"A repeat offender," Francesca murmured. "Let's find out if he has been in jail more than the one time that I know of." She stood. Joel followed her downstairs. "Someone like that been in the calaboose more 'n once, I'd bet." "I think so, too. I hope there is a big fat juicy file on him." She smiled at the thought as she hurried to the front desk, the book tucked under her arm. "I do hope you can help, Captain," she said with a wide smile. "For we have found our man." "Let's see what you got," Shea said amiably, setting the paperwork he was now involved in aside. Francesca laid the mug book on the counter and opened it to the page with Craddock's picture. The sergeant, Tom, came over curiously. "That's the culprit. Craddock. Joseph Craddock. Do you know of him? Can I see if there is a file upon him?" "Hmm, he looks somewhat familiar, but after a few years on the job, they all start to look alike, don't they, Tom?" "He's as mean as the rest," Tom agreed. "Name is familiar, though. I'll bet we got a file on him a mile wide." "Could you check?" Francesca asked eagerly. Tom looked at Shea, who nodded. Then the taller police officer left-only to return within a moment, a folder in hand. "We got him, all right." He laid the folder on the desk and said, "I glanced at it. He got sent up to Kendall for extortion. But he's been in and out of the Tombs a dozen times. Drank 'n' disorderly, fist fighting, mostly. Still, he was charged with murder once. See?" He pointed at the page and Francesca did see. Someone named Lester Parridy had been strangled to death, and there had been a trial-the charges had been dropped. "Lots of civvy complaints against him, too. Some ladies been scared by him, it seems. Here's one, Mrs. Van Arke. But she dropped her complaint an' we dropped the charges then, too." "The complaint was blackmail," Francesca breathed. Extortion, blackmail, murder. She shivered. Was Lucy's plight far worse than it seemed? "Yep. Just two years ago." Francesca saw that the Van Arke file had been opened in April of 1900 and closed the following month. The woman's address glared up at her-No. 250 Fifth Avenue. That would be an older home, far downtown, now swallowed up by a neighborhood of department stores and specialty shops. "When was Craddock released from Fort Kendall?" Francesca asked. "Looks like he got out in '96." Shea blinked. "He didn't go in until '88. They sendin' them up for six years now for extortion, Tom?" "Musta been a lot more than extortion." "Either that or he was a real bad boy up there in the hold," Shea said, shaking his head. "Can I copy this file?" Francesca asked. There was just too much valuable information. "And is that his last known address? Eighteen Allen Street?" Shea had opened his mouth, as if to agree, when he blinked, stiffened, and became oddly still. Francesca felt a breath on her neck, and she quickly turned. Brendan Farr, New York City's newest chief of police, smiled at her. It did not reach his iron-gray eyes. "Chief," she heard herself gasp, taking a step back, as he stood so closely to her. And then she smiled, but inwardly she tensed. "Goood morning," she somehow said. Farr continued to smile, his gaze moving slowly, leisurely, past her. It fell on the open mug book and then on the equally open file. "Good morning, Miss Cahill. My, it is a surprise to see you here at headquarters on such a beautiful Sabbath morning." He now gave her the same slow and careful scrutiny, but this time it was insulting, the once-over a man who is not a gentleman gives to a woman who is not a lady.

She swallowed and told herself that she could manage this man and that she did not need to be intimidated. Nevertheless, he unnerved her. "I am waiting for the commissioner," she lied. "And I was chatting with your men." She tried out another false smile.

It had no effect. "I see that." He was a very tall man, in his late forties, with a strong, solid build and hair as gray as his eyes. He walked past her and looked at the mug book and then at the file. "I do believe you are studying police files, Miss Cahill."

Francesca glanced nervously at Shea. "I am on a case, and I have asked for some help. I hope that was all right?" She smiled yet again. How ingratiating could she be?

He snapped the book closed and then the folder. "I am afraid it is not all right, Miss Cahill.

Police affairs are exactly that-police affairs."

She was so stiff, a pain began going up and down her neck. "My business is not police affairs. I have a client who has requested my services."

