Chapter 22
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Practically verbatim, Cassidy repeated his conversation with Joshua Wilde. When he finished, Crowder stopped drumming his fingers. "I'm confused. You said you thought the son was the culprit, but he's claiming it's the widow."
"Out of pique. Tattling is a coward's way of getting even, and Josh has a yellow streak a yard wide down his back."
"Then where'd he get the courage to kill his father?"
"He caught Wilde at his most vulnerable. Naked. Lying on his back. Possibly even asleep. Josh knew his father's habits. He knew when to attack. Which would also apply to Ariel, for that matter," Cassidy mumbled as an afterthought. "Anyway, Josh shot Wilde in the balls to throw us off, to make it look like a woman had killed him. He even reminded me of that when we talked."
Crowder folded his meaty hands beneath his chin and ruminated on it a moment. "Why would Josh want his father dead? Jealousy?"
"Possibly. If Ariel's baby is his father's, as she claims. But I believe he had a stronger motivation."
"Stronger than jealousy? Money?"
"Not directly. No doubt Josh had a hankering to take over the ministry when his old man was no longer around. He figured he was heir apparent to the spotlight. For a young man who had been his father's apprentice, who had always lived in his giant shadow, that would be a reasonable ambition."
"Instead, Ariel seizes control."
"With both hands. Just as before, Josh is in the background. He's still second banana. But discounting the ministry as a factor, there's the personal one."
"Which is?"
"Josh admitted to me that Jackson Wilde was a tyrant who psychologically abused both of them. He had been Jackson's whipping boy all his adult life. He finally had had it up to here. So he gathered his meager courage and disposed of his old man, only to have his stepmother and lover elbow in and overshadow him. Talk about frustrating."
"He traded one despot for another."
"Right. To get rid of her, he makes her out the killer. Or maybe…" Now that he had opened a new channel of thought, other possibilities came to mind. "Maybe they plotted together to off Jackson. Then, for the reasons I cited before, Josh has turned into Judas."
"Sounds feasible either way. Have you discussed it with Glenn?
"Not yet, but he'll do backsprings. He figured all along it was either Ariel or Josh. He'll want to put them under a microscope and probe until we know them inside out. I'd like to put tails on them."
"The P.C. will shit if you ask for more men."
"You gave me until the end of the week, Tony. Play fair. Help us out. Run interference with the commissioner."
Cassidy returned to his office feeling as though he'd had an internal battery recharged. For the first time in days, adrenaline was coursing through his veins. He had a purpose, a new plan of attack. He would stay with it until he'd exhausted all possibilities, as well as himself.
The first thing he did was make a series of telephone calls. There was no need for Cassidy to identify himself on the first call. He simply asked, "Are you still feeding info to that TV reporter?"
The informant system was a two-way street. The D.A.'s office used the same sources as the media, sometimes transmitting information that, like a pistol firing blanks, was loaded with half-facts and innuendos that were intentionally misleading.
Cassidy said, "I had a lengthy and private conversation with Joshua Wilde this afternoon. He left my office looking angry and upset. That's it for now."
He dispatched a clerk to check all the car-leasing agencies in the city. "Find the one that leased a car to Joshua Wilde during the week of his father's murder. I want to know the make and model he rented, the mileage he put on it, and the condition it was in when he dropped it off. If it was a Chrysler product with blue carpet, I want the car chased down and taken immediately to the police lab. Thanks." Perhaps the lab boys would find a speck of dried blood that would turn out to be Jackson Wilde's and—bingo!—he'd have a bona fide suspect.
"This'll be the easiest stakeout ever," Cassidy told the police lieutenant who had been placed in charge of the surveillance team Crowder had weaseled out of the commissioner. "Joshua and Ariel Wilde are more visible than drag queens on Bourbon Street. They can't possibly give you the slip."
Once those responsibilities had been delegated, Cassidy sat back in his chair and sighed with a heightened sense of optimism. Something was bound to turn up. A piece of previously undisclosed evidence would point the accusing finger at either Josh or Ariel and away from Claire.
