French Silk

Chapter 9

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"It's on St. Charles Avenue," she told him.

"I know where it is," he said. "Why the hell are you in such a mad dash to get there?"

"Please, Mr. Cassidy, can we hurry?"

Without further comment, he pulled the car away from the curb and turned onto Conti Street. The French Quarter was quiet tonight. The few pedestrians who were out battled with umbrellas as they moved along the narrow sidewalks. The neon signs advertising exotic drinks and aperitifs, filé gumbo and crawfish étouffée, topless dancers and jazz were blurred at the edges by the rainfall.

When Cassidy stopped at an intersection to wait for crossing traffic, he turned his head and looked hard at Claire. She felt his stare like a stroke of his hand across her cheek and could almost feel again his fist closing around her hair. She hadn't expected him to touch her at all, but particularly not like that.

It had astonished her even more than his calling her by her first name, more than his knowing that she had attended Jackson Wilde's last crusade. Almost a week had passed since then. Wilde had been buried in Tennessee. Claire had had no more contact with either the police or the D.A.'s office and had hoped that Cassidy had redirected his investigation away from her. Evidently that had been too much to hope for.

Now, unable to avoid him, she turned her head and met his penetrating stare. "Thank you for driving me."

"Don't thank me. You'll pay for the ride."

"Ah. Men always exact a fee from women, don't they? There's no such thing as a favor without strings attached."

"Don't flatter yourself, Ms. Laurent."

"I'm not. Isn't it the consensus among men that every woman is beautiful at two A.M.?"

"Sexism in reverse. You have a very low opinion of men."

"You'd decided that before our last meeting. Haven't we exhausted that topic?"

"Look," he said angrily, "I don't want anything from you except answers. Straight, no-bullshit answers."

"That shouldn't be too difficult. What do you want to know?"

"Why you lied to me. No, wait. I'll have to be more specific, won't I? I want to know why you lied to me about meeting Jackson Wilde. You not only met him, you met him eyeball to eyeball. You shook hands with him."

"I suppose I should have told you about that," she admitted contritely. "But it wasn't significant. It wasn't!" she emphasized after he gave her a sharp look. "I wanted to meet my adversary face to face. That's all there was to it."

"I seriously doubt that. If that's all there was to it, you wouldn't have lied about it."

"I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed. It was silly and immature, but I enjoyed having Wilde at a disadvantage. I knew him, but he didn't know me. He thought he'd won my soul. It was a kick to think of how he'd feel if he knew he was welcoming one of his so-called smut peddlers into his flock."

"Okay. I'll buy that."

"Good."

"If only it weren't for the other."

"Other?"

"You also lied about being in the Fairmont that night."

Claire had a dozen denials poised on the tip of her tongue, but one look at his face stopped her from vocalizing any of them. He seemed too confident that he had trapped her. Until she knew what she was up against, it would be safer to say nothing. Otherwise, she might only dig herself into a deeper pit.

As soon as there was an opening in the traffic, he drove through the intersection, turning left toward Canal Street. Steering with his left hand, he used his right to remove something from the breast pocket of his trench coat. He inserted a cassette into the tape player and adjusted the volume.

Claire's heart jumped to her throat when she heard her voice say, "Bonsoir, Andre." She stared straight ahead through the rain-splattered windshield. As they drove up Canal, she listened to a recording of a recent telephone conversation she'd had with Andre Philippi.

When it was over, Cassidy ejected the tape and returned it to his pocket. He concentrated on getting around Lee Circle before continuing out St. Charles Avenue. "I didn't know you spoke French."

"Fluently."

"That threw me off. I didn't recognize the voice as yours. Not until your old pal Andre identified you for me."

"Andre would never betray a friend."

"He assumed I already knew it was you."

"In other words, you tricked him." Cassidy shrugged an admission. "Why did you tap his telephone?"

"I knew he was holding something back and needed to know what it was. It's done all the time."

"That doesn't excuse it. It's a gross invasion of privacy. Does Andre know you trapped him?"

"I didn't trap him. He got trapped in his own deception."

Claire sighed, knowing how devastated he must be feeling. "Poor Andre."

