His jaw tightened at the thought. He used his toe to turn on the hot water tap and forced himself to relax once again.
She's not dead.
Despite his stubborn, illogical assertion he'd discovered today that Hope Stillwater, of 1807 S. Prairie Avenue, Chicago, Illinois, had been reported as missing by her father on November thirteenth of the year 1906.
"Three days from now—give or take a hundred and two years," Ryan mumbled out loud.
The woman from his dreams had been declared dead four days after her father reported her missing when her severely beaten and disfigured body had been found floating in the Chicago River. For a few seconds the image of her luminescent pale skin, lithesome limbs, lush breasts and curving lips flashed into his mind's eye like a perfectly clear film clip. His muscles tensed.
He couldn't make it work— couldn't rectify that breathtaking, vibrant image of stunning beauty with the report of a beaten, bloated, lifeless body.
Ryan hadn't been able to reconcile those erotic photographs with what he'd learned of Hope's background, either. What he'd read about her life seemed to suggest that the bizarre things he'd been experiencing since stepping into the Prairie Avenue mansion must be wrought by an overworked, stressed-out brain.
Hope's father had been rather famous in his day. Gail had made a few photocopies of old Chicago Daily Herald articles about Jacob Stillwater, a wealthy minister, social reformer and alderman of the first ward who had campaigned vociferously against the white slave trade and the shutting down of Chicago's notorious red-light district. A few of those articles speculated that his open warfare against graft, prostitution and white slavery had been the motive for the murder of his daughter.
Hope's murderer had never been found, although one man, who had been colorfully dubbed Diamond Jack Fletcher, had been a prime suspect. The police had investigated Diamond Jack, a man one article had called the "King of Vice" of the Levee District, the area where most of the houses of prostitution could be found.
Although Gail had complained about the person at the Chicago Police Department Regional Archives Depository being a pain in her ass, whoever had compiled the data had done
an admirable job finding public and police records in regard to Hope's life and death. In fact, the file had included photocopies of old, handwritten notes from a detective on the Chicago police force, a man by the name of Connor J. O'Rourke.
In his notes, Detective O'Rourke described Jack Fletcher as the most powerful crime boss in the city, owner of multiple brothels and gambling dens, extortionist, blackmailer and white slaver. He ruled the first ward and the Levee District with an iron fist. Jack and his cronies conducted the majority of their business dealings at one of his seedier brothels on the 2400 block of South Dearborn Street. Detective O'Rourke had no difficulty painting a black picture of Jack Fletcher in his notes, although he admitted with a hint of frustration that "certain foul circumstances" prevented him from pinning Diamond Jack with the murder of "that angel of mercy," Hope Stillwater.
Ryan had long taken an interest in the history of Chicago and especially the Chicago Police Department. He had a suspicion that the "certain foul circumstances" O'Rourke referred to was the rampant corruption and graft that plagued the CPD's commissioners and captains in the early 1900s. Detective O'Rourke's boss was likely indebted to Diamond Jack for his heralded position and received some healthy payoffs in order to ignore the vast landscape of illegal activities that occurred in the Levee District.
At any rate, if Diamond Jack Fletcher had thought to silence Jacob Stillwater with his daughter's abduction and murder, he'd made a critical mistake. Jacob Stillwater became even more vocal and active after his daughter's death, spearheading a political campaign that eventually closed down the Levee District. Stillwater launched some of the first federal anti-white slavery legislation. Apparently he was one of the pioneers for drafting laws that Ryan upheld even today by investigating scum like Jim Donahue.
Meanwhile, Detective O'Rourke's shackled attempts at investigating Diamond Jack were stymied even further by Jack becoming sicker and sicker from a reported "blood disorder" that drained him of all his vitality, including his proclivity for violence. He died after a lingering, painful illness a year after Hope's death. That fact didn't provide Ryan with the measure of satisfaction he would have thought it would.
He would have wished something a hell of a lot more decisive if Diamond Jack truly had been Hope Stillwater's murderer.
She's not dead.
Ryan rolled his eyes when he recognized his own stubborn thought. Befpre he had time to mentally admonish himself for clinging on to delusions, the sound of splashing water once again entered his awareness.
Goose bumps rose on his damp, exposed shoulders, neck and chest. Another wary inspection of the bathroom assured him it was empty, however. Experimentally, Ryan raised his hand from the tub. The sloshing water made a much louder sound than the one he'd just heard. That other noise had possessed a soft, trickling quality, but there was something odd about the sound . .. almost as if he'd heard it through a tin can. There'd been a muffled, slightly metallic quality to it.
When he realized he was holding on to both sides of the deep tub and listening with an intense focus, he sat up with a jerking motion. The sound of water splashing around him as he sat up forcefully was anything but subtle, instantly shattering his tense, expectant mood.
Maybe Ramiro really was right. Not about the Prairie Avenue mansion being haunted.
About his brain being fried.
He grunted in irritation when he saw that he'd left his towel on an antique wooden bench that looked as if it'd been made for a child's playhouse. It had been there when he arrived in the house and he hadn't seen any reason to move it yet. It stood a good six feet from the tub. Water streamed off his body when he stood quickly. He lifted one foot to step out, looked up and almost fell out of the deep tub when he lost his balance. His breath burned in his lungs as he stared in openmouthed disbelief.
He gaped at a very alive-looking, half-naked Hope Stillwater.
FOUR
Her eyes looked enormous in her delicate face as she peered at him over a damp, creamy shoulder. She stood at the bowl of the sink, masses of curling dark hair pinned up on her head. She held a sponge in her frozen hand. It dripped into the filled basin, the resulting sound perfectly real, soft and somehow soothing to Ryan's stunned brain.
He had caught her in the private ritual of a sponge bath.
After a moment the weird vibrations of shock resonating through him lessened. He'd been mistaken. His imagination had gotten the best of him. This was a very real woman. She must have been living in the mansion illegally. Perhaps she was the former owner and had never vacated the premises?
Despite his logical thoughts, when he finally spoke what he said was completely irrational.
"Hope?" he asked, his volume level barely above a whisper. It was as if she existed inside a fragile bubble and he was afraid his robust male essence would pop her into oblivion.