Chapter 2
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"You've failed to get convictions on your last three cases."
Cassidy had expected that argument. Even so, the criticism stung. Rather than showing his agitation, he assumed a self-confident air. "We knew going in that those three cases were weak, Tony. In each one, all the defense attorneys had to do was say, 'Prove it.' I did the best I could with what little evidence I had, and you damn, well know that."
District Attorney Anthony Crowder crossed his stubby, hairy hands over his vest and leaned back in his leather desk chair. "This conversation is premature. The police haven't even made an arrest yet. It might be months before they do."
Cassidy stubbornly shook his head. "I want to work alongside them on the investigation to make certain something vital doesn't slip through the cracks."
"Then I'll have the police commissioner on my back for your butting in on what should be a matter strictly for his department." .
"I'm glad you mentioned the P.C. You're buddies. Have a talk with him. See if you can get Howard Glenn on the Wilde case."
"That seedy—"
"He was first on the scene, and he's good. The best."
"Cassidy…"
"Don't worry about me overstepping my bounds. I'll exercise all my powers of diplomacy."
"You don't have any powers of diplomacy," the district attorney reminded him. "Since you joined this office five years ago, you've done some good work, but generally speaking you have been a pain in the butt."
Cassidy grinned confidently, unfazed by Tony Crowder's gruff put-down. He knew how the D.A. really felt about him. Unofficially he was Crowder's heir apparent. When his current term was up next year, he planned to retire. It was tacitly understood that Cassidy would get first crack at Crowder's office and his endorsement. He might exasperate the older man, but Crowder recognized in Cassidy the same combination of ambition and grit that had once characterized and driven him.
"I've prosecuted and won more cases for you than any other lawyer in the department," Cassidy said without false modesty.
"I know that," Crowder snapped. "You don't have to remind me. But you've also caused me more trouble."
"You can't accomplish anything if you're seared of making waves."
"In your case tidal waves."
Cassidy sat forward and fixed Crowder with a compelling stare. His steady gray eyes had intimidated reluctant witnesses, impressed cynical judges, swayed skeptical jurors, and, in his private life, made sweet talk superfluous. "Give me this case, Tony."
Before Crowder could verbalize his decision, his secretary poked her head around the door. "Ariel Wilde is holding a press conference. It's' being broadcast live on all the TV stations. Thought you might be interested." She withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Crowder reached for the remote control on his desk and switched on the TV set across the room.
The widow's pretty, pale features appeared on the screen. She looked as frail and defenseless as a refugee angel, but there was steely conviction behind her voice. "This tragedy will not put an end to my husband's crusade against the Devil's handiwork." That won her a chorus of amens from the faithful followers who were pressing against the ranks of security people, reporters, and photographers surrounding her.
"Satan knew we were winning this battle. He had to take desperate measures. First he used this corrupt city as a tool against us. City officials refused to provide my husband the 'round-the-clock protection he requested."
"Oh shit," Crowder said, groaning. "Why'd she have to blame the city? The whole damn world is watching."
"Nobody knows that better than she does." Cassidy left his chair, sliding his hands into his trousers pockets as he moved closer to the television set.
As eloquent tears trickled down her ivory cheeks, the widow continued her speech. "This beautiful city is rank with sin and corruption. Take a walk down Bourbon Street if you want to see the stranglehold the Devil has on New Orleans. Jackson Wilde was a conscience, whispering into the ear of this city that it had become a moral cesspool, a slimy reservoir for crime and immorality.
"Other than these few here who have come to lend support and mourn his passing, local officials resented Jackson for his divinely inspired honesty." The camera panned a somber group that included a judge, a congressman, and several city officials.
Crowder made a rude sound. "Politicians."
"Some thought Jackson Wilde and voters made good bed-fellows."
"I'd rather fuck a goat," Crowder grumbled.
"My husband was treated with an indifference that bordered on hostility," Ariel Wilde cried. "That indifference to his safety cost him his life!"
