French Silk(42)

With one foot on the pavement, she turned back to add, "Good-looking piano players come a dime a dozen, Josh. And so do lovers."

* * *

As he entered the Fairmont Hotel, Cassidy was keyed up, on edge, and wet. He'd had to park a block away and run through a deluge. Making his way toward the lobby bar, he removed his trench coat and shook rain off it, then combed his fingers through his damp hair.

He was sick of rain. For days New Orleans had been inundated. The weather had been no better in Nashville last week, when he'd attended Jackson Wilde's funeral.

"Just coffee, please," he told the cocktail waitress who came to take his order.

"Regula' o' Nawlins coffee?" she asked in a thick native drawl.

"New Orleans. Black." He'd just as well inject the caffeine intravenously; he wasn't sleeping much these nights anyway, so what the hell. He checked his watch. Still twelve minutes till Andre Philippi reported for work. Cassidy's sources told him you could set your clock by the night manager.

While waiting to see him, he sipped the scalding brew the waitress had brought him. He finally had a lead. He, Glenn, and the police platoon assigned to investigate the case had followed hundreds of tips that had proved worthless. But now he had a bona fide lead.

He hoped to God he did. He needed to produce something.

Crowder was growing impatient. He had balked at letting Cassidy go to Nashville. "If you can't find the killer on your own turf, what makes you think you can find him up there?

I can't justify the expense. Let NOPD send one of their own."

"By his own admission, Glenn's no good with people. Especially with this group, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He thinks I should go. Let me go, Tony. Maybe I'll pick up some vibes."

That had won him a withering look. "Vibes my ass. You'd just as well consult a clairvoyant."

"I've considered that, too," Cassidy said wryly.

He had continued to badger Crowder until he wore him down and got his permission to go to Nashville. "I still think it's a wild goose chase."

"Maybe so, but I'm spinning my wheels here."

"Remember you're on a budget," he'd shouted as Cassidy rushed from his office.

Regrettably, Crowder had been right. The trip had been a total waste of time. Thousands had attended the evangelist's funeral, which had had a carnival atmosphere. The sideshow had attracted curiosity seekers, mourning disciples, and media from around the globe, all jockeying for a glimpse of the coffin, which had been draped in red, white, and blue bunting and smothered with flowers.

Cassidy's credentials had won him a spot near Wilde's inner circle of associates and confidants. If there was a killer among them, he or she masked his treachery well, for each wore the bleak expression of someone cut adrift from the last lifeboat. None had appeared jubilant or even relieved. Besides, if someone within Wilde's organization had offed him, where was the motivation? They would profit only as long as he was preaching on television and conducting his crusades, and raking in love offerings from both. Jackson Wilde was an industry. The lowliest gofer reaped benefits. Glenn's investigation had uncovered that Wilde had rewarded loyalty well.

Like any other business, there was occasional strife within the organization. Personality conflicts. Jealousy. Bickering and rumblings within the ranks. Even so, if one of Wilde's own had pulled the trigger, the person would be cutting off his or her source of income. That didn't make sense.

Perhaps there had been a contributor with a grudge, someone who had gone sour on Wilde. Cassidy had subpoenaed the records; Glenn had a couple of guys plowing through them, but there were tens of thousands of people and organizations who had contributed to the ministry over the years.

The only viable suspects at the funeral had been Ariel and Joshua. Cassidy had scrutinized their every move. Josh had appeared composed to the point of catatonia. Unblinking, he'd stared at the casket. It was impossible to gauge whether he was stunned by, indifferent to, or bored with the whole affair.

The widow had been pious and pathetic in equal proportions. She had asked God's blessings on everyone with whom she spoke. She solicited their prayers. Cassidy pegged her as a butterfly with a steel backbone. Beneath the angelic packaging, the woman was cold and hard and probably capable of murder. The problem was, the only evidence he had on her was circumstantial. He couldn't prove her affair with her stepson, and by all appearances, she had adored and now mourned her husband.

Perhaps the most viable suspect hadn't been at the funeral. Following his last interview with Claire Laurent, he and Detective Glenn had discussed her at length. All they could positively derive was that she was a liar.

Initially she'd lied about the depth of her interest in Jackson Wilde. The discovery of the folder proved that, but only that. She'd tried to keep hidden the unsavory aspects of her past, but that proved nothing except her abiding concern for her mother.

As to the videotape of the crusade service, it proved she'd lied about ever having met Wilde and about being at home the night he was murdered. But it didn't place her in the Fairmont suite with the victim. It didn't connect her to a weapon. Cassidy and Glenn knew that a grand jury wouldn't indict on such circumstantial evidence.

Besides, Glenn was still lukewarm on her. "She's a snotty, condescending bitch, but I doubt she's a killer. I still say it's the wife and son. We know they were there. We don't know that about her."