He had tried not to think about her since their bitter quarrel at Rosesharon, but to no avail. She remained uppermost in his mind—her body, her sweet lovemaking, and her angry allegations.
It was as if she had opened the closet of his soul and found the skeleton there, and she couldn't have rattled the bones of it any louder. She had accused him of deceit and manipulation. At one time that might have been true. As a defense attorney, he'd exercised whatever means were necessary to get an acquittal. He'd used theatrics, tears, laughter, scorn, whatever it took to have his clients walk from the courtroom cleared of all charges.
If his conscience ever pricked him, he justified his actions. Defending criminals was his duty, wasn't it? Even felons deserved their day in court. Somebody had to plead their cases before the judge and jury, so why not him? He was only doing his job, he told himself.
He had known those were justifications. There were ethical and reasonable ways to defend an accused without resorting to courtroom tricks, which he'd often used for no reason other than to show off.
Look at me, clever Robert Cassidy, the boy wonder who didn't go to an Ivy League prep school and didn't earn his law degree at Harvard. Turned out pretty damn well for a boy from rural Kentucky, didn't he?
Winning had been his ultimate goal, not seeking justice … until that one case he'd won, and the stakes had been far too high. When Claire had accused him of deceit and manipulation, she didn't know how close she was to being right about him, as he'd once been. But not as he was now. He brought the bad guys to justice and put them away where they could no longer hurt innocent people.
This case was no exception. He would go the distance to see that justice was done for whomever was found guilty by a jury of his peers of the murder of Jackson Wilde.
God help him if that person turned out to be Claire Laurent.
But it wouldn't, he told himself stubbornly. She was innocent. No woman who was that warm and giving in bed could have killed in cold blood. He'd touched not only her lips, and breasts, and thighs, and belly. He'd touched her soul. If it was poisoned, he would have known it.
But, contrary to what she believed, determining her guilt or innocence wasn't the reason he'd slept with her. That had been as inevitable as the tide. From the day they'd met, that part of their fate had been sealed.
As soon as she was vindicated, he'd go to her and humbly apologize for having put her through this awful ordeal. After all, she couldn't respect him if he didn't take his job as a public prosecutor seriously. Once they had apologized for their misgivings about each other, they'd make love again.
The thought stirred him physically, bringing him back into the present. Claire would be home from Mississippi by now. He stared at his desk telephone, tempted to call her. But no. She would still be angry. Best to give her a few more days to cool off.
In the meantime, he would dig diligently, looking for the missing element that would confirm someone else's guilt and exonerate Claire.
She was innocent.
* * *
Claire frowned at the unopened mail stacked in piles on her desk. There were bills to pay, memos to sort through, and a menacing envelope from the IRS to open. She lacked the energy to tackle the paperwork and attributed her ennui to the trip. She had worked very hard, on a rigid schedule, in oppressive, muggy heat. She needed and deserved a few days' rest before resuming her work. Then she realized that a few days' rest wasn't going to remedy her problem.
She warded off the depressing thought and pulled her mind back to the mess on her desk. In addition to the unopened mail were recent editions of the newspaper. According to an unidentified but reliable source, Assistant District Attorney Cassidy was readjusting his investigation to focus on Ariel and Joshua Wilde.
His name, printed in bold type face, captured her attention, and she stared at it until she lost track of time. In all likelihood she would have continued staring and remembering if her mother hadn't interrupted, appearing at her door carrying a tray.
"Would you like some tea, Claire Louise? You've looked so tired lately, I thought it might help perk you up."
"Thank you, Mama. That sounds wonderful. But only if you'll stay and share it."
"I was hoping you'd ask."
Claire smiled and, taking one of the newspapers with her, moved to the sitting area where she had first entertained Cassidy. It seemed that everything she said or did reminded her of him. She resented his intrusive power over her mind. He hadn't called or made any attempt to see her since the morning he'd left Rosesharon without a goodbye. She didn't know whether to be relieved, heartbroken, insulted, or a combination of the three.
Thoughts of him evoked every emotion she was acquainted with; some were blissful to experience, some miserable. She would catch herself grinning demurely, then in the next moment be on the verge of tears. Not since the social workers had dragged her from Aunt Laurel's house had anyone wielded that much power over her.
