French Silk(7)

"But there's a limit to even your patience, Claire Louise Laurent. This preacher man was on your ass for almost a year, since the first time he trashed French Silk's catalog from his gilded pulpit. It was like having your baby publicly spanked for being a wicked child.

"You've withstood his narrow-minded censure with a poise and grace that did your southern heritage proud, but truthfully now, deep down, aren't you glad the pious son of a bitch is dead?"

Claire stared vacantly beyond her hood ornament. "Yes," she said quietly, slowly. "Deep down, I'm glad the son of a bitch is dead."

"Hmm. Well, maybe you'd better follow your own advice and think of something else to tell them."

"Them?" Claire snapped out of her trance, and Yasmine directed her attention to the next block. Several TV vans with satellite dishes were parked along Peters Street in front of French Silk. Reporters and video cameramen were milling around them.

"Damn!" Claire muttered. "I don't want to be involved in this."

"Well, brace yourself, baby," Yasmine said. "You were one of Jackson Wilde's favorite targets. Whether you want to be or not, you're involved up to your eyebrows."





* * *



Chapter 2

? ^ ?

"You've failed to get convictions on your last three cases."

Cassidy had expected that argument. Even so, the criticism stung. Rather than showing his agitation, he assumed a self-confident air. "We knew going in that those three cases were weak, Tony. In each one, all the defense attorneys had to do was say, 'Prove it.' I did the best I could with what little evidence I had, and you damn, well know that."

District Attorney Anthony Crowder crossed his stubby, hairy hands over his vest and leaned back in his leather desk chair. "This conversation is premature. The police haven't even made an arrest yet. It might be months before they do."

Cassidy stubbornly shook his head. "I want to work alongside them on the investigation to make certain something vital doesn't slip through the cracks."

"Then I'll have the police commissioner on my back for your butting in on what should be a matter strictly for his department." .

"I'm glad you mentioned the P.C. You're buddies. Have a talk with him. See if you can get Howard Glenn on the Wilde case."

"That seedy—"

"He was first on the scene, and he's good. The best."

"Cassidy…"

"Don't worry about me overstepping my bounds. I'll exercise all my powers of diplomacy."

"You don't have any powers of diplomacy," the district attorney reminded him. "Since you joined this office five years ago, you've done some good work, but generally speaking you have been a pain in the butt."

Cassidy grinned confidently, unfazed by Tony Crowder's gruff put-down. He knew how the D.A. really felt about him. Unofficially he was Crowder's heir apparent. When his current term was up next year, he planned to retire. It was tacitly understood that Cassidy would get first crack at Crowder's office and his endorsement. He might exasperate the older man, but Crowder recognized in Cassidy the same combination of ambition and grit that had once characterized and driven him.

"I've prosecuted and won more cases for you than any other lawyer in the department," Cassidy said without false modesty.

"I know that," Crowder snapped. "You don't have to remind me. But you've also caused me more trouble."

"You can't accomplish anything if you're seared of making waves."

"In your case tidal waves."

Cassidy sat forward and fixed Crowder with a compelling stare. His steady gray eyes had intimidated reluctant witnesses, impressed cynical judges, swayed skeptical jurors, and, in his private life, made sweet talk superfluous. "Give me this case, Tony."

Before Crowder could verbalize his decision, his secretary poked her head around the door. "Ariel Wilde is holding a press conference. It's' being broadcast live on all the TV stations. Thought you might be interested." She withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Crowder reached for the remote control on his desk and switched on the TV set across the room.

The widow's pretty, pale features appeared on the screen. She looked as frail and defenseless as a refugee angel, but there was steely conviction behind her voice. "This tragedy will not put an end to my husband's crusade against the Devil's handiwork." That won her a chorus of amens from the faithful followers who were pressing against the ranks of security people, reporters, and photographers surrounding her.

"Satan knew we were winning this battle. He had to take desperate measures. First he used this corrupt city as a tool against us. City officials refused to provide my husband the 'round-the-clock protection he requested."

"Oh shit," Crowder said, groaning. "Why'd she have to blame the city? The whole damn world is watching."

"Nobody knows that better than she does." Cassidy left his chair, sliding his hands into his trousers pockets as he moved closer to the television set.

As eloquent tears trickled down her ivory cheeks, the widow continued her speech. "This beautiful city is rank with sin and corruption. Take a walk down Bourbon Street if you want to see the stranglehold the Devil has on New Orleans. Jackson Wilde was a conscience, whispering into the ear of this city that it had become a moral cesspool, a slimy reservoir for crime and immorality.