"That's exactly what he said about you. Poor Claire. You two certainly have a cozy relationship, always thinking of each other, looking out for each other. How nice it is that you can go to the penitentiary together. Maybe we can arrange neighboring cells."

She gave him a sharp glance, which he responded to with an abrupt bob of his head. "Well, hallelujah. I finally got your attention. Are you getting the picture now? Murder two carries a mandatory life sentence in Louisiana. Now how do you feel about being a prime suspect?"

To Claire Louise Laurent, threats had never been an effective deterrent. They didn't make her quail or concede; they only made her more determined to stand her ground. "Prove that I'm guilty of murder, Mr. Cassidy. Prove it."

He held her stare a dangerously long time. Claire turned her head away as the car approached the hotel. "Just let me out at the curb. I won't be a minute."

"Uh-uh. We're going in together."

"I was only thinking of you. You're already drenched."

"I won't dissolve."

He turned on his emergency blinkers and got out of the car. After helping Claire alight, they ducked for cover beneath the canopy extending over the sidewalk. The doorman tipped his hat to Claire.

"Evenin', Miss Laurent."

"Hello, Gregory."

"It sure is wet out tonight. But don't worry none. She got here before it started coming down too bad."

Claire preceded Cassidy into the landmark hotel where suites were named for the celebrities who had resided in them. The narrow lobby was gracious and very European, furnished with antiques and oriental rugs, redolent of courtly charm and southern hospitality.

Mary Catherine Laurent was seated against the marble wall in a striped chair with gilded swans for arms. Her printed voile dress was dotted with water spots that hadn't quite dried. The brim of her pink straw hat drooped from having absorbed too much moisture. Wearing a pair of snowy white gloves, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her legs pressed together from instep to groin, feet flat on the floor. She looked like a young girl on her way to confirmation who'd been caught in an unexpected downpour. A suitcase stood within easy reach near her feet.

The clerk on duty was a woman with a straight bob hairdo and horn-rimmed glasses. She rounded the concierge's desk at the rear of the lobby. "I called as soon as she got here, Miss Laurent."

"Thank you very much." Claire removed her rain hat and squatted down in front of her mother. "Hi, Mama. It's me, Claire."

"He'll be here soon." Mary Catherine spoke in a thin, faraway voice. Her eyes were looking into another time and place that no one else could see. "He said to meet him here this afternoon."

Claire took the sad straw hat from her mother's head and smoothed the damp hair away from her cheeks. "Maybe you got the days mixed up, Mama."

"No, I don't believe so. I'm certain I got the day right. He said he was coming for me today. I was supposed to be packed and ready. I was supposed to meet him here." Obviously flustered and disoriented, she raised one of her gloved hands and pressed it against her chest. "I'm not feeling well."

Claire glanced up at Cassidy. "Could you get her a glass of water, please?"

Thoroughly baffled, he was staring down at the two women while his trench coat dripped water onto the floor. At Claire's request, he asked the hovering night clerk for a glass of water.

"Mama." Claire gently placed her hand on Mary Catherine's knee. "I don't think he's coming today. Maybe tomorrow. Why don't you come home with me and wait for him there, hmm? Here. Mr. Cassidy has brought you a glass of cool water."

She folded Mary Catherine's fingers around the glass. Mary Catherine raised it to her lips and sipped. Then she looked up at Cassidy and smiled. "You've been very kind, Mr. Cassidy. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She noticed his wet coat. "Is it raining out?"

He glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance, where the doorman was exercising admirable sensitivity in trying to appear inconspicuous. It was still raining torrentially. Cassidy replied, "Yes, I believe it is."

"Can you imagine that? It was so hot when I came in. Maybe I'd best go home now." She extended her hand up to him. He took it and helped her from her chair, then helplessly looked to Claire for further instructions.

"If you want to go on," she told him, "I can call a cab for Mama and me."

"I'll drive you."

She nodded and returned the glass of water to the night clerk. "You have my gratitude. I appreciate your understanding."

"It's no bother, Ms. Laurent. She never causes any trouble. It's just so sad."

"Yes, it is." Placing an arm around her mother's shoulders, Claire guided her toward the door, which the doorman was holding open for them. "Don't forget her suitcase, Ms. Laurent," he reminded her kindly.

