French Silk(121)
Reminded of Petrie, Claire turned to Cassidy, who'd been driving in silence. "Petrie's little girl. Is she all right?"
"From what I read, she's coping. Still has nightmares, the papers said yesterday. She's under the care of a child psychologist."
"I can't imagine Yasmine doing something that ghastly in front of a child."
"Petrie was the lover who dumped her, right?"
"Lucky guess."
"I heard that afterward, they found all sorts of voodoo paraphernalia in her room."
"Yes."
"I also heard that you were on the scene, Claire."
"I found the altar in her room. I thought she was going to harm him. I went after her, but arrived too late."
"Dr. Dupuis told me that you refused to leave her side and accompanied her body to the morgue."
"She was my friend."
"You're to be commended."
"I don't need your praise."
"You're determined to alienate me, aren't you?"
"I thought it was decided the day we met that we couldn't be friends." They glanced at each other, then quickly away. After a while, Claire said, "This is bound to put a kink in Petrie's campaign. What does he have to say for himself?"
"You haven't read?"
"No. I've deliberately avoided reading anything about her suicide or the speculations on why she did it. They were certain to make me ill."
"Then I don't recommend the recent issues of any periodical. Everything from The New York Times to the National Enquirer has a theory."
"I was afraid of that. Give me an idea of what I'm up against."
"That she was strung out on drugs."
"I expected that one."
"That she held a racially founded grudge against Petrie."
"Yasmine was apolitical."
"That she was a spurned secret lover."
"Which I'm certain he's denied."
"Actually he hasn't said much. He's hiding behind his wife's skirts and letting her do all the talking. Pretty neat P.R. tactic when you think about it. If the wife's solidly behind him, he couldn't have been having an illicit affair, right?"
"Right. So they'll make Yasmine out to be a nut case."
"Basically." Cassidy wheeled his car into its designated parking slot at the side of the district attorney's office building.
"Why'd you bring me here?" Claire asked resentfully. "I'm travel grimy. I'm tired. I don't feel up to answering any questions. And I'm furious at you for badgering my mother. Besides, I thought you'd be off the case by now. Hasn't Crowder replaced you yet?"
"Not since there've been some late-breaking developments."
"Congratulations. But what could these late-breaking developments possibly have to do with me? I haven't even been here."
He turned to her, laying his arm across the back of the seat. "We ran a routine ballistics test on the bullet that killed Yasmine. It had the same markings as the ones that killed Jackson Wilde. All of them were fired from the .38 revolver that was removed from Yasmine's death grip."
* * *
Chapter 26
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Andre Philippi scoured his fingernails with a brush liquid hand soap. It was the fifth time he'd washed his hands in that compulsive and meticulous manner since waking that morning. When his hands were clean to his satisfaction—temporarily—he rinsed them in water as hot as he could stand and blotted them dry with a fluffy white towel straight from the hotel's laundry.
He surveyed himself in the mirror over the basin. His clothes were immaculate, nary a speck or a wrinkle. The pink carnation in his lapel was fresh and dewy. There wasn't an oiled hair out of place. He should have felt splendid and well turned out, like a shiny new car on the showroom floor.
Instead he felt insecure, fearful, and miserable.
Leaving the bathroom and conscientiously switching off the light, he returned to his office. Measured by most standards, it was exceptionally tidy and well organized. To Andre it looked a mess. On his desk were stacks of correspondence that demanded his attention, in addition to employee time sheets, marketing memos, and customer questionnaires. All the paperwork he usually enjoyed sorting through and methodically completing had backed up during his period of mourning for Yasmine. He hadn't felt like working since he received the devastating news of her suicide. Considering his affinity for his work, this new attitude toward it was tantamount to sacrilege.
When Claire called to notify him of Yasmine's death, he had outright accused her of lying. The idea of that lovely creature destroying herself in that abhorrent fashion was too appalling to believe and too painful to contemplate. It was woefully reminiscent of the day he'd returned home from school to find his beautiful maman lying naked in an overflowing bathtub, dripping tepid water and warm blood onto the tile floor.
The two women he had loved and revered above all other of God's creation had chosen to die rather than live. Not only had they preferred a world without him, they hadn't even thought enough of him to say goodbye. As though it had physical qualities, grief compressed his chest until he couldn't breathe without experiencing excruciating pain around his heart.