Chapter 10
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Ariel unwrapped a bite-size Snickers and popped it into her mouth. Her teeth split the chocolate covering, crunched through the peanuts, and sank into the caramel and nougat. She savored the luscious combination of flavors as the candy melted and oozed on her tongue. After maximizing the greatest caloric pleasure from it, she sucked the sticky caramel off her teeth.
Candy wrappers littered the coffee table in front of the divan. As a kid, treats had been prohibited on her family's budget, and Ariel had been lucky if she got a piece of stick candy every few weeks. For the past several years she'd been making up for the deprivation; she couldn't get enough.
She stretched for the sheer pleasure of seeing, hearing, and feeling her silk lounging pajamas slide against her legs. The mirror across the room reflected a woman of leisure, surrounded by nice things all belonging to her. Ariel liked that. Indeed, she wanted to crow about it.
The house she'd grown up in had had indoor plumbing, and that was about the only amenity it could boast. It had been distinctly ugly, the large rooms spartanly and cheaply furnished. She shuddered with revulsion at the memory of it. She had never invited friends over because she was ashamed of her family's old, creaky, ugly farm house. She was also ashamed of the people who lived there. Her brother had been meaner than sin and had terrorized everybody. Her parents had always seemed old, although now she realized that weariness had aged them beyond their years. Nevertheless, that didn't make her feel any more kindly toward them. She was glad they were long dead and buried.
She wished she could bury her memories of poverty as easily and as permanently. But whenever she started feeling complacent about her present life, those recollections would emerge from their dormancy to taunt her. They reminded her of who she'd been before she threw herself on the mercy of the Reverend Jackson Wilde.
Those impoverished days are over forever, she vowed as she gazed around her living room. Objets d'art filled every nook and cranny. Most of the pieces were gifts from Jackson's followers. He had frequently suggested that they give some of the things away, but Ariel had refused to part with a single item, no matter how cluttered the house became. If she had to install extra shelving, or store things in the attic and under the beds, she would keep everything that came her way. For Ariel, possessions were tantamount to security. She would never be without them again. As she reaffirmed that pledge, she unwrapped another Snickers and devoured it with hedonistic relish.
When Josh came in carrying a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper, he noticed the candy wrappers immediately. "Is that your breakfast?"
"What of it?"
"Not exactly oat bran, is it?" He sank into an easy chair, placed his cup at his elbow, and unfolded the paper. "It's a miracle. We're not front-page news anymore."
Watching him almost soured the candy in her stomach. Lately, Josh was about as much fun as a forty-year plague. They still made love every night. He was skilled and ardent and had an artist's sensuality. His fingertips played her body as they did the piano keys, with strength and sensitivity.
But half the excitement of sleeping with him had been the thrill of cuckolding Jackson. Since secrecy and guilt were no longer adding spice to the affair, the lovemaking had grown bland. Even after an orgasm, she hungered for something more.
Yet, she couldn't account for her restlessness and dissatisfaction. The Cincinnati crusade had gone exceptionally well. Two TV shows had been taped and were ready for broadcast. During the tapings, the auditorium had been packed to capacity.
Ariel had sung. Josh had played. Several disciples had tearfully testified to what Jackson Wilde and his ministry had meant to their lives. Then Ariel had taken the podium and begun her heartrending sermon. It had taken days to memorize. Each crack in her voice, each gesture, had been carefully choreographed and rehearsed in front of her mirror. The time and effort had been well spent. Before she was finished there wasn't a dry eye in the place, and the offering plates were overflowing with greenbacks.
Those who, weeks before, had been skeptical of her ability to continue the ministry without Jackson's stern leadership had been effusively complimentary. She'd proved them wrong. She was just as charismatic and persuasive as her late husband had been.. People had flocked by the hundreds to see her, considering every word she spoke a precious gem. The world was in her pocket.
So why was she feeling vaguely discontent?
It just still wasn't enough. She had hundreds of thousands of followers, but why not millions? Suddenly she sat up. "I don't think so."
Josh lowered one corner of his paper. "Pardon?"
