He smiled at her. "Darling, if you adopt a stray for every case you investigate, we really will need to turn my home into a hotel."

"Just agree, please," she said.

"Of course I agree." He was reflective. "I know an Irishman named Randolph. He comes from a very old, well-established family and he shares a shipping venture with an English cousin.

We met in Istanbul and renewed our acquaintance in London. Of course, even though he isheir to an Irish earldom, I doubt he was Gwen O'Neil's employer." "That would be an amazing coincidence," Francesca said as she rang the doorbell. "Washis home near Limerick?" "I really don't know. I know he had a manor somewhere in Ireland, but as I said, he also kepta home in London and that is where we met the second time." He added, "He was actually ahandsome fellow, but his reputation was rather dour." Before Francesca could ask him what he meant, the door was opened and Sam Wilsonstood there. He started at the sight of them. "h.e.l.lo," Francesca said brightly. "May we come in?" "Yes, of course, although it is very early," Wilson said, stepping aside with a smile. Heseemed bewildered by their presence. "It's well past nine," Hart said as they followed him into the shop. "What time do you open?" "If a customer knocks-I thought you were customers-I will accommodate him or her. Butotherwise, we open our doors at noon." He paused by the display counter. "I use the morningto work on repairs in the back." Francesca studied him closely. He could be considered tall by someone as small as Kate,but he wasn't particularly so. He certainly wasn't Irish, but then, they did not know that theman Maggie had met on the street was the killer-she might have b.u.mped into an innocentpa.s.serby. She looked at his hands and was surprised that today he wore a ring on his lefthand. If the killer were right-handed, he had worn the ring on his left hand, too. She stared. The ring was gold but there was no stone. The center had a flat smooth surfacewith some engraving upon it Witnesses and victims often mistook, and sometimes wildly,the details of the crime. Francesca wondered if his ring, at night, in a shadowy flat, mightlook as if it had a stone in it. She wondered how she could get into his closet and look at his clothes. "We actually stopped by last night," Hart said, giving her an odd look. Clearly he hadexpected her to do the questioning. They had decided not to tell Wilson that the police hadtried to round him up. They would proceed very quietly, without putting him on the defensive. She tried to signal her discovery to him by glancing pointedly at Wilson's hand and morespecifically at his ring. But Hart appeared exasperated-he did not understand. "Last night? You stopped by my shop last night?" Wilson seemed very surprised. And he didnot comment on the fact that he had not been at home. Francesca stepped forward. "I recalled some questions I wished to ask you," she said. Shehadn't decided whether to reveal Kate's murder or not. "Oh," was his response. She became impatient. "Actually, we tried your door for some time-but you were not athome." He blinked. His expression did not change. "Of course I was at home," he said after an oddpause. "I beg to differ. We rang the doorbell repeatedly-we even banged on the door," Hart said,repeating the account given by the police officers who had failed to locate Wilson at hishome last night. "I was working in my shop," he said, turning pale. "I was engrossed-I undoubtedly did nothear you at the front door." That was a lie if Francesca had ever heard one. "May we see your repair shop? Perhapsyou could show us what you were working on." He stiffened. "What is this about? Why are you asking me questions about last night? Isimply did not hear the door." "Please humor my fiancee," Hart said with a very serious expression. Wilson clearly thought about throwing them out. Then, as clearly, he decided not to goagainst Hart. "Come with me," he said.

As they followed him through a back door, Francesca slowed her steps, pulling Hart back with her. "In his shop, occupy him. I want to search his bedroom," she whispered.

"Absolutely not!"

"Just keep him occupied," she said, and then she realized that Wilson held another door open. A stairwell on his right clearly led to the living quarters above the shop.

"Right in here," he said.

Francesca walked into a good-size room. There were two tables in it, both the size of dining tables, each covered with clocks and watches in all stages of repair. The oddest a.s.sortment of tools and gadgets, all miniature in size, were located on a tray on the closest table.

"This clock is seventeenth-century Italian," Wilson said with reverence. He showed them a large clock in bronze with a gilded face and pearl hands. "The owner brought it in very recently. She was a lovely girl, recently widowed, and the clock belonged to her husband's family. I simply must get it running for her, as it has so much sentimental value now."

