French Silk

Chapter 12

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Claire was fitting a pattern on one of the dress forms in her studio when the telephone rang.

"Claire, turn on CNN. Quick." It was Yasmine. They hadn't spoken for several days, since their quarrel when Claire had confronted her about making a generous contribution to Jackson Wilde's ministry.

"What's going on?"

"You'll find out soon enough, and you're going to shit a brick. Hurry or you'll miss it." She hung up.

Intrigued, Claire switched on the portable TV that kept her company when she worked into the wee hours. Because Yasmine had prepared her, she wasn't surprised to see Ariel Wilde on the screen. The interviewer was asking her about the recent demonstration outside French Silk, which she freely admitted having instigated.

"Our adversaries would like to believe that since Jackson's death we've retreated from the fight against pornography. Let me assure them that we haven't. This ministry, under my leadership, intends to double its efforts to stamp out all forms of obscene material."

The reporter asked, "Why did you pick up the cause with the French Silk catalog? There are other publications much more graphic."

Ariel smiled sweetly. "The publishers of the more graphic magazines make no bones about being prurient. They don't try to disguise what they are. While I abhor their products, I admire their honesty. At least they aren't hypocritical, like Ms. Laurent, who doesn't even have the courage to debate me."

"Her catalog is tastefully done, Mrs. Wilde. It's sensual, but I'd hardly call it prurient."

"It pictures men and women on the verge of coitus. How lewd can you get?"

Evidently embarrassed, the reporter cleared his throat. "The photos merely suggest—"

"Then you agree that the pictures are suggestive?"

"I didn't say that." He hastily referred to his notes, but before he could pose another question, Ariel said, "I think it's significant that Ms. Laurent's business is headquartered in New Orleans."

The interviewer pounced on the bait. "Significant in what way?"

Ariel pretended to reconsider. "I'd better not say anything further. My attorney has advised me to avoid this subject. However, I feel compelled to point out that one of my husband's most publicized targets is located in the very city in which he was murdered."

Claire saw red. Her gasp filled the silence in the cavernous room. She found herself walking toward the TV set, although she didn't remember leaving her seat.

"Are you implying that Ms. Laurent had something to do with your husband's murder?" the reporter asked.

"She's being investigated by the D.A.'s office," Ariel replied evasively.

"Based on what evidence?"

"None that I know of. I'm certain they're questioning her because of her background."

The reporter looked at her with puzzlement.

"Claire Laurent," she said, "is the illegitimate daughter of a mentally unbalanced woman." She lowered her eyes and assumed a sorrowful expression. "With no more guidance than she had as a child, is it any wonder that her life, even her professional life, is ruled by her passions? Think about it. She obviously possesses talent. Why would she squander her creativity by making sleazy lingerie and advertising it in such a vulgar manner? And why else would she choose for her business partner a woman who, for years, has flaunted her immoral lifestyle?"

"You're referring to the model, Yasmine?"

"Yes. These three women—Ms. Laurent, her mother, and Yasmine—are of such low moral character, I'm sure the same question has occurred to the D.A.'s office as occurred to me: Is publishing a filthy magazine their only crime?"

Claire switched off the set. If she listened to another word she was going to implode. Rage had sent blood rushing to her head. Her earlobes throbbed with it; it clouded her vision.

Ariel Wilde had unmitigated gall. How dare she say those things on a national broadcast? Heretofore, Claire had ignored her snide criticism of the French Silk catalog, but now the invectives had become personal. Ariel had slandered Mary Catherine and Yasmine and all but accused her of murder. How much longer could she stand back and do nothing? Passive resistance didn't work on the Jackson and Ariel Wildes of the world. It was time to act.

She paced while weighing her options. As much as she loathed the thought of it, there seemed no way around making a public statement. When she had cooled down enough to speak, she made a telephone call.

"Newsroom."

"This is Claire Laurent."