Mary Catherine set the silver service tray on the low coffee table. She passed Claire a hand-embroidered linen napkin, then poured them each a cup of fragrant tea from a china pot.
They chatted about inconsequential matters while they tipped their tea and nibbled on tea cakes Mary Catherine and Harry had baked that morning. The trip to Mississippi had been good for Mary Catherine. Claire noticed a healthy rosiness in her mother's cheeks that subtracted years from her appearance. Her eyes were clear and animated. They didn't have the vacancy that had always alarmed her, even as a child, because she recognized it as a harbinger of a "spell." Mary Catherine seemed more in tune with her surroundings. To Claire's knowledge, she hadn't had another lapse since taking Cassidy's fountain pen.
As though reading Claire's mind, she said, "I see you were reading the newspapers. It says Mr. Cassidy now believes that Jackson Wilde's son or widow killed him. Isn't that silly?"
"Silly?"
"They didn't do it. And I don't believe Mr. Cassidy thinks so either."
"How do you know they didn't do it, Mama?"
Ignoring the question, Mary Catherine asked one of her own. "And why are those people picketing in front of our building again?" Picket-toting Wilde disciples had kept vigil in front of French Silk since their return to the city.
"I wish they'd go away," Mary Catherine said with vexation. "It's difficult for Harry and me to go to the market in the mornings. I enjoy our outings, but having to get through that crowd ruins them."
To Mary Catherine's mind, the inability to get to the French Market without a hassle was more worrisome than having her daughter accused of murder. But that wasn't as disturbing to Claire as her mother's previous statements. "The pickets are a temporary inconvenience, Mama. Once they arrest somebody for killing Reverend Wilde, they will disband."
"Will he ever come back?"
For one heart-stopping instant, Claire thought she referred to Jackson Wilde. "Who, Mama?" she asked hoarsely.
"Mr. Cassidy."
Claire's shoulders relaxed as she slowly exhaled. "I don't know. Why?"
Tears suddenly welled up in Mary Catherine's eyes. Her lower lip began to tremble. "I was so hoping that when you fell in love, your young man wouldn't disappoint you like mine did me."
She removed a monogrammed handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt. The linen was so sheer that it appeared to have been spun rather than woven. It smelled like the rose-scented sachets she kept in her bureau drawers.
As she blotted her eyes, Claire reached out and covered her hand. "Don't cry, Mama. It was never … that way … with Mr. Cassidy and me."
"Oh," she said with a soft, disconsolate sound. "I thought it was. I hoped it was. I like him very much. He's such a handsome young man. And he knows how to treat a lady."
Oh yes, Claire thought, he's handsome. Vividly she recalled seeing his face dark and intent with passion, his lips sensually caressing her breasts, his chest warmly, fuzzily naked. And he certainly knew how to treat a lady, especially in bed. He gave as much pleasure as he sought, maybe more. Such perfect lovemaking almost had to be calculated, didn't it?
She pushed aside the thought. It was too painful to think about. She was hopelessly in love with Cassidy, the key word being hopelessly. They could have no future together. Even if they weren't on opposite sides of a criminal investigation, he embodied the system that she feared and resented. As much as she loved Cassidy the man, she didn't believe she could ever completely trust Cassidy the prosecutor.
For Claire it was a heartbreaking conflict. When she dwelled on it, she was paralyzed by despair, so she kept this secret love locked away in her heart and pretended it wasn't there.
She extended her cup. "Pour me some more tea, please, Mama. You make better tea than anyone." Claire directed their conversation to less disturbing topics. A half-hour later, Mary Catherine withdrew with the tray, leaving Claire alone again. She scanned the newspapers.
Joshua Wilde vehemently denied having had anything to do with his father's slaying. Ariel accused Cassidy of implicating them only to cover his own ineptitude. She suggested that, for personal reasons, he was sheltering the most viable suspect. She had coyly declined to say who that suspect was, even when specifically asked if she referred to Claire Laurent. Her avoidance only confirmed the insinuation.
