Free Deadly Illusions by Brenda Joyce Page A

O’Leary could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Let’s get back to the Slasher. You seem to think he was already in your flat when you came in that night.”
    â€œHe must have been there, waiting for me.” She shivered, blanching again. “I’m sorry. I can’t forget that man. He was terrifying—at first I thought he meant to kill me!”
    â€œBut how would he get into your flat when you left it locked that day?”
    â€œPerhaps he found an open window,” Francis said. “Perhaps I had left a window unlocked. The police said they were all locked, but he could have locked it after entering.”
    â€œIt is certainly a possibility, considering you live on the ground floor. Could he have followed you inside? You said you unlocked the door, closed and locked it immediately and only then, when you were about to sit down on the sofa, he assaulted you.”
    â€œYes.” But she appeared uncertain now.
    â€œBut what did you do with your bag of groceries, your purse? And I assume you wore a hat and perhaps a coat or shawl? Wouldn’t you put your bags down first and then remove your hat and shawl and after that lock the door?”
    Francis stared. After a moment, she said, “You’re right. Of course you’re right. There were a few moments when the door was unlocked, maybe even ajar, while I did those things.” She flushed. “I seem to remember the door being ajar when I went back to lock it. Oh, God! He slipped inside while I was unpinning my hat or some such thing!” she cried.
    â€œYes, I think the Slasher could have slipped inside after you.I am assuming you did not light a candle yet?” Francesca now made some rapid notes.
    â€œI never had a chance to light a candle that night, Miss Cahill. It hadn’t become fully dark yet. After I locked the door I went to sit, and that was when he seized me.” Her eyes re mained wide, but respect filled them now.
    Francesca smiled briskly. “You have been quite helpful, Mrs. O’Leary. Would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Wilson?”
    â€œNo, of course not, but why would you think to speak with my fiancé?”
    â€œPerhaps you told him something that you have forgotten to tell me,” Francesca said lightly. But that was not the real reason. She could not rule out any man who knew any of the victims as a suspect, including Francis’s fiancé—or her errant husband.
    Of course, at this point in time, Francesca could not dismiss the possibility that a madman was choosing pretty women as his victim, purely by random.
    But oddly, she did not think so. “We will be in touch,” she said.
    Â 
    T HE LAW OFFICES WHERE Evan Cahill worked were just a few blocks uptown from the Lord and Taylor store. As she was on her way uptown to interview Kate Sullivan and then to meet Bragg to interview little Bridget O’Neil, she had the perfect opportunity to call on her brother. She hadn’t seen him in a week; when he had been living at home they had seen one another on a daily basis.
    The offices of Garfield and Willis were housed in an older building built at the turn of the previous century. It was still stately, with a brick facade and classical front. After being shown to a small reception room, Francesca was asked to wait for Evan there. She admired the dark wood floors, well worn but gleaming with wax, the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls and the gold fabric above and the large crystal chandelieroverhead. She did not sit. Still thinking about her inter view with Francis O’Leary, she also recalled her conversation with Maggie Kennedy last night. She wondered what Evan would say when he learned of her new case.
    He strode into the room, smiling. “Fran! What a wonderful surprise.”
    Francesca rushed to embrace him. As always, her brother was smiling and he appeared happy. Evan had a sunny nature. He was also tall, dark and