She had begun by calling a local network affiliate. Her name had been in the news often enough that it was instantly recognized. "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

"How would I go about calling CNN?"

"We string for them sometimes. I can get their ear."

"If they're interested in my rebuttal to what Ariel Wilde is saying about me, have a reporter contact me."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure someone will call right away."

"I'll be standing by."

Claire hung up, hating what she had just done. She considered privacy a precious commodity. She guarded hers ferociously, mainly for Mary Catherine's sake, but also because Claire intuitively felt that notoriety was tarnishing. In her estimation, to be on public display lessened a person's worth. Publicity seekers were beyond her comprehension. Unlike Yasmine, who thrived on being in the limelight, Claire was content to remain anonymous in the background. For that reason, Yasmine was the one whom people associated with French Silk.

Claire resented being forced to go public. She was also afraid. Between now and her interview, she had to think of words that would negate Ariel Wilde's statements, while keeping her secrets intact.

* * *

The following night she was lying in bed watching a replay of her interview with the CNN reporter when her bedside telephone rang. At first she considered letting it ring. Then, obstinately, she lifted the receiver, but said nothing.

"Claire, are you there?"

"Cassidy?"

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because every time I've answered the telephone tonight it's been someone telling me to go to hell."

"Wilde's people?"

"Undoubtedly. Most shout an insult and then hang up."

"I guess Ariel's pissed. First that picket line of hers backfired. She got the TV coverage she wanted, but Mary Catherine made her people look like thugs. Then you really put her in her place today. I caught your act earlier."

"It wasn't an act."

"Figure of speech," he said. "You articulated well."

"I meant every word. If Ariel Wilde, or anyone in her organization, maligns my mother or Yasmine again, I'll file a suit for damages that will pitch that ministry into financial chaos."

"You were very convincing."

"Thank you."

"But you didn't deny her veiled allegations that you were somehow involved in her husband's murder." He paused for a response, but Claire remained stubbornly silent. Eventually he said, "If you want, I can pull strings and get your telephone number changed immediately."

"No, thanks. The calls are a nuisance, but the novelty will wear off soon and they'll stop."

"Why don't you turn on your answering machine?"

"Principle. If I'm here, I answer my telephone. I refuse to let them rearrange my life."

He said nothing for a moment, then asked, "Have you had any more protesters outside your door?"

"No," she said, smiling for the first time in twenty-four hours. "I think Mama cured them of that."

"Speaking of your mother, is Harry there to watch her?"

"She's spending the night. Why?"

"I'll tell you when I get there. Meet me downstairs."

"Cassidy, I'm already in bed. I'm tired."

But she was talking to a dead line. She slammed down the phone. If he wanted to see her, he could have made an appointment for the next day. She should let him stand downstairs ringing the bell to no avail.

But, she swung her legs over the side of her bed and went into the bathroom. It looked the same as before, yet she knew she'd never enter it again without thinking of him, disheveled and dripping blood on his shirt. He'd looked roguish and rowdy, and her feminine instincts had responded then as they did now with the memory of his strong hands resting on her waist.

She had threatened him with exposure, citing how a romantic dalliance with her might hurt his cause. She had failed to tell him how damaging such a dalliance could also be to her.

She dressed in a pair of jeans and a white cotton pullover, not wanting him to think she had primped in anticipation of seeing him. She took the elevator down to the first floor. He was ringing the buzzer by the time she reached the door.

"You're right on time," she said when she opened it.

"One of my virtues."

He hadn't dressed up either. She'd never seen him in anything except a suit. Tonight he wore jeans, a casual shirt, an ancient Levi's jacket, and jogging shoes. "Why did you want to see me?"

"Come out here."

"Why?"

"I can think more clearly out here." She looked at him quizzically. "There's too much damn ambience in there," he added brusquely.

The commercial district several blocks away was in full swing, but within two blocks on either side of French Silk the street was dark and still. When she turned after securing the door, Cassidy was at the curb, pacing the pavement where the protesters had marched.