When the roar of agreement from the crowd subsided, she continued. "Then the Devil used one of his demons to silence his staunchest foe, Reverend Jackson Wilde, with a bullet through his heart. But we won't be silenced!" she shouted, raising her thin arms and shaking her fists. "My beloved Jackson is with the Lord now. He's been granted a well-deserved rest and peace, praise the Lord."
"Praise the Lord!" the flock echoed.
"But my work isn't finished. I'll continue the crusade Jackson began. We'll ultimately win this war against the filth that would foul our hearts and minds! This ministry won't stop until America is swept clean of the offal that fills its theaters and bookracks, until museums supported by your tax dollars are rid of pornography that passes itself off as art. We're going to make this country an ideal for the rest of the world to follow, a country free of smut, a nation whose children are reared in an environment of purity and light."
A shout of approval went up. Policemen had a difficult time holding back the surging crowd. The camera angle widened to take in the entire chaotic scene. Ariel Wilde, seemingly spent and on the verge of collapse, was led away on the arm of her stepson. Wilde's entourage protectively closed ranks around her.
Random close-ups of the crowd showed faces streaked with tears, streaming eyes pinched shut in soulful anguish, lips moving in silent prayer. The mourning disciples linked arms and began singing in unison Jackson Wilde's theme song, "Onward, Christian Soldiers."
With a precise flick of his wrist, Tony Crowder switched off the set. "Damned hypocrites. If they're so concerned about the welfare of their children, why aren't they home with them teaching them the difference between right and wrong, instead of parading for a dead saint?" He sighed in exasperation and nodded toward the TV. "Are you sure you want to get involved in that mess, Cassidy?"
"Absolutely."
"Off the record, its gonna be a frigging three-ring circus, especially when the police start rounding up suspects."
"Which right now is limited to about six hundred people—everyone in and around the Fairmont Hotel last night."
"I'd whittle it down real quick—to the widow and stepson."
"They're tops on my list, too." Cassidy grinned engagingly. "Does this mean I have the case?"
"For the time being."
"Come on, Tony!"
"For the time being," the older man repeated loudly. "You're putting yourself in a hotspot, and it's bound to get hotter. I hate to think what will happen if you provoke Ariel Wilde. She's as loved and adored as her husband was. You might incite a riot if it ever comes down to arresting her for killing him."
"There'll be skirmishes, sure. I'm prepared." Cassidy returned to his chair and sat down. "I've taken heat before, Tony. It doesn't bother me."
"Doesn't bother you, hell. You thrive on it."
"I like to win." Cassidy locked gazes with his superior. His grin faded until his lips were a thin, firm line. "Which is the real reason I want this case, Tony. I'm not bullshitting you now. I need a win. I need one bad."
Crowder nodded, appreciating his protégé's candor. "There are less volatile cases I could throw your way if a win's all you're looking for."
Cassidy shook his head. "I need a big win, and bringing Jackson Wilde's killer to justice is going to be one of the biggest legal coups of this year, if not the decade."
"So you're after headlines and coverage on the six o'clock news," Crowder said, regarding him with a frown.
"You know me better than that, so I decline to honor that comment with a rebuttal. Since this morning, I've taken a crash course on Jackson Wilde. I don't like what the preacher was or what he stood for. In fact I disagree with just about everything he advocated. His version of Christianity doesn't jive with the one I was taught in Sunday school."
"You went to Sunday school?"
Cassidy ignored that barb too and stuck with the point he was trying to make. "Whatever else Wilde was, he was a human being with a right to live to a ripe old age. Somebody denied him that right. Naked and defenseless, he was murdered by someone he trusted."
"How do you know that?"
"There wasn't a sign of forced entry on any of the doors into the suite. The locks hadn't been jimmied. So either the perp had a key or Jackson let him in. Apparently Jackson was lying in bed, either sleeping or talking to whoever killed him. He was a religious fanatic, possibly the most dangerous one since Rasputin, but he didn't deserve to have someone cold-bloodedly put a bullet through his brain."
"And heart and balls," Crowder added.
Cassidy's eyes narrowed. "That's quirky, isn't it? The shot to the head and the heart were already overkill. Why the balls, too?"
