Read Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] for Free Online Page A

butcher, but he was real honest, the godly sort, you know, an’ t’ this day, he cries whenever he hears her name.”
    Francesca briefly closed her eyes. It remained shocking, she thought, to step out of her glittering and lavish world into this other one, a world of darkness, despair, of hopelessness, a world people like Connie and Julia didn’t even know existed—a world that made women such as Tammie Browne choose a life of depravity in order to survive.
    He touched her elbow. “If you want to find Emily O’Hare, we should go up and interview her parents,” Hart said.
    Her gaze flew open. He had leaned close and his kneesbumped hers. “I hope you are wrong, Calder. I desperately do.”
    He hesitated. “There are worse fates.”
    Her alarm skyrocketed. “Such as?”
    “Please.” He gestured with only a slight nod toward the street. His gaze never left hers.
    Francesca stepped out with Raoul’s aid, thanking the swarthy, short driver, whom she had always suspected was actually a bodyguard. A moment later she and Hart were following Joel into a dark and soiled brick building and up two flights of narrow, dark stairs. He knocked on Apartment Seven, and the door was instantly opened by a bleary-eyed older man whom Francesca assumed to be Emily’s father.
    He was in overalls and a tattered sweater. “Joel?” The man appeared to have been sleeping. However, he did smell of beer.
    “Mr. O’Hare, sir. I brought you Miz Cahill, a very famous crime-solver.”
    O’Hare blinked. He had dark hair and long sideburns and a very big belly.
    “To find Emily,” Joel added urgently.
    Francesca swiftly pressed her calling card into his hand. It read:
    Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire
No. 810 Fifth Avenue, New York City
All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small
    He blinked at it. “What’s this?”
    From somewhere in the flat a woman called out, eagerly asking who was there, hope in her tone.
    “Mr. O’Hare, sir. My name is Francesca Cahill, and I am a sleuth. I am here to ask you some questions about Emily’s disappearance,” Francesca said firmly.
    The sleepy look left his eyes, which began to fill with tears. “Is this a prank, boy?” he demanded of Joel. “Youmay not have a daddy, but I don’t mind givin’ you a good whipping!”
    Francesca shoved Joel behind her skirts. “Mr. O’Hare. May I come in? I do wish to speak with you and your wife—if you want to find your daughter.”
    “Brian!” A chubby woman with strikingly black hair and vivid blue eyes hurried forward, and instantly her gaze locked with Francesca’s. Never looking away, she said to her husband, “Maggie told me about Miss Cahill. She is a sleuth, Brian. She finds murderers, scoundrels, every kind of crook. Even missing children. Please, let her in!”
    Brian started while Francesca stared at Emily’s mother with real despair. If Emily looked like her mother, then she was more than pretty, she was beautiful, and Hart was probably, terribly, right.
    “I lost my manners,” Brian said gruffly, stepping aside and opening the door. “I truly lost my manners. I am sorry, Miss Cahill.”
    Francesca gripped his arm. “You are frightened and in grief. Do not apologize.” She looked back at Hart, smiling, as she stepped swiftly into a small but neat apartment. On one wall was a sink and stove; on another, a bed where two small children peeped at her from beneath their covers. A curtain cordoned off another section of the room, where Francesca assumed Emily’s parents slept. In the kitchen area was a large wooden table with five chairs. Another area contained a washtub. “Mr. O’Hare, this is my friend Mr. Hart.”
    O’Hare nodded at Hart. “Come in, do sit down. Kathy, see if we got something to offer our guests.”
    Kathy smiled grimly and did not move.
    Hart said smoothly, “We have just eaten, Mr. O’Hare. But a glass of water would be welcome.”
    Kathy looked relieved, and she turned to the sink to comply.
    Francesca