"You look upset," she remarked.

"You could say that." He stopped and faced her. "This offering business—"

"I explained that."

"Yeah. So did Yasmine. But it doesn't seem plausible."

"That's your problem."

"Temporarily," he said shortly. "What time did you tell me you went to the Fairmont that night to pick up your mother?"

Claire hadn't expected the sudden shift in topic. The question made her throat constrict. "I … I told you I wasn't sure, but I guessed around midnight."

"What took you so long?"

"Pardon?"

"Andre Philippi says he called you at eleven. At that time of night, it takes about five minutes to drive from here to the Fairmont. I know because I drove it tonight. Your trip took an hour longer than it should have. What delayed you?"

"Cassidy, I said I got there around midnight. It might have been eleven or eleven-thirty. I told you I wasn't sure."

"You're lying!" He slammed his fist into his opposite palm. Claire fell back a step. "You didn't leave for the Fairmont Hotel to collect Mary Catherine until almost midnight because you didn't speak directly to Andre until then. When he called at eleven, he spoke to your answering machine, didn't he? You had to call him back."

He came toe to toe with her. "You weren't here when he called at eleven. You said tonight that you answer your phone if you're here, right? Andre left a message on your machine, so you'd know where Mary Catherine was when you came in and discovered her gone."

Claire's heart was hammering. "I can explain that."

"Save it. I'm sick of your lies. I'm right, aren't I?" He grabbed her arm and hauled her close to him. "Aren't I?"

Coming into contact with the solid strength of his body startled her, but she resented his high-handedness and wriggled free of his grasp.

"Yes, you're right," she flung up at him. "I have a habit of checking Mama's room when I come in. That night, her bed was empty and her suitcase was gone, so I knew what had happened. I was about to go out and look for her when I noticed the message light. I called Andre back immediately. He told me he had spotted Mama in the lobby of the Fairmont, taken her to his office, and given her some sherry. She was groggy and disoriented when I got there, as she often is after the worst of her spells. I drove her home and put her to bed. That's the truth."

"Oh, I believe you, Claire," he said. "I just want to know where the hell you were between the conclusion of the crusade and midnight. Did you make two trips to the Fairmont? One to murder Wilde and another to pick up your mother?"

She said nothing.

"You could drive a barge through the space of time you've got to account for," he said, raising his voice.

"I went for a walk."

Obviously he'd been expecting a more elaborate lie. The simplicity of her explanation caught him off guard. "A walk?"

"That's right. A long walk. Alone. Through the Quarter."

"At that time of night?" he asked skeptically.

"I often do. Ask Yasmine. She chides me about it all the time."

"Yasmine would cover any lie you chose to tell."

"It's not a lie. It's the truth."

"Why'd you pick that particular night to take a walk?"

"I was upset."

"Murder is upsetting."

Pivoting on her heel, she stalked toward the door of French Silk. "I don't have to take that from you."

"The hell you don't." His arm shot out and caught her sleeve, bringing her back around. "I'm royally pissed off at you, Ms. Laurent. I should have you downtown right now being fingerprinted and fitted for jail issue. You won't look so hot in puke-green broadcloth, Claire. And the undies don't come from the French Silk catalog either."

A tremor of fear rippled through her. Her greatest fear was of being incarcerated. It wasn't claustrophobia that panicked her, but the loss of freedom. She wouldn't be able to tolerate the constant supervision, the inability to make choices, and the deprivation of privacy and independence.

Cassidy's face was taut with anger. One lock of dark hair had fallen over his brow. His eyes shone with a demanding and piercing glint. For the first time, Claire was actually afraid of him. He might lose patience with her and make good his threat. She needed to talk, and talk fast, because she couldn't spend one night, one minute, in jail.

"I came home from the crusade and—"

"What time?"

Nervously she ran her fingers through her hair. "I swear to you, I don't know the exact time. Shortly after ten, I think."