"The killer was pissed."
"Good and pissed. It smacks of self-indulgence, doesn't it? Female vengeance, for instance."
"You think the wife offed him? Like some others of his ilk, you think Wilde had a sweet young thing on the side and Ariel found out?"
"I don't know. I just have a strong hunch the killer was female."
"Why's that?"
"It only makes sense," Cassidy said. "If you were a woman and wanted revenge on a guy, isn't that where you'd shoot him?"
* * *
Claire was breathless by the time she reached her living quarters at the French Silk offices. She heard Yasmine and her mother talking together in another room, but she slipped down the hallway unnoticed and went directly to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Their arrival at French Silk had created a tumult among the reporters who had the building staked out. They had swarmed Yasmine and her the moment they alighted from the car. Claire was tempted to duck her head and dash inside but knew that avoidance would only prolong the inevitable. The media wouldn't leave until she made a statement. They would continue to be an impediment to her business, an annoyance to her neighbors, and possibly a source of anxiety to her mother.
Never sure of what Yasmine might say, Claire asked her to go inside and see that Mary Catherine was kept unaware of what was happening outside. After mugging for the cameras, Yasmine did as Claire requested.
Dozens of questions were shouted at Claire, but she caught only snatches of one before the next one was hurled at her. It was impossible to answer them all, and she wouldn't have anyway. Finally she held up her hands for silence. Speaking into the microphones directed at her, she said, "Although Reverend Wilde had proclaimed me a sinner and his enemy, I'm terribly sorry about his death. My heart goes out to his family."
She moved toward the entrance to French Silk, but her progress was blocked by the clamoring journalists.
"Ms. Laurent, is it true that despite his repeated invitations, you refused to debate Reverend Wilde?"
"They weren't invitations, they were challenges. I only wanted to be let alone to run my business."
"How do you respond to his allegations of—"
"I have nothing more to say."
"Who murdered him, Ms. Laurent?"
The question stopped Claire in her tracks. She gazed with stupefaction at the balding reporter who had rudely asked the question. Smirking, he met her stare unflinchingly. The others fell silent, expectantly awaiting her answer.
In that startling instant, Claire realized that her conflict with Jackson Wilde wasn't over. He was dead, but she wasn't free of him. Indeed, the worst might be yet to come. Why had the reporter asked her specifically about the murder? Did he have a reliable source in the police department? Had he heard rumors about possible suspects?
Although she kept her features composed, fear, like icy fingertips, tiptoed up her spine. In spite of the sweltering heat and high humidity, she felt chilled to the bone. "Excuse me. That's all I have to say."
She forcibly pushed her way through the reporters and didn't stop until she was safely inside, upstairs in her private quarters. The experience had left her shaky and agitated. Her clothes clung to her damply, and she peeled them off with frantic haste. In the bathroom, she leaned over the sink and bathed her face, throat, chest, and arms with cool water.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, she stepped into a strapless cotton jumpsuit, one of French Silk's most popular items from the summer catalog, and pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. Emerging from the bathroom, she soberly regarded the massive cherrywood armoire across the room.
Three years earlier, when she had picked out the old warehouse for French Silk's headquarters, she'd converted the top floor into her private apartment. It was only the second address Claire had ever had. Before that she had lived in her great-aunt Laurel's house on Royal Street near Esplanade.
Following Aunt Laurel's death, Claire and Mary Catherine had moved out of her house, but Claire hadn't yet had the heart to clean it out and sell it. She couldn't bring herself to dispose of Aunt Laurel's things, because the funny lady unkindly referred to as an old maid, had derived such joy from her possessions, probably because they compensated for her lack of a husband and children. The house on Royal Street remained intact.
The cherrywood armoire was the single exception, the only piece Claire had brought with her when she moved. She had always admired it. Its clean lines blended well with the apartment's contemporary design. She had specifically requested that the architect design a wall in her bedroom large enough to accommodate the piece.