"I don't think it's so bloody wonderful that we're no longer front-page news." She swung her legs off the divan and began to roam around the room. She fidgeted, straightening tasseled cushions, rearranging crystal vases, and repositioning porcelain shepherdesses.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, here's our ad on page fifteen of section two."
He turned the paper toward her so that she could see the ad. Across the top, printed in the ministry's trademark typeface, was the title of their television show. Beneath that was a full-face drawing of her, holding a microphone in front of her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. The date and time of broadcast were printed beneath.
Ariel critically studied the ad. "'The Jackson Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour,'" she read. "Jackson Wilde is dead. Why haven't we changed the name of the program?"
"To what?"
"Why not The Ariel Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour?"
"Why not The Prayer and Praise Hour?"
"Because that's too plain. Besides, people need an individual to identify with."
"You, I suppose."
"Well, why not? I'm the one doing most of the talking now."
Josh watched her over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a sip. "Call the damn show anything you please, Ariel. I really couldn't care less."
"That's readily apparent."
He tossed the newspaper aside and angrily surged to his feet. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that if it weren't for me, this whole outfit would have collapsed after Jackson died. You don't have the balls to hold together a scout troop' much less a ministry like ours. It's a good thing you've got me. Otherwise, you'd be out hustling gigs with tent revivals."
"I'd be a lot happier doing that. At least I wouldn't feel like a carrion bird picking at a dead man's corpse."
One carefully penciled eyebrow arched. "If you're so unhappy, you know where the door is.
Josh glared at her, but, as she had known he would, he backed down. He went to the piano and after running through several chords he began playing a classical piece with all the verve and courage he lacked in dealing with sticky situations.
When finally he had calmed down, he looked up at her, but continued to play. "You know what's really pathetic? You don't realize what a joke you are."
"Joke?" she repeated, affronted. "To who?"
"To everyone within the organization. You're blinded by your inflated self-importance. People are laughing behind your back. Why do you think two of the board members have already resigned?"
"Because they didn't like having a woman calling the shots. I threatened their masculinity. Who gives a damn? We didn't need them."
"This ministry, which you brag about holding together, is crumbling, Ariel. Only you're too pumped up with ego to see it." He ran his hands over the keys, completing the piece, then began another. "Daddy's probably sitting up there somewhere in heaven, having a good laugh on us."
"You've gone soft in the head."
He grinned at her knowingly. "You're still scared of him, aren't you, Ariel?"
"You're the one who's scared."
"I admit it," he said. "You don't."
"I'm not scared of anything or anybody."
"He's still got you under his thumb."
"Like hell."
"Why do you eat like a lumberjack and then go throw it up?" He finished the piece on a fortissimo that punctuated his question.
Ariel's cocky defensiveness wavered. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh yes you do. You've been doing it for months. As soon as you've eaten, you go into the bathroom. You binge on things like candy bars, then force yourself to throw up. That's a sickness. Bulimia."
She rolled her eyes. "Who are you, the surgeon general? So I watch my weight. TV cameras add at least fifteen pounds. I don't want to look like a white whale when I descend that freaking staircase."
He reached up and encircled her narrow wrist, turning it up so that she could see how much his long fingers overlapped. "You don't simply count calories, Ariel. You stuff yourself, then you make yourself vomit."
She yanked her hand away. "Well, what if I do? Jackson was always on my case about my weight. I had to do something to keep it off."
"Didn't you ever figure him out?" Josh asked with a rueful smile. "He was a master at preying on a person's weakness. That's how he exercised mind control. He constantly hinted that my mother was stupid, until she began to believe it. For the last few years of her life, she was afraid to offer an opinion on anything at the risk of being ridiculed.
"You know his bit with me. He let me know at every turn that I lacked the musical talent I craved. Every chance he got, he reminded me that I was only good enough to pound out gospel music and was mediocre at that.
"With you, it was your weight. He knew you were self-conscious about it, so he used that to keep you humble. He was as sly as Satan, Ariel. He was so subtle, you didn't even know you'd been gigged until you realized that your self-esteem was lower than shit.
