Deadly Kisses

скачать книгу бесплатно


“I have to ask, what was his name?”

Rose started. “I am afraid I cannot reveal his identity.”

“Why not?”

“Francesca, he is a gentleman. Gentlemen do not wish to have their liaisons with women like myself made public.”

“Didn’t the police ask for his name?”

“I told them what I told you.”

Francesca decided not to push. For the moment, Rose did not have a solid alibi, and that increased her significance as a suspect. Francesca knew she should not be relieved, but she was. “Go on,” Francesca urged.

Rose shuddered now. “I took a cab back to the house. Daisy and I had agreed to meet later. There were no lights on and I was alarmed, Francesca. The moment I saw that, I knew something was wrong—I knew some thing had happened!”

“And you found Daisy?”

Rose nodded, covering her face with her hands. “I was in a panic. I ran inside and started calling her name. I ran from room to room and then I found her, on the floor, dead!”

Francesca went over to her, placing her hand comfortingly on her shoulder. Rose wept. “Why didn’t you turn on the lights?”

Rose tried to speak. “I tried the first lamp, but it didn’t work. I was so afraid—all I could think of was finding Daisy.”

“Did you see Hart? Did you hear anything, or any one?”

“No! I sat with her, my heart broken. I stayed until I realized we needed help, and that was when I wrote that note. The only time I left her was to go to the desk, write the note, and then I ran outside. I paid a cabbie to deliver it for me. Then I went back to her and waited for you to come. I didn’t see Hart until he came into the study with you.”

If Rose had left her john at half past nine, she had probably been at Daisy’s by ten. Francesca had received her note two hours later, meaning Rose might have sat with Daisy for quite some time before recovering enough to write and send a note—if she was telling the truth. Rose’s story confirmed that Hart had entered the house while Rose was looking for a cabdriver. “Why didn’t you call the police?” Francesca asked.

Rose seemed taken aback by her question. “Those pigs don’t care! They hate us—they use us. They would never try to find her murderer!”

“Rose, this is important. Do you know who Daisy was seeing last night?”

“She never told me who she was seeing, but I gathered it was some kind of old friend.”

Francesca started. “Do you mean a friend from her previous life?”

Rose stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Francesca saw, in her dark eyes, that she understood quite well. “I mean, was it an old friend from the life she had before she became Daisy Jones?”

“I don’t know!”

Francesca considered Rose’s intense reaction. “Was Daisy still entertaining clients, Rose?”

“No. She left the business the day she moved in here.”

That, of course, made sense. Why would Daisy continue to solicit customers when she had no financial need? “Can you think of anyone she used to entertain who might have been so passionately involved with her that he wanted her dead?”

Rose was finally surprised. “You think a john murdered her?”

“It would hardly be the first time a prostitute was murdered by her client.”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.” Her face tightened. “Of course, there is one client we both know who had all the passion necessary to do the deed.”

Francesca refused to do battle over Hart now. “What was Daisy’s real name?”

Rose instantly turned away. “I don’t know.”

Francesca did not believe her. “You were best friends, and she never told you her real name?”

Rose stared into the distance. “No,” she muttered.

Francesca decided to give that up, for the moment, anyway. “It was always obvious to me that Daisy came from a genteel background. She was well mannered, well spoken, clearly educated and as graceful as any lady from Fifth Avenue.”

Rose did not respond.

“Why aren’t you helping me?” Francesca cried. “Someone wanted Daisy dead—someone who knew her well. I have to uncover her real identity and her entire past.”

“We both know who wanted Daisy dead,” Rose said harshly.

“And what if you are wrong? What if Hart is not the killer?” Francesca demanded.

Francesca saw the conflict in Rose’s eyes. She finally cried, “She never told me her real name, I swear! She was running from her old life, Francesca. She never spoke of it—ever.”

That was very odd, Francesca thought. “How did you meet?”

Rose met her gaze, her own eyes turning moist. “Oh, God, that was so long ago!”

“How long?”

Rose smiled through her tears. “It was eight years ago. Daisy was such a beautiful young woman. She was fifteen, but she was really still a child. She was so innocent, so naive. I had been turning tricks for years—I was so much older than she was, although not in years. I was sixteen, Francesca, when we met and became friends.”

“Where did you meet?”

Rose sniffed. “On the street.” She looked at Francesca. “Can you believe it? Daisy was standing on the street corner, here in the city. She was so beautiful, Francesca, I can’t even describe it.” She bit her lip. “I had never been in love, not with anyone, but I was stunned by her beauty, even then. I could tell she was lost—she was bewildered—and she seemed so sad. I had been shopping with one of the other girls. I made an excuse—somehow I didn’t want my friend to meet Daisy, to know about her. And then I went over to try to help.” Rose hugged herself.