He smiled at her-it was not pleasant. "And I have a police force to run. There are rules.

Rules and regulations. In any case, police files are confidential and not available to the public." He stared. "Do I make myself clear?"

She nodded. "I am sorry if I have overstepped my bounds. I did not know."

"Now you do know." He smiled at her, the same mirthless smile that failed to reach his eyes.

"Perhaps your client might better direct his or her requests to the police," he said softly.

Francesca could not think of a good reply. "I shall suggest it."

"Good."

"Sir?" Shea said nervously. "She's a close friend of the c'mish, an' he lets her do as she wants around here."

Francesca winced. Oh, how bad did that sound!

"I am well aware of just how close Miss Cahill is to our commissioner," Farr remarked suavely. Was there an innuendo there? Francesca thought so. Worse, she did not think Farr the kind of man to miss a single trick. "Nevertheless, rules are rules, and we do not share our information with civilians, Shea."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," Shea said, as if he were in the military.

"Do not let it happen again." Farr gave him a chilling look before sending an identical glance at Tom. "Suspensions will be in order next time." He nodded at Francesca. "Good day, Miss Cahill."

There was no mistake about it; he was suggesting- strongly-that she leave.

"Good day," she said, and then she tensed again as he took the folder and tucked it under his arm and walked away. She glanced at Joel, unhappily surprised, then looked at Shea and Tom with real dismay. "I am so sorry," she said.

Shea flushed now. "Don't worry about it, Miz Cahill. I got work to do." He turned away.

She felt like a pariah. And then she felt eyes on her from behind.

She knew and she slowly turned around.

Bragg stood in his dark brown greatcoat by the double front doors, unmoving. She wondered how long he had been standing there and how much he had heard. She was vastly relieved to see him, in spite of the terrible night before. But she did not smile, as she could not.

He started forward, unsmiling as well. "Good morning."

"Good morning. Bragg, I may have gotten Shea and Tom in some trouble." She searched his eyes for a sign that he had had a change of heart-that he loved her far too much to ever consider ending their friendship. But he was too grim. Her heart sank with dismay.

He also looked as if he had been up most of the night, tossing and turning.

"So I heard," he said quietly.

"But you will protect them, won't you?" she asked quietly, quickly.

"I am not intending to be Farr's nanny. He runs this department; I oversee it," Bragg said. "It is important that he rule and regulate the men."

Francesca understood but was dismayed and appalled. "I don't trust him."

"It's not your place to trust him or mistrust him," Bragg said. "And frankly, he is right. No other

