Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce Page B

lovers. No wonder her husband, David Hanrahan, had tried to kill Randolph. Gwen had been using her maiden name since leaving her husband.
    But was he still incarcerated in Limerick, or was he now in the city? If he had arrived in New York, then he was on her exceedingly short list of suspects.
    â€œWhy are you concerned about her lack of references?”
    â€œI intend to find her better employment, as a lady’s maid,” she said.
    Bragg smiled. “Will you become involved with each victim or near victim on every single case we work on?”
    She faced him fully and his smile faded. Softly, she said, “You are implying that there will be more cases for us, Rick.”
    He finally glanced at her. “I doubt you will give up your newfound profession. And while I am currently police commissioner, I will not turn my back on you should you ever need my aid.”
    Francesca stared, touched. But what was he implying? “You sound as if you are not certain of your future.”
    â€œI’m not,” he said. “You are aware of the politics surrounding my job. I may be out of my position far sooner than I would choose, before I can really make the changes this department needs.”
    Francesca forgot about their investigation for a moment. The press had begun to note the increase in activity of the city’s saloons and so-called hotels on Sundays. One of the hot test debates in the city since Bragg’s appointment was whether or not to enforce the blue laws against serving liquor on the Sabbath. That issue was constantly fueled by the clergy and the goo-goos—the good government reform movement. Early in his term Bragg had closed a number of establishmentsviolating those laws; recently, the police department seemed to be looking the other way at those infractions. “Is it true? Have the police begun to ignore the Sunday saloon openings?”
    He sighed heavily. “We have been selectively enforcing the law, Francesca, and only closing the worst offenders. Low asked me to ease up.”
    She gripped his arm. “Why?”
    He glanced at her. “The mayor is worried about reelection, as well he should be. Every time we close a saloon on Sunday, he loses votes to Tammany Hall. Which is the greater goal? Reforming the corrupt police or reelecting a great reform mayor?”
    â€œBut he appointed you to uphold the law!” she cried, frustrated for the dilemma in which he found himself.
    â€œYes, he did. But there is so much of an outcry by the working community against the closings that he has asked me to exercise the arm of the law with caution and care.” He was grim. “I am torn, Francesca. If I do my job as I wish to do, Low will lose the next election. It has become very clear.”
    â€œAnd you are loyal to Low, instead of to the people who believe in you and the cause of reform?” She felt despair, for she was one of those people who so believed in the law, the cause of reform—and in him.
    â€œI am focusing on the corruption within the department now. I have an internal investigation in progress. When it is concluded, a number of officers will be dishonorably discharged.”
    She blinked. Then, filled with admiration for him, she touched his arm. “I am proud of you,” she said.
    He smiled at her then.
    Traffic had become heavy as they had turned onto Fourth Avenue, where a huge excavation was in process for the new railroad line that would terminate in the Grand Central Station. A trolley crept slowly forward just ahead of them, while several carriages and a hansom penned them in. Francesca suddenlyrealized that Bragg’s home wasn’t far from where they now waited, ensnarled in traffic, and that his wife had come home as scheduled but he was not there to greet her.
    She looked at him. “Please, Rick. You should not be driving me all the way across town. You should be at home with Leigh Anne.”
    His jaw tightened. It was