Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

and she couldn’t be happier.

      Never mind his foolish jealousy of the night before. It would pass—it always did.

      “I’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.

      “Joel, 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.

      “I 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.

      “Good 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.

      “Yes, I have. I take it you are on the case?”

      “I am.”

      He whipped out his notepad. “Any new leads?”

      “I’m afraid it is far too soon to be speaking to the press.”

      “Dear 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 shoved past him.

      He quickly caught up. “Hmm, compromise. An interesting word. So, Miss Cahill, there are some things you will not compromise?”

      Aghast, she faced him, feeling all the color drain from her face. She had been compromised more than once when alone with Rick Bragg and this man knew it. “That was unbearably rude. What do you want from me?”

      “Does your fiancé know you are here and working with the man he hates more than anyone else?”

      She stiffened. How did Kurland know that? “Calder doesn’t hate Rick Bragg. Calder and Rick are half brothers. They are close.” And, as she lied so baldy, she felt her cheeks turn red.

      He laughed. “If you say so! But isn’t it difficult, spending the day with one man—and the evening with the other?”

      She could barely respond, she was so livid. “You have the social grace of an ape, Mr. Kurland.” And she stalked away.

      He followed. “It’s why I’m such a good reporter. Sure you don’t have a lead for me? Anything?”

      She halted in her tracks and whirled and he crashed into her. They leaped apart. Panting, she said, “Are you attempting to blackmail me?”

      “Moi?” He was incredulous. “Never, Miss Cahill.”

      “A wise decision.” She wondered if she dared tell Hart about how dangerous this man was becoming. But then she would have to reveal the extent of her prior relationship with Bragg to him. And that would be dangerous, indeed. “Good day.” Her tone was final and she hurried up the stairs.

      He stood at the bottom landing and called up, “And to answer your previous question, Miss Cahill, I haven’t decided what it is that I want from you.”

      She glanced down and met his cool gaze and stumbled. As she righted herself, he tipped his hat in the most disrespectful manner and walked away. Filled with unease, she stared after him.

      She knew she must warn Bragg. Quickly she turned and hurried up the hall to his office. His door was ajar but not open, solid wood on the bottom, the glass opaque on the top. She knocked and it swung wide.

      His desk faced the door, a window that looked out over Mulberry Street behind him. She expected to find him up to his elbows in work—his desk was always stacked high with files—but instead, she found him sitting there, staring off into space, looking impossibly sad. She froze.

      This was not the time, she realized, to burden him with Arthur Kurland. But what was wrong?

      He started as he realized that she was present and jumped to his feet, smiling slightly, but Francesca knew him well enough to know the expression was forced. He was preoccupied and disturbed. And she had not mistaken the sadness in his eyes.

      “Good morning,” he said, coming forward. There was a fireplace on the other side of his desk with numerous photographs on the mantel, mostly of his vast family, although several were of him with President Roosevelt or with the mayor. But there had never been a picture there of Hart, his half brother, or of Leigh Anne, his wife. Now the first thing she saw was a huge portrait of Leigh Anne in an oval silver frame. It dominated the mantel and every other photograph placed there.

      She quickly tore her gaze from the photograph, managing a smile. “Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting.”

      And suddenly his facade vanished. His smile gone, he took her arm, guiding her to one of the two upholstered chairs in front of his desk. “You could never be an interruption,” he said.

      She did not sit. “What’s wrong, Rick?”

      Instantly he turned away. “Nothing.”

      She didn’t move, staring at his back until he sat down be hind his desk, facing her once again. He lifted a file. “Heinreich is almost certain that the same knife was used on all three victims.”

      She did not want to discuss the case now. Something was terribly amiss. “Has something happened? Are the girls all right?”

      “The girls are fine. The Slasher is at work, Francesca, and now the question is who will his next target be, and will he strike again on Monday?” Bragg handed the file across the desk. “I am glad you are on this case,” he added. “We don’t have much time.”

      She took the file but did not open it; she could only stare. He looked away. Clearly he did not wish to discuss anything personal with her. Yes, everything had changed, because not very long ago he would open his heart to her without a moment’s hesitation. The urge to be his friend—a real friend—and to help him now overcame her, but so did guilt. What right did she have to the happiness she had just been feeling when his life was causing him such anguish? Surely, whatever was wrong, it could