French Silk

Chapter 6

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Andre Philippi finished his dinner and neatly placed the silverware on the rim of his plate. He blotted his mouth on the stiff linen napkin, folded it, and laid it aside. He then rang for a room service waiter to retrieve his tray. The roast duck had been a trifle dry and the vinaigrette on the fresh, cold asparagus had had a trace too much tarragon. He would send a memo to the head chef.

As night manager of the Fairmont Hotel, New Orleans, Andre Philippi demanded optimum performance from everyone on staff. Mistakes simply weren't tolerated. Insolence or slip-shod service was grounds for immediate dismissal. Andre believed that hotel patrons should be treated as pampered guests in the finest home.

In the small washroom adjacent to his private office, he washed his hands with French milled soap, gargled with mouthwash to guard against halitosis, and took pains to dry his pencil-thin mustache as well as his lips. He smoothed his hands over his, oiled hair, which he wore combed straight back from his receding hairline, chiefly because that was the neatest style he could derive, but also to combat the natural tendency of his black hair to curl. He checked his nails. Tomorrow was his day to have them clipped, filed, and buffed. He had a standing, weekly manicure appointment, which he religiously kept.

Always with an eye on the hotel's operating budget, he conscientiously switched off the light in the washroom and reentered his office. Ordinarily his position wouldn't have warranted a private office, but Andre had more seniority than anyone else, including the upper-echelon executives.

And he knew how to keep a secret.

Over his tenure, he'd been granted many favors because often his discretion had been required by his superiors. He'd kept secrets about their vices ranging from one's predilection for young boys to another's heroin addiction. The private office was just one expression of appreciation that Andre's confidence had earned him.

Other tokens of appreciation from hotel personnel, and from guests who had required his special services, were earning compound interest in several city banks, making Andre a wealthy man. He rarely had occasion to spend money on anything other than keeping his wardrobe up to snuff and buying flowers for his maman's tomb. Elaborate bouquets of flowers as exotic as she were delivered to the cemetery twice weekly. The floral arrangements were more elaborate than the ones his papa had sent her when Andre was still a boy. That was important to him.

He wasn't tall, but his rigid posture gave him presence. Although he wasn't given to vanity, he was meticulous. He checked his appearance in the full-length mirror on the back of his bathroom door. His trousers still had a knife-blade crease. The red carnation in his lapel buttonhole was still fresh. The collar and cuffs of his starched white shirt were so stiff that a tennis ball would have bounced off them. He always dressed in an impeccably tailored dark suit, white shirt, and conservative necktie. He would have felt comfortable wearing a morning coat and spats, but that might have attracted his guests' attention to him rather than to the excellent service they were receiving. And that would have been tantamount to failure. Andre Philippi considered himself a servant to the guests of the Fairmont Hotel, and he took his job seriously.

Following a knock on his office door, a young man in a room service waiter's uniform stepped in. "Are you done with your tray?"

"I'm finished, yes." Critically he assessed the young waiter's appearance and technique as he replaced the lids on the serving dishes and loaded them onto the tray.

"Will that be all for you tonight, Mr. Philippi?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You bet."

Andre frowned over the idiomatic parting words, but, generally speaking, the waiter had performed well. No doubt he would return to the kitchen and joke with his friends among the hotel's staff until his next assignment. Andre didn't have many friends.

He'd attended the finest private schools, including Loyola University. But because he could never claim his father, and vice versa, he'd always been a social outcast. He didn't mind. The only world that existed for him was the hotel. What went on outside its walls was of only negligible interest or importance to him. He wasn't ambitious. He didn't have his eye on a corporate position. For him, heaven would be to die while on duty at the Fairmont. His cramped apartment was within walking distance of the hotel, but he actually resented the time he had to spend there. If it were allowed, he would never leave the Fairmont.

Andre had but one vice. He indulged it now, as a gourmand might savor an after-dinner liqueur. Opening the lap drawer of his desk, he gazed down at the framed, autographed picture. Ah, Yasmine. So exquisite. So beautiful. "To a hell of a guy," she'd written before signing her name with a plethora of curlicues.