"I'll get it," Cassidy said.

Mary Catherine was impervious to the peels of thunder and flashes of lightning as they waited beneath the canopy for Cassidy to stow the suitcase in the car trunk. Knowing that her mother was in another realm and virtually helpless, Claire assisted her into the backseat and buckled her in.

During the return trip, only Mary Catherine spoke. She said, "I was sure we were supposed to meet today. The Ponchartrain Hotel."

Claire bowed her head slightly and pinched her eyes shut, keenly aware of Cassidy and his rapacious interest in what was taking place. When they arrived at French Silk, he carried the suitcase while Claire ushered Mary Catherine inside and up to the third floor. In the elevator, Claire accidentally made eye contact with him. She looked away quickly, refusing to acknowledge the unasked questions in his intense, gray eyes.

Once inside the apartment, she steered Mary Catherine toward her bedroom. "I'll be back shortly if you want to wait," she said to him over her shoulder.

"I'll wait."

She helped Mary Catherine undress and carefully replaced the outdated clothes in the closet. After seeing that she took her medication, she tucked her in. "Night-night, Mama. Sleep well."

"I must have the days confused. He'll come for me tomorrow," she whispered. Smiling prettily, peacefully, she closed her eyes.

Claire leaned down and kissed her mother's cool, unlined cheek. "Yes, Mama. Tomorrow." She switched out the lamp and left the room, softly closing the door.

She was exhausted. Her shoulders ached with tension. It seemed a long way from her mother's bedroom door to the large, open living area. Like a firing squad, Cassidy was waiting for her there, armed and ready. She had no choice but to face him. Steeling herself, she moved down the hallway.

She didn't immediately see him when she entered the room. Thinking that perhaps he'd changed his mind and left, she experienced an instant of relief—and several heartbeats of disappointment.

Despite her denials to Yasmine, and to herself, she found Cassidy attractive. Physically, certainly. But there was something else … his dedication, tenacity, determination? She was attracted to the same qualities as those which repelled her. She feared him, yet he had demonstrated unusual kindness and sympathy toward her mother. As her eyes sought him through the darkness, all she knew for certain about her feelings for Cassidy was that they were ambiguous.

Through the shadows, she spotted him at the sideboard, in his shirtsleeves. In an oddly intimate way, his trench coat was hanging on the coat tree along with her raincoat and hat. When he turned around, Claire saw that his hair was still wet and that he was holding two snifters of Remy Martin. He joined her in the center of the room and extended one of them to her.

"Thank you, Mr. Cassidy."

"It's your liquor."

"Thank you anyway."

Claire was glad that he hadn't turned on any lights. There was light enough coming through the wall of windows. Occasionally the swollen clouds were illuminated by a flash of lightning that made the entire sky look like the negative of a photograph. But for the most part the storm's temper was spent, leaving in its wake a heavy but nonthreatening ram. Silver streams of it ran down the windows, squiggly rivulets that cast wavering shadows across her as she moved toward the windows. The river was discernible only as a wide dark band lined by lights on both levees. An empty barge was chugging upstream.

The first sip of cognac seared her esophagus. The second spread a soothing warmth through her, starting with a slight sting to her lips and ending with a tingle in her toes. "At times like this, I wish I smoked," she remarked.

"Pardon?"

She listened to his footsteps as he approached her. "I said sometimes I wish I smoked. This is one of those times." Turning, she found him standing closer than she had expected. His eyes were the same color as the rain slashing the windows, and they were focused on her with a breath-stopping intensity.

"Smoking's bad for you."

"Yes, I know. I guess I envy the immediate relaxation it gives the smoker." She ran her fingers up the bowl of the snifter. "Have you ever seen a cigar smoker blow smoke into his brandy snifter before taking a sip?" He shook his head. "It's pretty, the way the smoke swirls around inside the crystal. The smoke is inhaled when the liquor is swallowed. It's provocative, sensual. I think it must make the brandy taste better. Or maybe the cigar. I don't know."

"Who have you seen do that?"

"No one, actually. I saw it in a movie about Sir Richard Burton. Maybe that was a habit unique to him. Maybe it was the vogue in the nineteenth century."

His disturbing gaze remained fixed on her face. "What made you think of that, Claire?"