As Hart commented upon how elegant the clock was, Francesca glanced around. The back windows opened out onto the gardens Wilson had spoken of. A swing was beneath the single oak tree, some of his roses were in bloom, and there was a small cast-iron table, two chairs and a badminton net. When Francis married Wilson, she would have a wonderful home. "Excuse me, is there a rest room I could use?"

"Of course," Wilson said, startled. "Just up those stairs, first door on your left."

Francesca gave Hart a warning look and hurried out.

Once upstairs, she ignored the bathroom, a simple affair with a walnut vanity, porcelain sink and water closet. The parlor was cheerful and cozy, the striped sofa facing a brick hearth.

She pushed open a door and found, to her surprise, a small salon with a large piano. Did Wilson play? She quickly went to the remaining door and stepped into his bedroom.

He had opened the pale muslin draperies and sunlight streamed into a pleasant room of medium size, the walls covered in a green-and-white striped paper. The bed was dark oak, almost black, with four posters and a heavily engraved headboard. The bedspread was a green print, covering the pillows, with one decorative emerald neck roll atop that. The bed was so precisely made that she had to wonder if he had even slept there last night.

She went to the walnut bureau and studied the single photograph. It was of his wife, she a.s.sumed, a plain woman with a pretty smile and sweet, kind brown eyes. Then she moved to his closet.

There were three suits hanging there, but not one was charcoal gray.

Of course, Kate could have been wrong. The suit could have been brown or black-and he had two very dark brown suits hanging in his closet.

Francesca thought she heard a noise on the stairs and she jumped. She quickly pushed closed the closet door and ran across the bedroom to the door, then peeked out.

Wilson was not standing there in the salon, staring accusingly at her.

She took a breath and exhaled. She had found nothing of value, she thought grimly. Then she corrected herself. Wilson did wear a gold ring.

And where had he been last night?

An idea struck her with stunning force.

Very quietly, making sure each step was soundless, Francesca went downstairs. As she did so, their voices became louder. Hart remained in the repair shop with Wilson, encouraging him to explain the intricacies of clockwork to him. Good man, Francesca thought, and she fled down the hall and into the front shop.

There, she did not pause. She went outside, closed the door and rang the doorbell just once.

A moment pa.s.sed and Wilson opened it. His pleasant smile vanished the moment he saw her.

But Francesca smiled at him.

He could hear the doorbell from his shop, oh yes, he could.

Wilson had lied.

Hart had left her at headquarters after gaining a promise from her that she would not leave Mulberry Street until Raoul had returned to take her wherever she chose. His appointment with the amba.s.sador was at half-past twelve, and with midday traffic, it could take him an hour to get to Bridge Street. Francesca had wished him a successful interview and had proceeded upstairs to Bragg's office.

Unfortunately, she found him with the chief of police, Brendan Fair.

She hesitated in the open doorway, the strangest feeling of dread instantly forming in her chest. Both men were seated, and Bragg was the first to see her. He stood with a smile.

"Come in."

Fair turned and also stood, his smile barely discernible and not reaching his cold gray eyes.

"I did not mean to interrupt," Francesca said.

"You are not interrupting," Bragg said firmly, leading her in. "Farr had Maggie look at the mug book this morning. She did not recognize anyone."

Francesca stared at Farr and imagined him knocking at Maggie's door with some of his bullies at an unG.o.dly hour and forcing her to go to headquarters. "Was she late for work?"

There was no way she could have been on time, as Maggie's shift started at eight in the morning.

Farr smiled at her. "We have a murder to solve, Miz Cahill. Two murders, actually."

"I hope her supervisor was understanding." Francesca heard how cool her own tone was.

Fair's smile never moved. "Mrs. Kennedy seems smart enough. I imagine she's taken care of herself all these years, with no man to look after her and not even you, and she can do so now."

Francesca decided to ignore him, making a mental note to make certain that Maggie had not been dismissed for her tardiness. "When you have a moment, I'd like to speak to you."