He was more than just an ardent fan. For years, he'd had an affection for her that bordered on obsession. It wasn't a sexual attraction. That would have been profane. No, he worshipped her as an art enthusiast might covet an unattainable painting. He admired and adored her and yearned for her happiness, as he had yearned for his beautiful maman to be happy.

Eventually he shut the drawer, knowing that there would be other opportunities tonight for him to gaze at the breathtaking face that was never far from his mind. Now, however, it was time for his hourly inspection of the front desk. Things seemed to be running smoothly. He spotted a cigarette butt on the carpet in front of the elevators, but at a snap of his fingers a bellman rushed forward to dispose of it. He pinched a wilting rose off one of the floral arrangements and inquired courteously of returning guests if they were finding everything to their lung. They assured him that, as usual, everything was perfect.

As he traversed the lobby, he shuddered to recall that horrible morning following the Jackson Wilde murder. What an appalling incident to have happened in his hotel!

He didn't regret that the televangelist was dead, particularly. The man had served his own needs before serving others'. His smile had camouflaged a nasty disposition. He had laughed too loudly, spoken too abrasively, shaken hands too heartily. Andre had extended the man and his family every courtesy, but his heart hadn't been in it because he had a distinct personal dislike for Jackson Wilde.

Andre was still holding a grudge. Wilde's murder had cast a pall over the hotel. No hotel could guarantee that such a thing would never occur in one of its rooms, no matter what security precautions were taken. Nevertheless, some local journalists had outrageously suggested that the hotel should share liability.

Well, the lawyers were handling that aspect of it. That was beyond Andre's realm. But it made him queasy to remember the chaotic aftermath—this serene lobby crawling with policemen and reporters and rightfully disgruntled guests who had been interrogated like miscreants. It had been like witnessing a regal dowager being mauled by street thugs.

What should be obvious to the authorities was that someone had walked in off the street, taken an elevator up to the seventh floor, and been welcomed into Wilde's room. After shooting him, and without attracting anyone's attention, the killer had left the same way. Should all the guests in the hotel that night be treated as suspects? Were the police justified to suspect everyone? Andre didn't think so. That's why he had no qualms about protecting those who couldn't possibly have had a quarrel with Jackson Wilde.

As a matter of routine, the policemen had questioned him, too. They seemed not to doubt his statements. Mr. Cassidy, however, was another matter. He had been more thorough and more dogged than that disheveled detective with two first names. Cassidy hadn't outright accused Andre of lying, but the prosecutor seemed to know that he was concealing information.

"Look, Mr. Philippi," he had said, scooting closer to Andre in a gesture designed to inspire confidence, "I don't care what drug deals might have gone down in the rooms upstairs that night. Nobody's going to get hauled in by vice if they were with a prostitute who handcuffed them to the furniture and took dirty pictures. I don't care who was banging whose wife. What I do need to know is the identity of every person who came through the doors that night. I know you keep a tough vigil on the lobby area. You see a lot of people. Someone you consider insignificant might not be. Any scrap of information could be vital."

"I understand, Mr. Cassidy," Andre had replied, his face impassive. "But I've already listed everyone I saw that night. I've instructed the staff to give you their full cooperation. You have access to our computer."

"Which you and I both know saves only what it's told to save. Data can be deleted more easily than it's entered." Cassidy had raised his voice, demonstrating his impatience. When he realized this, he took another tack, assuming the tone of a caring parent about to administer punishment. "Why don't you come clean with me, Andre? If you're caught withholding information, you could be implicated. I'd hate for it to come to that, wouldn't you?"

Cassidy could change tactics till his face turned blue and he wouldn't prize anything out of Andre. He was resolved never to reveal information that would compromise individuals he respected. Facts that had absolutely no bearing on the murder of the Reverend Jackson Wilde were none of Mr. Cassidy's business.

Mr. Cassidy wasn't originally from New Orleans. He was under the misconception that the law was absolute, unbendable, and applicable to everyone. No doubt he thought that blanket rules covered everybody. Evidently he hadn't yet learned the code of honor that governed the Crescent City. Outsiders might not understand and adhere to it, but Andre Philippi certainly did.

* * *

When Claire entered the kitchen area, her mother was sitting alone at the table in the breakfast nook. She was fully dressed and had applied makeup. Those were encouraging signs. There were days when Mary Catherine couldn't leave her bed, imprisoned there by depression.

