Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

it. “Am I late?” she asked, unable to help being cheerful. They were working together again. She and Bragg made a fine investigative team—they had the track record to prove it—and now, why, they would solve this case in no time.

      He smiled back at her. “I only just arrived.” He helped her to the street. Francesca regarded him closely and saw that the dark cloud he had been under that morning had lifted. She was relieved. She felt certain it was because Leigh Anne had gone home from the hospital.

      As they entered the building, he asked, “You look pleased. What did you learn today? I take it there must be something new.”

      “I think my brother has strong feelings for Maggie Kennedy.” The words just tumbled out.

      He stopped and looked at her.

      “I am not playing matchmaker,” she said defensively. Then she sighed. “And I know that heirs do not marry seamstresses. Still, I am certain he cares quite a bit for her.”

      “Try not to get involved,” he said mildly. He gestured for her to precede him up the narrow stairs.

      “Is that all you have to say?” she cried. “You have seen them together. What do you think?”

      “He is not currently an heir,” he said, pausing on the second-floor landing.

      She met his gaze and their glances held. Well, that was to the point. Then she forced herself to stop thinking about her brother and Maggie. “Shall I brief you before we go inside?”

      He nodded. “Please.”

      She quickly told him all that she had learned from Francis O’Leary, including the dream she had had and her uncertainty over whether or not the Slasher had called her a faithless bitch.

      Bragg leaned against the wall, reflective.

      “I would tend to believe that it was just a dream, as there does not seem to be anything faithless about her,” Francesca said.

      “You are supposing that he knew her and deliberately chose her as his victim. He might have a vendetta against all young, pretty women, Francesca, based on some experience he has had with one particular woman. He might only vaguely know his victims and they might not know him at all.”

      “I have also thought of that. It would be helpful if the killer knew his victims and chose them deliberately.” She was grim. “If he randomly attacks women, how will we ever find him?”

      “I have assigned extra men to patrol this ward. I have expanded the two square blocks in which all the victims were found to six square blocks.”

      “That is a good idea, but that will not change the fact that we need to knock on doors. Someone must have seen someone suspicious lurking about last Monday near here.”

      “I hope so,” he said. “This case will involve a lot of legwork.”

      That was her cue. She smiled at him. “And what should we do about Francis O’Leary’s missing husband?”

      He smiled in return. “Find him?”

      “I was hoping you would say that!” she cried. “Of course, that will involve even more legwork and we may never locate him. He could be dead, for all we know.”

      “When you look at the current case file, you will see that Newman began a preliminary search for Thomas O’Leary. He interviewed his friends, co-workers and employer. No one had any idea that he would abruptly walk out on his wife or his life. I should not be surprised if we learned he was dead—or if we never learned where he went and where he is now.”

      She agreed wholeheartedly. “Rick, why would a man who abandons his wife come back to assault her, and then assault a similar woman before murdering Margaret Cooper? I should love to interview O’Leary, but he is not high on my list of suspects.”

      With some fond amusement, he said, “And is there a list of suspects?”

      She rolled her eyes. “It is a list of zero.”

      He laughed. Then, “I am truly pleased to be on another case with you, Francesca.”

      “So am I,” she said with a grin. “Perhaps Joel has discovered something useful. So, is Leigh Anne home? The girls must be ecstatic.”

      His smile vanished. “She is undoubtedly walking through the front door as we speak.” The moment he spoke, he grimaced, clearly displeased with his choice of words. He knocked abruptly on Gwen O’Neil’s door.

      She was stunned. What was this? Why wasn’t Bragg with her? Why wasn’t he ecstatic? “Perhaps you should be home as well. I can interview Bridget by myself, Rick, and relay all the pertinent information to you later.”

      Not turning, he knocked again. “She is aware of my schedule,” he said.

      There was no mistaking the tense note in his tone or the rigidity in his back. She laid her hand on his shoulder. “Is every thing all right?” she asked carefully, almost wishing she had not brought up this obviously painful topic.

      He glanced sidelong at her. “Yes.”

      Francesca did not know what to think, but clearly, Bragg did not wish to discuss his wife. She knew she must respect his wish for privacy, but what had happened? Everything was not all right, any fool could discern that. Then she realized there was still no answer to the knock.

      “No one is home. We will wait,” Bragg said flatly.

      Rather relieved to be distracted from Bragg’s personal life, Francesca stepped past him and rapped smartly on the door. “Mrs. O’Neil?” she called. “Bridget? It is I, Francesca Cahill.”

      Bragg smiled a little at her. “You remain the terrier with the bone. No one is home, Francesca.”

      She started to try again, when the door suddenly opened and Bridget appeared there, white-faced and shaken. There was no mistaking her fear. “My mum’s not home yet,” she whispered.

      “We have scared you!” Francesca cried, putting her arm around the pretty red-haired child. “I am so sorry!”

      Bridget’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought it might be the Slasher.”

      “You are right to exercise caution,” Bragg said as they stepped inside.

      “The Slasher does not knock,” Francesca told her, guiding her to the table. Then she realized that they did not know that, not at all, as they did not know how he got into the first two women’s flats. Perhaps he had knocked on Margaret Cooper’s door, only to con his way inside. She glanced at Bragg and clearly, he was reading her mind. “Did you go to school today?” she asked.

      Bridget nodded, still trembling. “I’m not coughing today.”

      “That’s wonderful. Bridget, can we ask you some questions?”

      The small red-haired child stared anxiously, even suspiciously, at her. “What kind of questions?”

      “You know that Mr. Bragg is the police commissioner?”

      Bridget nodded, glancing his way.

      “We are trying to find the man who murdered Margaret Cooper,” Francesca said.

      “I know,” Bridget returned. And then tears filled her eyes. “Why did we have to come here? I hate America!”

      Francesca shared a glance with Bragg and sat down beside her, taking her small hands in hers. “I know how hard this must be for you, leaving your home behind. But one day, this will be your home, too.”

      “It will never be my home. I hate it here! I wish we could go home, but we can’t, I know that.” She wiped her eyes with anger.

      The reason why the O’Neils could not return to Ireland was not her concern and had nothing to do with the case. But Francesca was curious, and past investigations had taught her never to leave any stone unturned. Before she could get the words