"We're almost through. Why don't you wait outside." Bragg's gaze met hers and it was calm, rock steady and oddly rea.s.suring.

And Francesca was relieved. Whatever game Farr was playing, Bragg would figure it out and do what he had to do to take care of matters. Farr wasn't half as intelligent as Rick, but she knew better than to underestimate him.

"I understand that Miz Cahill is working on the case," Farr said flatly. "Do you have some information that would be useful to us?"

"I'm afraid I know nothing more than you." She hesitated. "What are you going to do about Sam Wilson?"

Farr smiled. "He should be here at any moment. I sent two men to his shop to bring him downtown. Meanwhile, we are trying very hard to locate John Sullivan. He seems to have disappeared after not paying the rent at his last known address."

"Well, you are the city's finest. I am sure you will find him," Francesca said.

Farr saluted her. "Anything else, C'mish?"

Bragg told him no, and a moment later they were alone.

He closed the door and faced her. "What have you learned?"

"Wilson gave me a false alibi. We saw him this morning, an hour ago, really, and he claimed to have been in his repair shop last night." Francesca then proceeded to tell him what had happened.

"That was clever," Bragg said. "What do you think?"

"In spite of Kate's belief that the Slasher is a gentleman and a foreign one, he could be our man." She frowned. "It's just that there is something off about him."

He accepted that. Then, "It was the Slasher last night. Same knife, same dull blade, a right-handed a.s.sault."

"Does the coroner have any idea if she was cut after she died or not?"

"No. He shed no clues on the sequence of the a.s.sault. But he found some dark gray thread under Kate's nails."

"Kate insisted the Slasher wore a dark gray suit. Charcoal, to be exact."

Bragg nodded. "I know." Francesca suddenly sat down. "Poor Kate-and poor Francis, if Wilson is our man!" "We need to locate John Sullivan, even if he is only a carpenter and not a gentleman." "Yes, we do. Have you spoken with David Hanrahan?" "Yes. He has a rather solid alibi-he was drinking with two pals at a waterfront bar last night.Both men have corroborated his story. However, they are highly disreputable types, and Ipersonally believe he could have conned or bribed them into saying anything he wished." "What you are saying is that David remains a suspect," Francesca said. "Wouldn't you agree?" "Yes, but I can't shake the feeling, Bragg, that the Slasher is a gentleman, in a hat and adark gray suit with an elegant gold ring." "Wilson isn't elegant." "No, he isn't, but he is hiding something, I would bet a small fortune on it." "Hart's?" He actually joked. "Hmm. He might not appreciate that. Besides, apparently his fortune is rather large. How areyou, anyway?" He hesitated. "Would you call on Leigh Anne?" "Yes, of course. I said I would and I should love to do so." She stood. "Is she having a difficulttime?" "Yes, an extremely difficult time. And I feel helpless. I can't rea.s.sure her-I don't know how." "Just tell her that you love her, that you always have and always will," Francesca said softly. He made a sound of disgust. "That is easy for you to say!" "But if it is how you feel-" "I don't know how I feel anymore and I am tired of trying to decide what, exactly, I am feeling,"he cried. She started in real surprise. "I'm sorry," he apologized instantly. "That was uncalled for." "I'll visit tomorrow," Francesca said, touching him lightly. He smiled at her. "Thank you." Francesca smiled back. She took his hand and squeezed it. A police officer that she did not recognize poked his head in. "C'mish, sir! Newman sentme-we got a lead." His eyes were huge and he was flushed with excitement. Francesca dropped her hand. Bragg said, "What is it?" "We found Sullivan. But there's a problem." He took a breath. "He's dead."

Chapter 15.

Friday, April 25, 1902.

1:00 p.m.

