Deadly Kisses. Brenda Joyce

Their eyes met and held. Then Hart stepped back. “We should respect the dead,” he said seriously.

      “Yes, we should.” Francesca folded her arms across her chest and gave herself a moment to refocus. “Rose is with…the body.”

      “Rose,” he repeated. “Could she have murdered the woman she loved? Might she have already been here when I arrived? When did she send you this note, Francesca?”

      Francesca could not imagine Rose killing her best friend, but she would consider it, of course. “The note arrived at my home before midnight. Let’s estimate that it arrived by a quarter to the hour. Rose wrote and sent the note around eleven or shortly thereafter. She was undoubtedly sending me the note, which came by cab, when you walked in.” It crossed her mind that most of the suspicion could be directed at Rose. “She found the body before you did. She was first on the scene.”

      He stared for a moment. “I have never trusted Rose. Why did she send for you, of all people? There was no love lost between any of us.”

      Francesca hesitated.

      “Let me guess,” he said sarcastically. “She wants you to find the killer?”

      Francesca bit her lip. “Calder,” she began, deter mined to head him off at the pass. Even though he was always supportive of her investigations and proud of her success in them, she knew why he did not want her on this particular case—and the reason was Daisy. “This is a crime of passion. I do not think it will be hard to find the killer. From what I saw,” she added, an image of Daisy’s mutilated chest coming to mind, “someone stabbed Daisy repeatedly in a fit of anger.”

      “You cannot predict the nature of this investigation!” Hart exclaimed. “Do not mistake me now, Francesca, this is one case where I do not want you involved.” His look was uncompromising.

      “But I am involved. She was your ex-mistress and I am your fiancée.” Francesca tried to be firm and gentle at once.

      He made an angry sound and took her arm. “I am asking you, this one single time, to leave the investigation of Daisy’s murder alone.”

      That terrible feeling of dread rose swiftly up again. Francesca stole a look at Hart’s angry expression, her heart sinking. Now was clearly not the time to tell him that nothing and no one—not even Hart—could stop her from finding Daisy’s killer. But why did he want her off the case so badly? Surely he had nothing to hide, not from her.

      “This is too personal for us both,” Hart said in a calmer tone, as if that explained his reasoning, but it explained nothing at all.

      “Yes, it is personal for us both,” Francesca said noncommittally. She was aware of the exasperated look he cast at her, but now she was wondering about Rose. She had yet to ask her exactly when she had found Daisy. Given the extent of her grief, it was possible she had sat with her dead friend for quite some time before writing Francesca the note. One fact was clear—Daisy had been murdered before eleven or half past eleven p.m., when Rose had sent Francesca the note.

      Together, they moved toward the study, where the candle continued to flicker. As they approached, Francesca’s steps slowed, as did Hart’s. His grasp on her hand tightened, but with reassurance, not warning. Francesca glanced at him and he tried to smile at her, but the curve of his firm mouth could not extinguish the sadness in his dark navy blue eyes.

      He was far more upset than he was letting on, she thought with dismay. God, what if he still had feelings for Daisy? Could she possibly manage that, when Daisy had always felt like a threat to her relationship?

      Rose was now sitting on the sofa, curled up like a child, her knees to her chest, the dark green evening gown she wore stained with blood. Daisy remained on the floor, covered from head to toe with the throw. Hearing their footsteps, Rose looked up.

      She shot to her feet, pointing, her hand shaking. “You! I should have known! You goddamned bastard! You killed her!”

      Police Commissioner Accused of Dereliction of Duty

      Commissioner Bragg Fails Reformers

      Civic Leaders Outraged with Police Policy

      IN DISGUST, RICK BRAGG swept all three newspapers from his desk, cradling his head in his hands. His head ached and he was impossibly tired. He had never felt more worn, and that had nothing to do with the fact that the grandfather clock in the hall had just chimed a single time, indicating it was one in the morning. Right now, he almost regretted accepting the mayor’s appointment, an appointment that had initially been filled with excitement and hope. He was the first police commissioner since Teddy Roosevelt to attempt the monumental mission of reforming the city’s notoriously corrupt police force. But the hottest issue of the day was his undoing, especially as the mayor had tied his hands behind his back, refusing to allow him to do his job as he wished to do it.

      Bragg sighed and reached for his bourbon. Mayor Low was already afraid of the vast German vote and had decided to ask the police not to enforce the blue laws, which required the closing of saloons on the Sabbath. Yet every reform group in the city was in favor of such closings. But after a series of crackdowns, Tammany Hall had made it a point to stir up as much trouble for Bragg and his force as possible. The German workers of the city were in an up roar, demanding their rights in protests and petitions. Afraid of losing reelection, Low had told Bragg to back off.

      Low was good for the city. He was a man dedicated to social and political reform and he was courageous enough to oppose Tammany Hall. He was also Bragg’s boss. There was no way Rick could refuse his orders, even if it meant compromising his own oath to uphold and obey the law.

      He could please no one now. The reformers, led by the clergy and the city’s progressive-minded elites, wanted his head and his resignation. So did half of his own force, due to the internal shake up he had inflicted these past five months, reassigning officers left and right to break up the rings of graft and bribery that manacled the city in a web of corruption and lies. Low had made it clear that he wished for Rick to continue on; given the circumstances, he was pleased with the internal cleanup of the force. Rick hadn’t really been considering resignation, but sometimes, on an endless day like this one, it crossed his mind.

      He was never at home, and his family had never needed him more.

      He drank, finishing the bourbon and pouring another one. His family. Images of his beautiful wife and the two little girls they had decided to adopt filled his mind. Who was he fooling? He had finished all the urgent paperwork an hour or two ago and had chosen to linger over the damn dailies, with their accusatory headlines, because he was afraid to go upstairs.

      He was afraid to go to the bedroom he shared with his wife, afraid to go to their bed.

      He leaned his face on his hands, closing his eyes, so tired he thought he could fall asleep at his desk. And it wasn’t the job, it wasn’t the corruption, it wasn’t the politics—it was the impossible personal and private dilemma he found himself in. How much longer could he go on this way?

      He had become a stranger to his family, a stranger to the little girls who needed him—a stranger to his wife.

      And she wanted it that way.

      He stood abruptly, terribly torn. A part of him was ruthlessly determined to go up those stairs, climb into her bed and simply hold her, even though he would find her stiff with tension, pretending to be asleep. When he reached for her, he knew she would turn away, refusing to allow him any opportunity for comfort or intimacy. And he could not blame her.

      Leigh Anne had said she did not hold him responsible for the accident that had caused her to lose the use of her legs, but he blamed himself—and knew that, deep down, she blamed him, too.

      Once, he had thought their marriage over. Years before the accident, soon after they were first married. She had left him to travel in Europe and he had hated her passionately. Now, too late, he had faced the extent of his passion. He still loved her and he always had. But it had become painfully obvious that she no longer cared in return. He knew what he should do. He should give her the freedom she clearly wanted, but