Connie slowly shook her head, as if still dazed. "And Hart blames you for not showing up at the wedding? Is he mad? Doesn't he realize what this means?"

Hart was too clever to not understand the danger she was in. Knowing that, Francesca was frightened-by the fact that he hadn't rushed to her defense. "I think I have hurt him terribly, Con. Otherwise, he would surely be trying to recover the portrait and protect me." She turned and walked back to the window, hiding behind a drapery as she peered out. Her heart was racing. "I am going to Sarah's. It is going to be very unpleasant, trying to get out of the house."

Connie came up behind her. "What about Hart?"

She realized she was so afraid to contact him that day. "I'll telephone first, to see if he is in. If he is, I will call on him and smooth things over."

Connie took her hand. Francesca clung to it.

BUT HART HADN'T been in, so instead, Francesca decided to use the Cahill coach and driver to go across town to the city's rather forsaken west side. Fortunately, Julia was not downstairs when she left. Andrew did not need the carriage until later, and Francesca promised to return it by noon. As for the newsmen, she ignored their questions. Everyone had wanted to know what had happened and if the wedding would be rescheduled.

"Have you changed your mind about marrying Calder Hart? Did you deliberately jilt him?" Arthur Kurland had cried, raising his voice above the din made by his peers.

Francesca had turned to look at him as Jennings closed her carriage door. "No, Mr. Kurland, I did not jilt my fiance."

"So the wedding is on?" he asked with a sly smile.

She hesitated as Jennings climbed into the carriage's driver's seat. "Of course the wedding is on," she said as the carriage began to rumble away.

The drive through Central Park should have been lovely, with flowers in bloom everywhere and birds singing from the leafy treetops, a few ladies and gentlemen strolling arm in arm, a cyclist pedaling along the carriage path. Francesca hardly noticed. She must not think about those damn newsmen and tomorrow's headlines. She tried to focus on the upcoming interview with her friend, Sarah Channing. Instead, she kept worrying about Hart.

Alfred had finally admitted to her that he hadn't come home last night.

Eventually she arrived at the Channings' gothic mansion. She would concentrate on the matter of the stolen portrait, at least for a few hours. Ignoring the house's abundant turrets and towers, not to mention gargoyles, Francesca went to the front door, where she was greeted by a servant. She had barely asked for Sarah when the young brunette artist came rushing into the front hall. "Francesca! I have been so worried about you!"

Francesca allowed herself to be embraced. She had be come fond of Sarah in the past few months. When they had first met, she had assumed Sarah to be a rather unintelligent, very shy and boringly meek young woman. But she had quickly realized just how bohemian Sarah was and how much they had in common. During the course of posing for her portrait, they had become friends. Sarah was as eccentric as Francesca-she lived for her art-it was just not obvious at first sight. "Sarah, I found my portrait yesterday in a gallery off Washington Square."

Sarah gasped. Before she could speak, Francesca clasped her shoulder, pulling her aside toward a huge Venetian mirror. "I was lured there and locked in. That is why I missed the wedding. When Bragg and I returned, several hours later, the portrait was gone."

Sarah paled. "I wish I had never agreed to paint you unclothed."

"Now you are blaming yourself?" Francesca was shocked.

"Francesca, that portrait was stolen from my studio, in my house." Sarah paced, agitated. Her long, curly brown hair was casually pinned up, and chunks of it were falling down. She was simply clad in a shirtwaist and dark skirt, as was Francesca. She had obviously been in her studio, because there was a smudge of charcoal on her cheek. She wore no jewelry. "Because of the damn portrait, you have missed your wedding!" She faced her, dark eyes ablaze.

"I wanted to pose provocatively and you know it." Francesca went over to her. Several trophy heads-a lion, an elephant and an antelope-were above them now. The late Richard Wyeth Channing had been a world-renowned big-game hunter. "Bragg and I have become active in this investigation, Sarah. The thief has surfaced. He or she did not wish for me to marry, clearly. I was hoping to ask you some questions."

"Of course," Sarah said, her gaze attentive. "But, Francesca, do you think the thief a woman?"