Claire crossed to the armoire, pulled open the doors, knelt in front of the bureau drawers, and tugged open the bottom one. It took some effort because it was so heavy, filled to capacity with clippings that had been cut from newspapers and magazines. The dates on them spanned the last several years.
Claire had spent hours poring over the articles, digesting the information they contained and assimilating her reactions to it. She regretted having to destroy them. Collecting them had been like a hobby to her, one she had found habit-forming and fascinating.
But now it would have to be disposed of. Immediately. It would be folly for her to keep printed documentation of every move made by the Reverend Jackson Wilde.
* * *
The hotel suite was overrun with people. Some were merely curious hangers-on; others were sincerely trying to help. All seemed confused by the sudden loss of their leader as they wandered aimlessly through the suite, gathering in small groups and then dispersing, shaking their heads and whispering tearfully as though it were a refrain, "I just can't believe it."
After being questioned by Cassidy, Ariel had been moved out of the San Louis suite. Her present accommodations were smaller and less luxurious. Her privacy was limited. The constant ebb and flow of mourners was maddening. She signaled to Josh, who immediately rushed to her side. After a hushed, brief exchange, he raised his voice in order to get everyone's attention.
"Ariel is exhausted. Could we ask you please to clear the suite now and let her get some rest. If either of us needs anything, we'll notify you."
Wilde's entourage filed out, looking forlorn and abandoned. They cast sympathetic glances at the widow, who was curled in a corner of the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her. Her black dress seemed to be slowly consuming her as though she were melting inside it.
As soon as Josh had closed the door behind the last straggler, Ariel sat up and swung her legs off the couch. "Thank God they're gone. And shut that damn thing off. I don't want to look at her." She pointed to the TV set. The volume had been muted, but the image of a woman trying to avoid a horde of reporters filled the screen.
"Who's she?" Josh asked.
"That French Silk person. A minute ago they had her name superimposed on the screen."
"So that's Claire Laurent," Josh said, standing back to get a better look. "I wondered what she looked like. She doesn't have horns and a pointed tail as Daddy would have had everyone believe. Nor does she look like a scarlet woman. Quite the contrary, I'd say."
"Who cares what you'd say." Ariel marched to the set and shut it off herself.
"Aren't you curious about what Ms. Laurent has to say?" Josh asked.
"Not in the slightest. She'll get hers, but not today. All in good time. Order me something from room service, will you? I'm starving." She disappeared into the next room.
Joshua Wilde, the twenty-eight-year-old son of Jackson Wilde by his first marriage, called room service and ordered a light lunch for his stepmother. He figured a grieving widow shouldn't have too healthy an appetite. For himself he ordered a muffuletta, a New Orleans specialty sandwich for which he had acquired a taste.
While he waited for their order, he moved to the window and gazed down. People on the street were going about their everyday lives as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Hadn't they heard? Jackson Wilde was dead.
Josh hadn't yet assimilated it, although he'd seen the body and the bloodshed. He hadn't really expected the earth to stop turning, but he'd thought something momentous would occur to mark his father's passing. Jackson would never again fill a room with his crackling, parasitical energy, which drained the life force out of everyone else. His voice would never be heard again, whether raised in prayer or laden with malice. Never again would Josh be subjected to one of his father's cold stares, which too frequently conveyed either disappointment or disgust, and always criticism.
Seven years ago, Josh's mother, Martha, had died with as little fanfare as that with which she had lived. Josh received the news that she had died instantly of a stroke while he was in New York, studying music at Juilliard. He never got to say goodbye. Her life had been so inconsequential that her death had barely caused a pause in the well-oiled operation of his father's ministry. When she died, Jackson had been actively expanding his ministry to cable television. He was driven, inexhaustible. Immediately following his wife's funeral, he had returned to his office to get in a few hours' work so that the day wouldn't be entirely wasted.
Josh had never forgiven his father for that particular display of insensitivity. That's why he didn't feel guilty now for the appetite that was making his stomach growl, even though he'd viewed his father's bloody corpse only hours ago.
That's also why he didn't feel guilty about committing adultery with his father's second wife. He reasoned that some sins were justified, although he had no scriptural reference to support that belief.
