French Silk (13 page)

"So I've been reading." She nodded toward the newspaper he'd tucked under his bare arm. From there her eyes ventured to the water-beaded hair on his lower belly. "Have you had a chance to use that sample soap I gave you last week?"

She worked at Maison-Blanche, representing an international cosmetics line. She was constantly leaving samples from their men's collection on his doorstep. Thanks to her, he had more cosmetics than the female impersonators who pranced in the clubs on Bourbon Street. He stuck to Dial and a splash of shaving lotion, but he hated to hurt her feelings. Feeling a tingle from every hair follicle that she was studying, he said, "Yeah, it was great."

"Smell good?"

"Hmm."

She looked into his face and her eyes lingered. They'd run out of things to say. He recognized her soft expression for what it was. He toyed with the idea of inviting himself into her condo for croissants and coziness, but dismissed the thought before it was fully formed. "Well, I'm running late. 'Bye."

He closed the door seconds before the knotted towel slipped over his buns, then fell to the floor. His neighbor, Penny or Patty or Peggy or something like that, was pretty and available, as far as he knew. She'd made overtures before, which he'd ignored for one reason or another, chiefly due to lack of time and interest.

Maybe this morning he should accept her subtle invitation. Maybe getting laid was just what he needed to improve his outlook. "Hell, I doubt it," he muttered. If it were that easy, he could have climbed out of this slump days ago. Women weren't that hard to come by.

He kicked the wet towel out of his path and stalked naked into the kitchen. He sipped his coffee while waiting for his toaster to spring two slices of wheat bread. Opening his Times Picayune, he noted that the Wilde murder story had been demoted to page 4. But there in black and white was an article suggesting that the authorities were baffled. Incompetence was strongly suggested. For those who didn't already know—and since the media had been saturated with reports, it seemed impossible that the facts weren't known to everyone—the crime scene was restaged according to the press release Cassidy had helped compose.

The reporter quoted him as saying that the combined forces of the police department and the district attorney's office were following several good leads, which was true, and that an arrest was imminent, which was a lie. They weren't even close to arresting anybody. They didn't have shit.

His toast popped up. He buttered both slices, sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon, and bit off a piece. Claire Laurent sprang to mind. Her mouth would taste like warm butter and cinnamon-sugar.

"Dammit." He braced his hands on the countertop and leaned forward, his chin lowered to his chest. Even though his shower wasn't five minutes old, he began to perspire; the tiny droplets trickled down his sides, chest, back, and belly. Arousal curled around his sex like tendrils of mist off a bayou, taunting and teasing and, to his greater frustration, causing quite a reaction.

Ever since his visit to French Silk, he'd been suffering night sweats. Like malaria, the debilitating symptoms recurred night after night. They made him weak, made him crazy, made him horny. He wanted to blame his adolescent malady on the product French Silk manufactured. If a normal guy looked at enough models wearing skimpy underwear, he would get turned on. It was a rule of nature. Every garment featured in the French Silk catalog was sexy. Either sexy/sweet, sexy/cool, or sexy/hot. But always sexy.

Those glossy pages were a definite turn-on, but he'd studied centerfolds since about age twelve and had never been plagued with a fever like this. The difference was the woman who inspired the catalog. Claire Laurent was as provocative as the merchandise she peddled. He couldn't get her out of his mind, and not necessarily within the context of his investigation. He had wondered more than once if those damn bubbles she'd blown weren't in fact a voodoo love potion.

"How'd it go at that underwear place yesterday afternoon?" Crowder had asked him at their routine morning meeting.

"You mean French Silk?"

"Is there another one involved in this case?"

"It's quite an operation. I had no idea the business was that expansive.

"I don't care about the business. Did you talk to the Laurent woman?"

"Yes. At length."

"Anything?"

"She says she never met Wilde."

"And?"

"That's essentially it."

"Did you believe her?"

For reasons he didn't fully understand, Cassidy had answered evasively. "She didn't give me a reason not to." Because Crowder expected elaboration, he provided it, telling him about Mary Catherine Laurent and the model, Yasmine.

"I know who she is," Crowder said. "Saw her on Johnny Carson once. A real heart stopper."

"Yes, she is. Ms. Laurent, that is the mother, is mentally incapacitated."

"You don't say. In what way?"

Crowder had asked for specifics. Cassidy didn't have any. He doubted that Crowder wanted to hear that his cock got hard every time he thought about Claire Laurent. Not an auspicious sign for an assistant D.A. trying to build a murder case, especially one on which his career was balanced. This was the kind of juicy, well-publicized case that ambitious young prosecutors had wet dreams about. And it belonged to him. Crowder that he was capable of taking over the reins when the older man retired. He needed to convince the voting public that he was the right man for the tough job. And he needed to prove to himself, as he had strived to do for five years, that he was one of the good guys and didn't belong behind bars himself.

All that was going to be doubly difficult to achieve if one of his suspects made him sweaty and horny.

Claire Laurent couldn't have committed cold-blooded murder.
Look at the way she treats her mother
, he argued with himself.

That logic wasn't worth spit and Cassidy knew it. He'd known serial killers who could weep on command, especially around their mothers.

So forget sentiment. Look at it from a practical viewpoint. It wouldn't have made sense for her to kill Wilde. She would risk more by killing him and getting caught than she would if his plans to ruin her business had panned out. Right? Right. She wouldn't have done it.

Even so, something about that situation at French Silk was askew. What was odd about it? He mentally recalled everyone he had encountered: Tugboat Annie, the receptionist, Claire, Mary Catherine, Yasmine. Suddenly it occurred to him. "No men."