"I can live with that. The service concluded at nine-twenty. By the time you fought Superdome traffic, that would put you here around ten."

"Harry had stayed with Mama. When I got in, I dismissed her, although later I wished I hadn't. I was restless, couldn't sleep. I tried to work, but all I could think about was Jackson Wilde."

"Why?"

"I'd seen him on TV, but that was nothing compared to seeing him in person. He was a dynamic speaker. He exuded such power, exercised such control over the minds of his audience. Even though I disagreed with everything he preached, I was impressed by the charisma with which he preached it. The people sitting around me were enthralled. Until that night I hadn't fully grasped the strength of his influence. I became afraid that he might actually be able to destroy French Silk. When I went down to the podium and looked him in the eyes, I felt like David looking into the face of Goliath."

She looked up at Cassidy with appeal. "You'd have to understand what this business means to me to know how I felt that night. I can only describe it as panic. Everything I'd worked so hard for was being threatened by an overwhelming force. I had visions of all that I'd struggled to build being knocked down."

Cassidy said softly, "I can understand that, Claire, better than you know." Then once again his eyes focused sharply on her. "Did you feel so threatened that you sneaked into his hotel suite and shot him?"

She looked away. "I told you, I went for a walk."

"You'll have to do better than that."

"It's true! I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I felt smothered. Couldn't think. Jackson Wilde's words kept ringing in my ears. I had to get out." Suddenly her gaze swung back to him. "I'll take you."

"Where?"

"We'll retrace the route I took that night. I'll show you exactly where I went. I'll try to keep the same pace so you'll see how I missed Andre's call."

Frowning, he pondered it a moment. "Okay. Where to?" His hand was riding beneath her elbow as she stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Most of the buildings on that side of Conti Street were vacant and dark. Recessed doorways were deeply shadowed and sinister-looking. Windows and doors were covered with wire mesh.

"Aren't you afraid to walk alone around here at night, Claire?"

"Not at all." She looked up at him. "Are you?"

"Damn right," he muttered, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. She laughed and steered him past a dip in the ancient sidewalk. "I see you know the topography pretty well."

"Very well. I grew up playing on these sidewalks." Pointing out a candy factory with pink awnings, she said, "They make delicious pralines. Sometimes they'd give us kids the ones that got broken and they couldn't sell. We take a right at the next corner."

They walked in silence, past the gray stone building that at one time had been the Louisiana State Supreme Court. They turned right onto Royal Street and she paused outside an antiques shop. "I stopped here that night to browse in this window. There was a marcasite and emerald brooch…"

"Marca what?"

"There it is. Third row down, second from the left. See?"

"Hmm. Pretty."

"I thought so. I meant to come back and take a closer look but never got around to it." She lingered for a few moments more, gazing at the array of beaded reticules, oxidized silver services, and estate jewelry, before continuing.

Across the street, two policemen emerged from the Vieux Carré district headquarters of the NOPD. They nodded politely. One spoke to Claire in Cajun-accented French. His partner said, "Evenin', Ms. Laurent." The first did a double take on Cassidy, but if the patrolman recognized him, he didn't call him by name.

They moved past the salmon walls and green shutters of the famous Brennan's restaurant. Claire became aware that Cassidy was watching her closely. She turned the tables and began to study him. "You aren't married, are you, Cassidy?"

"Does it show?"

"No. It's just that most wives wouldn't approve of your working hours." She kept her expression impassive, although she was glad to learn that her sins didn't include kissing a married man.

"I was married," he told her. "I blew it."

"Regrets?"

He shrugged. "Not about her. It worked out best for both of us. I guess you could say I was married to my career. Sort of like you." He paused, giving her an opportunity to comment.

Instead she asked another question. "Any children?"

"No. We never got around to it. Guess that worked out best, too. I wouldn't have wanted to inflict a divorce on my kids." He stopped outside a store front and gazed through the burglary-proof windows. "A gun shop. How convenient."

