French Silk(13)

When word reached him of an opening in the Orleans Parish, Louisiana, D.A.'s office, he applied for the job and a divorce on the same day. The last he'd heard of Kris, she was still living in Louisville, happily remarried and pregnant with a second child. He wished her every happiness. It certainly wasn't her fault that his work had been more important to him than she had been and that when his career went awry, he'd had to reevaluate everything in his life, including their marriage.

In some respects, he was still shackled to his past mistakes. He'd been hacking away at those problems for five years and wasn't yet completely free of them. He might never be. But his marriage wasn't a link in those chains. It had been a clean, unemotional break. The only time he thought of his former wife was when he needed sex very badly and no one was available or when he was out of clean shirts. That wasn't fair to Kris. She deserved better than that. But that's the way it was.

He stripped and got into bed, but his mind was too preoccupied to settle into sleep. He realized, to his surprise, that he was also semierect. Lust for a woman hadn't caused it. It was residual excitement looking for an outlet. He was supercharged, mentally and physically.

As he lay there, sleepless, he reviewed the facts of the Wilde case, acknowledging that there were damned few of them. All he knew for certain was that it was going to be a difficult, jealous bitch of a case that would consume his life for months, if not years.

Undaunted by the prospect of that, he was itching to get started. He'd overseen the writing and issuance of the press release that gave an account of the murder. It was now a matter of record that he would be heading the investigation and prosecuting the case when it came to trial. He'd asked for the opportunity and it had been granted. He couldn't blow it. He had to prove to Crowder that his trust wasn't misplaced.

Cassidy also had to prove it to himself.





* * *



Chapter 3

? ^ ?

The building was located on North Peters Street, one block from where it merged with Decatur. It was last in a row of scarred brick warehouses that had thus far withstood the path of progress in this old industrial district of the French Quarter. Most of the buildings, including the nearby Jax Brewery, had been gutted and redeveloped into fashionable eateries and shopping malls.

The renovation had resulted in a discordant blending of authentic New Orleans with crass commercialism. The oldtimers, who wished to preserve the mystic atmosphere of the Vieux Carré considered such commercialization an abomination, a desecration of the district's uniqueness. Those who clung to it did so with tenacity and defiance, as the facade of French Silk evinced.

The ancient bricks had been painted white, although the side of the building that was exposed to the intersecting street bore the cruel marks of age. In keeping with Creole architecture, there were glossy black shutters on all the windows. Black grillwork simulating balconies had been added to the second and third floors. Above the entrance, suspended from twin black chains, was a discreet sign bearing the name of the business written in cursive.

Cassidy soon discovered, however, that the front door was also a facade and that the real entrance to the warehouse was a heavy metal door on the Conti Street side of the building. He depressed the button and heard a loud school bell ringing inside. A few seconds later the door was opened.

"What do you want?" The woman who confronted him was built like a stevedore. RALPH, spelled out in blue letters and centered in a red heart, had been tattooed on her forearm. Her upper lip was beaded with perspiration that clung to the hairs of a faint mustache. She looked no more like she belonged in a lingerie factory than a linebacker did at a debutante ball. Cassidy's heart went out to Ralph.

"My name is Cassidy. Are you Claire Laurent?"

She uttered a sound like a foghorn. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"No. I'm looking for Claire Laurent. Is she here?"

She gave him a suspicious once-over. "Just a minute." Propping the door open with her foot, she picked up a wall-mounted telephone and pressed two digits on the panel. "There's a guy here to see Ms. Laurent. Kennedy somebody."

"Cassidy," he corrected with a polite smile. He was no Schwarzenegger, but he could hold his own in an ordinary brawl. Still, he'd hate to tangle with this Tugboat Annie.

She glared at Cassidy while waiting for further instructions. Cupping the mouthpiece of the telephone, she spat past his shoulder. Finally she listened, then said to him, "Ms. Laurent wants to know what about."

"I'm from the district attorney's office." He removed the leather folder from his breast pocket and flipped it open to show her his ID.

That won him another glare and a slow, distrustful once-over. "He's from the district attorney's office." After a moment she hung up the telephone. "This way." She didn't looked pleased about her boss's decision to see him. Her rubber soles struck the concrete floor like each footfall might have a cockroach beneath it. She led him past row upon row of boxed goods that were being labeled and loaded for shipping.

Large fans mounted in the walls at ceiling level were blowing hard and noisily. But they succeeded only in circulating warm, humid air. Their blades interrupted the sunlight streaming in, creating an effect like a strobe and lending a surreal atmosphere to the warehouse.

Cassidy felt a trickle of sweat running down his side and forgave the woman her sweating upper lip. He shrugged off his suit jacket and held it over his shoulder. Then he loosened the knot of his necktie. As he moved across the warehouse, he noticed that it was spotlessly clean and highly organized. The busy workers, seemingly unaffected by the heat, chatted happily among themselves. A few glanced curiously at him, but none had glared at him like Tugboat. He supposed that suspicion was the nature of her job, which was obviously to keep out the scumbags and undesirables like himself.