civilian could walk in here and charm my men in order to gain access to our files." He did notlook very happy now, and Francesca knew he was blaming himself. "I didn't realize you would mind." "There are rules, Francesca," he said tiredly. She felt like she was losing him. But surely that could not be! "I'm sorry." She hesitated, thensaid, "But this hasn't been all bad. We got Randall's killer and the Cross Murderer. Not tomention the fact that we found Jonny Burton alive." "I know," he said, softening, and his gaze moved slowly over her face. "But there arerules-and we have both been breaking them," he said. He lowered his voice, so only Joelcould overhear. "A consequence of our friendship." She stared, dismayed. He stared back. And as softly, he said, "How are you?" "Not all that well," she whispered. "And you?" "I have hardly slept," he said, sending her a potent glance. "Sleep eludes me now. I hatefighting with you, Francesca." "Then let's never fight again," she whispered. He smiled just a little and finally turned to Joel. "Hey, kid," he said. Joel did not even attempt to smile at him. He sent him a black look. "I will not always be a copper, you know," Bragg said. "But you're the king of them now, ain't you?" Joel glared. Having been in trouble with thepolice for most of his life, he was hardly fond of anyone a.s.sociated with the leather-heads. Francesca sighed. "One day, I will tell you about the kind of lawyer Bragg was before hebecame police commissioner," she said. "And you might change your opinion of him." Joel shrugged. Bragg was regarding her. "So you are after one Joseph Craddock," he said flatly. "A manwho spent eight years in prison here in New York State." "You heard?" He nodded. "He doesn't sound like a savory sort, Francesca." "I'm afraid he isn't," she said. "But he is most definitely the man I saw accosting Lucy lastnight." Bragg walked over to the desk. "When Farr is finished with the Craddock file, put it on mydesk," he said. "Aye-aye, C'mish," Shea said instantly. When Shea had walked away, they stepped closer to each other. "Craddock may haveblackmailed a woman two years ago," Francesca said in a low, hushed tone. "Is this what you think? That he is blackmailing my sister?" Bragg returned as quietly. She considered the question. "I don't know. But your family is very wealthy, and it is nosecret." Their gazes met. After a moment, Bragg spoke. "So that does beg the question-what isLucy hiding?" Francesca looked at him. "I don't know. But perhaps that is what we must find out." Francesca arrived at the West Side Channing home alone. She had sent Joel off to spreadword of the reward she was offering, while she had gone to Wells Fargo to send a telegramto the warden at Fort Kendall. She fervently hoped that she would hear from him later thatday or early on Monday. And if he did not reply, then she would have to go to the Kendallprison herself and meet him directly. She had already learned it was about eight hours northof the city by train, on the Albany route. Evan's coach was parked outside the house in the drive. As Francesca paid her cabbie,she was surprised. Then she thought about the fact that last night her brother had not beenable to tell Sarah that he wished to end their engagement. She wondered if Sarah would beup to receiving him now. Francesca was ushered into the house immediately, and she saw her brother pacing in asalon adjacent to the hall- the one with the bear head rugs and gilded furniture. "Evan?"

He halted upon seeing her. "Good morning, Fran." Her brief smile faded; he was so grim. She walked over to him, lowering her voice. "Have you seen Sarah? How is she? What happened last night?" He sighed, his hands in the pockets of his brown tweed sack jacket. He appeared tired. "She seemed very weak last night, Fran," he said with genuine concern. "Rourke wound up carrying her into the house and up to her bed. I stayed, of course, and Finney arrived. Her fever was a hundred and one." Francesca went rigid with worry and surprise. "That is very high!" "I know. Finney said it is probably a severe case of the flu." "And what did Rourke say?" "Not much. Which worries me, I confess." She plucked his sleeve. "You do care about Sarah." "Not that way, Fran. She is a nice girl, and the kind that would not even harm a fly. I hope she is not seriously ill." Their gazes locked. The flu could kill its victims, especially the very young or the aged or infirm. Francesca hadn't thought of Sarah as being infirm, but now she recalled Rourke exclaiming that she was far too thin, that she was all bones. "What brings you here?" Evan asked. "The case," Francesca returned. "Let's talk for a moment, please." He nodded and they sat down in a pair of facing chairs. "Can you think of any young woman who, before your engagement, seemed especially enamored of you? Was any particular young lady trying harder than the others to win your heart-and your hand?" He sighed. "Actually, after you asked me this last night, I have been thinking about it. I cannot imagine any young lady in our set doing such a thing. If you want to know the truth, I think it is far more likely that the vandal was striking out at Bartolla. She is simply the most beautiful and fascinating woman in the city, and I see the way all men hope to attain her notice and admiration. She is not a young virginal lady, looking for marriage. Someone, perhaps another woman, might have been jilted because of her, and decided now to strike back. Or maybe an old lover of hers has just realized she is in town? There are many possibilities here," Evan said. "Yes, there are," Francesca agreed. "I suppose I must speak with Bartolla, again, although she hardly seems interested in helping solve this case. And of course, I do wish to see Sarah." Francesca got to her feet. "Evan? Have you changed your mind about leaving the company and moving out of the house?" she asked hopefully. His expression hardened. "I did not sleep last night. That is, I packed most of my bags, and they are in my front hall. After I leave here, I am picking them up and taking a room at the Fifth Avenue Hotel," he said. "So, no, I have hardly changed my mind." In a way, a terrible way, she was proud of him, because what Andrew was doing-and the way he was doing it- was so wrong. But she hated thinking ill in any way of her father, for he was her favorite person in the world, or at least, he had been-until Bragg. She sighed, resigned, when footsteps sounded on the stairs. As one, brother and sister turned. Rourke was trotting down the stairs, looking somewhat disheveled, as if he had had a restless night. His tie was askew, his suit jacket open, and he had a day's growth on his face. He carried a medical bag that was worn and shabby-Francesca suspected he had gotten it secondhand. Still, he was an extremely attractive man. Although he looked so much like Bragg, in a way he reminded her of Hart. Had he not been carrying his satchel, one might a.s.sume him to be a riverboat gambler, returning after a long and fruitful night. Evan leaned close. "Now he is available, and he is four years older than you," he whispered fervently in her ear. "Now, is that not perfect?" Francesca stabbed her heel on his instep. He yelped.