"Hmm. Coffee smells good, Mama," Claire said as she clipped on her earrings.

"Good morning, dear. Sleep well?"

"Yes," Claire lied. As she stirred cream into her coffee, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at her mother. Her smile congealed when she saw the familiar face that filled the screen of the portable TV in the étagère. It was tuned to a morning news program.

"She really shouldn't shout like that," Mary Catherine remarked. "It's so unflattering. A lady should cultivate a soothing speaking voice."

Ariel Wilde was ringed by reporters, all eager to broadcast her latest and most vicious criticisms of the city, parish, and state authorities that had thus far declined to release her husband's body for transport to Nashville.

Claire gingerly sat down across from her mother. She watched Mary Catherine rather than the TV.

"Mrs. Wilde should be allowed to bury her husband as soon as possible," Mary Catherine said, "but it's hard to work up sympathy for people who are so unpleasant."

"Why do you say they're unpleasant, Mama?"

Mary Catherine looked at her with bald surprise. "Why, Claire, have you forgotten all the trouble this preacher caused you, all the horrible things he said? He was a detestable human being, and apparently so is his wife."

This is one of her lucid days, Claire thought. They occurred rarely, but on such days Mary Catherine made perfect sense and was fully aware of what was taking place around her. When her eyes were clear and her voice was resonant with conviction, one could easily doubt that she was ever any other way. Claire, looking at her now, wondered what triggered these bouts of sanity and the all-too-frequent lapses. For decades doctors had tried and failed to diagnose and cure the problems.

"The things that man said about you were so hateful," she was saying. "Why couldn't he have minded his own business and left you alone?"

Claire was stunned by her mother's vehemence. "I don't have to worry about him anymore, Mama."

Mary Catherine's lips turned up into a beatific smile. "Oh yes, I know. He died of three gunshot wounds." Abruptly changing the subject, she pushed a plate of croissants toward Claire. "Have one, dear. They're wonderful."

"Just coffee for now," Claire said distractedly. "Mama, I've been wanting to talk to you about something very important."

"I love this weatherman, don't you? He has such a nice, conversational manner."

"Mama?" Claire waited until Mary Catherine's attention was again focused on her. "Do you remember meeting Mr. Cassidy the other day?"

"Of course. Only a few minutes ago, they showed his picture and quoted him in a news story. I didn't know when 1 met him that he's so important. He'll be prosecuting the Jackson Wilde case for the district attorney's office."

"That's right. And because Reverend Wilde had been so hostile toward me, Mr. Cassidy wanted to meet me. He might be coming back."

"Oh, how lovely. He was very nice."

"Well, he … he's not always nice. In his work, he often must ask people a lot of questions. Personal questions about their lives, their backgrounds. He must delve into their pasts and try to uncover things that they'd rather remain private." She paused to let that sink in. Mary Catherine gazed back at her inquisitively. "If Mr. Cassidy should come back and start asking you about the years we lived with Aunt Laurel, what would you tell him?"

Mary Catherine was nonplussed. "I suppose I'd tell him how lovely it was."

Claire, sighing with relief, took her mother's hand and clasped it warmly. "It was, wasn't it? We had some wonderful times in Aunt Laurel's house."

"I still miss her, you know. This Sunday after mass, let's take some flowers to her tomb." Mary Catherine stood up and moved toward the built-in desk. "Now, Claire, you'll have to excuse me. I've got to make a shopping list before Harry gets here. She's so forgetful, if I don't write down everything we need at the market, she doesn't remember a thing."

Mary Catherine began adding items to her shopping list while Claire watched her, a disturbed frown on her face. It was inevitable that Cassidy would come back. She only hoped it wouldn't be today. She was glad that Mary Catherine was enjoying a good day, but she'd just as soon Cassidy talk to her mother when she couldn't converse so lucidly about Jackson Wilde and his murder.

* * *

The cold-water tap was on full blast, and it was still only lukewarm. Cassidy supposed he should be grateful that at least it was a powerful spray. As the water struck the back of his neck, it worked out some of the tension. But not all of it.

Eventually he soaped, shampooed, rinsed, and stepped out of the shower. By that time, his coffee had brewed. He followed the rich smell of New Orleans coffee and chicory into his postage-stamp-sized kitchen and poured a cup. Scalding and bitter, it gave him twin jolts of caffeine and optimism. Maybe today would produce something.