Claire was naturally relieved that she was no longer Cassidy's leading suspect, but she couldn't afford to get smug. She was temporarily in the eye of the hurricane and must still weather the second, and perhaps more ferocious, half of the storm. If Joshua Wilde became nervous over Cassidy's allegations, there was no telling what he might do or say to take the heat off himself. Instead of one foe, she would then have two.
Dwelling on that, she jumped when the telephone at her elbow rang. She didn't answer until the third ring. "Hello?"
"Claire, is that you?"
"Andre? Bonsoir. It's good to hear from you. How are you?"
"Fine, fine, I'm fine. No, actually…" He paused. "I'm terribly worried about Yasmine."
Claire frowned with full understanding of his concern. Since the breakup with her lover, Yasmine had been acting strangely. There was nothing that Claire could put her finger on, but something was amiss. On the surface, Yasmine was the same. As they wound up their work at Rosesharon, she had joked with the crew, bitched with Leon, and approached each catalog photograph with her customary imagination and flair. But her enthusiasm and laughter rang false.
Once they were finished in Mississippi, Claire had expected Yasmine to accompany the others back to New York, where the remainder of the catalog shots would be done in a studio. Instead, Yasmine had returned to New Orleans with her. Once ensconced in French Silk, she had dropped the pretense and become sullen and silent.
Yasmine said nothing about completing the catalog. Claire was concerned from a business standpoint, but since their deadline with the printer was several weeks away, she was patiently biding her time. Yasmine stayed in her room all day, every day, then went out every night and didn't return until the wee hours. She never said where she was going or invited Claire to come along with her.
Claire guessed that she was spying on Congressman Petrie's house or making attempts to see him. She was tempted to caution Yasmine against such adolescent behavior, but Yasmine didn't invite conversation. In fact, she went out of her way to discourage it. The door to her room remained locked. She didn't join Claire and Mary Catherine for meals.
The old Yasmine surrounded herself with people, situating herself amid admirers and basking in their attention. Ordinarily, she hated being alone, so this reversal in behavior was disturbing. Claire had honored her friend's desire for solitude, as that was obviously the method Yasmine had chosen to heal her broken heart. But perhaps it was time to intervene.
Apparently Andre shared her concern. "Have you seen Yasmine recently?" she asked him.
"Not since last week when you were in Mississippi. She came to the hotel, stayed for about an hour, and left. Claire, you know I never divulge confidences, but knowing how close you are to Yasmine—"
"I don't dispute your loyalty, Andre. Nor your discretion. Both have served me on many occasions. Rest assured that I won't pump you for gossip."
"If I thought that, I wouldn't have called."
"Something prompted you to. I can hear the worry in your voice. I gather you spoke to Yasmine when you saw her?"
He told her about their conversation in the hotel corridor and how upset Yasmine had appeared when she left. "I've never seen her like that. She was quite distraught. Is she all right now?"
Claire, mindful of Yasmine's right to privacy, said, "Something very upsetting happened that night. She confided in me the following morning. I believe talking about it helped."
"Did she return to New York?"
"No, she stayed. Probably because it's quieter here. Less hectic. I think she's trying to sort things through before she goes home."
And Alister Petrie lives here, Claire thought, remembering seeing his picture on the front page of the morning newspaper. She didn't, however, mention the congressman to Andre. If he knew the identity of Yasmine's lover, he was being characteristically discreet. He wouldn't drop Petrie's name into the conversation. At the risk of placing Andre in a compromising position, neither would she.
"Do you think she's recovering from this … unpleasantness?" he asked.
That was a tough question. Although they were living under the same roof, Claire had had less contact with Yasmine than she did when Yasmine was in New York and calling her several nights a week for lengthy chats. Her reply was qualified: "She doesn't seem to be getting any worse."
"Ah, well, I'm relieved," he said. He gave a breathy little laugh. "It's no secret to you that I hold Yasmine in the highest regard."
"No, it's no secret to me." Claire's teasing smile was soon replaced with another frown. "Maybe I've given her too much leeway. I think it's time we had another woman-to-woman talk."
"Please let me know if there's anything I can do. Anything at all."
"I will."