She shrugged self-consciously. "The rainy night, the cognac."

"Or were you just trying to distract me?"

"Could you be that easily distracted?"

He hesitated a moment too long before giving her a curt no. Then he tossed back the remainder of his drink and returned his empty snifter to the sideboard. When he rejoined her at the windows, he was all business. "What went on tonight?"

"You were there. You saw."

"And I still don't know what happened. She flipped out, right?"

"Yes. She flipped out."

"Look, I didn't mean that to sound—"

"I know you didn't."

"How often does she… How often is she like that?"

"It varies. Sometimes there's a buildup. Sometimes it occurs out of the blue. Some days she's perfectly lucid. Others, like the first time you met her, she seems to be confused, senile." Her voice turned gruff. "Sometimes she's as you saw her tonight, completely detached from this world, living in another one."

"What triggers it?"

"I don't know."

"What do the doctors say?"

"That they don't know either. It's happened for as long as I can remember, and her lapses have gotten progressively deeper and more frequent the older she gets. The first I remember them, they were little more than bouts of depression. During her spells, as Aunt Laurel referred to them, Mama would retire to her room and cry for days, refuse to leave her bed, refuse to eat. Aunt Laurel and I catered to her."

"She should have gotten treatment when it started." Claire bristled and turned a glare on him. "That was an observation, not a criticism," he said.

Claire studied him for a moment. When she was convinced that he was sincere, she relaxed her hostile posture. "I know now that she should have been placed under a doctor's care immediately. A depression that deep is abnormal. But I was a child. And for all her good intentions, Aunt Laurel didn't know how to deal with mental illness. She didn't even recognize it as such. Mama was a young woman whose love had forsaken her. Her family had disowned and disinherited her. Aunt Laurel mistook her illness as nothing more than a broken heart."

"A broken heart that wouldn't heal."

Claire nodded. "One day Mama did what she did tonight. She dressed up and sneaked out of the house with a packed suitcase. I was very young, but I remember Aunt Laurel becoming frantic with worry until a policeman brought Mama home. He knew us, you see. He had spotted Mama walking along Canal Street, lugging her suitcase. When he approached her and offered assistance, he could tell she wasn't rational. Thankfully, he brought her home instead of taking her to the police station. She was spared that degradation."

"During these spells, she imagines she's eloping?"

"Yes. My guess is that before my father deserted her, he proposed that they elope. He must have gotten cold feet and left her stranded. Mama imagines that he's coming for her at the designated place. Tonight I'm sure she took a bus as far as the trolley, then rode it the rest of the way out St. Charles to the Ponchartrain."

"That's always been where they were to meet?"

"No. The meeting place changes. She's never quite clear on when or where she's supposed to meet her young man. Rather than facing what's obvious, she always blames herself for not getting the instructions straight."

Claire turned away from the windows and looked at Cassidy. "The night Jackson Wilde was murdered, Mama sneaked out and went to the Fairmont. Andre called and told me that she was in the hotel lobby waiting for her beau, so I went to fetch her. That's why I was there. After I learned what had happened, I asked Andre not to mention my being there. Since my presence there had nothing to do with Wilde, he agreed to safeguard my privacy. I'm sure that you and your colleagues got a thrill out of eavesdropping on our conversation, but you misinterpreted it."

Cupping the bowl of the snifter between her palms, she drained it. Cassidy took it from her and returned it to the sideboard. "Wouldn't it be easier on everyone if you had your mother institutionalized?" he asked.

Claire had anticipated the question. It had been posed to her hundreds of times over the years. Her answer was always the same. "Undoubtedly it would be easier. But would it be best?"

"I can see you've got definite opinions on the subject."

Agitated, she began pacing in front of the windows. "For as long as I can remember there have been people from the medical community, from the social services, and from law-enforcement agencies trying to force me to commit her."

"And before that, they tried taking you away from her."

Claire stopped pacing and whipped around to confront him. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you, Mr. Cassidy?"

"No, I couldn't. That's my job."

"Your job sucks."

"Sometimes," he admitted. "Instead of feeding me that hearts-and-flowers rendition of your childhood, why didn't you level with me and tell me about your run-ins with the authorities?"