Rourke smiled at them both. "It's nice to see that our family is not alone in behaving like apack of cats and dogs. Good morning." Francesca smiled, but it was brief. "How is she?" "She is better," he said. "Her fever is down to just under a hundred. She is sleepingcomfortably now." "That is good news!" Francesca exclaimed. "Well, it could be worse. Her fever was too high last night for comfort. Perhaps Finney isright and it is merely a cold. Fortunately it is not her lungs-I woke her to check them again.They are clear." "You feared pneumonia?" Francesca asked with dread. "She told me her back hurt, and it was my first thought. In any case, she should rest. And shecertainly should not be burdened with anything right now." He did frown thoughtfully. "What is it?" Francesca asked. "Miss Channing has a large bruise on her upper arm. Her mother has no idea of how shegot it." Francesca blinked. Last night Sarah had been wearing sleeves. "Surely she must have hadan accident." Rourke turned his amber eyes on her. They were flecked with light gold. "It looks to me as ifsomeone grabbed her in an excessively brutal manner." Francesca was stunned. "Well, there must be a simple explanation; did you ask Sarah?" "She was sleeping so soundly this morning when I arrived that I had no wish to awaken her."He glanced at Evan. "You can go up, Cahill, if you wish to sit and hold your fiancee's hand." "If she's asleep, I shall not disturb her," Evan returned. Rourke stared at him. It was impossible to read his eyes or fathom his expression. ButFrancesca felt that there was censure there, somewhere, lurking beneath the surface. Francesca was surprised when Rourke glanced at her and said, "I stole down to her studiolast night. Lucy is right. She is rather brilliant, for such a tiny girl." "Yes, she is, and I am glad you think so," Francesca said, when Bartolla appeared on thestairs behind them, smiling. She was wearing an extremely fitted royal blue brocade suit andskirt, trimmed with paler blue fox at the cuffs and hem. A trio of sapphires winked from herthroat. Her hair had been perfectly waved, with a few auburn tendrils escaping to wispsensually about her face. Francesca introduced Rourke. "This is Bragg's brother Rourke, and this is the CountessBenevente." Bartolla shook her head. "You look so much like your brother! Of course, there is adifference, but it is obvious you are brothers-or twins." "We only look alike," Rourke a.s.sured her with a twinkle in his eye. He lifted her hand to hislips and kissed it gallantly. "Rest a.s.sured I am far more clever, far more interesting, and farmore amoral." Bartolla laughed. "Then I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance, as morality is a stiffbore." "It is indeed," he said, his eyes sparkling with amus.e.m.e.nt and admiration. "Too bad you didnot join us last night." "I am afraid I had other plans," Bartolla said. In truth, she had not been invited. "I vow that we shall not exclude you from our next family supper," Rourke declared. Bartolla laughed again. Evan stepped over to her, clearing his throat. She instantly turned, taking his hand, and from the way their gazes met, it was as if everyoneelse had disappeared. "How is Sarah this morning?" she asked earnestly. "Better, fortunately," Evan said, gazing intently at her now. Francesca glanced down andsaw him squeeze her hand. She froze, in that instant wondering if they were lovers. She glanced at Rourke and knew he was wondering the exact same thing.

Bartolla stepped away from Evan and said breezily, "I think I shall buy Sarah a gift.