"You should have ignored him when he teased you about your 'baby fat' and your overactive sweet tooth. You were always slender enough. Now you're on the verge of emaciation. Besides, as you noted only moments ago, he's dead. He can't harp on you anymore."
"No, he's got you to do it for him."
Josh shook his head in resignation. "You're missing the point, Ariel. I'm not being critical. I'm worried about your health. I—"
"Wait, Josh, I've got an idea." She reached down and mashed her hands over his, causing the keys to crash discordantly.
He pulled his hands from beneath hers. "You bitch! If you ever—"
"Oh, stop. I didn't hurt your precious hands. Listen, what you said earlier, about us not making news any longer? Well, you're right. We've got to do something to correct that."
He was experimentally flexing his fingers. "What do you have in mind?" he grumbled.
"Since we got back from Cincinnati we've been holed up here in Nashville, out of sight and out of mind. It's time we shook things up, generated some headlines. It should be made plain to the cops in New Orleans that the grieving widow and son haven't forgotten that Jackson Wilde was murdered in cold blood."
"Are you so sure that reminding them of that is a smart idea?"
She shot him an icy look. "Jackson had legions of enemies." Making a steeple of her index fingers, she tapped them against her lips. "One in particular in New Orleans."
"Tell me what it means."
Cassidy was in a bad mood. Dealing with Detective Howard Glenn wasn't improving his state of mind. The day after he had accompanied Claire to the Ponchartrain to pick up Mary Catherine, Cassidy had recounted to Glenn all that had transpired. All except the kiss.
"So she didn't deny that it was her voice on the tape?" Glenn had asked.
"No, because she had a good reason for being at the Fairmont that night."
"To plug the preacher."
"Or to pick up her mother, as she claims." Glenn had regarded him skeptically. "Look, Glenn, they couldn't have staged that business last night. Mary Catherine Laurent's mental instability is genuine and Cl… Ms. Laurent protects her like a mama bear."
He had tilled him in on Claire's relationship with Andre Philippi. "It dates back to childhood. So it's reasonable that he lied to protect her privacy and that's the extent of it."
Glenn had searched for a place to extinguish his cigarette butt. Cassidy offered him an empty Styrofoam cup. "Jesus," Glenn had said as he ground out the butt, "the deeper we dig the more interesting it gets."
"But we've got to dig with finesse."
"Meaning?"
"I want to get to the bottom of this, too. Maybe there's something there, maybe not. But you can't approach a woman like Claire Laurent reeking of Camels and tossing out obscenities. I still think it's best if you leave her to me."
"Oh?"
"She finds you personally distasteful."
Glenn settled his rump more comfortably in his chair and rested one ankle on the other. "How does she find you, Cassidy?"
"What are you implying?" he had snapped, tossing down his writing pen.
Glenn had raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing, nothing. It's just that I couldn't help but notice that she's a good-looking broad. And you're not exactly a troll. All things considered—"
"All things considered," Cassidy had interrupted tightly, "I'm going to prosecute Jackson Wilde's killer no matter who it is."
"Then you've got no reason to be so touchy, do you?"
From then on, their conversations had been strictly business. Cassidy had chided himself for swallowing Glenn's bait. He wouldn't have if his conscience hadn't been so sorely pricked by Glenn's implications, and he reckoned that the detective knew that. He hadn't brought up the possibility of a conflict of interests since, but Cassidy was certain he hadn't forgotten the exchange.
This morning, Glenn was into guessing games. He'd ambled in and scattered several computer printouts across Cassidy's desk. Thousands of names were listed on the sheets, a few of which had been circled with red crayon. Cassidy randomly picked one. "Who's this Darby Moss?"
"Not a name you forget, is it?" Glenn asked rhetorically. "Years ago when I was still on a beat, I busted him for assault. He worked a hooker over pretty good. Put her in the hospital. Moss flies in this slick little hustler of a lawyer from Dallas, his hometown. Got the charges dropped. Pissed me off good. So when his name showed up on this list of contributors to Wilde's ministry, it set off bells. I went to Dallas over the weekend and found ol' Darby alive and kicking. He owns three adult-book stores."