Ariel was only two years older than Josh, but as she came out of the bedroom dressed in an oversized T-shirt, her long hair held away from her face by barrettes, she looked several years younger than he. Her legs and feet were bare. "Did you order some dessert?"
Jackson always taunted her about her overactive sweet tooth and never let her indulge it without hassling her. "Chocolate layer cake," Josh told her.
"Yummy."
"Ariel?"
"Hmm?"
He waited until she turned to face him. "Only a few hours ago, you discovered your husband's body."
"Are you trying to spoil my appetite?"
"I guess I am. Aren't you the least bit upset?"
Her expression turned sulky and self-defensive. "You know how much I cried earlier."
Josh laughed without humor. "You've been crying on cue ever since that night you came to Daddy with a special prayer request for your little brother after he'd received a life sentence. You wrenched Daddy's heart and sang on his podium at the very next service.
"I've seen you be very effective with your tears. Others might mistake them as genuine, but I know better. You use them when it's convenient or when you want something. Never because you're sad. You're too selfish ever to feel sad. Angry and frustrated and jealous, maybe, but never sad."
Ariel had lost a lot of weight since marrying Josh's father three years earlier. Then she'd been rather plump. Her breasts were smaller now, but the areolas were still wide and the nipples large and protrudent. Josh hated himself for noticing them beneath her soft cotton T-shirt as she propped her hands on her hips.
"Jackson Wilde was a mean-spirited, spiteful, self-centered son of a bitch." Her blue eyes didn't blink once. "His death isn't going to spoil my appetite because I'm not sorry he's dead. Except for how it might effect the ministry."
"And you took care of that during the press conference."
"That's right, Josh. I've already laid the groundwork for continuing the ministry. Somebody around here should be thinking about the future," she added snidely.
As though suffering a splitting headache, Josh pressed the tips of his long, slender, musician's fingers against his hairline and squeezed his eyes shut. "Christ, you're cold. Always scheming. Always planning. Relentless."
"Because I've always had to be. I didn't grow up rich like you, Josh. You call your grandparents' place outside of Nashville a farm," She scoffed. "My family had a real farm. It was dirty and stank of manure. I didn't help groom fancy horses like you did only when you felt like it. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to weed the vegetable garden and shell peas and slop a hog so he'd be fat in November when we butchered him.
"I only owned one pair of shoes at a time. The girls at school laughed at me for wearing hand-me-downs. And from the time I was twelve, I had to ward off the groping hands of drunken uncles on Saturday nights, then look into their smug faces from the choir loft on Sunday mornings. Oh, yes, we always went to church on Sundays and listened to sermons that glorified poverty. But I never believed a word of it."
She shook her long, straight, platinum-blond hair. "I've been poor, Josh. And poor sucks. It makes you mean. It makes you desperate. You reach a point where you'll do anything to escape it. That's why my little brother is in prison for the rest of his life. After he got sent up, I knew I had to do something drastic or wind up worse off than he is. So, yes, I cried for your daddy. And if he'd asked me to wipe his butt or give him a blow job on the spot, I would have done that, too.
"I learned from him that money makes all the difference. Being rich and mean is a whole lot better than being poor and mean. When you're poor, you go to jail for your meanness, but if you're rich, you can do what you please and nobody can touch you. I'm a schemer, all right. I will be for the rest of my life because I'm never going to be poor again."
She paused to take a breath. "Don't try to tell me you're sorry he's gone, Josh. You hated him as much as I did, if not more."
He couldn't quite meet her direct gaze. "I guess my feelings could be classified as ambivalent. I don't feel any remorse. But I don't feel relieved, as I imagined I would."
She moved toward him and slid her arms around his neck. "Don't you see, Josh? If we play it smart, this can be a beginning for us. The public loves us. We can go on as before, except that life will be so much better without him harping on us all the time."
"Do you really think our adoring public will accept us as a couple, Ariel?" He smiled wanly over her na?veté. Or was it her rapacity that amused him?