"Because they're too painful to recall. I still have nightmares about them. I dream the social workers are dragging me, kicking and screaming, from Aunt Laurel's house. Mama's confused and upset. I don't want to go."

"According to the records, little Claire Louise Laurent gave them hell. I can well believe it."

"Things would be going fine," she said. "Then Mama would have a bad spell and do something to stir them up."

"What about your great-aunt? You described her as a loving, caring parent."

"She was, but the experts," she said, emphasizing the word contemptuously, "didn't think so. She was peculiar and therefore didn't fit their textbook criteria for a perfect parent. They'd come for me. I'd be taken away. On three separate occasions I was placed in foster homes. I ran away time after time, until I exhausted them and they let me return home.

"When I was about twelve, Mama wandered away and was lost for several days. We finally located her in a sleazy hotel, but by then the police were involved. Human Resources got wind of it and came for me. I wasn't being brought up in a healthy environment, they said. I needed direction, stability.

"I swore I would run away from wherever they took me and would continue running away, and that no matter what they did, they couldn't keep me separated from my mother. I guess they finally believed me because they never came back."

All her pent-up resentment was turned full force on Cassidy. "I don't give a damn what the records downtown say about me. I gave them hell, yes. I would still give hell to anybody who tried to separate us. I belong with her. I welcome the privilege of looking after her.

"When she got pregnant, she could have done the easy thing—and at that time the fashionable thing among the wealthy. She could have gone to Europe for a year and put me up for adoption. According to Aunt Laurel, that's what my grandparents urged her to do. Or she could have gone across the river to Algiers and found an abortionist. That would have been even simpler. No one would have known, not even her parents. Instead, she chose to have me and to keep me, even though it meant sacrificing her inheritance, her entire way of life."

"Your sense of responsibility is admirable."

"I don't feel responsible for her. I love her."

"Is that why you don't lock her in where she can't possibly get out?"

"Exactly. She doesn't need locks, she needs love and patience and understanding. Besides, that would be cruel, inhumane. I refuse to treat her like an animal."

"She could get hurt out wandering the streets alone, Claire."

She slumped down onto the padded arm of the white-upholstered sofa. "Don't you think I know that? Short of locking her in, I take every precaution to guard against her wanderings. Yasmine does, too. So does Harry. But she has the cunning of a young girl about to elope. Sometimes, in spite of our diligence, she gets past us, like tonight when I thought she was safely asleep."

For a long moment, conversation died. Distant thunder broke the silence, but it wasn't intrusive. Claire folded her arms across her middle and looked up to find Cassidy regarding her with that damned absorption of his. His stare made her uncomfortable for a variety of reasons, and she wondered if he was as aware of the quiet darkness as she.

"Why do I always feel like you're looking at me through a magnifying glass?" she asked resentfully.

"You invite close inspection."

"I'm not that much of an oddity, am I?"

"You're an enigma."

"My life's an open book."

"Hardly, Claire. I've had to pry every scrap of information out of you. You've lied to me every step of the way."

"I went to the Fairmont that night to get my mother," she said wearily. "There was no reason to tell you that."

"You lied about your childhood, which you would have had me believe was bloody terrific."

"Is anyone completely honest about his childhood?"

"And you lied when you told me you'd never been arrested."

She dropped her head forward and exhaled around a bitter laugh. "You have been thorough, haven't you?"

"The day we met, you told me not to underestimate you. Don't ever underestimate me, either." Placing his finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up. "Tell me about it, Claire."

"Why? I'm sure you already know. I assaulted a policeman."

"The charge was dropped."

"I was only fourteen."

"What happened?"

"Wasn't it in the records?"

"I'd like to hear your side."

She pulled in a deep breath. "A friend of mine from school was staying with me."

"You were hiding her. She was a runaway."

"Yes," she said sharply. "I was hiding her. When the policemen came to take her home, she became hysterical. One tried to handcuff her. I tried my damnedest to stop him."

"Why were you hiding her? Even when they threatened you with jail, you never told the police why your friend was hiding in your house."

"I gave her my word that I wouldn't. But that was years ago and she…" She made a gesture with her hands that said it didn't matter anymore. "Her stepfather was sexually molesting her. She was being raped, sometimes sodomized, every night while her mother looked the other way and pretended it wasn't happening."