Cassidy's brows drew together. "You don't say."
"Yeah. Regular jerk-off joints. You name a perversion, he stocks a magazine that caters to it, along with dildos, inflatable pussies, all kinds of shit. Curious, huh? When I got back, I started running matches through the computer and all these other names sent up red flags. In one way or another, they're all dealing in the very stuff Wilde preached against."
"What does that tell us? That when they chipped in, he turned off the heat?"
"Looks like. And that's not all." He scanned the sheet until his finger landed on another name circled in red. "Here."
"Gloria Jean Reynolds?"
Glenn smugly slipped a piece of notepaper from the breast pocket of his dingy white shirt and handed it to Cassidy. Cassidy silently read the name, then raised inquiring eyes to Glenn, who shrugged eloquently.
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."
"Ariel Wilde and you."
"Me?" he repeated, flabbergasted. "How the hell can you blame this on me?"
"I was never picketed before, Mr. Cassidy."
"Look, I don't like this any better than you do," he said, bending down and bringing his face closer to hers. "Ariel wants to make the NOPD and my office look like a bunch of buffoons. This is her way of reminding the public that we haven't solved her husband's murder case yet. She needed another dose of free publicity and chose this way to get it."
"Let her have all the publicity she wants. I don't care. Just leave me out of it. I don't want to be involved."
"Well that's tough, because you're already involved."
"Because you've been lurking around here so much!" Claire shouted.
"No, because you've lied to me from the beginning."
"Only to protect myself, my friends, and my family from your snooping."
"I'm only doing my job."
"Are you?"
That left him with nothing to say because his job description didn't include kissing the suspects he was questioning, which is what he'd been doing the last time he'd been with her. She suddenly seemed to remember that, too. She took a hasty step backward. There was a catch in her throat. "Just leave me in peace, Mr. Cassidy, and take all of them with you."
She gestured toward the door, but before her sentence was completely formed, a brick came crashing through the window directly above them. It shattered. Cassidy looked up, saw what had happened, and threw his arms around Claire. He dived for cover behind a tower of packing crates, pressing her against his chest and bending his head over hers, protecting her as best he could from the falling shards of glass. The workers scrambled in every direction, trying to escape injury as glass rained down, splintering into tiny pieces as it struck the concrete floor.
When it finally stopped, Cassidy relaxed his tight embrace. "Are you all right?" He swept her hair off her face, examining the delicate skin for nicks and cuts.
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Is anyone hurt?" Her employees were slowly emerging from cover.
"We're all right, Miss Laurent."
When Claire turned back to Cassidy, she uttered a small gasp. "You've been cut." She reached up and touched his cheek. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.
He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and used it to wipe her fingers clean before blotting his cheek. Surrounding them were bits of glass as fine as dust and as shimmering as diamonds. Bending down, he picked up the brick that was responsible for the damage. Using Magic Marker, someone had printed on it FILTHY DAUGHTER OF SATAN.
"All right," Claire said softly as she read the poorly printed words. "That's enough." She strode to the door, her feet crunching on the broken glass.
"Claire, no!"
Unmindful of his shout, she pulled open the door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and marched up to one of the policemen. She tugged at his shirtsleeve to get his attention.
"I thought you were supposed to be keeping this demonstration peaceful."
"That brick came out of nowhere. I'm sorry, ma'am."
"You're sorry, but my employees could have been seriously hurt."
"Their permit to picket doesn't extend to throwing bricks," Cassidy said.
The policeman recognized him. "Hey, you're Cassidy, aren't you?"
"That's right. And I'm here representing District Attorney Crowder. As of now, their permit has expired. Disperse this crowd. Call in reinforcements if necessary, but clear this area immediately."
"I don't know," the cop said dubiously. The protesters were now clasping hands and praying. Cassidy was glad. As long as their heads were bowed and their eyes were closed, they wouldn't notice Claire. "Judge Harris—"
"Screw Judge Harris and his permit," Cassidy said in a low, rough voice. "If he doesn't like it, he can take it up with the D.A. later. For now, get these people away from here before more damage is done."