"I am not sure, but Solange Marceaux escaped the police when we apprehended Murphy and dismantled his child prostitution ring. I crossed paths with her once, Sarah. She is a dangerous woman-and not particularly fond of me."

Sarah hugged herself. "I recall you telling me all about it. You are lucky to be alive. But I don't think that Solange would care about your wedding, Francesca. If she has the portrait, she means to destroy you with it."

Francesca stared thoughtfully. Preventing her marriage to Hart might have been incidental to the greater motive of destroying her reputation. Sarah was right; Solange wouldn't give a damn if Francesca married Hart. Her interest would be in the kind of vengeance that ruining Francesca could achieve.

"Do you have other suspects?" Sarah asked.

She smiled grimly. "We have a rather attenuated list," she replied, thinking of Bill Randall and his mother. If time allowed, she would try to see Henrietta Randall later in the day. But it was a bit of a trek to Blackwell's Island, where the woman was imprisoned, and she did not think much would come of the trip. She wondered how either of the Randalls would have ever learned of her portrait. Solange Marceaux's knowledge, if she was their thief, was also a mystery.

"What does Hart think?"

It was hard to meet Sarah's gaze now and she felt herself flush. "I'm not sure."

"Francesca? What does that mean?"

She turned away. "It means that he isn't speaking to me right now."

Sarah cried out, rushing to face her. "Now I feel even worse than before. I should have kept my studio locked-I knew how compromising that portrait was. Oh, he must be so angry, to have been stood up at the altar."

Just then, she didn't have the will to tell Sarah that it wasn't her fault. In a way, every single one of them had had a hand in the portrait's theft. "I am hoping Hart will realize that I never meant to hurt or humiliate him."

Sarah began shaking her head. "At least he truly loves you."

Francesca prayed that was the case.

Sarah seized her hands, as if she sensed Francesca's doubt. "Francesca, he adores you. And rightly so, as you are the most unique of women!"

Pain stabbed through her breast. She would corner him that evening when he came home, as she feared confronting him in his office during business hours. The evening felt as if it was a lifetime from now. "Can we discuss the weekend that the portrait vanished? I have to find that portrait, Sarah, and lock it up."

"Of course we can. But I have already answered dozens of questions. And as much as I hate to admit it, Francesca, the portrait must be destroyed."

Francesca said grimly, "You are undoubtedly right, and that is so generous of you. I know you spoke with Hart's investigators, but I wasn't present. When did you first realize that the portrait was gone?"

Sarah blinked. "Francesca, you were with Bragg at headquarters when I called the police. I discovered the portrait gone on Sunday afternoon, as you know. It was about one o'clock."

The call had come in at 2:00 p.m. "And how did you learn that it was missing? Did you go to your studio and realize it was gone? What was the state of your studio when you went inside? Was anything else taken? Was anything askew? Was the door open or closed-and how did you last leave it?" She knew she must slow down, but her natural enthusiasm had surfaced. She was truly at her best when focused on a case.

Sarah recited patiently, "I always close the door, but it was wide-open. I was instantly alarmed. I only ask for the maids to clean the space perhaps every other month or so. As the studio had been cleaned the week before, I knew immediately that someone had gone inside. The first thing I saw was that the easel with your portrait was empty. I kept it front and center, Francesca, but covered with a cloth. The cloth was on the floor, the easel upright. Everything else seemed untouched."

Francesca had taken a writing tablet from her purse and was making notes. Sarah continued. "Francesca, I have told Hart's investigators and the police all this more than once."

She froze. "You spoke to the police?"

Sarah started. "How could I not speak to the police, when Chief Farr came here personally to investigate?"

Francesca gasped. Bragg had not notified the police of the theft. They had been afraid that a policeman would find and see the portrait, and that word of its existence would come to light. There was simply far too much corruption in the police department.

"Why are you standing there as if shocked?" Sarah asked, bewildered.

She inhaled. For some reason, ever since they had first met, Chief Farr had taken a terrible dislike to her, mostly because she was a woman who dared to investigate crimes both with and without the police. He considered her an intruder in a man's world, and an intruder in police affairs. He had made it clear that his view of women and their place in society was antiquated and traditional; Francesca knew he also judged her relationship with Bragg and condemned it. He certainly disliked her influence upon him. With every passing investigation, his once-veiled hostility had become clearer and more obvious.