He padded to the front door of his Metairie condo and opened it to get his morning paper. The woman who lived across the narrow stone walkway was putting letters into her mailbox.

She looked him over and grinned with amusement. "Good morning, Cassidy."

He gripped the knot of the towel wrapped around his waist. "Good morning."

"I haven't seen so much of you lately."

Ignoring the double entendre, he said, "I've been busy."

"So I've been reading." She nodded toward the newspaper he'd tucked under his bare arm. From there her eyes ventured to the water-beaded hair on his lower belly. "Have you had a chance to use that sample soap I gave you last week?"

She worked at Maison-Blanche, representing an international cosmetics line. She was constantly leaving samples from their men's collection on his doorstep. Thanks to her, he had more cosmetics than the female impersonators who pranced in the clubs on Bourbon Street. He stuck to Dial and a splash of shaving lotion, but he hated to hurt her feelings. Feeling a tingle from every hair follicle that she was studying, he said, "Yeah, it was great."

"Smell good?"

"Hmm."

She looked into his face and her eyes lingered. They'd run out of things to say. He recognized her soft expression for what it was. He toyed with the idea of inviting himself into her condo for croissants and coziness, but dismissed the thought before it was fully formed. "Well, I'm running late. 'Bye."

He closed the door seconds before the knotted towel slipped over his buns, then fell to the floor. His neighbor, Penny or Patty or Peggy or something like that, was pretty and available, as far as he knew. She'd made overtures before, which he'd ignored for one reason or another, chiefly due to lack of time and interest.

Maybe this morning he should accept her subtle invitation. Maybe getting laid was just what he needed to improve his outlook. "Hell, I doubt it," he muttered. If it were that easy, he could have climbed out of this slump days ago. Women weren't that hard to come by.

He kicked the wet towel out of his path and stalked naked into the kitchen. He sipped his coffee while waiting for his toaster to spring two slices of wheat bread. Opening his Times Picayune, he noted that the Wilde murder story had been demoted to page 4. But there in black and white was an article suggesting that the authorities were baffled. Incompetence was strongly suggested. For those who didn't already know—and since the media had been saturated with reports, it seemed impossible that the facts weren't known to everyone—the crime scene was restaged according to the press release Cassidy had helped compose.

The reporter quoted him as saying that the combined forces of the police department and the district attorney's office were following several good leads, which was true, and that an arrest was imminent, which was a lie. They weren't even close to arresting anybody. They didn't have shit.

His toast popped up. He buttered both slices, sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon, and bit off a piece. Claire Laurent sprang to mind. Her mouth would taste like warm butter and cinnamon-sugar.

"Dammit." He braced his hands on the countertop and leaned forward, his chin lowered to his chest. Even though his shower wasn't five minutes old, he began to perspire; the tiny droplets trickled down his sides, chest, back, and belly. Arousal curled around his sex like tendrils of mist off a bayou, taunting and teasing and, to his greater frustration, causing quite a reaction.

Ever since his visit to French Silk, he'd been suffering night sweats. Like malaria, the debilitating symptoms recurred night after night. They made him weak, made him crazy, made him horny. He wanted to blame his adolescent malady on the product French Silk manufactured. If a normal guy looked at enough models wearing skimpy underwear, he would get turned on. It was a rule of nature. Every garment featured in the French Silk catalog was sexy. Either sexy/sweet, sexy/cool, or sexy/hot. But always sexy.

Those glossy pages were a definite turn-on, but he'd studied centerfolds since about age twelve and had never been plagued with a fever like this. The difference was the woman who inspired the catalog. Claire Laurent was as provocative as the merchandise she peddled. He couldn't get her out of his mind, and not necessarily within the context of his investigation. He had wondered more than once if those damn bubbles she'd blown weren't in fact a voodoo love potion.

"How'd it go at that underwear place yesterday afternoon?" Crowder had asked him at their routine morning meeting.

"You mean French Silk?"

"Is there another one involved in this case?"

"It's quite an operation. I had no idea the business was that expansive.

"I don't care about the business. Did you talk to the Laurent woman?"

"Yes. At length."

