Part 4 (1/2)

”No,” she whispered. ”I understand completely.” ”You would,” he whispered softly. ”Only you would understand.” He touched her face thendropped his hand. Francesca started to cry. He did not pull her close. He shoved his hands back in the pockets of his trousers andstared out into the night. It was a moment before he spoke. ”This other man...this is the manthat you have made me want to be.” * * * The milliner's shop where Kate Sullivan was employed was a block and a half north ofEnrich Brothers' Emporium on Sixth Avenue, just past the west corner of Twenty-third Street.The small shop boasted a large display window filled with modest bonnets, elegant hats andfine silk scarves, with a single counter inside and a rack of more goods. Upon Francesca'spresenting herself to the proprietress that next morning, Kate Sullivan was summoned fromthe back room where she had been stocking goods. The Slasher's second victim was a pretty blonde in a dark skirt and white s.h.i.+rtwaist. As sheapproached Francesca, her pallor was obvious. Francesca smiled warmly. ”Mrs. Hathorne said you are a sleuth,” Kate said, eyes wide. ”Yes, I am.” Francesca continued to smile, handing her a calling card. Kate did not even lookat it. She seemed frightened and dismayed. ”I am investigating the crimes committed by theSlasher. I have some questions for you.” Kate appeared to be near tears. ”But I told the police everything.” She went to one of twochairs in a corner of the shop and sat weakly down. She looked on the verge of fainting. Francesca followed her. ”Can I get you some water?” Kate shook her head. ”I am trying to forget,” she whispered. Then tears filled her eyes. ”Buthow can I? Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Every time I close my eyes, I hear him.” Francesca knelt besides her. ”You saw him! That was not in the police report!” She shook her head negatively. ”I never saw him, Miss Cahill, he seized me from behind.But I can see him now, so clearly, this tall elegant man!” She was not making any sense. Francesca stood and took the chair besides Kate Sullivan.”What do you mean, precisely?” Kate shrugged. ”I can imagine how he must look. I know he was tall, because I am rather tallfor a woman-I am five foot five-and he was far taller than I.” ”You said he was elegant.” She nodded. ”I had just disrobed.” She turned impossibly pale. A tear fell. ”Do you need some air?” Francesca asked in real compa.s.sion. She nodded weakly. Francesca took her arm and helped her up. A moment later they were standing on SixthAvenue. The elevated train was roaring overhead, causing the buildings around them toshake, and leaving a cloud of black smoke in its wake. Horns were blaring on the congestedavenue, and a trolley was clanging its bells. Pedestrians, both ladies and gentlemen,swarmed around them. ”Do you feel better?” Kate inhaled and nodded. ”I get so sick whenever I think of him,” she whispered. ”That's understandable. He must be apprehended, Miss Sullivan.” ”Yes, he must.” She smiled faintly. ”I've read about you, Miss Cahill. I've read about theCross Killer and the City Strangler. You solved those cases! And now I read you areengaged to the city's wealthiest bachelor, Mr. Hart.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears. ”I am very determined to solve a case when I take one on,” Francesca said firmly, trying notto appear pleased. But it was flattering, indeed, to be such an object of interest that thenewsmen reported on her doings. ”So the Slasher seized you from behind after you haddisrobed?” Kate nodded again. ”I had no idea he was in my flat,” she said. ”But I was very weary frombeing on my feet all day. Mrs. Hathorne had asked me to come in a few hours early to helpwith inventory. So it was a long day, really. I was almost asleep on my feet, I must say! One moment I was pulling on a robe, the next, he had me in his arms and he had a knife to my throat.” A tear fell.

”And he was tall.”

”Yes.”

”Why do you say he was elegant? What would make you think that?” Francesca asked.

There was nothing elegant about David Hanrahan-but Kate might be wrong. Victims frequently made mistakes when it came to identifying their a.s.sailants.

”His clothes,” she said. ”His jacket was very fine wool, the kind of wool that only a gentleman would wear.”

”Are you sure?”

”I saw the sleeve, Miss Cahill. The sleeve was well tailored and charcoal gray. It was a fine sleeve, Miss Cahill. A fine sleeve, indeed.”

Francesca's mind raced. ”Are you certain? Are you certain of all of this?”

