French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  He was experimentally flexing his fingers. “What do you have in mind?” he grumbled.

  “Since we got back from Cincinnati we’ve been holed up here in Nashville, out of sight and out of mind. It’s time we shook things up, generated some headlines. It should be made plain to the cops in New Orleans that the grieving widow and son haven’t forgotten that Jackson Wilde was murdered in cold blood.”

  “Are you so sure that reminding them of that is a smart idea?”

  She shot him an icy look. “Jackson had legions of enemies.” Making a steeple of her index fingers, she tapped them against her lips. “One in particular in New Orleans.”

  “Tell me what it means.”

  Cassidy was in a bad mood. Dealing with Detective Howard Glenn wasn’t improving his state of mind. The day after he had accompanied Claire to the Ponchartrain to pick up Mary Catherine, Cassidy had recounted to Glenn all that had transpired. All except the kiss.

  “So she didn’t deny that it was her voice on the tape?” Glenn had asked.

  “No, because she had a good reason for being at the Fairmont that night.”

  “To plug the preacher.”

  “Or to pick up her mother, as she claims.” Glenn had regarded him skeptically. “Look, Glenn, they couldn’t have staged that business last night. Mary Catherine Laurent’s mental instability is genuine and Cl… Ms. Laurent protects her like a mama bear.”

  He had filled him in on Claire’s relationship with Andre Philippi. “It dates back to childhood. So it’s reasonable that he lied to protect her privacy and that’s the extent of it.”

  Glenn had searched for a place to extinguish his cigarette butt. Cassidy offered him an empty Styrofoam cup. “Jesus,” Glenn had said as he ground out the butt, “the deeper we dig the more interesting it gets.”

  “But we’ve got to dig with finesse.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I want to get to the bottom of this, too. Maybe there’s something there, maybe not. But you can’t approach a woman like Claire Laurent reeking of Camels and tossing out obscenities. I still think it’s best if you leave her to me.”

  “Oh?”

  “She finds you personally distasteful.”

  Glenn settled his rump more comfortably in his chair and rested one ankle on the other. “How does she find you, Cassidy?”

  “What are you implying?” he had snapped, tossing down his writing pen.

  Glenn had raised his hands in surrender. “Nothing, nothing. It’s just that I couldn’t help but notice that she’s a good-looking broad. And you’re not exactly a troll. All things considered—”

  “All things considered,” Cassidy had interrupted tightly, “I’m going to prosecute Jackson Wilde’s killer no matter who it is.”

  “Then you’ve got no reason to be so touchy, do you?”

  From then on, their conversations had been strictly business. Cassidy had chided himself for swallowing Glenn’s bait. He wouldn’t have if his conscience hadn’t been so sorely pricked by Glenn’s implications, and he reckoned that the detective knew that. He hadn’t brought up the possibility of a conflict of interests since, but Cassidy was certain he hadn’t forgotten the exchange.

  This morning, Glenn was into guessing games. He’d ambled in and scattered several computer printouts across Cassidy’s desk. Thousands of names were listed on the sheets, a few of which had been circled with red crayon. Cassidy randomly picked one. “Who’s this Darby Moss?”

  “Not a name you forget, is it?” Glenn asked rhetorically. “Years ago when I was still on a beat, I busted him for assault. He worked a hooker over pretty good. Put her in the hospital. Moss flies in this slick little hustler of a lawyer from Dallas, his hometown. Got the charges dropped. Pissed me off good. So when his name showed up on this list of contributors to Wilde’s ministry, it set off bells. I went to Dallas over the weekend and found ol’ Darby alive and kicking. He owns three adult-book stores.”

  Cassidy’s brows drew together. “You don’t say.”

  “Yeah. Regular jerk-off joints. You name a perversion, he stocks a magazine that caters to it, along with dildos, inflatable pussies, all kinds of shit. Curious, huh? When I got back, I started running matches through the computer and all these other names sent up red flags. In one way or another, they’re all dealing in the very stuff Wilde preached against.”

