Deadly Illusions

561 Pages·2010·1.49 MB·English

by  Brenda Joyce

Despite the misgivings of her fiancé, Calder Hart,
Francesca cannot turn away from a threat that is
terrorizing the tenement neighborhood of Lower
Manhattan. A madman has attacked three women, but
while the first two victims survived, the third is dead,
raising the stakes. All the victims are impoverished
but beautiful Irishwomen—and Francesca fears that
Maggie Kennedy and Gwen O’Neil, two friends who
live nearby, could be next.
Soon she is working with her former love, police
commissioner Rick Bragg—Calder’s half brother and
worst rival. But even as Calder’s jealous passions
leave his relationship with Francesca teetering on the
brink, Francesca is frantically on the killer’s trail,
certain The Slasher will strike again—afraid she will
be too late....
Also by
BRENDA JOYCE
THE PRIZE
And don’t miss the other books
in Brenda Joyce’s Deadly series
DEADLY LOVE
DEADLY PLEASURE
DEADLY AFFAIRS
DEADLY DESIRE
DEADLY CARESS
DEADLY PROMISE
Watch for the second book
in the de Warenne series
THE MASQUERADE
September 2005
BRENDA JOYCE
ISBN 0-7783-2138-X
DEADLY ILLUSIONS
Copyright © 2005 by Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction
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written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill
Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly
inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all
incidents are pure invention.
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Printed in U.S.A.
This one’s for the ladies on the boards:
Thank you for your unwavering support!
Chapter 1
New York City
Tuesday, April 22, 1902
5:00 p.m.
The crime scene was a gruesome one, indeed.
Chilled, Francesca Cahill stared at the woman. The
victim was clad only in her corset, chemise and
drawers, lying in a pool of blood the same dark red-
brown color as her hair. Shivers swept up and down
Francesca’s spine, shivers that had nothing to do with
the temperature of the day, as it was warm and sunny
outside, a perfect spring day.
Not that one would ever guess that fact from this
tenement flat. The railroad apartment that Francesca
had so boldly entered was long and narrow, consisting
of a single room. A window at each end let in some
light, but not much, as the brick building just a few feet
behind this one blocked out much of the daylight. At
the flat’s far end was the victim’s bed, where she lay in
her underclothes. Francesca stood in the doorway, the
dark, dank corridor behind her. Between her and the
victim were so many signs of a vital if impoverished
life—a small sofa, the muddy-hued fabric torn and
ripped, a faded and torn throw rug upon which sat a
pail of water, as if the victim had been soaking her
feet before bed. Beyond the small salon area, there
was a rickety square table and two equally despairing
chairs, one with a leg tied together. In the kitchen’s
area, there was a wood counter covered with some
stacked plates and utensils, a wood-burning stove
and a sink containing a pot and some other items. In
the other direction, behind Francesca, there was a
police sawhorse in the doorway of the flat. An officer
had placed a Do Not Cross sign upon it.
A man carefully viewed the body. Portly, of medium
height, his suit shabby and tweed, Francesca
recognized him instantly. She coughed to make her
presence known and started forward, her navy blue
skirts sweeping around her, tendrils of blond hair
escaping her chignon and smart little navy blue hat. In
her gloved hands, she clutched a purse.
He whirled. “Miz Cahill!” he cried, clearly surprised
to find her there in the apartment.
She smiled warmly, determined not to be ousted
from the crime scene although this was not her case,
as she had no client requiring her to investigate this
murder. “Inspector Newman, good day. Although from
the look of things, this has not been a good day for the
victim.” She cast another glance at the dead woman,
who appeared, at this closer range, to be in her early
twenties. She had been a pretty woman. Newman had
closed her eyes.
He met her halfway. Flushing, a sheen of
perspiration on his forehead, he said, “Are you on this
case, Miz Cahill? Is the c’mish with you?”
Her heart did a little flip. She hadn’t seen the police
commissioner in weeks, not really. Passing him in the
hall of Bellevue Hospital the times she had planned to
visit his wife did not count. “I’m afraid I am alone.
Does this appear to be the work of the Slasher?” she
asked, her gaze drawn to the victim as a moth is
drawn to candlelight.
Newman blinked. “Her throat was cut, Miz Cahill,
like them first two. But this one, well, she’s dead. To
my eye, it looks similar to the first two victims. Of
course, until the coroner has examined the body, we
cannot be sure.”
Francesca nodded gravely, her gaze briefly on
Newman. If the newspapers were to be believed—and
Francesca knew very well one could not always
believe what the dailies reported—there was a pattern
here. According to the Tribune, the first two victims
had been young, pretty and Irish. The victims,
however, had not been murdered, but merely had their
throats slashed and were understandably traumatized.
But the second slashing was sensational enough to
warrant a headline. Of course, this third woman was
dead, so maybe there was no connection. But
Francesca did not believe that for a moment.
She had learned since embarking on her
profession of criminal investigation that she had very
accurate instincts. They shrieked at her now. The
Slasher was at work here—and the stakes had
suddenly changed.
Murder was now the name of the game.
And that most definitely made the case her affair—
as people she cared about lived two doors down. “Do
we know her name?” she asked softly, noting the way
the woman lay. Her arms were flung out, her head
turned to the side. There had been a struggle. She felt
certain that the dead woman was also Irish.
“Yes. Her name is Margaret Cooper.” He also
turned to stare at the victim.
Francesca started at the name, which was no more
Irish than her own. She was surprised she had been
wrong, but there was still a pattern. She went grimly
forward but Newman suddenly detained her. “Miz
Cahill? Should you be here? I mean—” and he
blushed crimson “—this is a police matter and if the
c’mish is not here, I am not quite certain you should
be.”
Francesca didn’t hesitate. “I am officially on this
case, Inspector, and we both know the commissioner