Muttering swear words, Cassidy dragged his hand down his face.

"It got to a point where she couldn't take it anymore. There was no one for her to turn to. She was afraid that if she told the nuns, or a priest, they wouldn't believe her. She was also afraid of reprisal at home. When she told me, I offered to hide her for as long as she wanted to remain hidden."

Claire stared into space for a moment, recalling how furious she'd been over the futility of her own actions. "Two weeks after they returned her home, she ran away again. She must have left the city. No one ever heard from her again."

"You could have spared yourself a police record and told them what was happening."

"What good would it have done?" she asked scornfully. "Her stepfather was a millionaire. They lived in a gorgeous house in the Garden District. Even if someone had believed her, it would have been swept under the rug and she'd have been sent back. Besides, I had promised her I wouldn't tell." She shook her head. "The consequences I suffered could hardly compare to what she went through, Mr. Cassidy."

"Tell me about Andre Philippi."

She gazed at him belligerently. "What do you want to know?"

"You both attended Sacred Heart Academy."

"Grades seven through twelve," Claire said. "Sister Anne Elizabeth is Mother Superior. Or she was when Andre and I were students there." She tilted her head; her hair brushed her shoulder. "Is it incriminating that we were classmates?"

"Tell me about him," he said, ignoring the dig. "He's a funny little man."

Instantly her aspect changed. She dropped all vestiges of fun and flirtation. Even her voice assumed a hard edge. "I suppose that athletic, macho types like you might think Andre is 'funny'."

"I didn't mean anything derogatory."

"The hell you didn't."

"Is he gay?"

"Is that important?"

"I don't know yet. Is he?"

"No. In fact, he's got a schoolboy's crush on Yasmine."

"But he's not intimately involved with anyone, male or female?"

"Not to my knowledge. He lives alone."

"I know."

"Of course you would."

"I have a file on him," he said. "I have a file on all the employees of the Fairmont Hotel, even those who weren't on duty that night."

"Do you have a file on me?"

"A fat one."

"I'm flattered."

Cassidy was frowning. "What about Andre's parents? What's his heritage? I couldn't tell."

"Is that question racially motivated?"

"Shit," Cassidy said. "No, it's not. And would you stop being so goddamn defensive?"

Claire weighed her options and saw the advantage in telling Cassidy about Andre. If she didn't, he'd go prying on his own, and it seemed that the more he pried, the more precarious her situation became.

"Andre's mother was a quadroon. Are you familiar with the term?" He nodded. "She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, somewhat like Yasmine. Although she was intelligent, she never graduated from high school. Instead, she trained herself in the skills necessary to her profession."

"Which was?"

"To be a companion to men. She learned the techniques from her mother. She began taking clients when she was fifteen."

"She was a prostitute?"

The word offended Claire and she let him know it. "A prostitute hangs out on street corners and hustles passersby. There's a distinction here. Andre's mother cultivated multidimensional relationships with gentlemen that often lasted for years. In return they compensated her well."

"Were these 'gentlemen' white?"

"For the most part."

"And one of them was Andre's father."

"That's right. He was a prominent businessman who couldn't claim the child but accepted responsibility for him."

"Do you know who he was?"

"Andre does, but he's never disclosed his identity to me."

"And even if you knew, you wouldn't tell me."

"No. I wouldn't."

Cassidy ruminated on that for a moment. "Because his father was well-to-do, Andre could attend the finest schools."

"Yes, but he was an outcast. The other children said unkind things about his maman and taunted him with ugly names. I was considered somewhat of an oddball too, because I didn't have a normal family life. It was natural that Andre and I develop a friendship.

"His mother was devoted to him and vice versa. Just as her mother had done for her, she coached Andre on food and wine, etiquette, how to dress, how to differentiate between quality and junk whether it be jewelry, linen, or antique furniture.

"Before Andre's father set her up in a house, she took Andre with her when she met her gentlemen. He waited for her in the lobbies of luxury hotels where people of color weren't even allowed until the early sixties.

"Perhaps because he was granted that privilege, he fell in love with the hotels. To him they were finer and more sacred than cathedrals, because not everybody could enjoy them. He had a place in them that was prohibited to other children. He dreamed of managing one." In a faraway voice, she added, "I'm glad his dreams came true."