He couldn't hold any of it against her, really. She had not had the advantages he'd grown up with and taken for granted. Even before Jackson Wilde had become a household word, he'd had a faithful and generous following. The offering plates were always full. In addition to Martha's inheritance, it amounted to a sizable income. Josh had never lacked for anything material.
The first time he'd seen Ariel, she was wearing a cheap, loud dress and too much costume jewelry. Her speech and crude accent had been offensive to his ears. Even so, he'd admired the audacity it had taken for her to approach his father and solicit prayers for her convicted brother.
Today she was slim, articulate, and immaculately groomed. But Josh knew that when she looked into the mirror Ariel still saw a plump, disheveled, desperate young woman making a last-ditch effort to alter the course of her life. When she gazed at her manicured hands, she saw garden dirt beneath her fingernails.
"The public will accept our new relationship in time," she was saying, "if we bring the Lord into it often enough. We can say we fought our romantic love for each other because it didn't seem right. But then through prayer and Bible study, God convinced us that it had been His will all along. They'll eat it up. Everybody loves a happy ending." She kissed his lips softly, teasingly, releasing a slender thread of her breath into his mouth. "I need you now, Josh."
He shut his eyes tightly, trying valiantly to ward off the lust that was gathering in his center. "Ariel, we shouldn't be together for a while. They'll think—"
She moved closer, bumping his pelvis with her own. "Who'll think what?"
"The police … that Mr. Cassidy from the D.A.'s office. We're bound to be suspects."
"Don't be silly, Josh. We have each other for our alibis, remember?"
Her nonchalance was exasperating, but his attraction to her was based on frustration and forbiddenness. Rather than shaking her, as he felt like doing, he slipped his hands beneath her T-shirt and clasped her around the waist, pulling her roughly against him. His lips ground over hers. He pressed his tongue into her eager, wet mouth while the heels of his hands caressed her pelvic bones.
His sex was swollen and hot. He was impatient with his clothing. But as he went for his zipper there was a knock at the door.
"That'll be our lunch." Ariel sighed. She kissed him one final time, brushed her hand across his distended fly, then drifted out of his arms. "Have the waiter bring the tray into the bedroom. We'll eat first."
* * *
"Cassidy?"
"Here." He juggled the telephone receiver while trying to depress the volume button on the remote control and keep from dropping his bologna sandwich and his beer.
"It's Glenn. I've been officially assigned to the Wilde case."
Good, Cassidy thought, Crowder had come through. Detective Howard Glenn would be the point person, or the main liaison between him and the police department. Once Glenn selected his platoon of officers to investigate the case, he, Cassidy, would be constantly apprised of developments.
He knew that Glenn was difficult to work with. He was a slob, untidy in every respect—except his detective work. But Cassidy was willing to overlook Glenn's character flaws in exchange for his competence.
"Got anything?" he asked, setting aside the tasteless sandwich.
"The lab report's back. We're going through it now."
"How's it look?"
"No prints other than his, his old lady's, and the housekeeper in charge of the suite. Course, we've got hundreds of partials that belong to the people who stayed in that suite before him."
Although Cassidy had figured as much, it was still dismal news. "Any sign of a weapon?"
"Zilch. Whoever walked into Wilde's suite and offed him walked out with the gun."
The lack of a murder weapon was going to make solving this case and getting a conviction a real challenge. Luckily Cassidy liked challenges, the harder the better.
"How soon could you get a few phone taps in place?" he asked the detective.
"First thing tomorrow. Who else besides the wife and son?"
"We'll discuss it in the morning. Stay in touch."
He hung up, took another bite of his sandwich, another swig of tepid beer, and returned his attention to the television set. Earlier, he had called the cable station that aired Jackson Wilde's Prayer and Praise Hour and asked for copies of all available tapes. The station management had promptly delivered the tapes to his office. He'd then brought them home, where he could watch them without interruption.
The programs were slickly produced. Wilde put on a dazzling show, complete with flying white doves, an orchestra, a five-hundred-voice choir, a gold leaf pulpit, and Joshua's mirrored piano, which resembled the one once owned by the late Liberace.