Something to cheer her up. She has been far too distressed ever since she found her studio vandalized. Hmm. I wager an art book would be just the thing to keep an artist preoccupied in bed."

"I can think of better diversions for one confined to a bed," Rourke murmured.

Bartolla glanced at him. "And so can I. But then, I am a widow, while Sarah is not yet a bride."

"Ah, I do offer my condolences, Countess," Rourke said, and it was obvious he hardly regretted the count's death.

"Thank you."

"Bartolla is newly arrived here in the city," Evan said, stepping forward and between them. "I have been showing her the town. With Sarah, of course."

"Of course," Rourke said dryly.

"An art book is a wonderful idea," Francesca cut in. Everyone looked at her. She knew that they could not be lovers. Evan would not abuse his fiancee so, by cuckolding her with her cousin.

Still, she knew firsthand how pa.s.sion could break free of the bonds of morality and convention. And both Bartolla and Evan were far too experienced in matters of the heart.

"My carriage is outside," Evan said, speaking only to Bartolla. "I can give you a lift downtown, if you like."

"I would love a lift," Bartolla said with an expansive wave of her hand, but she never took her eyes from his face. "And I happen to be ready, as I do have an appointment this morning."

It was not even eleven. Francesca wondered what kind of appointment Bartolla could possibly have on a Sunday morning, especially as she knew that she preferred not to arise, much less leave the house, until eleven. "Bartolla? I need to speak with you for a moment before you go."

Bartolla seemed startled, as if she had forgotten France-sea's presence. "Oh! I hope this isn't about Sarah's studio?"

"It is."

"Don't tell me you still think someone deliberately damaged my portrait-and this is about me?" she exclaimed, clearly amused.

"It's a possibility," Francesca said. "One we must consider. And the portrait was slashed to ribbons-viciously, I might add."

"My dear, I hardly care." She laughed.

"Bartolla." Evan touched her arm. "Maybe you should be worried-maybe the vandal was striking out at you and not at Sarah. I think that is far more likely. I can wait until you have had a chance to speak with Francesca."

"But I do have an appointment," she said lightly. "I must get to midtown. Evan dear, do not worry about me!"

"Of course I worry," he said huskily. "I should hate to see anything ill befall you-or Sarah,"

he added quickly.

Rourke made an insulting sound.

Evan gave him a very cool look.

"I am leaving," Rourke said. "And as I am going uptown to Hart's, I will not offer the countess a ride. It was a pleasure, madam."

"Please, do call me Bartolla; all of my friends do."

He lifted her hand again. "I am sure our paths shall cross again, Bartolla." He smiled at Francesca. "Good luck, Miss Cahill. Do keep my f.e.c.kless brother out of harm's way." He chuckled, then nodded at Evan and strode out.

When he was gone, Francesca took Bartolla's hand. "Give me just a moment, please," she said, realizing that with Bartolla being so difficult, she would have to begin the interview alone-and maybe even conclude it that way, too.

"I am running late already," Bartolla said pleasantly, but it was clear she intended to remainas stubborn as a mule. "Just one moment," Francesca said, feeling pressured to get right to the point. "Do you haveenemies?" she asked. Bartolla seemed amused. "Who does not?" "Seriously, Bartolla. Please, do take this seriously." "Yes, Francesca, of course I have enemies." "Who are they? I need names," Francesca said. Bartolla sighed. "Do you want the truth?" She nodded. "Before I married the count, when I was only sixteen, I came out here in the city. I stole adozen young men from their sweethearts." Bartolla shook her head. "I was rather a flirt, as ayoung girl," she said. "And to make matters even worse, I broke too many young malehearts to even count." "Could any of these women-" "I don't know," Bartolla said, interrupting. "But if you want to know who really hates me, why,it is the count's family." Francesca was thinking about the women who might still be in the city hating Bartolla forruining their prospects. And what about all of those young men whom she had flirted withand left? "But they are all abroad, are they not?" "His sons live in Paris and Rome. But his daughter lives right here in New York, with herthree spoiled brats." Bartolla smiled and it wasn't pleasant. "What is her name?" Francesca cried eagerly. "Jane Van Arke," Bartolla said.