"What about his mother?" Cassidy asked. "Does she still have a clientele?"

"No, Mr. Cassidy. She took her own life by slashing her wrists with a straight razor. Andre found her in the bathtub one afternoon when he came home from school."

"Jesus."

"If you aren't prepared for the stink, you shouldn't exhume the past."

He pulled an angry frown. "Do you think I'm enjoying this?"

"If you don't, then why do you persist in dredging up the ugliness in everyone's life?"

"It's one of the least pleasant aspects of my work, Claire. But it's still my work."

"Answer a question for me," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Should you be calling me Claire?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension thick. At last he turned away from her. "No, I shouldn't."

"Then why are you?"

He turned back around slowly. His eyes seemed to acquire tactile qualities; they touched her everywhere at once. "You may be a liar, Claire, but you're not stupid," he said huskily. "You know why."

She held his stare until the pressure in her chest became unbearable. The only thing worse would have been to stop looking at him, and she couldn't bring herself to do that. She felt drawn to him, linked by invisible tethers.

They had remained so still that when he finally moved, she jumped reflexively. But he only raised his hand to rub the back of his neck as though the muscles ached.

"Back to Andre. He called you that night and told you your mother was at the Fairmont."

She nodded. It was difficult to speak. Her heart was still racing.

"You went to pick her up?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes. In my car."

"What time was that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Claire."

"I don't know," she cried, shaking her head impatiently.

"It was after the crusade, because, as you know, I attended that earlier."

He held his temper in check, but she could see it wasn't easy. "Give me an approximate time."

"Midnight, maybe. No later."

"How did Mary Catherine get out of here without your knowing?"

"I told you she can be very resourceful. She went downstairs, undid the locks, and disengaged the alarm before opening the door."

"Even during one of her 'spells,' she can be that lucid? That functional?"

Claire avoided looking at him. "Sometimes."

"Okay, so you drove to the Fairmont."

"I illegally parked across the street. I knew I wouldn't be but a minute, and I wasn't. I rushed to Andre's office, he handed Mother over to me, and we left. I probably wasn't there more than two minutes."

"Did anyone else see you? Other hotel personnel?"

"I don't know. I suppose you could ask."

"Count on it." He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared out the rain-streaked windows. In spite of the grilling he was subjecting her to, Claire noticed that he had a very masculine profile, a manly stance, from his damp hair to the toes of his shoes. "You saw Wilde that night at the Superdome. Then later you were in the hotel where he was found murdered. And you took pains to keep it a secret."

"How many times do I have to explain? I wanted to protect my mother from gossip and speculation. Is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"You stayed in the lobby area of the hotel?"

"Yes."

"You didn't go to any other floor, no other area of the hotel?"

"No."

"Did you use the elevator?"

"No."

He turned and braced his hands on the padded arm of the sofa, bracketing her hips. Leaning into her, he asked, "Then why in hell didn't you tell me this sooner? If it was so damned innocent, why did you lie to me?"

"Because you were trying to implicate me. My name was on Wilde's hit list, and you seemed to think that was important. You had that folder of clippings that I had stupidly tried to destroy. That was two strikes against me already. I was afraid that if you knew I was anywhere near the Fairmont that night, you'd do just as you've done and jump to the wrong conclusion."

"Is it wrong, Claire? The only reason you went to the Fairmont that night was to pick up your mother?"

"Just like tonight."

"While you were there, you didn't have your old pal Andre Philippi sneak you into Wilde's suite?"

"Would Wilde have lain there nude and calmly talked to me, a total stranger?"

"How did you know he was lying down nude?"

"Because it's been in the newspaper every day for a month that he was found nude in bed. Besides, even if I had been determined to kill Jackson Wilde, do you think I would have involved someone else?"

"Dammit, I don't know!" he shouted.

His agitation plain, he hung his head between his shoulders. He was so close that she could smell the rain in his hair and on his skin. Even in the darkness she could see the growth pattern of the hair on the crown of his head. If she had turned her head the slightest degree, her lips would have brushed the temple where a vein ticked with frustration.