  “What does that tell us? That when they chipped in, he turned off the heat?”

  “Looks like. And that’s not all.” He scanned the sheet until his finger landed on another name circled in red. “Here.”

  “Gloria Jean Reynolds?”

  Glenn smugly slipped a piece of notepaper from the breast pocket of his dingy white shirt and handed it to Cassidy. Cassidy silently read the name, then raised inquiring eyes to Glenn, who shrugged eloquently.

  The phone on his desk rang. Cassidy picked it up on the second ring. “Cassidy.”

  “Mr. Cassidy, it’s Claire Laurent.”

  His gut clenched reflexively. Her soft, smoky voice was the last one he had expected to hear. She was never off his mind, but the fantasies he entertained weren’t always of convicting her of murder.

  The romp with his neighbor had provided only short-term relief. When he left her condo, he still wasn’t sure what her name was, and that made him feel he was on the level of a maggot. He had used her in the worst way a man could use a woman. His only absolution was that she had also gotten from him what she had wanted—and had asked for on numerous occasions.

  “Hello,” he said to Claire with feigned casualness.

  “How soon can you get here?”

  The question took him aback. Was she about to confess?

  “To French Silk? What’s up?”

  “That will be obvious when you arrive. Please hurry.”

  She hung up before saying anything more. He held the receiver away from his ear and regarded it curiously.

  “Who was that?” Glenn asked as he lit a cigarette.

  “Claire Laurent.”

  Glenn’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Cassidy through a cloud of smoke. “No shit?”

  “No shit. I’ll catch you later.”

  Leaving the detective, Cassidy pulled on his suit coat, hurried from his office, and ran to catch the elevator before the doors closed. He upbraided himself for his haste, but justified it by recalling her tone of voice. Although it had been as low and hushed as always, he had sensed another quality in it. Irritation? Fear? Urgency?

  Within seconds he was on his way, driving skillfully fast toward the French Quarter and cursing the traffic along the way.

  Just as Claire had said, he saw the reason for her call before he even reached French Silk. A throng of people, at least two hundred of them, were picketing in front of her building. He had to read only a few signs to know who had organized the protest march.

  “Dammit.” He parked illegally and shoved his way through the curious onlookers until he reached a policeman. “Cassidy, D.A.’s office,” he said, flashing his ID. “Why aren’t you breaking this up?”

  “They’ve got a permit.”

  “What idiot issued that?”

  “Judge Harris.”

  Inwardly Cassidy groaned. Harris was ultraconservative and had been a real fan of Jackson Wilde. At least he had appeared to be to garner votes.

  The cop pointed out a picket that a grandmotherly type was holding aloft. “Is that catalog really that hot? Maybe I ought to get one for my old lady. We could use something to jazz up our sex life, ya know?”

  Cassidy wasn’t interested. “How long have they been at this?”

  “An hour maybe. Long as it stays peaceful, we gotta let ’em picket. I just wish to hell they’d sing another song.”

  The marchers had sung the chorus of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” three times since Cassidy had arrived. They were taking full advantage of the media coverage, which was extensive. All the local television stations were represented by minicams and scrambling reporters. One news
photographer with a 35mm camera had climbed the lamppost across the street to get a better angle.

  Cassidy irritably pushed his way through the parading ranks of Wilde’s disciples toward the side door of French Silk. He depressed the bell.

  “I warned you not to come near that goddamn door again!”

  “It’s Cassidy from the D.A.’s office. Ms. Laurent called me.”

  The same woman he’d met before pulled open the door, confronting him like a side of beef that was quivering with indignation. Her eyes were mere slits of hostility in her broad, ruddy face. “It’s all right,” he heard Claire say from behind the tattooed amazon.

  She stepped aside. “Thanks,” he said tersely as he came in. She grunted and closed the door behind him.

  Claire looked beautiful, although not in her customary, composed fashion. Her cool reserve was gone. Her whiskey-colored eyes were sparkling with vexation. There was color in her cheeks. She was obviously upset, but her disheveled hair and clothing made her sexier, more exciting, more appealing than ever.