Hart was going over the representation he intended to make to support his growing monopoly of the trade in gold bullion from Hong Kong when his personal clerk stepped in. "Sir?" Edwards was flushing a deep shade of crimson. Hart could not gather why. He sat back casually in his chair. "Send Sir Lawrence in." Edwards, a young, fair man, turned an even brighter shade of red. "The amba.s.sador is not here yet. There is a woman- a lady-to see you." As Edwards and his entire staff knew to admit Francesca with no formalities, he was mildly bemused. "Does she have a name?" "Yes, sir." Edwards fought to breathe. "Miss Jones." He was very surprised-and he was not an easy man to surprise. Only Francesca had the ability to consistently do that. But then, she was entirely unpredictable and it was one of the reasons he found her so intriguing. He now paused. Daisy had never before come to his office. Nor should she-it was out of the question to have his mistress or ex-mistress anywhere near his place of business. It was not about morality or convention, although for another man it might be. Hart had no time for any dalliance when he was immersed in his business affairs. He hadn't seen her in almost a month. He sent her the allowance he had promised her and paid her bills. He had not a clue as to the cause of her sudden appearance at Bridge Street. "Send her in," he finally said. Daisy walked into his office, every bit as gorgeous as he remembered, in the most ethereal way. She seemed to float as she moved, as if she could defy gravity with her slim, sensual body. He studied her clinically; his manner had always been objective toward every woman he met. There was only one woman who had so swiftly and easily swept aside that particular barrier, and that was Francesca. He could never look at her and feel even remotely detached about her presence, her appearance or her behavior and affairs. Daisy was beautiful and if he were not on the verge of wedlock, he would still be enjoying her favors. There would be no reason not to. But he was engaged, and so thoroughly distracted and preoccupied by his future bride that he could not find the remotest desire for the other woman. Then again, in the past few years his desire had become clinical, too: a matter of function, a means to pa.s.s the time, a means of escape from the gray that was his life. He stood and approached her, taking her hand and politely kissing it, his lips never making contact with her skin. "Good afternoon. I must admit, you have succeeded in surprising me by your call." Daisy had dressed very well for the occasion in an expensive pale blue gown that was modest, fashionable and elegant. Still, any man would know with a single glance that Daisy was not a lady. She smiled softly at him. "I do hope it is a welcome surprise. After all, we remain friends." He had but one friend, his fiancee, but he did not dispute her. "Frankly, I never mix business with pleasure. But I a.s.sume there is some urgency to your cause, otherwise I know you would not have ventured so far afield, much less to my place of business." "I'm afraid I have disturbed you," Daisy said, downcast. "I apologize, Calder, but I did not think it appropriate to call on you at home." He folded his arms across his chest, sensing a new game in the making. But why would Daisy think to play with him when he continued to be so generous with her? She remained in the house he had bought for her, and would do so for another three months until their agreement was over. "If you had sent me a note, I would have made an appointment and called on you." He grew impatient. "I have a significant meeting, Daisy, so I suggest you tell me why you have called." "May we shut the door?" she asked, appearing somewhat hurt. He wasn't moved. "I see no reason to cause gossip," he said. He hardly feared being alone with her-in fact, his lack of desire was amazing, considering he had once slept with every beautiful woman who was not of good character who dared cross his path-but he did not want Francesca hurt by gossip. "First, I wanted to tell you how truly happy I am for you. You have been nothing but kind and generous with me and you deserve a wonderful woman like Francesca," she said so earnestly another man would have believed her. But he did not. She was standing in his place of business for a reason, and he wanted to get to it now. "Thank you." She went to him and took his hands in hers. "But I miss you, Calder, I really miss all the time we have shared," she said so softly that anyone pa.s.sing in the corridor beyond his open door wouldn't hear. He moved away from her. "If you have come to seduce me, I would rethink my position. I promised Francesca that I would be loyal to her, and I have no intention of breaking that vow." She stepped back, her thin shoulders squaring, her chin jerking high. Was that anger he saw in her eyes? She had no reason to be angry with him. She was a wh.o.r.e, very beautiful and somehow elegant, but a wh.o.r.e nonetheless. He knew her background was genteel, although he had never asked her story, but she had chosen to sell her body and could expect nothing except for gifts, cash and favors in return. It was a moment before she spoke. "I saw Francesca the other day." He stilled. He sensed an attack on Francesca and that would be a very dangerous mistake. "Really?" Daisy smiled a little. "In the Lord and Taylor store. That is a stunning ring you gave her. You must be smitten." "Is there a point?" Daisy shrugged a little, but she said, "She seemed so radiant, so in love with you, Calder." In spite of his resolve to remain in control of himself, his heart leaped. If Francesca did love him, after all, he realized suddenly how thrilled he would be. Daisy looked at him almost slyly. "Rose and I have been so concerned for her, because she is so naive. We really thought she would never be able to manage you, but clearly we were wrong." "That's right," he said. "As I have no intention of being