French Silk(31)

"She says she never met Wilde."

"And?"

"That's essentially it."

"Did you believe her?"

For reasons he didn't fully understand, Cassidy had answered evasively. "She didn't give me a reason not to." Because Crowder expected elaboration, he provided it, telling him about Mary Catherine Laurent and the model, Yasmine.

"I know who she is," Crowder said. "Saw her on Johnny Carson once. A real heart stopper."

"Yes, she is. Ms. Laurent, that is the mother, is mentally incapacitated."

"You don't say. In what way?"

Crowder had asked for specifics. Cassidy didn't have any. He doubted that Crowder wanted to hear that his cock got hard every time he thought about Claire Laurent. Not an auspicious sign for an assistant D.A. trying to build a murder case, especially one on which his career was balanced. This was the kind of juicy, well-publicized case that ambitious young prosecutors had wet dreams about. And it belonged to him. Crowder that he was capable of taking over the reins when the older man retired. He needed to convince the voting public that he was the right man for the tough job. And he needed to prove to himself, as he had strived to do for five years, that he was one of the good guys and didn't belong behind bars himself.

All that was going to be doubly difficult to achieve if one of his suspects made him sweaty and horny.

Claire Laurent couldn't have committed cold-blooded murder. Look at the way she treats her mother, he argued with himself.

That logic wasn't worth spit and Cassidy knew it. He'd known serial killers who could weep on command, especially around their mothers.

So forget sentiment. Look at it from a practical viewpoint. It wouldn't have made sense for her to kill Wilde. She would risk more by killing him and getting caught than she would if his plans to ruin her business had panned out. Right? Right. She wouldn't have done it.

Even so, something about that situation at French Silk was askew. What was odd about it? He mentally recalled everyone he had encountered: Tugboat Annie, the receptionist, Claire, Mary Catherine, Yasmine. Suddenly it occurred to him. "No men."

No men. All the warehouse workers were women. Harry, the housekeeper, was a nickname for Harriett. Was that exclusivity significant? Was French Silk a prime example of reverse sex discrimination? Was there more to the relationship between Claire and Yasmine than friendship and business?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, stronger than the coffee and chicory. He pitched the dregs into his kitchen sink.

No, that couldn't be. He would have sensed it. They'd silently communicated on the level of confidantes, but not lovers. In any event, Claire Laurent was no killer.

On the other hand, she struck him as a woman who, if she had already killed a man, wouldn't have any compunction about blowing his balls to smithereens just for the hell of it.

His telephone rang. "It's Glenn."

"Good morning."

The detective grunted as though he disagreed. "I got a call from the P.C. He says the Wilde woman—and that pun is to be taken literally—is demanding that we release the body. We've got to let it go, Cassidy."

He plowed his fingers through his damp hair. "Shit. I guess we don't have a choice. But give me one more crack at her and the stepson."

"We've taken their statements. I've questioned them a dozen times myself. It's going to start looking like harassment."

"I know, but I want to try one more time. I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

The interview with Ariel and Joshua Wilde got off to a bad start. They were already seated in Cassidy's office when he arrived. The widow was dressed in black silk, making her look frail, wan, and unarguably innocent. "Mr. Cassidy, we're leaving for Nashville in a little over an hour. We don't want to miss our flight."

"I apologize," he said, rounding his desk and sitting down. "I ran into some traffic. I'll see that you get to the airport in plenty of time, if it means a police escort."

That seemed to appeal to her. She settled back in her chair. "Thank you."

"I was informed on my way in that the casket with Reverend Wilde's body will also be aboard that flight."

She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. "Jackson was murdered more than a week ago. Not only have you failed to arrest his assassin, but you've prevented me from burying him."

Cassidy mentally applauded her. She was damned good. Her knees were chastely covered by her skirt; her pale, straight hair was held back by a black velvet headband. She had made no attempt to be alluring, and yet she exuded an inexplicable charisma.

Her stepson laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "This has been a grueling ordeal for us, Mr. Cassidy. Especially for Ariel."

"I'm certain it has."

"We want to take Daddy's body home, bury him, and then rest. However, we plan to return to New Orleans as soon as the culprit is apprehended. I want to ask him personally why he did it."

"I'd like to ask that myself." Cassidy opened the file that one of the legal clerks had handed him before he came m. "For clarity, I'd like to recheck some times with you." He shuffled paper to make the question look legitimate. "You—the three of you, along with a few of the entourage—arrived at the hotel … when?"