"Is that the best you can do, Cassidy?"

"Come to think of it, you're too smart to buy a weapon so close to home and in a neighborhood where you're so well known."

She gave him a shrewd look. "You checked, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

From there they moved to a shop whose entire inventory consisted of earrings. "Yasmine is one of their best customers," Claire told him as he stared in awe at the vast variety.

In this elite shopping district, most of the stores were already closed. The silence on the street seemed to envelop them. Bourbon Street was only a block away, but it could have been a hundred miles. Occasionally a few piercingly sweet notes of a jazz trumpet wafted on the sultry air, but they drifted away like lost souls in search of refuge. The wrought-iron grilles that surrounded the overhead balconies added to the aspect of seclusion. Filigree iron gates provided glimpses into inner courtyards where mossy fountains trickled, gas hurricane lamps sputtered, and scarred brick walls guarded secrets.

They came upon a cat scrounging for dinner in a bag of garbage at the curb. Two couples wearing LSU sweatshirts staggered down the street, laughing, talking loudly and profanely, sloshing the Hurricanes they'd taken out in paper cups from Pat O'Brien's. An old man with a mangy beard and wearing an unseasonably heavy overcoat nonchalantly relieved himself against the wall of an alley. An elegant elderly couple, walking arm in arm, passed them, saying, "Good evenin'." A young man wearing tight black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and heavy makeup swished past and made a kissing motion toward Cassidy with his glossy scarlet lips.

They turned onto St. Peter Street in front of the Royal Café. Claire pointed out its double balcony to Cassidy. "I think it's the prettiest one in the Quarter."

Jackson Square was closed for the night, but the shops and eateries surrounding it were still open. "I thought about getting a cappuccino here," Claire told Cassidy as she halted in front of a small, intimate bar tucked beneath the historic Pontalba Arms apartments. Two of the outdoor tables were occupied by lovers who were engrossed in each other and impervious to the rest of the world. "But I could smell fresh beignets, so…"

She pointed him toward the Café du Monde. They waited for traffic at the curb, where a solo saxophonist was playing for the money passersby tossed into his hat, which lay on the sidewalk. The driver of a horse-drawn carriage and a sidewalk artist who had retired his pallets for the night were having a friendly argument over the football season.

"I agree with the artist," Claire remarked. "The Saints have got to beef up their offensive line if they hope to get in the playoffs this year."

"You could understand those guys?" Cassidy asked.

"Couldn't you?" The sleepy nag harnessed to the carriage was wearing a big floppy hat with bright pink plastic geraniums encircling the crown. Claire stroked her muzzle as she stepped off the curb.

"Not a word. For almost a year after I moved here it was like living in a foreign country. It took a while for my ears to adapt to the accent. I still have trouble sometimes."

"You don't have any trouble understanding me."

"You, Claire, I have the most trouble understanding."

She indicated a table on the open-air terrace of Café du Monde. He held the chrome chair out for her. A waiter in a long white apron approached, his hands outstretched in welcome.

"Ms. Laurent, bonsoir. How lovely to see you."

"Merci," she said when he bent to kiss her hand.

"And this is?" he inquired, looking at Cassidy.

She introduced Claude, the waiter. "An order of beignets, please, Claude. Two cafés au lait."

"Very good," he said, briskly moving toward the kitchen.

"Obviously you come here often," Cassidy observed.

"It's almost been overrun by tourists, but Mama still enjoys coming here, so I bring her at least once a week."

Claude delivered their order. The yeasty smell of the square, hole-less doughnuts and the aroma of the coffee made Claire's mouth water. She dug in, unabashedly licking the powdered sugar off her fingers. Looking across at Cassidy, she laughed at the powdered sugar ringing his mouth and passed him a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table.

They demolished the beignets, splitting the third one, and sat silently sipping the scalding mixture of coffee and milk. Claire was content to sit and savor the flavor of New Orleans at its best. Too soon, Cassidy got down to business.