The format never varied. The program opened with a trumpet blast loud enough to herald the Second Coming. The choir broke into song, the doves were released with a flurry of white wings, and Wilde descended a curved staircase as though he'd just wrapped up a visit with the Almighty, which is exactly what he intimated in his opening remarks.
Ariel, always dressed in pristine white, her only jewelry a simple gold wedding band and a pair of discreet pearl earrings—Wilde stressed that the only treasures they stockpiled were their spiritual rewards—was introduced with the trilling of trumpets in the background. Then the audience got a close-up of Joshua Wilde as he played the introduction to Ariel's first song.
Her singing voice, marginal at best, was greatly enhanced by the orchestra, the choir, and a sound system whose staggering cost would have made a large dent in the national debt. Ariel threw beatific smiles toward her husband, toward Josh, toward the audience, and toward heaven. Invariably, by the end of the song, at least one eloquent, glistening tear had spilled from her celestial blue eyes.
Cassidy was a skeptic by nature and rarely took anything at face value. Generously allowing for that, he still couldn't understand how anyone of reasonable intelligence could fall for Wilde's glitzy sideshow. His sermons were gross distortions of the gospel. He preached much more vehemently about admonition than grace, more about condemnation than love, more about hellfire than forgiveness. More was said of Satan than of Christ. It was easy to see why he was held in such contempt by clergymen of most organized Christian sects.
It was also plain to Cassidy how Wilde was able to induce such fanaticism in his narrow-minded followers. He told them exactly what they wanted to hear: that they were right and anyone who disagreed with their opinion was wrong. Of course, God was always on their side.
After viewing the tapes several times, making notes as he watched, Cassidy switched off the set and headed for his bedroom. An inventory of clean shirts and shorts revealed that he could go another couple of days before a trip to the laundry.
When he was married, Kris had taken care of his wardrobe, just as she had kept the house, done the shopping, and cooked their meals. The divorce hadn't come about because she was negligent. And by most standards, he would have been judged a fairly good husband. He always remembered anniversaries and birthdays. He had a sixth sense that told him when sex was out of the question and on those nights he refrained from asking.
The dissolution of their four-year marriage could be blamed more on apathy than on animosity. It had cracked under external pressure, and their love for one another hadn't been strong enough to hold things together. Kris hadn't even wanted to discuss relocating, and, after a pivotal incident that had unbalanced his perfectly balanced life, he'd been adamant on relocating.
When word reached him of an opening in the Orleans Parish, Louisiana, D.A.'s office, he applied for the job and a divorce on the same day. The last he'd heard of Kris, she was still living in Louisville, happily remarried and pregnant with a second child. He wished her every happiness. It certainly wasn't her fault that his work had been more important to him than she had been and that when his career went awry, he'd had to reevaluate everything in his life, including their marriage.
In some respects, he was still shackled to his past mistakes. He'd been hacking away at those problems for five years and wasn't yet completely free of them. He might never be. But his marriage wasn't a link in those chains. It had been a clean, unemotional break. The only time he thought of his former wife was when he needed sex very badly and no one was available or when he was out of clean shirts. That wasn't fair to Kris. She deserved better than that. But that's the way it was.
He stripped and got into bed, but his mind was too preoccupied to settle into sleep. He realized, to his surprise, that he was also semierect. Lust for a woman hadn't caused it. It was residual excitement looking for an outlet. He was supercharged, mentally and physically.
As he lay there, sleepless, he reviewed the facts of the Wilde case, acknowledging that there were damned few of them. All he knew for certain was that it was going to be a difficult, jealous bitch of a case that would consume his life for months, if not years.
Undaunted by the prospect of that, he was itching to get started. He'd overseen the writing and issuance of the press release that gave an account of the murder. It was now a matter of record that he would be heading the investigation and prosecuting the case when it came to trial. He'd asked for the opportunity and it had been granted. He couldn't blow it. He had to prove to Crowder that his trust wasn't misplaced.
Cassidy also had to prove it to himself.
* * *