"If somebody gets injured," Claire said, "there's going to be hell to pay from Mrs. Wilde and from me."
Finally reaching a decision, the cop went quickly to the man who was leading a loud, long prayer. "Excuse me, sir. Y'all violated the conditions of your permit. You're gonna have to disperse." The leader, who obviously liked the sound of his own voice, didn't want to be silenced. In Jesus' blessed name, he began strenuously to protest. A shoving match ensued.
Cassidy swore. "I was afraid of this. Get inside, Claire."
"This is my fight. I'll handle it."
"Handle it? Are you nuts?"
"They've been misled about me. If I explain to them—"
"A mob can't be reasoned with." He had to raise his voice to be heard above the rising shouts. Soon he'd have a riot on his hands.
"There she is!" someone in the crowd shouted.
"It's her!"
"Smut peddler! Pornographer!"
"Ladies and gentlemen, please." Claire held up her hands for silence, but the insults only grew nastier. Photographers nearly trampled one another trying to capture her image and voice on their videotapes.
"Get inside!" Cassidy tried to take her arm, but she resisted.
"Claire Laurent is a whore!"
"French Silk is filth!"
"Down with porn!"
Cassidy had to lean down in order to hear what Claire was saying to him. "All I want from them is an opportunity to be heard."
"Dammit, now's not the time for a speech."
The crowd was pressing against the human barricade of policemen who had rushed into action. Voices were raised in anger and hatred. Faces were contorted with malice. Pickets were being brandished like weapons. One spark was all that was needed to make the whole ugly scene explode.
It was instantly and effectively defused by the unexpected appearance of Mary Catherine Laurent.
Beautifully dressed and coiffed, looking as though she were about to enter a courtyard for a garden party, she stepped through the door of French Silk pushing a tea cart. On it were rows of Dixie cups filled with what appeared to be red KoolAid. A tall, spare woman wearing a white uniform followed her, carrying a tray of cookies.
Claire followed Cassidy's startled gape. "Oh, Mama, no!" Claire tried to waylay her, but she determinedly wheeled the dainty tea cart toward the surging, hostile crowd.
"I'm sorry, Claire," Harriett York said as she passed with the tray of cookies. "She insisted on doing this and got so upset when I tried to change her mind, I thought—"
"I understand," Claire interrupted quickly. She moved to Mary Catherine's side and placed her hand beneath her elbow. "Mama, you'd better go back inside now. This isn't a party."
Mary Catherine looked at her daughter with incredulity. "Well, of course it's not, Claire Louise. Don't talk foolish. These people are here on behalf of Reverend Jackson Wilde, aren't they?"
"Yes, Mama. They are."
"I listened to enough of his sermons to know that he'd be ashamed of his followers for conducting themselves this way. I think they need to be reminded of that, Reverend Wilde said many ugly things about you from his pulpit, but he also advocated loving one's enemies. He would never have condoned violence."
She went straight to the leader of the group. Those around him fell silent, and the silence rippled outward until all the name-calling ceased. Mary Catherine gave the man a smile that would have disarmed a Nazi officer. "I've never known anyone who could be cruel and unkind over cookies and punch. Sir?"
She took a Dixie cup from the cart and extended it to him. To refuse the gesture from a woman so utterably guileless would have been bad P.R. for the Wilde ministry and apparently the man realized that. He was fully aware of the mini-cams recording the bizarre occurrence. Disgruntled, he took the cup of punch from Mary Catherine.
"Thanks."
"You're quite welcome. Harry, pass the cookies around, please. Who else would care for punch?"
Cassidy watched, shaking his head in disbelief. One by one the pickets were lowered and the crowd began to disperse. "They could use her at the U.N."
Claire stepped around him and approached her mother. "Thank you, Mama. That was a lovely gesture. But you'd better let Harry take you upstairs now."
