French Silk(3)

Cassidy winced with empathy. "Wonder which shot was fired first."

"Can't say."

"My guess would be the head."

"Why?"

"The chest wound, if it didn't kill him, would have immobilized him."

"His lungs would have flooded. And?"

"And if somebody had shot me in the crotch, I'd have reflexively tried to protect the area."

"Dying with a death grip around your balls?"

"Something like that."

She shook her head. "Wilde's arms were at his sides. No sign of a struggle or adverse reaction of any kind. I'd guess he felt perfectly at ease with whoever offed him. He might have even been asleep. He didn't see it coming."

"Victims rarely do," Cassidy muttered. "What time would you guess it happened?"

She lifted the corpse's right hand and revolved it around the wrist joint, testing the rigidity. "Midnight. Maybe before." Dropping the hand back onto the sheet, she asked, "Can I have him now?"

Cassidy gave the brutalized body a final once-over. "Be my guest."

"I'll see that you get a copy of the autopsy report as soon as I'm finished. Don't call and start bugging me for it before I'm through or it'll only take longer."

Dr. Dupuis had assumed that he would be prosecuting the case. He didn't qualify his involvement at this point. It was only a matter of time. He would have this case.

Moving aside to give the forensic crew room to maneuver, Cassidy conducted a visual investigation of the hotel bedroom. The articles on the nightstand had already been dusted for prints. A fine, black film clung to everything. Various items were being carefully placed in separate plastic bags and labeled. Robbery could be ruled out as a motive. Among the articles on the nightstand was a Rolex wristwatch.

A police photographer was taking pictures. Another policeman wearing surgical gloves was on his hands and knees, examining the carpet for fibers.

"Has any press been allowed in yet?"

"Nope," the officer on his knees replied.

"Keep them out as long as possible and hold all vital info close to your chest. Our office will prepare a statement later in the day when we know the facts."

The officer acknowledged the instructions with a nod.

Leaving the policemen to do their jobs, Cassidy wandered into the parlor of the suite. Opaque drapes had been drawn across the two walls of windows, making the room appear dim and gloomy in spite of its pastel and white decor. Huddled in the corner of a peach velvet sofa was a young woman, her head bent, her face buried in her hands. She was sobbing uncontrollably. A young man sat beside her. He looked nervous, even frightened, as he tried in vain to console her.

They were being questioned by an NOPD homicide detective. Howard Glenn had been in the department for more than twenty years, although he was a rogue and not particularly liked by his colleagues. His appearance didn't attract companions or solicit friendships. He was dingy and disheveled, he chain-smoked unfiltered Camels, and overall he looked like he belonged in a 1940s film noire. But he was well respected throughout the local law-enforcement community for his dogged method of investigation.

As he approached, Glenn glanced up and said, "Hey, Cassidy. You got here quick. Crowder send you?"

Anthony Crowder was the district attorney of Orleans Parish, Cassidy's boss. He sidestepped the question and nodded down to the couple on the sofa. "Who're they?"

"Don't you watch TV?"

"Not religious programs. Never saw his show."

Glenn turned his head and said out the side of his mouth so that only Cassidy could hear, "Too bad. He's been canceled."

Cassidy glanced over his shoulder into the bedroom where Elvie Dupuis was overseeing the transference of the bagged body from the bed to the gurney. "He damn sure has."

"This is the evangelist's wife, Ariel Wilde," Glenn informed him. "And his son, Joshua."

The young man looked up at Cassidy. Cassidy stuck out his right hand. "Assistant District Attorney Cassidy."

Joshua Wilde shook hands with him. His grip was firm enough, but his hands were soft, smooth, and well tended, not a working man's hands. He had expressive brown eyes and ash-brown hair worn long and wavy on top. He was good-looking, on the verge of pretty. Born a century or two earlier on another continent, he would have frequented fashionable salons and dabbled in writing romantic poetry. Cassidy doubted that he'd ever thrown a baseball, camped out, or played shirts and skins with the guys.

His voice was as southern and cultured as a cask of Jack Daniels. "Find the monster who did this to my father, Mr. Cassidy."

"I intend to."

"And bring him to swift justice."

"Him? Are you sure it was a man who killed your father, Mr. Wilde?"

Joshua Wilde was flustered. "Not at all. I only meant … I used the masculine pronoun in a generic sense."

"Then it could have been a woman."

Until now, the widow had failed to acknowledge the introduction while weeping into a shredding Kleenex. Suddenly Ariel Wilde tossed her pale, straight hair over her shoulders and fixed Cassidy with a wild, fanatic gaze. Her complexion had no more color than the white plaster lamp on the end table, but she had beautiful blue eyes enhanced by extraordinarily long lashes and the shimmer of fresh tears.