She nodded. ”I also saw his hand. His other hand-the one on my stomach-not the hand he held the knife with.”

Francesca almost held her breath. What wonderful clues these were! ”And?”

”His hands were soft and smooth. They weren't the coa.r.s.e, red hands of a working man.”

Francesca stared.

”And there was a ring. I can't recall it exactly, but it was gold. There was a stone; I'm not even sure what kind or color it was.” Her eyes suddenly flashed. ”He was a gentleman. He was a gentleman and I have not one doubt.”

It was simply unbelievable, he thought, staring at the window of the milliner's shop from where he stood across Sixth Avenue. It was unbelievable that the notorious Francesca Cahill had started an investigation into the so-called Slasher; that she dared to seek out the first two b.i.t.c.hes and question them again, after the police had already done so; that she dared to try to reveal him.

He knew she was clever. He had read all about her, who hadn't? But she wasn't half as clever as he was, he felt certain of that.

He watched the two of them standing outside the shop, trembling with his hatred.

G.o.d, he hated them all. Every single faithless one of them.

He could count the promises, but not the lies... He knew now he should have killed them, instead of warning them, instead of letting them live.

His fingers twitched and he supped his hand into his pocket, feeling for the small penknife.

Well, his plans had changed.

This one would die.

Chapter 9.

Thursday, April 24, 1902.

Noon.

Francesca had been told that she could wait in Bragg's office, as he was in a closed meeting in the conference room. Having been left alone there, she paused by his desk and saw, among the many files and folders there, a notepad with his handwriting on the page.

His scrawl was very rushed and careless, so unlike the man. She saw that he was composing a report for the mayor.

It wasn't her affair, of course. But she hoped his internal police investigation would yield the results he wanted, or ones advantageous to him and his career. Unable to help herself, she wandered over to the hearth. There was no fire lit, as May was around the corner and the morning newspapers had promised the city a day that was seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

She glanced at the mantel and stared at Leigh Anne's photograph.

She knew it had been taken some time ago, and Leigh Anne looked very young and very innocent. She was smiling at the photographer, unabashedly happy, seated in a chair in a lavish salon. Francesca wondered how she was convalescing. She hoped that she was now

happy to be home.

She turned her back to the photograph. Hopefully there would be an explanation for the incomplete police report on Kate Sullivan.

Francesca thought about the pretty blonde as she stared vaguely across the room and out the window behind Bragg's desk. Like Francis O'Leary, Kate had been severely traumatized and as a result, she remained very frightened. Francesca thought about the fact, again, that all the victims were young, pretty, female, unattached and Irish-or at least, in Margaret Cooper's case, of Irish descent. Still, Margaret Cooper felt somehow mismatched-perhaps because she hadn't ever been married. Francesca couldn't help thinking that Gwen O'Neil matched the pattern set by the first two victims far more precisely than Margaret.

Could Gwen have been the Slasher's intended target? Had he attacked and murdered Margaret Cooper by mistake?

Francesca reminded herself to interview Sam Wilson. She wondered if the police were making any progress in locating Thomas O'Leary. And she would not yet put too much credence into Kate's claim that the Slasher was a gentleman.

Bragg walked into his office and she quickly turned.

He was clearly surprised to see her. ”I didn't know you were waiting for me.” Behind him, Francesca saw several men walking down the hall, including Inspector Newman and the tall, gray-haired chief of police, Brendan Farr. Farr was glancing her way and when she briefly met his cool gaze, she flinched.

She more than disliked Farr; she did not trust him. She smiled at Bragg. ”I was told to go up and wait for you here. I hope you do not mind.”

”Of course I don't mind,” he said, returning her smile. He shut his door and approached. ”I'm a.s.suming this is not a social call?”

She hesitated. Once, she had actually made social calls, right there at his office. Those days were long since gone. In a way, she wished she could drop by whenever she had the urge to do so. Somehow, she missed those days.

So much had changed. Aware of his wife's photograph behind her back, she said, ”It's not a social call, but may I inquire after Leigh Anne?”

His smile vanished. ”Of course.” He walked to his desk and busied himself with arranging the folders there.

”Is everything all right?” she asked somewhat timidly, well aware that the question was quite out of bounds.

”Everything is fine,” he said, not looking at her.