French Silk (6 page)

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.

Chapter 3

«
^
»

T
he building was located on North Peters Street, one block from where it merged with Decatur. It was last in a row of scarred brick warehouses that had thus far withstood the path of progress in this old industrial district of the French Quarter. Most of the buildings, including the nearby Jax Brewery, had been gutted and redeveloped into fashionable eateries and shopping malls.

The renovation had resulted in a discordant blending of authentic New Orleans with crass commercialism. The oldtimers, who wished to preserve the mystic atmosphere of the Vieux Carré considered such commercialization an abomination, a desecration of the district's uniqueness. Those who clung to it did so with tenacity and defiance, as the facade of French Silk evinced.

The ancient bricks had been painted white, although the side of the building that was exposed to the intersecting street bore the cruel marks of age. In keeping with Creole architecture, there were glossy black shutters on all the windows. Black grillwork simulating balconies had been added to the second and third floors. Above the entrance, suspended from twin black chains, was a discreet sign bearing the name of the business written in cursive.

Cassidy soon discovered, however, that the front door was also a facade and that the real entrance to the warehouse was a heavy metal door on the Conti Street side of the building. He depressed the button and heard a loud school bell ringing inside. A few seconds later the door was opened.

"What do you want?" The woman who confronted him was built like a stevedore. RALPH, spelled out in blue letters and centered in a red heart, had been tattooed on her forearm. Her upper lip was beaded with perspiration that clung to the hairs of a faint mustache. She looked no more like she belonged in a lingerie factory than a linebacker did at a debutante ball. Cassidy's heart went out to Ralph.

"My name is Cassidy. Are you Claire Laurent?"

She uttered a sound like a foghorn. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"No. I'm looking for Claire Laurent. Is she here?"

She gave him a suspicious once-over. "Just a minute." Propping the door open with her foot, she picked up a wall-mounted telephone and pressed two digits on the panel. "There's a guy here to see Ms. Laurent. Kennedy somebody."

"Cassidy," he corrected with a polite smile. He was no Schwarzenegger, but he could hold his own in an ordinary brawl. Still, he'd hate to tangle with this Tugboat Annie.

She glared at Cassidy while waiting for further instructions. Cupping the mouthpiece of the telephone, she spat past his shoulder. Finally she listened, then said to him, "Ms. Laurent wants to know what about."

"I'm from the district attorney's office." He removed the leather folder from his breast pocket and flipped it open to show her his ID.

That won him another glare and a slow, distrustful once-over. "He's from the district attorney's office." After a moment she hung up the telephone. "This way." She didn't looked pleased about her boss's decision to see him. Her rubber soles struck the concrete floor like each footfall might have a cockroach beneath it. She led him past row upon row of boxed goods that were being labeled and loaded for shipping.

Large fans mounted in the walls at ceiling level were blowing hard and noisily. But they succeeded only in circulating warm, humid air. Their blades interrupted the sunlight streaming in, creating an effect like a strobe and lending a surreal atmosphere to the warehouse.

Cassidy felt a trickle of sweat running down his side and forgave the woman her sweating upper lip. He shrugged off his suit jacket and held it over his shoulder. Then he loosened the knot of his necktie. As he moved across the warehouse, he noticed that it was spotlessly clean and highly organized. The busy workers, seemingly unaffected by the heat, chatted happily among themselves. A few glanced curiously at him, but none had glared at him like Tugboat. He supposed that suspicion was the nature of her job, which was obviously to keep out the scumbags and undesirables like himself.

When they reached the freight elevator she slid open the heavy double doors. "Second floor."

"Thank you."

The doors clanged shut, sealing him in an elevator larger than his apartment's bathroom. On his way up, he rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

He stepped into a corridor that ran the width of the building. Branching off it were other hallways and offices, from which he could hear sounds of clerical activity. Directly in front of him was a set of wide double doors. Instinctively he knew that he would find Ms. Laurent behind them.

Indeed, the doors opened onto a carpeted, air-conditioned office that was exquisitely furnished, complete with a smiling receptionist behind a desk made of glass and black lacquer. "Mr. Cassidy?" she asked pleasantly.

"That's right." He hadn't expected so plush an office above an ordinary warehouse. He shouldn't have removed his jacket and loosened his tie. However, he didn't have time to correct that before the receptionist escorted him to another set of double doors.

"Ms. Laurent is expecting you. Go right in."

She opened the door for him and stepped aside. He went in and received the next in a series of surprises. He had anticipated a glamorous office that lived up to the lavish reception area. Instead, this was a work space—space being the operative word. There seemed to be acres of it. The room was as wide as the building and half as deep. A wall of windows offered a panoramic view of the Mississippi River. There were several drawing tables, each outfitted with a vast assortment of implements, and three headless dress forms, and easels, and a sewing machine, and swatches of fabric … and a woman.