"Anything?"

"She says she never met Wilde."

"And?"

"That's essentially it."

"Did you believe her?"

For reasons he didn't fully understand, Cassidy had answered evasively. "She didn't give me a reason not to." Because Crowder expected elaboration, he provided it, telling him about Mary Catherine Laurent and the model, Yasmine.

"I know who she is," Crowder said. "Saw her on Johnny Carson once. A real heart stopper."

"Yes, she is. Ms. Laurent, that is the mother, is mentally incapacitated."

"You don't say. In what way?"

Crowder had asked for specifics. Cassidy didn't have any. He doubted that Crowder wanted to hear that his cock got hard every time he thought about Claire Laurent. Not an auspicious sign for an assistant D.A. trying to build a murder case, especially one on which his career was balanced. This was the kind of juicy, well-publicized case that ambitious young prosecutors had wet dreams about. And it belonged to him. Crowder that he was capable of taking over the reins when the older man retired. He needed to convince the voting public that he was the right man for the tough job. And he needed to prove to himself, as he had strived to do for five years, that he was one of the good guys and didn't belong behind bars himself.

All that was going to be doubly difficult to achieve if one of his suspects made him sweaty and horny.

Claire Laurent couldn't have committed cold-blooded murder. Look at the way she treats her mother, he argued with himself.

That logic wasn't worth spit and Cassidy knew it. He'd known serial killers who could weep on command, especially around their mothers.

So forget sentiment. Look at it from a practical viewpoint. It wouldn't have made sense for her to kill Wilde. She would risk more by killing him and getting caught than she would if his plans to ruin her business had panned out. Right? Right. She wouldn't have done it.

Even so, something about that situation at French Silk was askew. What was odd about it? He mentally recalled everyone he had encountered: Tugboat Annie, the receptionist, Claire, Mary Catherine, Yasmine. Suddenly it occurred to him. "No men."

No men. All the warehouse workers were women. Harry, the housekeeper, was a nickname for Harriett. Was that exclusivity significant? Was French Silk a prime example of reverse sex discrimination? Was there more to the relationship between Claire and Yasmine than friendship and business?

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, stronger than the coffee and chicory. He pitched the dregs into his kitchen sink.

No, that couldn't be. He would have sensed it. They'd silently communicated on the level of confidantes, but not lovers. In any event, Claire Laurent was no killer.

On the other hand, she struck him as a woman who, if she had already killed a man, wouldn't have any compunction about blowing his balls to smithereens just for the hell of it.

His telephone rang. "It's Glenn."

"Good morning."

The detective grunted as though he disagreed. "I got a call from the P.C. He says the Wilde woman—and that pun is to be taken literally—is demanding that we release the body. We've got to let it go, Cassidy."

He plowed his fingers through his damp hair. "Shit. I guess we don't have a choice. But give me one more crack at her and the stepson."

"We've taken their statements. I've questioned them a dozen times myself. It's going to start looking like harassment."

"I know, but I want to try one more time. I'll be there in half an hour."

* * *

The interview with Ariel and Joshua Wilde got off to a bad start. They were already seated in Cassidy's office when he arrived. The widow was dressed in black silk, making her look frail, wan, and unarguably innocent. "Mr. Cassidy, we're leaving for Nashville in a little over an hour. We don't want to miss our flight."

"I apologize," he said, rounding his desk and sitting down. "I ran into some traffic. I'll see that you get to the airport in plenty of time, if it means a police escort."

That seemed to appeal to her. She settled back in her chair. "Thank you."

"I was informed on my way in that the casket with Reverend Wilde's body will also be aboard that flight."

She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. "Jackson was murdered more than a week ago. Not only have you failed to arrest his assassin, but you've prevented me from burying him."

Cassidy mentally applauded her. She was damned good. Her knees were chastely covered by her skirt; her pale, straight hair was held back by a black velvet headband. She had made no attempt to be alluring, and yet she exuded an inexplicable charisma.

Her stepson laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "This has been a grueling ordeal for us, Mr. Cassidy. Especially for Ariel."

"I'm certain it has."

"We want to take Daddy's body home, bury him, and then rest. However, we plan to return to New Orleans as soon as the culprit is apprehended. I want to ask him personally why he did it."

