Excerpt of Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce

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 will be
supportive of that." She smiled, at once friendly and firm.
But she no longer knew just how supportive of her
investigative work Rick Bragg would be. So much had
changed—and so quickly.

"Well, I guess I won't have to decide!" Newman cried in
relief as footsteps sounded behind them from the hallway.

Francesca didn't have to turn to know who it was. She tensed
as the police commissioner strode past the sawhorse and into
the room.

He was a handsome, charismatic man. Once, she had thought
him the most handsome man on the planet, but that had been
before she had learned of his estranged wife and his
on-again, off-again marriage. Rick Bragg stood a bit over
six feet tall, his stride long and purposeful, his shoulders
broad, the brown duster he wore for motoring swinging about
him. His complexion was dark, his hair golden, and no one
looking at him could mistake his air of authority and
purpose. In fact, the night they had met at a ball held by
her family, in spite of the crowd she had seen him the
moment he entered the room. But that felt like a different
lifetime, and she had been a different woman, oh yes.

Their gazes met and held.

She realized she had bit her lip and that her fists were
balled up. Her pulse had also accelerated. "Hello," she
said, trying not to be nervous. But it was hard. Once, they
had been in love. Now she was engaged to his most bitter
rival—his half brother, the wealthy and notorious Calder Hart.

If he was surprised to see her, he did not evince it.
"Francesca," he said, pausing before her. His gaze did not
move, not even once, from her to the victim or the crime
scene. "This is a surprise."

She stared into his amber eyes and instantly saw how tired
he was, both emotionally and physically. She ached for him.
She knew he had agonized over the condition of his wife. And
suddenly she did not want to talk about Margaret Cooper— she
wanted to talk about him, his wife and the two children
fostering with them. She wanted to take his hand, she wanted
to help.

Instead, briskly, she said, "I ran into Isaacson from the Tribune." She tried to smile but it felt like a grimace and he simply stared, saying nothing. Her anxiety increased and she clutched her purse with both hands. "He must have been at headquarters when the call came in. When he told me that it might be the Slasher, and that the victim lived on Tenth Street and Avenue A, I had to come directly over. Maggie and her children live two doors away, Bragg," she said earnestly.

"I know," he said. His expression softened. "I was concerned
myself." He hesitated, studying her with some intensity, his
gaze dipping to the way she held her purse.

She smiled a little at him. He did not smile back. It was
simply awkward now, being with him. What should she say,
what should she do? Were they still friends? Did he hate
her? Had he forgiven her for becoming engaged to the man he
bitterly despised? Had he accepted the fact that one day she
would marry Hart? For she had finally, with great
difficulty, accepted the fact that Bragg belonged with his wife.

Francesca wanted to reach out to him and demand answers to
all those questions, but she did not dare. How selfish it
would be. But God, there was no one she admired more, no one
more noble, more determined, more honorable than Rick Bragg.
He had been appointed police commissioner with the charge of
reforming the city's infamously corrupt police department,
but it was like spitting into the wind. He had fired some
officers, hired new ones, reassigned entire units, but every
small step forward was gained at a painful cost. The press
hounded his every move. The clergy and the reform movement
demanded he do more; politics demanded he do far less.
Tammany Hall had lost the last election, but still ruled
most of the city. He was up against Platt's political
organization, and the mayor, elected on a reform platform,
did not always back him up, afraid of losing the working
man's vote. An election loomed, one Mayor Low did not want
to lose. Bragg fought it all, alone.

She knew he would never give up.

And all this with his wife lying in the hospital, the victim
of a tragic carriage accident. "I heard that Leigh Anne will
be going home soon," she suddenly said, reaching for his
hand without thinking about it. He started as her fingers
closed over his, and realizing what she had done, she
quickly released him.

"Yes. In fact, they will release her tomorrow." He looked away.

Francesca knew him so well—or once she had. Now she could
not tell whether it was grief or guilt that made him flinch
and turn away. "Thank God she regained consciousness within
days," Francesca whispered, a small hurt inside her heart.
Why couldn't she simply hug him and hold him close? He
needed to be comforted, that much she knew. She might be
engaged to another man, but she would always love Rick, too.

He was grim and he did not speak.

"Is the prognosis the same?" she asked. She had gone to the
hospital several times, but in the end had only visited with
the rest of the Braggs, who had been coming and going to see
Leigh Anne, and not with Leigh Anne herself. She had been
afraid of her reception; she had not wanted to upset the
other woman, either.

"She will never walk again." His tone was flat, final. He
glanced past her at the victim. "If this is the work of the
so-called 'Slasher,' then we have a serial killer on the
loose." He walked over to the bed.

Francesca followed until they both stood within feet of the
victim. "But the first two victims survived, if the reports
I have read were correct."

He grimly surveyed the body in the bed. The sheets were a
cheap coarse cotton, and except for the bloodstains, freshly
laundered. The woman's hair was undone and some of it lay
across her neck. "They did survive. Both attacks were one
week apart, exactly, each on subsequent Mondays."

"Oh dear," Francesca said, intrigued in spite of the
terrible tragedy she was witness to. The reporters had
failed to note that. "Was this woman killed yesterday?"

"She was found at noon today. But I am going to hazard a
guess that she was killed last night, Francesca." He gave
her a significant look.

If the woman had been in her underclothes, then she had been
murdered either first thing in the morning, or in the
evening before bed. "Rick, I had read that the first two
victims were Irishwomen in their twenties. Is that true?"

He leaned over the woman and moved her long, tangled dark
red hair away from her neck. Her throat was brutally slit.
Francesca wanted to gag; instead, she closed her eyes and
breathed hard. No matter how many cases she had, she was
certain she would never grow accustomed to violence and
death. Of course, there had only been six investigations
thus far. Her career as a sleuth had begun last January when
her neighbor's son had been abducted. She had tried to help,
never imagining how it would change her life.

Bragg straightened. "Both victims were Irishwomen in their
twenties, yes. Both were estranged from their spouses. From
the look of this cut, I would say the Slasher has been at
work again, but this time with deadly results."

Francesca stared, forgetting all about her fiance. She
fought her queasiness. "This woman is not Irish. The name
Cooper is as American as apple pie."

"A pattern remains. Three attractive young women, each
without means, assaulted on subsequent Mondays."

Francesca agreed. "Do you think she was killed accidentally?
Or is murder now the Slasher's intent?"

"I have no idea. But if she was murdered Monday, and if the
Slasher holds true to the course he has set, there will be
another victim in six days exactly." He faced her and their
gazes met.

"We will find this killer, Bragg. And I do mean it."

He started and, finally, began to smile at her. "If anyone
can find him, you can."

She was thrilled at the gesture of intimacy and she smiled
back. "I also assume the Slasher is a man, but we cannot
rule out a woman. Remember, the Cross Killer turned out to
be Lizzie O'Brien," she said, referring to a previous case.

"Of course I remember," he said, and then his expression
changed and she thought he was remembering everything that
had once been between them. He cleared his throat. "The two
previous victims were Kate Sullivan and Francis O'Leary.
Neither woman saw the Slasher, as he assaulted them from
behind. But it was a man."

She nodded. "Who alerted the police?"

"A Mrs. O'Neil found her. Apparently, she has the flat next
door."

Francesca stiffened. "Bragg! Not Gwen O'Neil?" An image of
the striking redhead assailed her mind.

His tawny eyebrows lifted. "Yes, that is her name. And she
is at headquarters. She is very upset," he added. "Do you
know her?"

She seized his arm. "Not only do I know her, you know her,
too!"