French Silk(15)

He laughed, partly because the bubbles surprised him and partly to release some of the energy building inside him.

"A whimsical distraction for when work gets me down," she said. "Yasmine frequently gives me gadgets like this because she says I take myself too seriously." Smiling, she recapped the vial.

"Do you?"

She met his direct gaze. "Do I what?"

"Take yourself too seriously."

He knew from her reaction that he'd overstepped his bounds. Her smile congealed. Still cordial, but with a hint of impatience, she asked, "Why did you come to see me, Mr. Cassidy? Is it regarding that hot check I reported to the D.A.'s office?"

"Hot check? No, I'm afraid not."

"Then I'm at a loss."

"Reverend Jackson Wilde." He tossed out the name without preamble. It lay like a gauntlet between them. She didn't pick it up but merely continued to gaze at him inquisitively. He was forced to elaborate. "I assume you've heard about his murder."

"Certainly. Didn't you see me on TV?"

That took him aback. "No. When was that?"

"The day Reverend Wilde's body was found. The day before yesterday, wasn't it? Reporters came here to get my statement. It must not have been as dramatic as they wanted, because I didn't make the evening news."

"Were you relieved or disappointed that you were cut?"

"What do you think?" Her smile had disappeared.

Cassidy took another tack. "What do you know about the murder?"

"Know?" she repeated with a shrug. "Only what I read in the newspapers and see on television. Why?"

"Were you acquainted with Reverend Wilde?"

"Do you mean had I ever met him? No."

"Never?"

"No."

"But he knew you." She remained silent, although she didn't look quite as calm, cool, and collected as she had a few moments ago. "Didn't he, Ms. Laurent? Well enough that your opinion was sought by the media when he was found dead."

She wet her lips with a dainty, pink tongue that momentarily distracted him. "Reverend Wilde knew me by name, as the owner of French Silk. He condemned me from his pulpit as a pornographer. 'Smut-peddler' is how he referred to me."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How do you think I felt?" Suddenly giving vent to the agitation he'd sensed behind her calm facade, she stood up and rounded the divan, so that it was between them.

"I'll bet you didn't like it one damn bit."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Cassidy. I didn't. The term smut doesn't apply either to my business or to my catalog."

"Did you know you were on Wilde's hit list?"

"What are you talking about?"

Cassidy removed a sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket, which still lay across his knees. He shook out the folds and handed it to her, yet she made no move to take it from him.

"Among Wilde's personal effects," he said, "we found this handwritten list of publications. Playboy, Hustler, all the girly mags you'd expect. Along with the French Silk catalog."

That morning when he and Howard Glenn had discussed the few facts they had on the case, Glenn had expressed little interest in this list. The veteran detective was focusing his investigation on Ariel and Joshua Wilde. To his way of thinking, they were the most likely suspects.

He was probably right, but Cassidy hadn't wanted to leave a single clue dangling. His offer to check out French Silk had earned him an indifferent shrug from Glenn, who obviously felt that he was wasting his time.

Having met Claire Laurent, Cassidy didn't think so. She hardly fit a criminal psychological profile, but she was sure as hell intriguing and she had had a real ax to grind with the late preacher.

She stared at the sheet of paper for a moment, then gestured at it angrily. "I don't know anything about this list. My catalog has nothing in common with those magazines."

"Apparently Wilde thought it did."

"He was wrong."

"Ms. Laurent, your company was targeted for defamation and harassment until you were forced out of business. According to the date on this, Wilde made a holy vow a few weeks before his death and signed his name to it in his own blood."

"Obviously he was insane."

"He had thousands of devoted followers."

"So did Adolph Hitler. Some people are sheep who have to be told what to believe because they can't think for themselves. If they're told what they want to hear often enough, they'll follow anyone and adhere to any misinformation they're fed. They're brainwashed. I pity them, but they're free to make their own choices. I only want to be let alone to make mine. That's the only quarrel I had with Jackson Wilde. He presumed to impose his beliefs on everyone. If he didn't approve of my catalog, fine. But who gave him the right to condemn it?"

"He would say God had."

"But we only have Wilde's word on that, don't we?"

She was drawn up tighter than a guitar string threatening to snap. Her breasts rose and fell, disturbing the liquid in the small bottle hanging from her neck. Cassidy learned something else about Claire Laurent in that heated moment. Beneath her cool reserve beat a passionate heart.