the kind of man that Francesca must manage." She smiled and laughed. "You need not worry. She appeared radiant, but that must have been due to another cause. Francesca made it clear that she is not really in love. She is only marrying you because she cannot marry Bragg. But you already know that, don't you?" He tensed. He knew d.a.m.n well he should not continue this conversation. "Is that what she said?" And there was dread, but also anger. "Very directly, I might add." Daisy came up to him and laid her small hands on his shoulders, pressing her slim, trembling body against his. "How ironic this is! We both know you are the last man in the world to be faithful to any woman, yet you have promised fidelity to Francesca. But she is in love with someone else." She shook her head, her expression at once dismayed-as if she cared-and disbelieving. He set her away, refusing to be shaken. "Do you really think to seduce me back to your bed with these antics? Francesca and I are basing our marriage on friendship and respect, not love." "Yes, that is exactly what she said. And I won't pretend I don't miss you in my bed, Calder. How could I not?" She stared, no longer smiling. "You are the first man to awaken me. You are the first man to genuinely give me pleasure." Her voice had dropped, turning husky. It was hard to pay attention to Daisy now. All he could think about was whether or not Francesca had really said that she was marrying him for friendship and respect-and only because she could not have his d.a.m.n half brother. Even though he knew he was being conned by his ex-mistress, he could not stop thinking about it. He knew d.a.m.n well that this was what Daisy wanted-to interfere in his relationship with Francesca, although he could not consider why in that moment. Could Francesca have really shared such a confidence with his ex-mistress? Such an ingenuous utterance sounded exactly like his impulsive fiancee. "I'm afraid those days are over." He was abrupt. "I gave my word to Francesca and I intend to keep it." He heard himself speak as if he were an outsider viewing the scene. Did she still really love Rick? After all the times she had been in Hart's arms? Was it at all possible? And he closed his eyes, trying to thwart the anger, but his heart pumped with it. d.a.m.n it. He had to admit that he had started to think that finally she was falling in love with him. He wanted her to love him, not Rick Bragg. And he was so stunned by his comprehension that briefly he could not even breathe. Daisy said, her tone harsh, "Darling, do you really think to reform for a woman who doesn't even love you?" And she cut into his brooding the way a whip cuts into naked flesh. He met her gaze but it was too late. He had realized what he wanted, what he needed, and it was going to be his Achilles heel. And before he could comment, she said, half smiling in a twisted way, "I know who you are. No one knows who you are better than I do. Because we are exactly the same." "That is hardly true," he said, shaken to the core of his being. He didn't need to be loved-hedidn't want love, not from anyone! "No?" Now she smiled widely. "We both know you are going to become bored with yourvirgin bride. It's only a matter of time. Come, Calder. You're the man who has spent a dozennights in my bed-with Rose there as well. We both know you hate the mundane, theordinary." He started and memories he did not want flooded him then. He had shared Daisy's bedseveral times with her lover, Rose. There had been other times in his life, in Europe, whenhe had s.e.xually indulged himself with more than one woman. But he hadn't given a thoughtto such decadence in a long time-not since he had met Francesca. The boredom, theennui, the growing disinterest in s.e.x-all of which had led him to such occasions-hadmiraculously vanished. Now, he felt paralyzed. Daisy had just verbalized his worstfears-fears he had not dared admit even to himself. He had once had a dark s.e.xual sideand he was afraid he had merely repressed it; that it would never die. He was horrified. Daisy laughed softly, touching his arm. "You are the most darkly sensual and s.e.xual man Iknow. That dark side will never disappear because it is who you are! So why bother? Whybother to give a woman who doesn't even love you such an absurd promise? It's a promiseyou cannot keep." And the fury came, so huge it shocked him. "Get out." His heart was racing with terrible forceas he seized her arm, dragging her to the door. "You have gone too far," he said, very low."You may pack your things, Daisy, and vacate the premises of my house immediately." She stiffened in shock, impossibly pale. "But you know I am right! You know Francesca willsoon bore you! And then what will you do? You will come back to me, or Rose, or someoneelse, won't you?" "Edwards!" he said furiously, shaking. "Show Miss Jones out." Edwards appeared, flushing. "Miss Jones?" Daisy's expression hardened. "Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps you will merely corruptFrancesca to satisfy your appet.i.tes. She is a very curious woman, isn't she? Who knows?Maybe you will show her that she has her own dark side!" He stalked into his office, slamming the door closed behind him. And only then did he tearloose his tie and breathe. But the room had become airless, claustrophobic. He stormed toa window and shoved it wide. The fresh air, tinged with sweet salt, did not help. He grippedthe sill, panting. She was right. He was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d in every sense of the word, a s.e.xually depraved man with no moralitywhatsoever, a man with a huge and ugly past, and she had just proven it, hadn't she?Because no matter how hard he tried, images he did not want were haunting him now. He covered his face with his hands. He was such a fool, thinking he could change, wantingto change-wanting to become someone else, someone better, finer, someone n.o.ble for awoman who did not even love him.