"That night," he began, "how long were you here?"

"About thirty minutes, I guess."

He raised an eyebrow. "That long?"

"This is the Vieux Carré, Cassidy. Like the Europeans who originally lived here, we can linger over a meal for hours. The pace is slow. When you cross Canal Street, you should leave behind the American's tendency to bustle, and enjoy life. I resisted eating another order of doughnuts, but I did have two cups of café au lait and spent at least ten minutes with each one."

At her request, Claude replaced their empty cups with full ones. Watching the steam rise from her cup, Claire said, "I had a lot on my mind that night. Jackson Wilde was only one thing that was troubling me."

"What else?"

"Mama. I worry about who would take care of her if something happened to me. For instance if I went to prison." She gave him a puissant look, then lowered her eyes to her coffee, which she swirled in the thick white mug. "And the new catalog was on my mind. I always want the current one to top the last and am afraid the ideas will dry up."

"That fear is common to creative people."

"I suppose. And I was worried about Yasmine."

"Why?"

"It's personal." Her expression dared him to ask her to betray her friend's confidence, but he didn't.

"That was quite a walk." He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. The old jeans fitted them well, cupping his sex and gloving his thighs. Claire tried to keep her mind on what he was saying. "I suppose if I asked, Claude here would swear on his sainted mother's tombstone that you spent at least half an hour here that night."

"Do you think I'm lying, Cassidy?"

"No," he said. "I think you brought me along tonight so I'd see how well known and respected you are in this community and what I'm up against if I try to convict you. You're even on speaking terms with the neighborhood cops. A good defense attorney would line up all these character witnesses, and even if they couldn't swear that you were walking in the French Quarter that night, they couldn't swear that you weren't."

"If you were my defense attorney, is that what you'd do?"

"Precisely. If the prosecutor didn't have an indisputable piece of physical evidence, I'd make you look like a saint and confuse the jury with facts that weren't pertinent."

"You know all the tricks, I see."

His lips narrowed and his expression turned grim. "All the tricks."

There was more to Cassidy than what she knew, Claire decided. The newspapers reported on the A.D.A., not on the inner man. She wanted to pursue that inner man, to discover what made that introspective and regretful expression come across his face occasionally, but she had her own problems.

"You still believe I committed that murder, don't you?" Sighing, Cassidy looked away and seemed to concentrate on the statue of Andrew Jackson astride his rearing horse, which could be seen through the closed gates of the square across the street. Then he propped his forearms on the small round table and leaned across it. "Here's what I think happened. I think you planned this murder for a long time—from the time you read that Reverend Wilde was bringing his crusade to New Orleans.

"You bought, borrowed, or stole a .38 revolver. You went to the crusade and met face-toface the man you were planning to kill. By now I know you well enough to know you'd have the integrity to do that. You'd feel like that was the honorable way to kill a man, sort of like your ancestors who met outside the city with pomp and circumstance to duel until one was dead.

"Anyway, you returned home and dismissed Harry. That was a gamble that didn't pay off, but at the time you figured that if she was asked, she could testify that you were home by ten that night. You went to the Fairmont and, using Andre as an accomplice, managed to get into Wilde's hotel suite. You shot him, probably while he was asleep. Then you left and returned home.

"But Fate threw you a curve. Mary Catherine had slipped out. You got home, found her gone, and, ironically, had to make a return trip to the Fairmont to pick her up. I'll bet that wasn't too comfortable for you, returning to the scene of the crime so soon after committing it."

"That's not what happened at all. Do you see how many holes there are in your theory?"

"Hell yes. It's as leaky as a sieve. That's why you're not already in jail."

It took Claire a moment to recover from that remark. She asked, "How did I get into his suite?"

"Simple. Andre gave you a key. While Wilde was having dinner, you let yourself in. Probably hid in a closet to wait. He came in, showered, and got ready for bed. You waited until you were sure he was asleep, then did him."

