French Silk (18 page)

Perhaps there had been a contributor with a grudge, someone who had gone sour on Wilde. Cassidy had subpoenaed the records; Glenn had a couple of guys plowing through them, but there were tens of thousands of people and organizations who had contributed to the ministry over the years.

The only viable suspects at the funeral had been Ariel and Joshua. Cassidy had scrutinized their every move. Josh had appeared composed to the point of catatonia. Unblinking, he'd stared at the casket. It was impossible to gauge whether he was stunned by, indifferent to, or bored with the whole affair.

The widow had been pious and pathetic in equal proportions. She had asked God's blessings on everyone with whom she spoke. She solicited their prayers. Cassidy pegged her as a butterfly with a steel backbone. Beneath the angelic packaging, the woman was cold and hard and probably capable of murder. The problem was, the only evidence he had on her was circumstantial. He couldn't prove her affair with her stepson, and by all appearances, she had adored and now mourned her husband.

Perhaps the most viable suspect hadn't been at the funeral. Following his last interview with Claire Laurent, he and Detective Glenn had discussed her at length. All they could positively derive was that she was a liar.

Initially she'd lied about the depth of her interest in Jackson Wilde. The discovery of the folder proved that, but only that. She'd tried to keep hidden the unsavory aspects of her past, but that proved nothing except her abiding concern for her mother.

As to the videotape of the crusade service, it proved she'd lied about ever having met Wilde and about being at home the night he was murdered. But it didn't place her in the Fairmont suite with the victim. It didn't connect her to a weapon. Cassidy and Glenn knew that a grand jury wouldn't indict on such circumstantial evidence.

Besides, Glenn was still lukewarm on her. "She's a snotty, condescending bitch, but I doubt she's a killer. I still say it's the wife and son. We know they were there. We don't know that about her."

But the evidence that the detective had turned up that afternoon might be the missing clue that would change his mind about the owner of French Silk. "That little twerp over at the hotel has been lying through his teeth," he'd told Cassidy.

"Looks like. Want me to take it?" He was itching to.

"Be my guest. If I get near him, I might throttle the little shit. Never did trust a guy with a flower on his lapel."

Cassidy hadn't spared a second racing to the Fairmont in time to intercept Andre Philippi.

Cassidy spotted him briskly approaching the registration desk. He tossed a couple of bills on the table to cover his coffee, picked up his trench coat, and crossed the lobby in long, purposeful strides.

Andre wasn't pleased to see him. His face crinkled with distaste. "What is it, Mr. Cassidy? I'm very busy."

"I appreciate that, but so am I."

"Perhaps you could call tomorrow and set up an appointment."

"I'm sorry, but I really need to see you now. I apologize for the inconvenience and promise it won't take but a minute. Do you have an audio cassette player handy?"

"A cassette player?" Andre regarded him suspiciously. "There's one in my office. Why?"

"May I?"

Cassidy didn't wait for compliance. He headed toward Andre's office, trusting the little man to follow, which he did—rapidly. Upon entering the office, Cassidy went straight to the machine, turned it on, and inserted the cassette. "This is highly improper, Mr. Cassidy. If you wanted to see me—"

Andre fell silent when he heard a telephone ring on the tape. He heard his own voice answer, then the start of a conversation that began with, "
Bonsoir
, Andre."

He recognized the voice, all right. Apparently he remembered the conversation, too. As Cassidy watched, he seemed to wilt inside his impeccable black suit. Beads of perspiration popped out on his shiny forehead. His pursed lips went slack. He backed up to his desk, groping for the corner of it before plopping down.

"
Mon Dieu
," he whispered as the tape continued to play. He removed a handkerchief from his hip pocket and blotted his forehead. "Please, please, Mr. Cassidy, turn it off."

He didn't turn if off, but he reduced the volume. He'd expected a reaction, but not one so drastic. Obviously he had more here than he'd originally thought. His impulse was to grab the man by the lapels and shake the information out of him. It took some effort to play it cool.

"Why don't you tell me about this, Andre? I'm giving you the opportunity to explain."

Andre wet his lips and nervously picked at the monogram on his handkerchief. If he'd just been sentenced to death row, he couldn't have looked more distressed. "Does she know that you have this?"

Cassidy's heart was drumming. He was on the brink of learning the identity of the woman on the tape. Philippi assumed he already knew who she was.
Don't blow it!
Cassidy gave a noncommittal shrug. "It's her voice, isn't it?"

"Oh, dear. Oh, my," Andre moaned, crumpling even more. "Poor, poor Claire."

* * *

Claire had been talking to Yasmine via long distance for almost an hour. Yasmine was depressed. Claire suspected that she'd had more than a couple of drinks.

"He's always in a rush," she whined.

Selfishly, Claire wished that Yasmine had kept her lover a secret. Since the night she had acknowledged him to Claire, most of their conversations revolved around him and the star-crossed affair.

"He's dividing his time between his family and you, Yasmine. You don't have him all to yourself. That's just one of the consequences of being involved with a married man. You must accept that or end the affair."

"I accept it. It's just that … well, in the beginning, our time together seemed more leisurely."

"Now it's slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am."

Claire expected that crack to annoy her volatile friend. Instead, she gave one of her throaty laughs that called to mind jungle felines. "Hardly. This past weekend, he worked me over so good…"

"Then I don't understand what you're complaining about."

There was a tearful catch in Yasmine's voice. Claire had never known her to cry over anything, even when the cosmetics line chose another model to replace her. That had been the beginning of Yasmine's financial troubles. Yasmine wasn't aware that Claire knew about her present difficulties. She'd debated broaching the subject with her and offering assistance in the form of a loan. But knowing Yasmine's temper and pride as she did, she'd refrained. She hoped Yasmine would come to her of her own accord before her situation became desperate.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's the only reason he wants me," Yasmine said in a small voice. "You know, what we do in bed."

