French Silk(8)

"Other than these few here who have come to lend support and mourn his passing, local officials resented Jackson for his divinely inspired honesty." The camera panned a somber group that included a judge, a congressman, and several city officials.

Crowder made a rude sound. "Politicians."

"Some thought Jackson Wilde and voters made good bed-fellows."

"I'd rather f*ck a goat," Crowder grumbled.

"My husband was treated with an indifference that bordered on hostility," Ariel Wilde cried. "That indifference to his safety cost him his life!"

When the roar of agreement from the crowd subsided, she continued. "Then the Devil used one of his demons to silence his staunchest foe, Reverend Jackson Wilde, with a bullet through his heart. But we won't be silenced!" she shouted, raising her thin arms and shaking her fists. "My beloved Jackson is with the Lord now. He's been granted a well-deserved rest and peace, praise the Lord."

"Praise the Lord!" the flock echoed.

"But my work isn't finished. I'll continue the crusade Jackson began. We'll ultimately win this war against the filth that would foul our hearts and minds! This ministry won't stop until America is swept clean of the offal that fills its theaters and bookracks, until museums supported by your tax dollars are rid of pornography that passes itself off as art. We're going to make this country an ideal for the rest of the world to follow, a country free of smut, a nation whose children are reared in an environment of purity and light."

A shout of approval went up. Policemen had a difficult time holding back the surging crowd. The camera angle widened to take in the entire chaotic scene. Ariel Wilde, seemingly spent and on the verge of collapse, was led away on the arm of her stepson. Wilde's entourage protectively closed ranks around her.

Random close-ups of the crowd showed faces streaked with tears, streaming eyes pinched shut in soulful anguish, lips moving in silent prayer. The mourning disciples linked arms and began singing in unison Jackson Wilde's theme song, "Onward, Christian Soldiers."

With a precise flick of his wrist, Tony Crowder switched off the set. "Damned hypocrites. If they're so concerned about the welfare of their children, why aren't they home with them teaching them the difference between right and wrong, instead of parading for a dead saint?" He sighed in exasperation and nodded toward the TV. "Are you sure you want to get involved in that mess, Cassidy?"

"Absolutely."

"Off the record, its gonna be a frigging three-ring circus, especially when the police start rounding up suspects."

"Which right now is limited to about six hundred people—everyone in and around the Fairmont Hotel last night."

"I'd whittle it down real quick—to the widow and stepson."

"They're tops on my list, too." Cassidy grinned engagingly. "Does this mean I have the case?"

"For the time being."

"Come on, Tony!"

"For the time being," the older man repeated loudly. "You're putting yourself in a hotspot, and it's bound to get hotter. I hate to think what will happen if you provoke Ariel Wilde. She's as loved and adored as her husband was. You might incite a riot if it ever comes down to arresting her for killing him."

"There'll be skirmishes, sure. I'm prepared." Cassidy returned to his chair and sat down. "I've taken heat before, Tony. It doesn't bother me."

"Doesn't bother you, hell. You thrive on it."

"I like to win." Cassidy locked gazes with his superior. His grin faded until his lips were a thin, firm line. "Which is the real reason I want this case, Tony. I'm not bullshitting you now. I need a win. I need one bad."

Crowder nodded, appreciating his protégé's candor. "There are less volatile cases I could throw your way if a win's all you're looking for."

Cassidy shook his head. "I need a big win, and bringing Jackson Wilde's killer to justice is going to be one of the biggest legal coups of this year, if not the decade."

"So you're after headlines and coverage on the six o'clock news," Crowder said, regarding him with a frown.

"You know me better than that, so I decline to honor that comment with a rebuttal. Since this morning, I've taken a crash course on Jackson Wilde. I don't like what the preacher was or what he stood for. In fact I disagree with just about everything he advocated. His version of Christianity doesn't jive with the one I was taught in Sunday school."

"You went to Sunday school?"

Cassidy ignored that barb too and stuck with the point he was trying to make. "Whatever else Wilde was, he was a human being with a right to live to a ripe old age. Somebody denied him that right. Naked and defenseless, he was murdered by someone he trusted."

"How do you know that?"

"There wasn't a sign of forced entry on any of the doors into the suite. The locks hadn't been jimmied. So either the perp had a key or Jackson let him in. Apparently Jackson was lying in bed, either sleeping or talking to whoever killed him. He was a religious fanatic, possibly the most dangerous one since Rasputin, but he didn't deserve to have someone cold-bloodedly put a bullet through his brain."

"And heart and balls," Crowder added.