"I'm glad I could help. They were creating such a ruckus." Claire kissed her mother's cheek, then signaled Harry to take her back inside. An employee retrieved the tea cart. Claire asked others to collect the empty Dixie cups and napkins and to sweep up the broken window glass that had fallen onto the sidewalk.
"When you're finished out here, return to work," Claire told them. "Let's try to make up for lost time. Mr. Cassidy, you're still bleeding. Perhaps you'd better come upstairs and let me tend to that cut on your check."
As they rode the elevator up, she asked, "Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Would you admit it if it did?"
"What, and ruin my—what was it?—'athletic, macho-type' image?"
She smiled with chagrin. He smiled back. They continued looking at each other until the elevator came to a jarring halt on the third floor. Mary Catherine was playing gin with Harry when they entered the apartment.
She looked up from her hand of cards. "Have they gone?"
"Yes, Mama."
"Everything's back to normal," Cassidy said. "Thank you for what you did. But I wish you hadn't placed yourself in danger like that. The police had it under control."
"Sometimes it's more expedient for one to take matters into one's own hands."
"Come on, Mr. Cassidy," Claire said, steering him toward the bedroom. "Blood's dripping on your shirt."
"Gin," he heard Mary Catherine say as he followed Claire into a spacious bedroom. It was decorated monochromatically, in shades of white and ivory. The furnishings were contemporary except for a massive armoire against one wall. Louvered shutters were drawn against the afternoon sun, which cast striped shadows across the king-size bed. He couldn't help but wonder how many men had slept there with her. She had confessed to having only a few meaningful relationships following her broken engagement, but that could be another in her series of lies.
"In here," she said over her shoulder, indicating that he should follow her into the adjoining bathroom. It looked like a 1930s' movie set. The walls were mirrored. The tub, set into the floor, was three feet deep and twice as long.
As gorgeous as it was, it was a room inhabited and used by a real person—a real woman. A peach-colored slip hung from a porcelain hook mounted on the back of the door. On the white marble vanity was a wide array of perfume bottles. A fluffy white lambswool puff hadn't been replaced in the glass container of body powder, and its silver lid was askew. A strand of pearls spilled out of a satin jewelry box. Two cosmetic brushes, a tube of lipstick, and a pair of gold earrings hadn't been put away. And the bubble-blowing necklace was also there.
Everything personified Claire Laurent. Beautiful. Classy. Elegant. Sensual. Cassidy was enchanted by the saturation of femininity. Like a kid in a toy store, he wanted to touch and examine everything.
"I think I've got some peroxide in here." A spring-loaded latch came open when she depressed a seam in the mirrored wall. A section swung out, revealing a medicine cabinet. "Sit down."
His choices were a vanity stool with a white velvet cushion, the commode, or the bidet. The vanity stool didn't look solid enough to support him. The bidet was out of the question. He sat down on the commode lid.
Claire approached him with a snowy washcloth, which she had moistened beneath the gold faucet. "You'll ruin that," he said, yanking back his head. "The bloodstain might never wash out."
She gave him a strange look. "Things are dispensable, Mr. Cassidy. People aren't."
The cut was on the ridge of his cheekbone. He winced when she applied the cold, wet cloth to it. "Why don't you drop the 'mister'? Call me Cassidy."
"What's your first name?"
"Robert."
"That's a respectable name." She dabbed the cut with the cloth, then tossed it into the basin and took a cotton ball from a crystal canister and soaked it with peroxide. "This might sting."
He gritted his teeth as she swabbed the cut, but it was only mildly uncomfortable. "Too Celtic."
"And 'Cassidy' isn't?"
"I didn't want to be Bob or Bobby. Since high school, it's been Cassidy."
She removed the cotton ball and took a Band-Aid from a metal box in the medicine cabinet. He watched her hands as she peeled open the sterile wrapper and protective tapes, but he looked directly at her as she pressed the bandage over the wound.
Her breath was on his face. He caught a whiff of her perfume, which emanated from the cleft between her breasts—breasts that he had touched. Her blouse gaped open slightly as she leaned forward, and it took tremendous self-discipline not to peek.