For a woman who loved his own brother.

Well, it was over now.

A leopard simply could not change his spots.

But now he was afraid. The last thing he wished to do was drag Francesca down into the gutter with him.

They went across town en ma.s.se, with Inspector Newman and Chief Farr. Two roundsmen and a junior detective were at the scene when the foursome arrived there. John Sullivan's flat was just off of Eighth Avenue in a particularly squalid ward.

Francesca glimpsed a single room with two bunk beds, a stove, sink and rickety table withfour chairs. She instantly saw Sullivan and she halted in her tracks. Bragg crashed into herand his arm went around her. "Christ," he said. The body which had belonged to Kate's husband lay on the floor near the table, half of hishead resembling the smashed pulp of a watermelon. "Oh G.o.d," she cried, seriously ill,turning away and into Bragg's arms. Bragg held her for another moment. "You don't have to come in," he said quietly. "Let thepolice handle this." Francesca fought to recover her composure and not to retch. She held his eyes as hereleased her. "What happened?" "Shot in the head," Farr intoned. Francesca turned but made no move to enter the tiny, sordid room. She avoided gazing atthe body but Fair knelt over him, Newman standing behind him. "Yeah, he was shotpoint-blank," Farr remarked. "In the side of the head, from the look of it, at real close range." She wondered if Chief Farr had any feelings. Francesca had to look-peripherally. "Is heholding a gun?" she asked, glimpsing the dead man's right hand and the gleaming blackweapon there. "He sure is," Farr said cheerfully. He stood. "It's been fired, too, from the smell of it, and I'llbet that bullet is the one lodged somewhere in his head." "What?" Francesca gasped. "It might be a suicide. It sure looks like one. You agree, C'mish?" "Suicide!" Francesca said, stunned. "I think we should examine the weapon he is holding and the bullet in Sullivan's head beforeleaping to any conclusions. Newman, make a sweep. Perhaps that is not the murderweapon. If it is not a suicide, I want to find the gun that killed this man." "Yes, sir," Newman said, rapidly leaving the flat. As he did so, he almost collided with a very thin man with dirty-blond hair, not much olderthan Francesca. He gripped the door as if to keep standing upright, crying out, "What theh.e.l.l happened?" Bragg walked over to the interloper as one of the roundsmen in the hall moved to block hispath, making no effort to be discreet. "Are you a neighbor?" Bragg asked. The man turned away, as white as a sheet. Francesca went to a window and yanked it wide open. She breathed in deeply, her mindracing in disbelief. Had Sullivan killed himself? And if so, why? Was his murder related tothat of his wife's? She heard the man finally say, shaken, "No. I live here. What happened toSullivan?" "I'm afraid he's dead," Bragg said. "And you are?" "Ron Ames." "Let's step outside. We need to ask you a few questions." Francesca turned as Bragg and Ames stepped into the hall. Farr was rummaging throughsome drawers and Francesca wondered what he was looking for. He finally produced aframed photograph that had been hidden amongst some other items. It was a photo of Kate.She was smiling and holding the hand of a young man in a dark suit. He seemed a bit olderthan herself. "Who's the gentleman?" she asked. "Don't know," Farr said in inordinately good spirits. Seized with avid dislike, Francesca stepped outside. Ames was saying, "About a year.Yeah, we been rooming together about a year, and a few months ago Josh Bennett leaseda bed with us. The fourth bunk is empty." "Do you know any reason why Sullivan would commit suicide?" Bragg asked. Ames shrugged. He had recovered his composure remarkably, and his pallor had eased."Why wouldn't he? He's been out of work for months, he's behind on the rent he owes me,fer crissakes, he got no woman, he got nothing but the booze." Francesca stepped forward. "Did he ever refer to his wife?"