No men. All the warehouse workers were women. Harry, the housekeeper, was a nickname for Harriett. Was that exclusivity significant? Was French Silk a prime example of reverse sex discrimination? Was there more to the relationship between Claire and Yasmine than friendship and business?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, stronger than the coffee and chicory. He pitched the dregs into his kitchen sink.

No, that couldn't be. He would have sensed it. They'd silently communicated on the level of confidantes, but not lovers. In any event, Claire Laurent was no killer.

On the other hand, she struck him as a woman who, if she had already killed a man, wouldn't have any compunction about blowing his balls to smithereens just for the hell of it.

His telephone rang. "It's Glenn."

"Good morning."

The detective grunted as though he disagreed. "I got a call from the P.C. He says the Wilde woman—and that pun is to be taken literally—is demanding that we release the body. We've got to let it go, Cassidy."

He plowed his fingers through his damp hair. "Shit. I guess we don't have a choice. But give me one more crack at her and the stepson."

"We've taken their statements. I've questioned them a dozen times myself. It's going to start looking like harassment."

"I know, but I want to try one more time. I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

The interview with Ariel and Joshua Wilde got off to a bad start. They were already seated in Cassidy's office when he arrived. The widow was dressed in black silk, making her look frail, wan, and unarguably innocent. "Mr. Cassidy, we're leaving for Nashville in a little over an hour. We don't want to miss our flight."

"I apologize," he said, rounding his desk and sitting down. "I ran into some traffic. I'll see that you get to the airport in plenty of time, if it means a police escort."

That seemed to appeal to her. She settled back in her chair. "Thank you."

"I was informed on my way in that the casket with Reverend Wilde's body will also be aboard that flight."

She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. "Jackson was murdered more than a week ago. Not only have you failed to arrest his assassin, but you've prevented me from burying him."

Cassidy mentally applauded her. She was damned good. Her knees were chastely covered by her skirt; her pale, straight hair was held back by a black velvet headband. She had made no attempt to be alluring, and yet she exuded an inexplicable charisma.

Her stepson laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "This has been a grueling ordeal for us, Mr. Cassidy. Especially for Ariel."

"I'm certain it has."

"We want to take Daddy's body home, bury him, and then rest. However, we plan to return to New Orleans as soon as the culprit is apprehended. I want to ask him personally why he did it."

"I'd like to ask that myself." Cassidy opened the file that one of the legal clerks had handed him before he came m. "For clarity, I'd like to recheck some times with you." He shuffled paper to make the question look legitimate. "You—the three of you, along with a few of the entourage—arrived at the hotel … when?"

"Ten-o-five," Ariel replied impatiently. "Mr. Cassidy, we've been over this a thousand times."

"I know it seems repetitive, but sometimes in the retelling of events, a witness remembers something he's previously forgotten. Please indulge me."

She exhaled a longsuffering sigh. "We arrived at ten-o-five. We were all hungry. We ate in the Sazerac, on the lobby level. I'm sure the staff can verify that."

"They have. Did anyone leave the table at any time?"

"I don't think so. Josh, do you remember anyone leaving the table during the meal?"

"No Why is that important, Mr. Cassidy?"

How the perp got into the Wildes' suite was still unclear. Cassidy thought someone from the inner circle could have had access to a key and been waiting for Wilde when he returned from dinner. "Just thought I'd check."

"I don't remember anyone leaving until we'd finished," Ariel told him. "We all rode in the elevator together, getting off on our designated floors."

"Was it a convivial group?"

"Everyone was still full of the Spirit."

"The Spirit?"

"The Holy Spirit. That night's service had been particularly blessed."

"I see." Cassidy rifled through more papers. "So, Mrs. Wilde, you, your husband, and Josh got off the elevator together on the seventh floor?"

"That's correct. Jackson always reserved a floor exclusively for us, so the family would have absolute privacy."

 
"Hmm."

"I kissed Jackson good-night at the elevator, then went to Josh's suite to practice our songs for the next evening's service."

"Do you always sing on a full stomach, Mrs. Wilde?"

"Pardon?"

Cassidy leaned back in his chair and threaded a pencil through his fingers as he closely regarded the two. "I've known a few singers. I've never known one who liked to sing right after eating. A full stomach crowds the diaphragm, doesn't it?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You said you went to Josh's suite to practice."

"I can explain that," Josh said hastily. "When Ariel and I are rehearsing outside the auditorium, we're only working on timing, rhythm, that kind of thing. She doesn't sing full voice until we're in the auditorium, where the sound technicians can set mike levels."

"Oh," Cassidy said. "That must be why nobody heard you singing that night."

"No one else was on the seventh floor, remember?" Ariel sweetly reminded him.

"That's true. But the rooms above and below Josh's suite were occupied, yet the occupants never beard any singing or piano playing."

"What are you implying, Mr. Cassidy?"

"That maybe you went to Josh's suite to make music of a different sort."

The widow shot to her feet and glared down at him. "How dare you!"

"Nobody can corroborate your story, Mrs. Wilde."

"No one can dispute it either."

"And I think you planned it that way."

"Think what you want."

"I think that in order to continue your affair, one or both of you slipped back down the hall that night and shot your husband while he was asleep. You left him there all night, then the following morning staged this dog-and-pony show for the press and the public."

Her blue eyes narrowed menacingly. "The Devil is using you."

"Very possibly," Cassidy replied blandly. "He's always found me willing."