"There. That should do." She touched his cheek; her fingertips were cool. She turned away to replace the items she'd taken from the medicine cabinet.
This was crazy. This was nuts. He would fuck up big time if he let this get out of hand, but, Jesus…
He reached out and bracketed her waist with his hands, turning her around to face him again. "Claire?"
She drew her hands back as though to keep from laying them on his shoulders. "You'd better soak that shirt in cold water or the bloodstain will set."
"Claire?"
Involuntarily it seemed, her eyes moved up from the bloodstain on his shirt to connect with his. "I don't want to talk about it," she said in that husky whisper that echoed in his dreams every night.
"Don't misunderstand, Claire. It's not my standard operating procedure when questioning a female suspect to kiss her."
"No?"
"No. I think you know that."
His gaze moved over her, taking in her lovely face, her smooth throat, the breasts that enticed him, the narrow waist and gentle flare of her hips. Acting instinctively, his hand moved from her waist to splay open over her abdomen. It wasn't an intimate caress. Not really. There were probably three layers of clothing between her skin and the palm of his hand. But it felt intimate in the utter quiet of this most private room of hers.
He felt overwhelmed by the wrongness of it.
She was his prime suspect. It was his job to pursue criminals and bring them to justice. His career hinged on this case. It would either make him a shoo-in candidate for the district attorney's job or forever keep him rooted in the ranks of assistants. He would either earn position and power or remain just another prosecutor trying to trip up drug dealers on tax evasions. He would either be able to redeem himself or forever be condemned for that one major mistake that marred his soul like a dark blot.
Now, here he was, on the verge of committing another grievous blunder. He couldn't let it happen. He wouldn't be derelict in his duty again.
He lowered his hands. Claire backed up as far as the dressing table. "I don't think you should touch me like that anymore. It could cost you your case. Because if I was ever indicted, Cassidy, I'd make sure everybody knew about your conflict of interests."
"And I'd deny it," he stated without hesitation. "It would be your word against mine, Claire. No witnesses."
"Sort of like the Wilde murder. I can't prove that you kissed me. And you can't prove that I killed Jackson Wilde. So why don't we call it even and drop the whole thing before my life is disrupted even more?"
She turned and left the room. He followed her into the bedroom, where she had almost reached the door when he posed a question: "Why did you contribute to Jackson Wilde's ministry?"
She stopped dead in her tracks. Turning to face him, she suddenly grew pale and nervously wet her lips. "How did you know about that?"
While Cassidy stared at her, his optimism took a brutal beating. "I didn't," be said quietly. "Lucky guess."
Claire sank down onto the end of an upholstered chaise. After a moment she glared up at him. "Very clever."
"Don't bother lying. I've got the records. Your name would have popped up sooner or later and all the data will be there. So tell me the truth, okay? How much did you give him and for God's sake why?"
"About six months ago, I sent in a contribution check for fifty dollars."
"Why?"
"I had watched his program. Anyone sending in a minimum offering of fifty dollars was entitled to receive three books of prayers, devotionals, inspirational anecdotes, that sort of thing. They were represented as hardbound volumes, with gilt lettering and such. If the books arrived and weren't all they were cracked up to be, I was hoping to accuse him of mail fraud or whatever the appropriate charge would be."
"How were the books?"
"Exactly as advertised." She left the chaise and moved to the built-in shelves, returning with the three volumes, which she handed to Cassidy for inspection. "He was too smart not to deliver what he had promised. At least something tangible like books." She spread her arms wide. "That's all there was to it. I swear. It was a test, and he passed. I'd forgotten about it."
Cassidy didn't detect a sign of deceit either in her expression or her straightforward gaze. He wanted badly to believe her. But there was that other matter she still had to clarify. He said, "Gloria Jean Reynolds."
Claire's reaction was visible and quick, a blend of puzzlement and astonishment. "What about her?"
"She made a contribution, too. Considerably more than yours. A thousand dollars."
"What?" The question escaped her on a gust of breath. "Yasmine contributed a thousand dollars to Jackson Wilde's ministry? Why?"
"That's what I intend to find out."
* * *