"I'd like to ask that myself." Cassidy opened the file that one of the legal clerks had handed him before he came m. "For clarity, I'd like to recheck some times with you." He shuffled paper to make the question look legitimate. "You—the three of you, along with a few of the entourage—arrived at the hotel … when?"

"Ten-o-five," Ariel replied impatiently. "Mr. Cassidy, we've been over this a thousand times."

"I know it seems repetitive, but sometimes in the retelling of events, a witness remembers something he's previously forgotten. Please indulge me."

She exhaled a longsuffering sigh. "We arrived at ten-o-five. We were all hungry. We ate in the Sazerac, on the lobby level. I'm sure the staff can verify that."

"They have. Did anyone leave the table at any time?"

"I don't think so. Josh, do you remember anyone leaving the table during the meal?"

"No Why is that important, Mr. Cassidy?"

How the perp got into the Wildes' suite was still unclear. Cassidy thought someone from the inner circle could have had access to a key and been waiting for Wilde when he returned from dinner. "Just thought I'd check."

"I don't remember anyone leaving until we'd finished," Ariel told him. "We all rode in the elevator together, getting off on our designated floors."

"Was it a convivial group?"

"Everyone was still full of the Spirit."

"The Spirit?"

"The Holy Spirit. That night's service had been particularly blessed."

"I see." Cassidy rifled through more papers. "So, Mrs. Wilde, you, your husband, and Josh got off the elevator together on the seventh floor?"

"That's correct. Jackson always reserved a floor exclusively for us, so the family would have absolute privacy."

"Hmm."

"I kissed Jackson good-night at the elevator, then went to Josh's suite to practice our songs for the next evening's service."

"Do you always sing on a full stomach, Mrs. Wilde?"

"Pardon?"

Cassidy leaned back in his chair and threaded a pencil through his fingers as he closely regarded the two. "I've known a few singers. I've never known one who liked to sing right after eating. A full stomach crowds the diaphragm, doesn't it?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You said you went to Josh's suite to practice."

"I can explain that," Josh said hastily. "When Ariel and I are rehearsing outside the auditorium, we're only working on timing, rhythm, that kind of thing. She doesn't sing full voice until we're in the auditorium, where the sound technicians can set mike levels."

"Oh," Cassidy said. "That must be why nobody heard you singing that night."

"No one else was on the seventh floor, remember?" Ariel sweetly reminded him.

"That's true. But the rooms above and below Josh's suite were occupied, yet the occupants never beard any singing or piano playing."

"What are you implying, Mr. Cassidy?"

"That maybe you went to Josh's suite to make music of a different sort."

The widow shot to her feet and glared down at him. "How dare you!"

"Nobody can corroborate your story, Mrs. Wilde."

"No one can dispute it either."

"And I think you planned it that way."

"Think what you want."

"I think that in order to continue your affair, one or both of you slipped back down the hall that night and shot your husband while he was asleep. You left him there all night, then the following morning staged this dog-and-pony show for the press and the public."

Her blue eyes narrowed menacingly. "The Devil is using you."

"Very possibly," Cassidy replied blandly. "He's always found me willing."

"Are you prepared to arrest us on the basis of this hunch of yours?" Ariel asked loftily.

"Without any evidence? You know as well as I do, Mrs. Wilde, that I couldn't make any charges stick."

"Precisely." She turned and sailed through the door.

Josh remained, but he shared her agitation. "That accusation was uncalled for, Mr. Cassidy. Rather than upsetting my stepmother with nasty allegations, why aren't you out beating the bushes for the real killer?"

"Come off it, Josh." Cassidy deliberately lapsed into the familiar form of address. If he was going to wear either of them down, it would be Josh. "I know you're boinking her. I wouldn't give a damn … unless you iced your old man so you could keep on boinking her."

"Stop saying that!"

"Then talk to me, dammit." He slapped the surface of his desk with his palms.

After a moment of tense silence, Josh asked sullenly, "What do you want to know?"

Cassidy curbed his temper, knowing intuitively that Josh would retreat if he wasn't handled with finesse. "Look at it from my perspective, Josh, and see what conclusions you draw. Ariel's young, pretty, talented, and in love with her young, handsome, talented stepson, who returns her love. Only there's a hitch. She's married. The unwanted husband gives her a motive I can't discount. And she was the only person other than your father who had a key to that suite."