"Claire, you're … you're not angry with me? That matter with Mr. Cassidy—"
"Forget it, Andre. Please. You were unscrupulously tricked. As I've been," she added quietly. "Don't fret about it."
She assured him that it would take more than Cassidy's exploitation to affect their long-standing friendship. They agreed to have dinner together very soon. Shortly after saying goodbye and hanging up, she reached for the telephone again.
* * *
Cassidy sidled up to the undercover cop who'd been assigned to tail Joshua Wilde. As one stranger to another, he asked for a light.
"Didn't know you smoked," the cop said in a low, confidential voice. From his pocket he withdrew a lighter and flipped it open. It shot forth a blaze like a miniature flamethrower.
"I quit a couple of years ago," Cassidy said, choking on the smoke he inhaled.
"You taking it up again?"
"I just asked you for a light, okay? What else could I casually walk up and ask you for? A blow-job?"
The slender black man grinned. His long hair was pulled into a sleek queue at the back of his head and held there with a tight rubber band. He winked and gave Cassidy's shoulder a light squeeze. "I'm expensive. Can you afford me?"
Cassidy threw off the caress. "Fuck you."
"Oooh, sounds delicious, sweet thing." Obviously the young cop, whom Cassidy knew was as straight as a plumb line, was enjoying himself at his expense.
The guy was tall, slender, and good-looking, so he often worked the French Quarter in this cover. A study of insolence and nonchalance, he leaned against a gaslight post located across the street from The Gumbo Shop on St. Peter Street. Through the microphone hidden beneath the lapel of his flashy sharkskin suit, he'd reported to a central monitor that he'd tailed Josh to the popular restaurant. Cassidy, too keyed up to remain either in his downtown office or his stuffy, lonely apartment, had decided to participate actively in the surveillance.
"How long's he been in there?"
The cop checked the counterfeit Rolex on his wrist. "Thirty-two minutes."
"Is he having dinner?"
"Seems so."
Cassidy's eyes squinted against the smoke curling from between his lips. He peered through the blue-gray haze, trying to penetrate the windows of the restaurant. "How long does it take for a party of one to eat dinner?"
In character, the cop gave Cassidy an appraisal like a male prostitute sizing up a prospective client. Assuming the lilting lingo of his cover, he said, "Hey man, your ass is way too tight. If we're gonna have any fun, you gotta relax."
Cassidy shot him a baleful look and was about to move away when Josh appeared in the enclosed alley that served as the restaurant's entrance. Cassidy quickly turned his back and pretended to be shopping the T-shirts hanging in the doorway of the souvenir store. Taking glimpses of Josh over his shoulder, Cassidy could see that his jaw was set, his entire aspect angry.
"Uh-oh," the cop whispered. "Our man's good and pissed."
His mind was on what was going on behind him, but once again Cassidy pretended interest in a T-shirt with a ribald message spelled out in glittering letters. A smiling Asian clerk moved forward to give him a sales pitch. "No, thanks. Just looking."
"Might have known," the cop muttered. "Only a squeeze can get a man that pissed."
"A woman?" Cassidy glanced at the restaurant across the street, then whipped his head back around. "Fuck!" he exclaimed with soft but potent emphasis.
"Excuse?" the smiling Asian said.
The cop laughed beneath his breath.
The woman who had emerged from the restaurant with Josh didn't take notice of her surroundings. She said something to him, then turned and started walking down the sidewalk. Josh seemed on the verge of following her, but reconsidered and only glared at her retreating back. His long, musician's fingers flexed into fists. Then, with the bearing of an affronted prophet, he stalked off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
Cassidy tossed his cigarette into the gutter and bore down on the cop. "I thought you said he was alone."
"You're blowing my cover, man." He smiled and laid his hand on Cassidy's arm. Eyes smoldering, seductive grin in place, he cooed, "He was alone when he got here. He must've met her inside."
"You take him." Cassidy hitched his chin toward Josh, who had already reached the intersection with Royal Street.
"You going after the lady?"
"That's no lady," Cassidy said as he stepped off the curb and started across the street in pursuit. "That's Claire Laurent."
* * *