She was seated on a high stool, bending over one of the drawing tables, pencil in hand. As the door closed behind Cassidy, she raised her head and looked at him through a pair of square tortoiseshell eyeglasses. "Mr. Cassidy?"

"Ms. Laurent?"

After removing her glasses and leaving them and the pencil on the table, she came toward him with her right hand extended. "Yes, I'm Claire Laurent."

Her face, figure, and form weren't at all what he had expected. For a moment, while he clasped her hand courteously, his head went a little muzzy. What had he expected Claire Laurent to look like? Another Tugboat Annie? Another petite doll like the receptionist? She was neither. It hardly seemed that she and the doorkeeper belonged to the same species, much less the same sex. For while Claire Laurent was wearing wide-legged trousers the color of ripe tobacco and a loose, tailored silk shirt, there was certainly nothing masculine about her. Nor was she pert and cute like the secretary.

She was tall. Slender. She had fashionably wide shoulders. Her breasts were compact but definitely discernible. Supported by lace, he guessed, because he caught glimpses of it between the soft lapels of the ivory shirt. Her eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, and if whiskey had a voice, it would sound like hers, like a blend of satin and woodsmoke.

"You wanted to see me?"

He released her hand. "Yes."

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

She indicated a sitting area comprised of a divan with deep cushions and a low table between two upholstered chairs. In one of the chairs was a basket overflowing with what appeared to be crochet or knitting. On the table were several crystal decanters reflecting the late afternoon sunlight and casting rainbows on the white plaster walls and hardwood floor.

"No, thanks. Nothing."

"May I hang up your jacket?" She reached for it.

He almost passed it to her before thinking better of it. "No, thanks. I'm fine. Sorry to be so casual, but downstairs is a sweatbox."

Because she wasn't what he'd expected, it had cost him a few seconds of control. Cassidy liked always to be in control, and somehow he wanted to pay her back for stealing that from him. Feeling ornery, he had spoken the statement innocently, but he'd intended it as a dig, which she'd have to be a real airhead to miss. She wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Her eyes flickered defensively, but she obviously decided to let it pass. "Yes, it can sometimes get uncomfortably warm. Please, sit down."

"Thanks."

He moved to one of the chairs and sat down, draping his jacket over his knee. She sat on the divan, facing him. He noticed that her lipstick was wearing off, as though she'd been pulling that full lower lip between her teeth while deep in concentration. Her hair was a light shade of auburn that shimmered like fire in the sunlight. She must have been raking her hands or her pencil through it because the curls and waves were tousled.

Immediately, he knew several things about her. First, Claire Laurent was a working woman. She wasn't hung up on feminine affectations and vanity. She was also a woman trying to hide her nervousness behind hospitality. Only the pulse beating at the base of her elegantly smooth throat gave her away.

From her throat, his eyes moved to the trinket hanging from a black silk cord around her neck. She followed his gaze down and said, "It was a gift from my friend Yasmine."

"What's in it?" The small vial lying against her chest contained a clear liquid. "A love potion?"

His gray eyes connected with hers with an almost audible click. Suddenly Cassidy wished that he hadn't gone to bed last night with a semi-hard-on. He also wished that his errand here today weren't an official one.

She removed the stopper from the vial. At the end of the short wand was a minuscule spool. She raised it to her lips and blew through it. Dozens of tiny, iridescent bubbles burst from it and drifted up and around her face.

He laughed, partly because the bubbles surprised him and partly to release some of the energy building inside him.

"A whimsical distraction for when work gets me down," she said. "Yasmine frequently gives me gadgets like this because she says I take myself too seriously." Smiling, she recapped the vial.

"Do you?"

She met his direct gaze. "Do I what?"

"Take yourself too seriously."

He knew from her reaction that he'd overstepped his bounds. Her smile congealed. Still cordial, but with a hint of impatience, she asked, "Why did you come to see me, Mr. Cassidy? Is it regarding that hot check I reported to the D.A.'s office?"

"Hot check? No, I'm afraid not."

"Then I'm at a loss."

"Reverend Jackson Wilde." He tossed out the name without preamble. It lay like a gauntlet between them. She didn't pick it up but merely continued to gaze at him inquisitively. He was forced to elaborate. "I assume you've heard about his murder."

"Certainly. Didn't you see me on TV?"

That took him aback. "No. When was that?"

"The day Reverend Wilde's body was found. The day before yesterday, wasn't it? Reporters came here to get my statement. It must not have been as dramatic as they wanted, because I didn't make the evening news."

"Were you relieved or disappointed that you were cut?"

"What do you think?" Her smile had disappeared.

Cassidy took another tack. "What do you know about the murder?"

"Know?" she repeated with a shrug. "Only what I read in the newspapers and see on television. Why?"

"Were you acquainted with Reverend Wilde?"

"Do you mean had I ever met him? No."

"Never?"