Eventually he raised his head and looked searchingly into her eyes. "It's so damned neat. You had motivation. You had opportunity. You even had an insider who could help you carry it off. Claire, you've got to admit that from where I stand you look guilty as hell."

"Then why the long face? Isn't this what you wanted? I thought you'd be pleased to finally nail a suspect. What's wrong?"

With slow, deliberate movements, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her up to stand dangerously close to him. "What's wrong? I think I've found the killer." He slid his fingers up through her hair and encircled her head. "But I didn't want it to be you."

Then suddenly his lips were pressed firmly against hers. Before Claire could recover from her initial shock, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. An involuntary sound escaped her when his tongue separated her lips. It brought with it the taste and texture of a man, a delicious blend of cognac and brawn. Angry and aroused, he kissed her masterfully, brooking no resistance, although at first she was too dumbfounded to stop him and within seconds was too caught up in the kiss to try.

He raised his head only long enough to switch angles and slide his hands from her head to her waist, pulling her against him. He was hard. Desire, like the petals of a spring blossom, opened in her midsection. She moved against him.

"Oh, Christ," he muttered and buried his face in her neck. Deftly he undid the buttons of her blouse. He unfastened the clasp of her bra and slid his hands into the loose cups. His palms skimmed over her first, then his hands caressed her.

His kiss turned wilder, hungrier. Claire clutched handfuls of his shirt, because to let go would mean to topple backward, not only because he was bending her back at such a dramatic angle but because her equilibrium was suffering the effects of his kiss, his touch.

His lips tugged at hers while his tongue plumbed her mouth again and again as though searching for the answers he craved. Their bodies were combustible, each as hot as the other. Within his stroking hands her breasts were full and flushed, their centers raised and responsive.

The intensity of the embrace was frightening. Claire's fiery response scared her. She imagined her control disintegrating, like dry kindling being rapidly consumed by a greedy flame. Soon she would have no control left, and that was the most terrifying prospect of all. All her life people in authority had been trying to tell her what was best for her. She was conditioned to resist.

"Stop!" She averted her head and pushed his hands away. "It was a good try, but you won't get a confession out of me this way."

He released her immediately and stepped back. He clenched his fists at his sides. His breathing was labored, his voice raspy and uneven. "You know damn well that's not why I kissed you."

"Isn't it?" she shot back defiantly.

He turned and stomped away, snatched his trench coat off the coat tree, and yanked open the door. Light from the corridor spilled in, silhouetting him in a bright wedge of it.

For several moments they stared at each other across the gloom, then he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him.

Claire collapsed onto the sofa arm. Covering her face with her hands, she moaned with a repentant attitude that would have made Sister Anne Elizabeth proud. "Oh, God, no. No." Willingly, ecstatically, she had kissed the man who could, and probably would, condemn her to prison for the rest of her life.

* * *

She answered the door wearing a roomy T-shirt over patterned leggings. "Cassidy," she said with no little surprise. "Did you lock yourself out?" She glanced across the walkway that separated their condos, looking for a clue as to why he'd shown up on her doorstep at that hour of the night.

"No. I saw your lights were still on," he remarked, as though that explained everything.

"Come in." Patty-Penny-Peggy moved aside, and he stepped into a living area much like his own, except much better decorated and far neater. "Rough night weather-wise," she said, indicating his trench coat.

"The worst of it is over, I think."

"Sit down. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Oh." She flashed a quick, puzzled smile. "I'd offer you some grass, but I guess that wouldn't be too cool, huh?"

"No."

"Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?"

"I don't remember," he said honestly. "I don't think so, but I'm not hungry."

"Well, sit down. I'll turn on some music. What kind do you like?"

"I'm not particular." He took off his coat and tossed it over the arm of a chair, but he didn't sit down.

She switched on a CD player and a Randy Travis song began to play. "Do you like country?"

"It's okay."

She studied him for a moment, then propped her hands on her hips. "Look, Cassidy, I'm glad you dropped by, but I'm at a loss here. What's going on?"

"I came to fuck."

She blinked twice, obviously taken aback. Then her lips spread into a wide grin. "Why didn't you just say so?" She pivoted on her bare heels and headed for the bedroom.

Cassidy followed.

* * *