” Trying to be imperious, she raised both pale eyebrows.
    â€œYes, I have. I take it you are on the case?”
    â€œI am.”
    He whipped out his notepad. “Any new leads?”
    â€œI’m afraid it is far too soon to be speaking to the press.”
    â€œDear God, an arctic chill has just entered the room!” He laughed and tucked the pad and pen back into the breast pocket of his jacket, then adjusted the felt fedora he always wore. “You were only too eager to spill the beans last month when you were chasing after Tim Murphy and his gang.”
    She scowled. “I had hoped that leaking information to the press might aid my investigation. This investigation is in the preliminary stages. I refuse to compromise it. Good day.” She