Chapter Ten.

SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1902-Noon

Francesca was about to leave when Bragg stepped past a doorman and into the house.

She saw him, not really surprised, and hesitated.

"What is it?" he asked, instantly noting her agitation.

That decided her. She rushed to him. "Bartolla has just left. But I spoke with her," she said breathlessly.

"And I can see that she has given you a lead," he said, his gaze holding hers.

Francesca inhaled and spoke in a rush. "Jane Van Arke lodged a formal complaint against Craddock in April of 1900!" Francesca cried. "But she changed her mind a month later, and the complaint was dismissed."

"And?" He raised both brows.

"Jane Van Arke is Bartolla's stepdaughter-and despises her with a vengeance."

Bragg stared. It was a moment before he spoke. "I seem to be missing something. Are you thinking that Jane Van Arke is behind the vandalism-and that she hired Craddock?"

Francesca wrung her hands. "I don't know what to think. But this is an amazing coincidence."

He was reflective. "Let me back up for a moment. Craddock is a criminal with a record. He is violent, and blackmail is the name of his game. He probably murdered Lester Parridy-but it could not be proved. However, Parridy was another shady sort, and no one really cared."

"You've read the file!"

"I have. Let me continue. Mrs. Van Arke-Bartolla's stepdaughter-was probably a victim of his blackmail. Of course, that is an a.s.sumption. She claimed as much initially, then withdrew and claimed she had been mistaken."

"It is rather hard to mistake a blackmailer," Francesca groused.

"I would think so." Briefly he smiled at her. As briefly, she smiled back. Now he frowned. "Could it be a coincidence that Craddock was blackmailing Jane VanArke, who so dislikes Bartolla that she might wish to hurt her, while he is now victimizing mysister?" "I have no idea," Francesca said. "My mind is still spinning from learning all of this. But I dothink we should interview Mrs. Van Arke as soon as possible." He glanced at his pocket watch. "This is a very good time to try. I doubt she has left thehouse yet for the day." Eagerness filled her. "Then let's go." But he made no move to go. "There is more." "More?" Francesca had been about to rush out the front door, but she halted. Bragg was grim. "Lucy's husband was a prisoner at Fort Kendall, in 1890," he said. Francesca saw Bragg's Daimler parked on the avenue. Beyond it was Central Park, whichon this side of the city was mostly deserted, and eerily so. "I simply don't understand," shesaid. He had his hand on her back, using a slight pressure to guide her down the walk. "He waserroneously incarcerated, Francesca, but he did do time before he escaped." "He escaped prison?" She halted, facing him. Bragg nodded. "He was formally pardoned by the governor in 1899." She was reeling. "Her husband-" "His name is Shoz." "Shoz-this must have something to do with him!" "I am thinking so," he said gravely. "Shoz is the kind of man to have enemies, and the factthat they were in prison together is simply too coincidental." They shared a look. Francesca felt as if someone had taken a plywood board and struck herwith it. "So maybe this is not about blackmail," she finally said. "Maybe it is about revenge." He nodded as he opened the side door of the Daimler for her, but she made no move to getin. "It is time for Lucy to come clean," he remarked. "She won't," Francesca said, feeling certain of it. He smiled ruefully. "So you have already learned that she is more stubborn than you?" Francesca almost smiled in return. "It is fairly obvious." "A trip to Fort Kendall is in order," Bragg said. He gestured at the car. When she slid in, hehanded her a pair of goggles and walked around the front of the motorcar. Disturbed but also excited at the prospect of traveling up to the prison with him, she watchedhim crank it up. "Shall I try to speak with Lucy, or shall you?" He glanced up as the engine roared to life. "You might have the opportunity tonight." She froze. Guilt must have been written all over her face, because he said, approaching his side of themotorcar, "I am aware of your mother's dinner party tonight." The one that was on account of Calder Hart, the one he was not invited to. Francesca didnot know what to say. Bragg moved around the roadster and climbed into the driver's seat."Were you going to mention it to me?" "I hadn't even thought about it," she lied nervously. "Mama refuses to let me off the hook, Imust attend, and I do wish you were coming." "Calder is the catch about town, is he not?" "Not for me!" she cried earnestly. "You know that!" He suddenly sighed, the sound heavy. And he looked at her. "You know as well as I that lifeis hardly sugar candy and rainbows," he said grimly. Their gazes locked. Francesca recalled every single terrible word they had exchanged thenight before. She gripped his hand impulsively. He returned the pressure of her palm but didnot speak, and she knew he was also thinking about their conversation of last night. "I believe in happy endings," she said softly. "I really do."

