French Silk(139)

"There won't be a jury because there won't be a trial. I've confessed. Once I'm sentenced, that'll be the end to it."

"You sound as though you look forward to it," he said angrily. "Are you that eager to go to prison for the rest of your life? For the rest of my life?"

She looked away. "I just want to get it over with."

Swearing lavishly, he combed his fingers through his hair. "Why didn't you dispose of the gun. Claire? Why didn't you toss it in the river that night while you were on your walk?"

"I wish I had," she said miserably. "I never expected it to wind up in a police lab."

"The only fingerprints on that revolver were Yasmine's."

"I had on Mama's gloves."

"Which we can test for powder burns."

"I destroyed them and bought her new ones. You won't find anything."

"You're real smart, aren't you?"

"Well, my first choice would have been to get away with it!" she snapped. "But you're so damned persistent."

He ignored that and asked, "When did you sneak the gun out of Yasmine's purse?"

"The week before I used it. She came down for a quick overnight trip. She was so flighty and often careless with her possessions, I knew that when her gun turned up missing she'd shrug it off. I replaced it a few days later—after you'd questioned me about the weapon. Just as I expected, Yasmine passed it off as an oversight."

"That sounds out of character for you, Claire. By using her gun you implicated Yasmine in a murder."

"I didn't think the gun would ever be fired again. I certainly didn't expect Yasmine to take her own life with it." Tears formed in her eyes. Because of the events that had unfolded so quickly since her return from New York that morning, she still hadn't had an opportunity to grieve privately over the loss of her friend. "I wish I had disposed of the damn thing. Yasmine was in more emotional distress than I guessed. She was a disaster waiting to happen. I was too busy to notice, too caught up in my own crisis, too involved with—" Suddenly she broke off and glanced at Cassidy, then quickly lowered her eyes. "I was too involved with this murder investigation to realize that she was silently crying out for help. I failed her."

Cassidy said nothing for a moment. Then he asked, "That night, when you met Jackson Wilde face to face in the Super-dome, what did you feel toward him?"

"Interesting," she said softly. "I didn't feel the unmitigated hatred that I expected I would. Believing me to be a new convert, he laid his hands on my head. There was no cosmic current. I felt no mystical attachment, either physical or emotional. When I looked into his eyes, I expected to experience a tug of recognition, a biological click, something deep inside me.

"Instead, I gazed into the eyes of a stranger. I felt no magnetic attraction to him. I didn't want to claim him as my father, any more than he had wanted to claim me thirty-two years ago." She raised her head slightly. "I'm glad he never knew me. After the heartache and mental illness he inflicted on my mother, he didn't deserve the privilege of knowing me."

"Bravo for you, Claire." He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze full of admiration. He even lifted his hand toward her cheek, but let it drop before touching her. Eventually he scraped back his chair and stood up. "I've got to go to my car and call Crowder. He's probably had a stroke or two by now. Is there anything to eat in the house?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat anyway."

She shrugged indifferently. "There's a café around the corner. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but Mr. Thibodeaux makes good fried-oyster sandwiches."

"Sounds fine. Let's go."

"I'll stay here."

"Not a chance. Besides, you promised Harry you'd call." Claire didn't have the energy to argue with him. His mouth was resolutely set, his stance unarguable. Feeling like she weighed a thousand pounds, she preceded him from the house.

* * *

"I'm trying to reach Assistant District Attorney Cassidy."

"You dialed the wrong number. You've called the NOPD, sir."

"I know that, but the D.A.'s office is closed for the day."

"That's right, it is. Call 'em tomorra."

"No, wait! Don't hang up."

Andre Philippi was in a tizzy. He'd finally worked up enough nerve to call Mr. Cassidy, but his attempts had been thwarted, first by the timeclock, now by an uncaring, dullwitted incompetent at the police station.

"It's imperative that I reach Mr. Cassidy tonight. There must be some way to contact him after hours. Does he have a pager?"

"I don't know."

"Then will you please check with your supervisor?"

"Do you wanna report a crime?"

"I want to speak to Mr. Cassidy!" Andre's naturally high-pitched voice rose to a full falsetto. Knowing he was reaching hysteria and realizing that his speech was conveying that, he willed himself to calm down. "It's about the Jackson Wilde case."

"The Jackson Wilde case?"

"That's right. And if you refuse to cooperate, you'll be obstructing justice." Andre hoped that was the correct term. He'd read the phrase once, and it seemed appropriate to use now. In any event, it was intimidating enough to get results.