Claire saw the wisdom of holding her silence.

"I know it's not that way," Yasmine hastened to say. "There's much more to our relationship than the physical part. The shitty circumstances have me upset, that's all."

"What happened?"

"He was in Washington on business this week and told me he could pad the trip to include two days in New York. But his business went longer than expected and he got held up. We were only together for one day.

"When he got ready to leave this afternoon, I thought I was going to die, Claire. I did what I know better than to do. I begged him not to go. He got angry. Now, I can't even call him and apologize. I have to wait for him to call me."

Sitting at her drawing board, Claire rested her forehead in her hand and massaged her temples. She was both concerned and irritated. The only thing to be had from this love affair was a broken heart. Yasmine should be smart enough to see that. She should cut her losses now and stop making a fool of herself. But she wouldn't welcome hearing that or any other unsolicited advice.

"I'm sorry, Yasmine," Claire said, meaning it. "I know you're hurting, and I hate that. I want to see you happy. I only wish there were something I could do."

"You're doing it. You're listening." She sniffed. "Listen, enough of that. I got with Leon and finalized the schedule for the shoot next week. Ready to take it all down?"

Claire reached for a pad and pencil. "Ready. Oh, wait," she said impatiently when she heard the call-waiting beep. "There's the other line. Just a sec." She depressed the button and said hello. Seconds later, she clicked back to Yasmine. "I've got to go. It's Mama."

Yasmine knew better than to prolong the conversation. "Tomorrow," she said quickly and hung up.

Claire dashed from her office and chose the stairs in favor of the elevator. She'd been in the apartment less than a minute before running down the two flights to the ground level. As she raced across the darkened warehouse, she pushed her arms through the sleeves of a glossy black vinyl raincoat and pulled the matching hat over her hair.

Since the bolts had already been unlocked and the alarm system disengaged, she flung open the door—and came face to face with Cassidy.

His head was bent against the downpour, which had already plastered his hair to his head. The collar of his trench coat had been flipped up; his shoulders were hunched inside. He was reaching for the bell. When they saw each other, one was as surprised as the other.

"What do you want?" Claire asked.

"I have to see you."

"Not now." She set the alarm, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind her. Sidestepping Cassidy, she dashed through the rain toward the rear of the building. Her upper arm was manacled by his hand, and she was brought up short. "Let me go," she cried, struggling to release her arm. "I've got to go."

"Where?"

"On an errand."

"Now?"

"Now."

"I'll drive you."

"No!"

"Where are you going?"

"Please, don't bully me now. Just let me go."

"Not a chance. Not without some kind of explanation." A lightning bolt briefly illuminated his strong features and the resolution carved on them. He wasn't going to take no for an answer, and they were wasting time. "All right, you can drive me."

Still with a firm grip on her arm, he wheeled her around. His sedan was parked in a loading zone at the curb. After depositing her in the passenger seat, he jogged around the hood and got in. Rain dripped from his nose and chin as he started the engine. "Where to?"

"The Ponchartrain Hotel."

Chapter 9

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"
I
t's on St. Charles Avenue," she told him.

"I know where it is," he said. "Why the hell are you in such a mad dash to get there?"

"Please, Mr. Cassidy, can we hurry?"

Without further comment, he pulled the car away from the curb and turned onto Conti Street. The French Quarter was quiet tonight. The few pedestrians who were out battled with umbrellas as they moved along the narrow sidewalks. The neon signs advertising exotic drinks and aperitifs, filé gumbo and crawfish étouffée, topless dancers and jazz were blurred at the edges by the rainfall.

When Cassidy stopped at an intersection to wait for crossing traffic, he turned his head and looked hard at Claire. She felt his stare like a stroke of his hand across her cheek and could almost feel again his fist closing around her hair. She hadn't expected him to touch her at all, but particularly not like that.

It had astonished her even more than his calling her by her first name, more than his knowing that she had attended Jackson Wilde's last crusade. Almost a week had passed since then. Wilde had been buried in Tennessee. Claire had had no more contact with either the police or the D.A.'s office and had hoped that Cassidy had redirected his investigation away from her. Evidently that had been too much to hope for.

Now, unable to avoid him, she turned her head and met his penetrating stare. "Thank you for driving me."

"Don't thank me. You'll pay for the ride."

"Ah. Men always exact a fee from women, don't they? There's no such thing as a favor without strings attached."

"Don't flatter yourself, Ms. Laurent."

"I'm not. Isn't it the consensus among men that every woman is beautiful at two A.M.?"

"Sexism in reverse. You have a very low opinion of men."

"You'd decided that before our last meeting. Haven't we exhausted that topic?"

"Look," he said angrily, "I don't want anything from you except answers. Straight, no-bullshit answers."

"That shouldn't be too difficult. What do you want to know?"

"Why you lied to me. No, wait. I'll have to be more specific, won't I? I want to know why you lied to me about meeting Jackson Wilde. You not only met him, you met him eyeball to eyeball. You shook hands with him."

"I suppose I should have told you about that," she admitted contritely. "But it wasn't significant. It wasn't!" she emphasized after he gave her a sharp look. "I wanted to meet my adversary face to face. That's all there was to it."

"I seriously doubt that. If that's all there was to it, you wouldn't have lied about it."

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed. It was silly and immature, but I enjoyed having Wilde at a disadvantage. I knew him, but he didn't know me. He thought he'd won my soul. It was a kick to think of how he'd feel if he knew he was welcoming one of his so-called smut peddlers into his flock."