"Sarah, what did Farr say when he came here to question you?" How had Farr learned of the theft?

She seemed confused. "He said he was determined to find the portrait and apprehend the thief."

She took Sarah's arm. "Sarah-Bragg never assigned any police officers to this case. We deliberately kept it a very private matter. How did Farr know about it?"

Sarah seemed aghast. "I don't know how he knew that your portrait was stolen. He appeared here the next day, I think, and then twice afterward, all within one week. He was terribly concerned and interested."

Francesca released her, breathless. "Farr came to speak to you three times? He must have known it was my portrait. Did you tell him so?" Otherwise, he wouldn't have given a damn about the theft.

Sarah was pale and silent.

If he had known it was her portrait, Francesca was not surprised that he had questioned Sarah three times. He would want to be involved-and possibly, make trouble for her. She slowly looked at Sarah, horror beginning. "Please tell me that he never learned that the portrait is a nude."

Sarah blanched completely.

"Sarah!"

"I never said it was a nude!" she cried. "But I was so upset and he wanted to know why. I told him that the portrait was terribly compromising and that it must never be displayed in public."

Francesca's horror was complete.

POLICE HEADQUARTERS was not far from the terrible slums of Mulberry Bend. In the warm weather, a very unpleasant odor afflicted the entire neighborhood. As Francesca got out of the Cahill carriage, she held a handkerchief to her nose. Bragg's black Daimler was parked in front of the five-story brownstone building that housed police headquarters. Two roundsmen in their blue serge uniforms and leather helmets were casually guarding the vehicle.

The road car had been a spectacle months ago, when Bragg had first taken up his appointment. Police headquarters was in a terrible neighborhood, and all kinds of lowlife hoods and crooks, cutpurses and muggers, not to mention prostitutes, went about their business on the adjacent streets. Now, no one paid any attention to the car. These days, most of the petty crime took place away from headquarters. Bragg had laid down the law. Mugging and solicitation were not to be tolerated on the department's front steps.

As Francesca left the carriage, telling Jennings to return home-she would cab it for the rest of the day-she wondered if there could ever be a future with a hospitable, crime-free, law-abiding city and citizenry. As long as the tenements were filled to overflowing, the residents living in horrific conditions without adequate light, ventilation or water, with many of the immigrants unable to understand any English, working for mere pennies a day, she thought it impossible. The slums bred desperation, and that encouraged crime.

She glanced briefly at the desk sergeants and the three complainants in the reception room, noticing two beggars in the holding cell, both of whom were sleeping. The rest of the hall's many wooden chairs and benches were vacant. Apparently it was a very quiet Sunday morning; usually a handful of reporters were present, awaiting a story. She didn't see a single newsman, which was a relief, so she went to the elevator, stepped into the cage and pressed the button for the third floor. A moment later its engine whirred and the iron cage began a slow ascent. Francesca watched the activity below as she went up.

Farr's interest in the case had worried her to no end during the interminable drive downtown. She hurried to Bragg's office and found his door wide open. He stood behind his desk by the window, looking out onto Mulberry Street. He was on the telephone. He nodded when he saw her, his mouth softening, and she smiled in return. Francesca came inside as Bragg hung up the receiver.

"Good morning," he said, his gaze moving slowly over her features. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

He was the one who looked as if he hadn't slept at all, she thought, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. "Actually, I slept like a rock. I was exhausted by the time I crawled into my bed."

"I'm glad. Your timing is impeccable, as always. I just received word from Newman. Apparently he learned last night from a neighbor that Daniel Moore lives a few blocks from the gallery. This morning, they located his home address in that back office." He picked up a pen and scribbled the address on a pad. Francesca came closer to view it: 529 Broadway.

"Perfect," she breathed. "Moore will be my first stop after I leave you."

"We will go together," he said firmly.

She touched his hand. He started and she said tersely, "I have news and it isn't good. Or, I don't think it is."

He studied her. "You are referring to the case, not my brother."

She knew she colored. "I haven't seen Hart since last night."