He smiled a little. "I know you do," he said. It was brilliantly sunny-and still terribly cold out. Because of the sun, which was shiningalmost directly in her eyes, Francesca did not instantly recognize the man who stepped outfrom between two carriages, approaching them. Francesca felt Bragg stiffen, and then, ashe paused before her car door, she recognized the man and became rigid, too. It was Arthur Kurland, the obnoxious reporter from The Sun. Francesca slipped her hand free of Bragg's. Kurland's eyes seemed to follow her movement. Then he looked up from the stick shiftbetween them and her lap, where her left hand now lay. "My, my. Imagine my surprise atfinding you both here, at the Channings'." He smiled, his hands in his pockets, shivering. "We were just leaving," Bragg said, pushing the stick into gear. But Kurland did not move away from the roadster. "Surely you are working on another case.Or is this a social occasion, a pleasant Sunday afternoon drive?" Francesca was filled with tension. She had the worst feeling that Kurland not only knew thatshe and Bragg were fond of each other, but he also knew about Bragg's marital state. "You are losing your ability to sniff out news," Bragg said. "Yes, we are investigating a case.Francesca is with me as Miss Channing is affianced to her brother." "Did something happen to Miss Channing?" Kurland asked, wide-eyed with interest. "Her studio was broken into," Bragg said. "Good day, Kurland." He drove away from thecurb. Francesca twisted to watch Kurland, who stood at the curb, scribbling on a notepad. Shesaw him turn and hurry toward the Channing house. She was filled with dread. She turned, facing Bragg. "He saw us holding hands." Bragg was grim. "You are right." * * * The Van Arke home was in the Georgian style and probably dated to the first decades afterthe last turn of the century. Francesca and Bragg hurried up the walk, where he used thedoor's bell. Francesca studied him and knew he was still disturbed by everything that hadtranspired last night. The door was opened, and a manservant stood there. Bragg introduced them both,presenting himself in his official capacity. They were ushered inside and told that Mrs. VanArke would be told that they were waiting. No mention was made of Mr. Van Arke. The parlor was pleasant. One glance told Francesca that the Count Benevente's daughterwas well-to-do but not wealthy. She was a step above most gentry, not more. "Isn't Bartolla very wealthy?" Francesca asked Bragg in a whisper. "It seems so." "Did the count-Mrs. Van Arke's father-leave her everything?" "I do not know. Appearances can be deceiving," he returned softly. She nodded and then turned as steps and rustling silk could be heard behind her. An attractive woman with olive skin and dark blond hair stood on the threshold, smilinguncertainly and perhaps even anxiously. "Commissioner?" Bragg hurried forward. "Mrs. Van Arke, thank you very much for taking the time to seemyself and Miss Cahill." She extracted her hand from his and glanced at Francesca, clearly confused. "It is hardlycommon for me to have the police commissioner of this city in my salon," she said in ahusky voice. Although she was an Italian, the only accent that was discernible was a Britishone, which told Francesca that she had been educated in Great Britain. Francesca thoughtthat she was in her early thirties. "And I am afraid we are here on official police business," Bragg said. Mrs. Van Arke smiled, and it was strained. She folded her arms across her ample bosombut did not move into the room. When she did not ask what that business was, Bragg glanced at Francesca, then said,"When was the last time you were in contact with Joseph Craddock?"

