Brenda Joyce - Deadly Illusions

Deadly series

“As Francesca searches for clues and struggles with her complicated feelings for two different men, readers will follow her from turn-of-the-century New York’s immigrant tenements to its wealthiest mansions. Fans of Joyce’s Deadly romances will find the seventh in the series to be another entertaining blend of danger and desire.”

—Booklist on Deadly Illusions

“Just when you think you have it all figured out, Joyce turns it all around, leaving you with a cliff-hanger, and eager for Francesca’s next adventure.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deadly Illusions

“Joyce’s latest ‘deadly’ romance is truly a pleasure to read, given its involving plot, intriguing characters and the magic that occurs as the reader becomes immersed in another time and place.”

—Booklist on Deadly Kisses

“If this is your introduction to Francesca Cahill, you’ll be just as hooked on the series as longtime fans. Joyce skillfully pulls you into her characters’ tangled lives as they pursue a killer.

The ‘Deadlies’ keep you coming back for more because you care about the people and you can sink your teeth into their complicated lives as they twist and turn with mystery.”

—RT Book Reviews on Deadly Kisses

“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns in her characters’ personal lives.”

—Publishers Weekly

“An elegant blend of mystery and romance simmering with sexual tension.”

—Booklist on Deadly Promises

“The steamy revelations…are genuinely intriguing, and just enough of them are left unresolved at the book’s end to leave readers waiting eagerly for the series’ next installment.”

—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Love

This one’s for the ladies on the boards:

Thank you for your unwavering support!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

New York City Tuesday, April 22, 1902 5:00 p.m.

THE CRIME SCENE was a gruesomeone, indeed.

Chilled, Francesca Cahill stared at the woman. The victim was clad only in her corset, chemise and drawers, lying in a pool of blood the same dark red-brown color as her hair. Shivers swept up and down Francesca’s spine, shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature of the day, as it was warm and sunny outside, a perfect spring day.

Not that one would ever guess that fact from this tenement flat. The railroad apartment that Francesca had so boldly entered was long and narrow, consisting of a single room. A window at each end let in some light, but not much, as the brick building just a few feet behind this one blocked out much of the daylight. At the flat’s far end was the victim’s bed, where she lay in her underclothes. Francesca stood in the doorway, the dark, dank corridor behind her. Between her and the victim were so many signs of a vital if impoverished life—a small sofa, the muddy-hued fabric torn and ripped, a faded and torn throw rug upon which sat a pail of water, as if the victim had been soaking her feet before bed. Beyond the small salon area, there was a rickety square table and two equally despairing chairs, one with a leg tied together. In the kitchen’s area, there was a wood counter covered with some stacked plates and utensils, a wood-burning stove and a sink containing a pot and some other items. In the other direction, behind Francesca, there was a police sawhorse in the doorway of the flat. An officer had placed a Do Not Cross sign upon it.

A man carefully viewed the body. Portly, of medium height, his suit shabby and tweed, Francesca recognized him instantly. She coughed to make her presence known and started forward, her navy blue skirts sweeping around her, tendrils of blond hair escaping her chignon and smart little navy blue hat. In her gloved hands, she clutched a purse.

He whirled. “Miz Cahill!” he cried, clearly surprised to find her there in the apartment.

She smiled warmly, determined not to be ousted from the crime scene although this was not her case, as she had no client requiring her to investigate this murder. “Inspector New man, good day. Although from the look of things, this has not been a good day for the victim.” She cast another glance at the dead woman, who appeared, at this closer range, to be in her early twenties. She had been a pretty woman. Newman had closed her eyes.

He met her halfway. Flushing, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, he said, “Are you on this case, Miz Cahill? Is the c’mish with you?”

Her heart did a little flip. She hadn’t seen the police commissioner in weeks, not really. Passing him in the hall of Bellevue Hospital the times she had planned to visit his wife did not count. “I’m afraid I am alone. Does this appear to be the work of the Slasher?” she asked, her gaze drawn to the victim as a moth is drawn to candlelight.

Newman blinked. “Her throat was cut, Miz Cahill, like them first two. But this one, well, she’s dead. To my eye, it looks similar to the first two victims. Of course, until the coroner has examined the body, we cannot be sure.”

Francesca nodded gravely, her gaze briefly on Newman. If the newspapers were to be believed—and Francesca knew very well one could not always believe what the dailies reported—there was a pattern here. According to the Tribune, the first two victims had been young, pretty and Irish. The victims, however, had not been murdered, but merely had their throats slashed and were understandably traumatized. But the second slashing was sensational enough to warrant a headline. Of course, this third woman was dead, so maybe there was no connection. But Francesca did not believe that for a moment.

She had learned since embarking on her profession of criminal investigation that she had very accurate instincts. They shrieked at her now. The Slasher was at work here—and the stakes had suddenly changed.

Murder was now the name of the game.

And that most definitely made the case her affair—as people she cared about lived two doors down. “Do we know her name?” she asked softly, noting the way the woman lay. Her arms were flung out, her head turned to the side. There had been a struggle. She felt certain that the dead woman was also Irish.

“Yes. Her name is Margaret Cooper.” He also turned to stare at the victim.

Francesca started at the name, which was no more Irish than her own. She was surprised she had been wrong, but there was still a pattern. She went grimly forward but Newman suddenly detained her. “Miz Cahill? Should you be here? I mean—” and he blushed crimson “—this is a police matter and if the c’mish is not here, I am not quite certain you should be.”

Francesca didn’t hesitate. “I am officially on this case, Inspector, and we both know the commissioner will be supportive of that.” She smiled, at once friendly and firm. But she no longer knew just how supportive of her investigative work Rick Bragg would be. So much had changed—and so quickly.

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

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