  “Do something, Mr. Cassidy,” she demanded. “Anything. Just make them go away.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. They’ve got a permit. You’ll just have to tough it out.”

  She flung her arm toward the door. “While they’re exercising their rights, they’re violating my right to privacy.”

  “Calm down. One demonstration isn’t going to significantly hurt your business.”

  “I’m not concerned about my business,” she said angrily. “Didn’t you see the TV cameras? We’re getting a free commercial out of this. But they’re wreaking havoc on the Bienville House,” she said, referring to the pink-walled hotel across the street. “Delivery trucks can’t get through. Their chef is having apoplexy. The guests are complaining. And the manager, whom I’ve been friends with for years, has called twice, rightfully demanding that I put a stop to this madness.

  “Not only that, I’m afraid for my employees. When the first shift tried to leave a while ago, they were booed and hissed at like they were scum. That’s when I called you. I don’t want my employees affected by any of this.”

  “I’m sorry, Claire. You’ve got Ariel Wilde to thank.”

  “Ariel Wilde and you.”

  “Me?” he repeated, flabbergasted. “How the hell can you blame this on me?”

  “I was never picketed before, Mr. Cassidy.”

  “Look, I don’t like this any better than you do,” he said, bending down and bringing his face closer to hers. “Ariel wants to make the NOPD and my office look like a bunch of buffoons. This is her way of reminding the public that we haven’t solved her husband’s murder case yet. She needed another dose of free publicity and chose this way to get it.”

  “Let her have all the publicity she wants. I don’t care. Just leave me out of it. I don’t want to be involved.”

  “Well that’s tough, because you’re already involved.”

  “Because you’ve been lurking around here so much!” Claire shouted.

  “No, because you’ve lied to me from the beginning.”

  “Only to protect myself, my friends, and my family from your snooping.”

  “I’m only doing my job.”

  “Are you?”

  That left him with nothing to say because his job description didn’t include kissing the suspects he was questioning, which is what he’d been doing the last time he’d been with her. She suddenly seemed to remember that, too. She took a hasty step backward. There was a catch in her throat. “Just leave me in peace, Mr. Cassidy, and take all of them with you.”

  She gestured toward the door, but before her sentence was completely formed, a brick came crashing through the window directly above them. It shattered. Cassidy looked up, saw what had happened, and threw his arms around Claire. He dived for cover behind a tower of packing crates, pressing her against his chest and bending his head over hers, protecting her as best he could from the falling shards of glass. The workers scrambled in every direction, trying to escape injury as glass rained down, splintering into tiny pieces as it struck the concrete floor.

  When it finally stopped, Cassidy relaxed his tight embrace. “Are you all right?” He swept her hair off her face, examining the delicate skin for nicks and cuts.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Is anyone hurt?” Her employees were slowly emerging from cover.

  “We’re all right, Miss Laurent.”

  When Claire turned back to Cassidy, she uttered a small gasp. “You’ve been cut.” She reached up and touched his cheek. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.

  He took a handkerchief from his hip pocket and used it to wipe her fingers clean before blotting his cheek. Surrounding them were bits of glass as fine as dust and as shimmering as diamonds. Bending down, he picked up the brick that was responsible for the damage. Using Magic Marker, someone had printed on it FILTHY DAUGHTER OF SATAN.

  “All right,” Claire said softly as she read the poorly printed words. “That’s enough.” She strode to the door, her feet crunching on the broken glass.

  “Claire, no!”

  Unmindful of his shout, she pulled open the door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and marched up to one of the policemen. She tugged at his shirtsleeve to get his attention.

  “I thought you were supposed to be keeping this demonstration peaceful.”

  “That brick came out of nowhere. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “You’re sorry, but my employees could have been seriously hurt.”

  “Their permit to picket doesn’t extend to throwing bricks,” Cassidy said.

  The policeman recognized him. “Hey, you’re Cassidy, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. And I’m here representing District Attorney Crowder. As of now, their permit has expired. Disperse this crowd. Call in reinforcements if necessary, but clear this area immediately.”