Her expression did not change. "I beg your pardon?" He repeated the question while Francesca wondered at her response. "I am afraid I do not know who you are talking about," she said tersely. "Perhaps your memory is merely escaping you," Bragg said kindly. Francesca felt certainthat not only did Mrs. Van Arke recall Craddock, but she also wasn't all that surprised bytheir questions about him. "I do believe a Jane Van Arke of Number Two-fifty Fifth Avenuefiled a complaint against Joseph Craddock on April the eighth, 1900," he said. She stared. And then, dropping her eyes, she said, "You are referring to something in mypast. I made a mistake." "Yes, for you dropped the complaint one month later," Bragg said. Jane Van Arke went to the pale blue silk sofa, which almost matched her dress, where shesat down. "I told you, it was a mistake." Bragg moved to the sofa. "Mrs. Van Arke, please help us. We are afraid that anotherwoman is currently in a similar predicament." She paled. "There is another young woman... He is blackmailing a young woman?" "A young woman with three small children," Francesca said gravely, even though theyweren't certain. "Worse, he has accosted her." "I have two sons," Jane Van Arke suddenly said. She stood, wringing her hands. "They aretwelve and fourteen now, but then they were two years younger, and he made it very clear hewould harm them if I did not simply pay him off and drop my complaint." Bragg laid his palm on her shoulder. "Thank you, Mrs. Van Arke. Will you give us a completestatement?" She turned wide eyes upon him. "I don't know." "It will be cla.s.sified. He will never know you were the one to give us our information," Braggsaid. She hesitated, darted a look at Francesca, and said, "There is nothing more to say." Francesca said, "Mrs. Van Arke? You are clearly afraid of Craddock. Does this mean thatyou have not seen him in two years?" She hesitated again. Then she shook her head. "When was the last time you saw him?" Francesca asked softly but persistently. She sighed and sat abruptly down. "I don't know." She did not look at either of them now. Francesca met Bragg's stare. The woman was lying-or hiding something. "It would be very helpful if you could tell us," Bragg said. "I don't know!" She stood. "He is a terrible man. Evil. He has no conscience. I was afraid formy sons. I do not want him back in my life!" "Is he still extorting money from you?" Bragg asked. She stared at him, then shook her head. Francesca had the awful feeling that he was. "Mrs. Van Arke? Do you know who would wantto hurt Bartolla Benevente?" Jane Van Arke whirled. "I beg your pardon?" "We think your stepmother might be in danger," Francesca said. Jane Van Arke flushed. "I see. Craddock is blackmailing her!" Francesca looked at Bragg. Their gazes locked. Why hadn't they considered thispossibility? Francesca went to the Italian woman and put her hand on her arm. "PoorBartolla," she said, hoping to gain a response from the Italian woman. Jane Van Arke gave her an incredulous look. "She is merely getting what she deserves." Francesca almost winced; clearly Bartolla had not exaggerated when she said that herstepdaughter hated her. "Isn't that a bit excessive?" Francesca asked, after she and Braggshared a look. "Excessive? That tramp is the worst thing that ever happened to my father! She bled him forevery penny he had, then did as she pleased behind his back-and he knew about herlovers! Oh, yes. The count was a brilliant man, until the end, and he knew his little Americanwife was a wh.o.r.e. That is what she is, a wh.o.r.e," Jane Van Arke cried pa.s.sionately. "And I hope Craddock takes her for all that he can get."

Well, Francesca thought, at least they knew where Mrs. Van Arke stood as far as Bartolla went.

"Where were you Thursday night, between midnight and five A.M.?" Bragg asked quietly.

She started, as if she had forgotten his presence, and flushed. "Commissioner, excuse me. I did not mean to go on so. It's just that I adored my father, and it hurt me to see her using him the way that she did."

"I understand," Bragg said. "Thursday night, after midnight?" he prompted.

Her brows furrowed. "Why would it matter where I was that night?"

"Would you please answer the question?" he said, his tone extremely mild.

She glanced at Francesca and shrugged. "I was here, at home, asleep."

"Can Mr. Van Arke testify to that?"