Bartolla Benevente, she would send her away.
“It’s a man and a woman, Mrs. Bragg. He claims to be the girls’ uncle.”
Leigh Anne seized Katie’s hand. “But that’s impossible!” The girls had no family.
“He says he’s Mike O’Donnell.” Peter was grave. “I can send him and the woman away.”
Leigh Anne began to shake. “No, no, send them in. We must find out what he wants.”
A SHORT, POWERFULLY BUILT Spaniard, Raoul had been far more than Hart’s driver and valet—he had been Hart’s bodyguard. Now he was Francesca’s personal driver. Francesca had no delusions that, given the nature of her work, Hart wished to offer her protection at all times. Having been in dire jeopardy more than once, Francesca did not mind having such a driver. Now Raoul was driving Francesca downtown amid numerous drays, carts and wagons. The Lower East Side was as different from Fifth Avenue as night from day. Hers was the only elegant passenger vehicle on the cobbled street. Numerous vendors were hawking bolts of cloth, tallow for candles and lye soap, and other wares, and the pedestrians on the sidewalks were mostly women in aprons, carrying small children or groceries. Laundry lines were hanging from window to window. A gang of adolescent boys was playing a hard game of stickball. Even on Avenue A, the noise from the Third Avenue Elevated could be heard and its smoke and soot cast a gray pallor everywhere. Finally the coach halted.
Francesca had met Joel Kennedy, a young, street-smart kid, on her very first investigation. Joel was the oldest of four children, his mother a pretty, hardworking seamstress who was widowed. During the Burton abduction, Joel had helped her navigate her way through some of the city’s seamiest sides. Francesca had needed his help, but she had also wanted to turn him away from his life of petty crime. After he had proved indispensable to her on several other investigations, she had hired him as her assistant. Now she picked up Joel Kennedy or had him meet her every day.
But young Joel was not on her mind, and neither was Rose nor the crucial questions she must ask her. Why was Hart lying to her, when they had come so far as a couple? Their relationship had been based on absolute honesty until now. How could he lie to her, and what did it mean for them and their future? What was he hiding?
Her first impulse had been to travel to Bridge Street and confront Hart in his offices, demanding to know why he had said he was in Boston when he had been in Philadelphia instead. But Francesca had instantly seen the folly of that action. Confronting Hart was never a good idea. He had a huge, quick temper, and she would only ignite it. The current investigation had already begun to place a strain on their relationship, and Francesca did not want to add to it. If she had judged him correctly last night, he had been grieving for Daisy. She could not attack the man she loved when he was mourning. But hadn’t she seen and sensed something else in the nature of his tension? Last night, Hart had refused to discuss why he had called on Daisy. In doing so, he had pulled away from her, his usual response to a difficult situation—a response she dearly hated. Could his refusal to discuss his visit to Daisy have something to do with his trip to Philadelphia?
As rational as she was trying to be, it was hard not to be shaken.
The fact that he did not trust her hurt her terribly. She had been Hart’s staunchest supporter and his biggest ally from the first moment they had met, when she had been investigating the Randle killing. Hart had been implicated, and even then, when she had not known him, when she had been infatuated with Bragg, she had known he was no killer. Even then, she had refused to judge him solely on his notorious reputation. From the first, she had seen past his reputation and his arrogant, at times callous behavior. Beneath the ego, the confidence, there was so much vulnerability. Hart was good. She still believed that with all of her heart and all of her being. But at times, his behavior made it so difficult to remain loyal!
She stubbornly refused to concede to his many critics now. There was an explanation. She knew it, the way she knew he was a good man. Surely he had a good reason for this last deception. She would bide her time, she would not push him, no matter how she wished to. She knew from experience that any impatience on her part would backfire. She would trust him as she worked on this case, because one day he would truly trust her in return and explain everything. No matter what, she was not giving up on Hart, and not this easily.
Joel appeared in front of the tenement building where he lived with his mother, his two brothers and little sister. He was a thin, short boy with a shock of dark hair and very fair skin. He grinned at her as he climbed up into the coach, allowing Raoul to open the carriage door for him. Joel had come a long way, Francesca thought, smiling with affection at him. Clearly, he enjoyed Raoul treating him as if he were a little prince, when just a few months ago he had been stealing purses.
“Thanks,” he said to Raoul.
Raoul almost smiled and shut the door firmly before climbing onto the driver’s seat.
Even though it was June, Joel wore a knit cap over his black hair, and Francesca tugged on it. “Good day, Miz Cahill,” he said.
“We are on a new case,” she told him as Raoul lifted the brake and clucked the two handsome bays on. “A murder investigation.”
He grinned. “My favorite kind of case. Think it will be dangerous?”
“I hope not! And I also hope I am not jading you,” Francesca said seriously. She sighed. “You know the victim, Joel, as do I.”
He was all eyes. “Who got iced?”
She was not up to correcting his slang now. “Miss Jones.”
He understood right away. “Mr. Hart’s er…lady friend?”
“Hart’s ex-mistress, yes.”
His eyes bulged. “Ma’am! What happened?”
Francesca filled him in. “When we get to Daisy’s, I will interview Rose. As usual, I need you to canvas the ward and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious between ten and midnight last night. To the best of my knowledge, we have lost the murder weapon, a knife. You can keep your eye out for that, too.”
He nodded gravely. “Do we got any suspects?”
Francesca hesitated. “Not exactly. But I am afraid both Hart and Rose are at the top of the list right now.”
Joel adored Hart. It was obvious that he clearly ad mired the man, as they had both come from the same desperately impoverished background. “Why would Mr. Hart off Miss Jones?”
“He wouldn’t,” Francesca said firmly. “But in a crime like this—I am sure the autopsy will reveal numerous stab wounds—the police always look at family and friends first. Whoever murdered Daisy, Joel, knew her and wanted her dead. We must find the real killer, and quickly.”
“Before Mr. Hart gets in trouble,” Joel said, nodding grimly.
Francesca tugged on his cap again. She had become as fond of the boy as if he was her little brother, but then, she was very fond of his mother. Maggie Kennedy had been acting somewhat oddly lately. Francesca had taken tea with her twice, and the Kennedy sparkle had been missing from her stunning blue eyes. “How is your mother, Joel?”
He grimaced. “I dunno. Something’s bothering her. She’s so sad all of the time. I mean, she pretends not to be, but I can tell.”
Francesca hesitated. A month ago, she had witnessed her brother Evan saving Maggie from an