Claire shook her head. "There's something very basically wrong with that scenario, Cassidy. I would never have involved my friend in a murder plot."

"You might have utilized him without his knowledge."

"By sneaking a key from the front desk?"

"No, by familiarizing yourself with the hotel. There are several odd angles in the hallway on the seventh floor. Maybe you made yourself invisible in one of those bends. When the maid went into the suite to turn down Wilde's bed, you sneaked in behind her while the door was open."

"Very creative."

His eyes scanned her face. "Yes, Claire. Characteristically creative."

She took a sip of cold coffee, willing her hand not to tremble and reveal her nervousness. "How did I know that Wilde would come into the suite alone? Or did I intend to kill Mrs. Wilde, if necessary?"

"That gave me trouble, too. Until Josh and Ariel Wilde told me that they 'rehearsed' every night. Andre could have told you what their routine was. You betted on Jackson going to bed alone."

"Wilde didn't like what I printed in my magazine so he lambasted me from his pulpit. I didn't like what he preached, so I killed him. In effect, what you're saying is that I'm less tolerant and more radical than Jackson Wilde was. You're placing me on the level of the crazies who've been calling and threatening my life."

Cassidy reacted like he'd been goosed. "You've had callers threatening your life? You didn't tell me that."

She hadn't intended to and could have bitten her tongue. "Life threats over the telephone aren't to be taken seriously."

He appeared to disagree. His eyes swept the area as though an assassin might be lurking in the shadows. "We've been here at least half an hour," he said, coming to his feet. "Let's go." He held her chair for her, then struck off down the sidewalk at a fast clip, but stopped when he realized she wasn't beside him. "What?" he called over his shoulder.

"I made one more stop before going home that night. Out there," she said, nodding toward the river.

He returned to her side. "Lead the way." They crossed the military memorial that connected with the paved part of the levee called the Moonwalk. Below them, the river's current gently lapped at the crushed rocks, although at present there wasn't any traffic on the river. The lights from the opposite bank twinkled on the water, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of brine and petroleum and mud. There was a humid breeze, and Claire liked the feel of it in her hair and on her skin. It was soft and gentle, everything that was good about the South.

The Moonwalk was a favorite spot among tourists with cameras, panhandlers, whores, drunks, and lovers. Tonight only a few other pedestrians were taking advantage of the view. When they walked past a couple necking on a park bench, Cassidy's expression turned irascible. "Why don't you give me a break and confess."

"Even if I didn't do it?"

"Please, no. We get plenty of those as it is. Four crazies have already taken credit for offing Wilde."

"Your attitude is certainly cavalier."

"These four guys are chronic confessors.," he said dismissively. "We routinely check them out, but none of them was near the Fairmont that night." They reached a tacit agreement to pause and gaze out across the river. After a moment he turned to her. Without prefacing it in any way, he said, "There's a records clerk in the courthouse. Night before last, she invited me over to her house for an evening of spaghetti and sex."

He looked at her pointedly, awaiting a response. At last she said, "She certainly didn't mince words."

"Well, the sex part was implied."

"I see. Did you go?"

"Yes."

"Oh. How was it?"

"Terrific. It was smothered in red clam sauce."

At first taken aback, she then realized that he was attempting a joke. She tried to laugh but discovered she couldn't be blasé about his sleeping with another woman.

"The spaghetti was sensational," he said. "But the sex was only so-so."

"How disappointed you must have been," Claire said tightly.

He shrugged. "And a few nights before that, I slept with my neighbor. It was raunchy, and I'm not even sure what her name is."

Claire's temper snapped. "Are you trying to impress me with your sexual exploits? I'm not a priest. I didn't ask for a confession."

"I just thought you might want to know."

"Well, I don't. Why would I?"

He roughly pulled her against him and held her head between his palms. "Because we're in deep shit here, and you know it as well as I do."

Then he kissed her.

* * *