French Silk(55)

The phone on his desk rang. Cassidy picked it up on the second ring. "Cassidy."

"Mr. Cassidy, it's Claire Laurent."

His gut clenched reflexively. Her soft, smoky voice was the last one he had expected to hear. She was never off his mind, but the fantasies he entertained weren't always of convicting her of murder.

The romp with his neighbor had provided only short-term relief. When he left her condo, he still wasn't sure what her name was, and that made him feel he was on the level of a maggot. He had used her in the worst way a man could use a woman. His only absolution was that she had also gotten from him what she had wanted—and had asked for on numerous occasions.

"Hello," he said to Claire with feigned casualness.

"How soon can you get here?"

The question took him aback. Was she about to confess?

"To French Silk? What's up?"

"That will be obvious when you arrive. Please hurry."

She hung up before saying anything more. He held the receiver away from his ear and regarded it curiously.

"Who was that?" Glenn asked as he lit a cigarette.

"Claire Laurent."

Glenn's eyes narrowed as he looked at Cassidy through a cloud of smoke. "No shit?"

"No shit. I'll catch you later."

Leaving the detective, Cassidy pulled on his suit coat, hurried from his office, and ran to catch the elevator before the doors closed. He upbraided himself for his haste, but justified it by recalling her tone of voice. Although it had been as low and hushed as always, he had sensed another quality in it. Irritation? Fear? Urgency?

Within seconds he was on his way, driving skillfully fast toward the French Quarter and cursing the traffic along the way.

Just as Claire had said, he saw the reason for her call before he even reached French Silk. A throng of people, at least two hundred of them, were picketing in front of her building. He had to read only a few signs to know who had organized the protest march.

"Dammit." He parked illegally and shoved his way through the curious onlookers until he reached a policeman. "Cassidy, D.A.'s office," he said, flashing his ID. "Why aren't you breaking this up?"

"They've got a permit."

"What idiot issued that?"

"Judge Harris."

Inwardly Cassidy groaned. Harris was ultraconservative and had been a real fan of Jackson Wilde. At least he had appeared to be to gamer votes.

The cop pointed out a picket that a grandmotherly type was holding aloft. "Is that catalog really that hot? Maybe I ought to get one for my old lady. We could use something to jazz up our sex life, ya know?"

Cassidy wasn't interested. "How long have they been at this?"

"An hour maybe. Long as it stays peaceful, we gotta let 'em picket. I just wish to hell they'd sing another song."

The marchers had sung the chorus of "Onward, Christian Soldiers" three times since Cassidy had arrived. They were taking full advantage of the media coverage, which was extensive. All the local television stations were represented by minicams and scrambling reporters. One news photographer with a 35mm camera had climbed the lamppost across the street to get a better angle.

Cassidy irritably pushed his way through the parading ranks of Wilde's disciples toward the side door of French Silk. He depressed the bell.

"I warned you not to come near that goddamn door again!"

"It's Cassidy from the D.A.'s office. Ms. Laurent called me."

The same woman he'd met before pulled open the door, confronting him like a side of beef that was quivering with indignation. Her eyes were mere slits of hostility in her broad, ruddy face. "It's all right," he heard Claire say from behind the tattooed amazon.

She stepped aside. "Thanks," he said tersely as he came in. She grunted and closed the door behind him.

Claire looked beautiful, although not in her customary, composed fashion. Her cool reserve was gone. Her whiskey-colored eyes were sparkling with vexation. There was color in her cheeks. She was obviously upset, but her disheveled hair and clothing made her sexier, more exciting, more appealing than ever.

"Do something, Mr. Cassidy," she demanded. "Anything. Just make them go away."

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. They've got a permit. You'll just have to tough it out."

She flung her arm toward the door. "While they're exercising their rights, they're violating my right to privacy."

"Calm down. One demonstration isn't going to significantly hurt your business."

"I'm not concerned about my business," she said angrily. "Didn't you see the TV cameras? We're getting a free commercial out of this. But they're wreaking havoc on the Bienvile House," she said, referring to the pink-walled hotel across the street. "Delivery trucks can't get through. Their chef is having apoplexy. The guests are complaining. And the manager, whom I've been friends with for years, has called twice, rightfully demanding that I put a stop to this madness.

"Not only that, I'm afraid for my employees. When the first shift tried to leave a while ago, they were booed and hissed at like they were scum. That's when I called you. I don't want my employees affected by any of this."

"I'm sorry, Claire. You've got Ariel Wilde to thank."