"What about the maids? The hotel staff? Professional burglars don't need keys. They break into locked hotel suites all the time."

"Jackson was killed by someone familiar, someone he didn't mind seeing him naked and sprawled on the bed."

"It wasn't Ariel."

"Was it you?"

The younger man blanched. "My father and I had our differences, but I didn't kill him."

"Did he know about your affair with his wife?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Cassidy's reclining chair sprang erect, practically catapulting him across the desk. "Don't bullshit me, Josh. Did he?"

The younger man squirmed beneath Cassidy's hard gray stare. Eventually his shoulders slumped slightly and he looked away. "No. I don't think so."

Ah-ha. He now had a confession that they were involved in an illicit relationship. He screened his happy reaction. "You think you were clever enough to conceal it from your father, when I guessed thirty seconds after meeting you?"

"It isn't that we were so clever," Josh said with a mirthless laugh. "It's that he was so egomaniacal. He would never suspect Ariel of choosing me over him."

Cassidy looked him in the eye and believed him. "He was a real son of a bitch, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was."

"Did you hate him?"

"Sometimes."

"Enough to kill him?"

"Sometimes. But I didn't. I couldn't. I wouldn't have the nerve."

Cassidy believed that, too. Joshua Wilde was named after the Hebrew warrior of the Old Testament, but it was a misnomer. Undoubtedly Jackson Wilde, with his thunderous voice and avenging-angel temperament, had been sorely disappointed in his mild-mannered, soft-spoken son. A kid could stockpile a lot of resentment against an overbearing, supercritical parent. Better parents than Jackson Wilde had been blown away by their stressed-out children. But Cassidy didn't think Josh had it in him to put a bullet through a man's head.

"What about her?" Cassidy asked, pointing his chin toward the door through which Ariel had made her huffy exit. "Think before you answer, Josh. We might turn up incriminating evidence at any moment, something we missed before. If you protect Ariel, you're an accessory, and the punishment's the same. Did she kill him?"

"No."

"Could she have done it without your knowledge? Did you make love with her that night, Josh?"

He cast his eyes down but answered without hesitation. "Yes."

"Did she leave your suite at any time?"

"No. Not until she left for good, sometime in the wee hours."

Too late for the murder, which Elvie Dupuis had placed between 12:00 and 1:00 A.M. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Do you suspect her of killing him?"

"No." He shook his head so adamantly that several locks of hair fell over his brow.

"How can you be so sure?"

He raised his head and met Cassidy's stare head-on. "My father was Ariel's ticket to greatness. Without him, she's zero."

It was a dead-end street. They were guilty as hell. The rub was that Cassidy didn't know if they were guilty only of adultery or of a sin more grievous. But even if they had offed Wilde, he had no evidence to hold them. "Have a nice trip," he said in a clipped voice.

Joshua Wilde was taken aback. "You mean I can go?"

"Unless you want to sign a confession."

"I've got nothing to confess and neither does Ariel. I swear it, Mr. Cassidy."

"You may have to yet—in a court of law. For the time being, goodbye."

Cassidy watched him go, wondering if he was releasing a murderer onto an unsuspecting public. Although, he reasoned, the only danger Ariel and Josh posed to the general public was fleecing them of hard-earned cash in the name of the Lord.

Querulous and feeling at odds with the world, he snatched up his phone after its first shrill ring. "Cassidy." It was Crowder, who wasn't too pleased to hear the results of the interrogation. "The bottom line is they walked," Cassidy summarized.

Crowder had several choice comments about the widow and the ruckus she had left in her wake. "She's flying off to Nashville smelling like a rose, looking like a goddamn martyr, and leaving us with a stinking pile of shit to shovel. Cassidy, you there?"

"What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Shit. Right."

"What's the matter with you?"

Cassidy was gaping at the stuffed folder that Howard Glenn had just carried into his office and dropped onto his desk with a triumphant flourish.

"I'll call you back." Cassidy hung up, leaving Crowder in midsentence. He looked up at Glenn, who was standing at the edge of his desk, a smug grin on his unshaved face.

"Hey, Cassidy. This might be the break we've been looking for. Let's go."

* * *