His brows lifted. "You didn't speak to him this morning?"

She bit her lip. She knew what Rick would think if she told him that Hart hadn't come home. "We are off track! Rick, Chief Farr questioned Sarah about my portrait three times in the week after it was stolen."

His eyes widened in surprise.

"Sarah didn't realize that we were keeping the investigation private," she added. "She mentioned to Farr that the painting is compromising. My God-he has been involved in this case from the beginning!"

Bragg inhaled. His expression was grim, and Francesca knew he was thinking about the last case they had worked on. Farr had withheld information during the investigation into Daisy's murder, but they hadn't called him on it. Instead, Bragg had decided to watch Farr very, very closely. Clearly, he had his own agenda and could not be trusted.

Francesca cried, keeping her voice low, "What if that portrait was still hanging in Gallery Moore last night when Farr and his detail arrived?"

"There is no reason to think that Farr would go to that extent to destroy you, Francesca," Bragg said. "I know he dislikes you, but he works for me and he knows how close we are. Taking that portrait would be a huge gamble, as he could lose his job here if he were ever discovered. Besides, think of the logistics. Farr arrived with his men, Francesca, not in advance of them."

He had already checked Farr's actions. "What are you going to do about this?"

"I am giving him several assignments at once, all of the utmost urgency, to keep him distracted."

"Maybe you should confront him."

His brows lifted. "He will claim he is trying to be a proper civil servant-that he is trying to help us."

Bragg was right, she thought grimly.

"Meanwhile, we have put out word that we are looking for information on Solange Marceaux, and that there is a handsome reward for news of her whereabouts."

"That is a good idea." Francesca had a new thought. "Bragg, I should speak with Rose."

He looked at her. Rose Cooper was an expensive prostitute who had been very close with Daisy Jones. Before Hart had become involved with Francesca, he had solicited her services from time to time. Rose had come to hate Hart; she had been in love with Daisy, and Daisy had fallen for Calder. Still, Rose knew the world of prostitution well. "I spoke with Rose two months ago, Francesca, and she did not have a clue as to where Solange Marceaux was."

"That was then." Francesca smiled determinedly. "And you are not me. I can often persuade Rose to be helpful. And she owes me." Rose had asked her to find Daisy's killer. Francesca would have done so anyway, but she had not only agreed, she had comforted the other woman when she had been grieving. "Perhaps Rose can lead me to Dawn, the prostitute who once worked for Marceaux. Dawn might know where her former employer is, and she was helpful to us when we rescued those children."

"That is an excellent plan," Bragg agreed. He made another note on the same page as previously, and handed it to Francesca. "That is Rose's last-known address."

She glanced at him.

"She was still entertaining the chief, Francesca, in early May."

Francesca inhaled. "I hope the affair continues. It might give me leverage over Farr if I ever need it."

He suddenly walked around his desk and took her arm. "Don't you dare even think to use leverage on the chief. If it is necessary, I will be exerting the pressure," he warned.

He would always be her protector, she thought-not that she needed protection. "Well, then, we will both have leverage, if they are still involved." She smiled at him.

His smile was brief. "I have several calls to make before we call on Daniel Moore. It might take an hour. Can you wait?"

Francesca did not want to wait an hour, but she had seen the fatigue in his smile. She stared closely at him. "Rick, is something bothering you? You were so tired yesterday-and you seem very tired today, as well."

Not looking at her, he sat in the cane-backed chair behind his desk and said, "I worked late last night."

"Did you return to headquarters after you left me last night?" she exclaimed.

He hesitated, reaching for a pencil. He started making notes to avoid eye contact. "Yes."

Francesca stepped forward and placed both hands on his desk, leaning toward him in such a way that he had to look up and meet her gaze. "What is wrong?" She wondered if the white shirt he was wearing was the same one he had worn last night. "Rick, what time did you go home last night?"

He sighed, sitting back in his chair. "I probably got home at four."

Her mind raced. Something was very wrong. She had been so caught up in her wedding-and the events of the past twenty-four hours-that she hadn't paid any attention to all the signs. She took his hand firmly, across the desk. "What is wrong? What has been going on these past two weeks?"