  “I don’t know,” the cop said dubiously. The protesters were now clasping hands and praying. Cassidy was glad. As long as their heads were bowed and their eyes were closed, they wouldn’t notice Claire. “Judge Harris—”

  “Screw Judge Harris and his permit,” Cassidy said in a low, rough voice. “If he doesn’t like it, he can take it up with the D.A. later. For now, get these people away from here before more damage is done.”

  “If somebody gets injured,” Claire said, “there’s going to be hell to pay from Mrs. Wilde and from me.”

  Finally reaching a decision, the cop went quickly to the man who was leading a loud, long prayer. “Excuse me, sir. Y’all violated the conditions of your permit. You’re gonna have to disperse.” The leader, who obviously liked the sound of his own voice, didn’t want to be silenced. In Jesus’ blessed name, he began strenuously to protest. A shoving match ensued.

  Cassidy swore. “I was afraid of this. Get inside, Claire.”

  “This is my fight. I’ll handle it.”

  “Handle it? Are you nuts?”

  “They’ve been misled about me. If I explain to them—”

  “A mob can’t be reasoned with.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the rising shouts. Soon he’d have a riot on his hands.

  “There she is!” someone in the crowd shouted.

  “It’s her!”

  “Smut peddler! Pornographer!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please.” Claire held up her hands for silence, but the insults only grew nastier. Photographers nearly trampled one another trying to capture her image and voice on their videotapes.

  “Get inside!” Cassidy tried to take her arm, but she resisted.

  “Claire Laurent is a whore!”

  “French Silk is filth!”

  “Down with porn!”

  Cassidy had to lean down in order to hear what Claire was saying to him. “All I want from them is an opportunity to be heard.”

  “Dammit, now’s not the time for a speech.”

  The crowd was pressing against the
human barricade of policemen who had rushed into action. Voices were raised in anger and hatred. Faces were contorted with malice. Pickets were being brandished like weapons. One spark was all that was needed to make the whole ugly scene explode.

  It was instantly and effectively defused by the unexpected appearance of Mary Catherine Laurent.

  Beautifully dressed and coiffed, looking as though she were about to enter a courtyard for a garden party, she stepped through the door of French Silk pushing a tea cart. On it were rows of Dixie cups filled with what appeared to be red Kool-Aid. A tall, spare woman wearing a white uniform followed her, carrying a tray of cookies.

  Claire followed Cassidy’s startled gape. “Oh, Mama, no!” Claire tried to waylay her, but she determinedly wheeled the dainty tea cart toward the surging, hostile crowd.

  “I’m sorry, Claire,” Harriett York said as she passed with the tray of cookies. “She insisted on doing this and got so upset when I tried to change her mind, I thought—”

  “I understand,” Claire interrupted quickly. She moved to Mary Catherine’s side and placed her hand beneath her elbow. “Mama, you’d better go back inside now. This isn’t a party.”

  Mary Catherine looked at her daughter with incredulity. “Well, of course it’s not, Claire Louise. Don’t talk foolish. These people are here on behalf of Reverend Jackson Wilde, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, Mama. They are.”

  “I listened to enough of his sermons to know that he’d be ashamed of his followers for conducting themselves this way. I think they need to be reminded of that. Reverend Wilde said many ugly things about you from his pulpit, but he also advocated loving one’s enemies. He would never have condoned violence.”

  She went straight to the leader of the group. Those around him fell silent, and the silence rippled outward until all the name-calling ceased. Mary Catherine gave the man a smile that would have disarmed a Nazi officer. “I’ve never known anyone who could be cruel and unkind over cookies and punch. Sir?”

  She took a Dixie cup from the cart and extended it to him. To refuse the gesture from a woman so utterably guileless would have been bad P.R. for the Wilde ministry and apparently the man realized that. He was fully aware of the minicams recording the bizarre occurrence. Disgruntled, he took the cup of punch from Mary Catherine.