"Kate?" Francesca was surprised Ames knew her name. "Yes, Kate." "Yeah, he spoke about her every time he got drunk-that is, just about every night." Amesgrinned. "Do the police have women on the force now?" Francesca glanced at Bragg, not bothering to answer. Here was something, then. "How longwere they separated?" "Since before he met me. Over a year, I guess. You a police woman?" "I am a sleuth, Mr. Ames. But yes, I am working with the police. Did he still love her?"Francesca asked briskly. And Ames thought that was amusing, because he laughed, hard. "Love her? I don't think so,miss. He hated her, he did. He hated her with a vengeance, in fact, for being such a s.l.u.t, forwalking out on him. All he ever talked about was how he couldn't wait for the day that she gothers."

They sat in the Daimler in front of police headquarters, making no move to get out.

Francesca's mind was racing and she knew that Bragg was immersed in his own thoughts, too. She finally twisted to face him. "Do you think it's a suicide?"

"It certainly appears that way, but we will know within a few hours for certain." His gaze locked with hers.

"He hated her with a vengeance, Bragg."

"I know. I heard-I was there."

"Could Sullivan have been the Slasher?"

Bragg smiled a little at her. "What brings you to that conclusion?"

"He hated Kate with a vengeance."

"So you are thinking that John Sullivan is the Slasher?"

"We need to go back to his flat and see if he has a suit in the closet."

"There was no closet, and I did not see a suit on the wall pegs, but just about every working man has a Sunday suit."

"Of course you're right." She stared grimly at the police wagon parked in front of them.

He touched her hand. "Why a.s.sault her and let her live? Why a.s.sault Francis first? Why kill Margaret Cooper? And why go back to finish off his wife if she was the one he hated enough to murder all along?"

"Bragg, those are my questions exactly. But consider this scenario. Maybe the a.s.saults began as acts of anger, without the intention of murder. But then his rage escalated and he killed Margaret Cooper-and it felt good in his sick mind. So he went back to finish off the real target of his twisted rage- his wife."

"That is a credible theory," Bragg said. "And now he killed himself in belated grief?"

"Or belated guilt," she said very seriously. Then she recognized the carriage parked at the end of the street. It was a very handsome black affair drawn by six black horses. She started. "Oh dear! I promised Hart I would wait for Raoul to return before I went anywhere! In the heat of the moment, I simply forgot."

"So Raoul is now your driver?"

She glanced at him to gauge his reaction to that fact, but his expression was impossible to read. "I think Hart intends for him to be more of a bodyguard than anything else," she said.

"I heartily hope so," Bragg said. "Raoul was one of the Rough Riders in the war for Cuba's independence. In fact, he was a part of a secret operations unit and he is a very skillful man."

Francesca could only stare. "Hart never mentioned it."

Bragg shrugged and got out of the motorcar. As he came around for her door, he said, "You should take advantage of the situation. Raoul could certainly be useful to you in your various adventures."