French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  “I’ll have to borrow your eyeshadow.”

  “Go to hell.”

  She got back into bed, but not until she’d swallowed two laxative tablets to counteract the calories in the Ding Dong. “Not now,” she grumbled when Josh rolled toward her and covered her breast with his hand. “I’ve got too much on my mind.”

  “It’s just as well,” he said. “You’re so skinny your bones rattle when we make love.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “That’s what I had in mind, but…” Laughing, he burrowed his head in his pillow. Ariel was too wired to sleep. She consumed such vast quantities of caffeine and sugar, it was rare that she slept more than three or four hours a night. Some of the dark shadows under her eyes weren’t cosmetically enhanced.

  Mentally she reviewed everything she knew about Claire Laurent. Some classy broad, she thought grudgingly. Tall. Naturally sender. Well dressed. Classic features. She was the kind of woman Ariel aspired to be, but she knew in her gut that it wasn’t in her genes. She could try from now till doomsday and never achieve that cool elegance. You were either born with it or you weren’t.

  Claire Laurent was taking long, leisurely walks through the French Quarter with A.D.A. Cassidy, who had never looked at Ariel with anything except suspicion and ill-concealed derision. He seemed to know that no matter how often or how hard she washed, she never felt completely clean. He had kissed Claire Laurent! Shame, shame. The possibilities of how she could use that tidbit made Ariel giddy and almost compensated for her envy.

  The snooty bitch had bamboozled him. It was as simple as that. Did he think someone as hoity-toity as Claire Laurent was incapable of murder? Think again, Mr. Cassidy.

  However you looked at it, he’d been derelict in his duty. Tomorrow morning, even before she called a news conference to announce Ariel Wilde’s Prayer and Praise Hour’s latest undertaking, she had a vitally important telephone call to make.

  Cassidy had been forewarned that the chief was on the warpath, so Tony Crowder’s imperious summons came as no surprise. “He’s waiting for you, Cassidy,” the secretary informed him sympathetically. “Go right in.”

  Cassidy assumed a casual air. “Good morning, Tony. You wanted to see me?” From behind his desk, Crowder glared at him. Cassidy took a seat, crossing his ankle over his opposite knee. “Actually I’m glad you called me in this morning. I’ve got something to discuss with you.”

  “I’m taking you off the Jackson Wilde murder case.”

  “What?” Cassidy’s foot hit the floor with such impact that it rattled Crowder’s cup of coffee against its saucer.

  “You heard me. You’re off it. I’m reassigning it to Nance.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I have. Or at least I will as soon as this meeting’s concluded. Which it is.”

  “Like hell.” Cassidy shot up from his chair. “Why’re you doing this?”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Crowder thundered. “I’m catching holy hell from everybody about this. The mayor. The P.C. Judges. Especially that tight-assed Harris. Congressmen. Even the freaking governor has put in his two cents’ worth. I’ve got Jackson Wilde coming out my ass, and I’m sick of it. I want an end to it, and so far you’ve failed to make that happen.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “With Claire Laurent?”

  Cassidy cautiously assessed the glint in his superior’s eyes. Uneasiness crept in behind his anger. “Among others.”

  “Exactly what are you ‘trying’ with Claire Laurent?”

  “I get the impression that’s a loaded question.”

  Crowder maintained a bead on Cassidy as he reached for his coffee cup and slurped from it. “I got a call this morning from Ariel Wilde.”

  “Okay, I get the picture,” Cassidy said, breathing easier. “She reminded you that we haven’t arrested her husband’s killer yet, and you felt the need to chew ass. Is that what this is about?”

  “That’s part of it. Not all.”

  “Well?”

  “Did you take Claire Laurent on a romantic moonlight stroll through the French Quarter last night?”

  Although Cassidy’s heart had dropped to his knees, he kept his expression impassive. “I went to French Silk and confronted Ms. Laurent with information I’d obtained from other sources.” He explained about the telephone calls and the discrepancies in timing. “Ms. Laurent claimed that she had filled that time by taking a walk to cool off after meeting Wilde face to face at the crusade. She suggested that we retrace her steps.”

  “That included a stop at Café du Monde?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a stroll along the Moonwalk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is probably where she disposed of the murder weapon.”

  “I mentioned that,” Cassidy said defensively.

  “And what did she say?”

  “She maintains that she’s never owned a gun of any kind and wouldn’t even know how to fire one.”

  “You don’t have to be too good a shot to shoot off a man’s balls at point-blank range.”

  “I mentioned that, too,” Cassidy said with a laugh.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “No. The chuckle was my way of pointing out how alike we are.”

  “Oh yeah? I’ve never romanced a suspect.”

  Cassidy’s eyes snapped to Crowder’s. “Neither have I,” he said, giving Crowder back his hard stare.

  “That’s not what it looked like to Ariel’s spy.”

  “Spy? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Our dear Mrs. Wilde had one of her flunkies keeping an eye on Claire Laurent and reporting anything incriminating or suspicious. So far the only suspicious thing she’s done is go out on a date—”

  “It wasn’t a date!”

  “—with the man who may very well have to prosecute her in a court of law. Only I’m eliminating that probability by removing you from the case.”

  “You can’t take me off the case,” Cassidy shouted. “I told you how that walk came about.”

  “Don’t play word games with me. Ariel Wilde’s man was thorough. He told her every move you made, and she passed the details along to me. You gave Claire Laurent your jacket. You embraced her. You kissed her. Didn’t you?”

  Cassidy gave a terse nod.

  “According to the spy’s account, it wasn’t a polite little peck, either.”

  “No,” Cassidy said gruffly. “It wasn’t.”

  “Jesus!” Crowder rose to his feet and banged his fist on his desk. “What the hell were you thinking of?”

  Cassidy bowed his head. “Shit.” After a long, still moment, he raised his head. “I can see how it might have looked to someone who didn’t know that circumstances. I was questioning her, Tony.”

  “You were also swapping spit!” he bellowed.

  In a much softer, more reasonable tone, Cassidy said, “I was shooting holes in her defense, trying to find the element that’s missing from her story.”

  “So you’re sure there’s a missing element?”

  “Almost positive. I don’t know if she’s lying to protect herself or someone else, but she’s not telling the whole truth. Unfortunately, I can’t arrest her on a gut feeling.”

  “ ‘Unfortunately’?” The D.A. studied him with shrewd eyes that missed nothing. “Are you going to sit there and tell me you don’t find this woman attractive?”

  “No.” Cassidy looked him straight in the eye. “She’s extremely attractive to me.”

  Crowder sank back into his chair and ran a hand over his thinning hair. “I should have become a dentist like my mother wanted me to.” Grumbling, he added, “At least you didn’t lie to me. And I’d have known if you had. There’ve been rumors.”

  “Rumors about what?”

  “About your attraction to Ms. Laurent. Glenn complained to the P.C. about it. He came to me with it.”

  “Christ!” Cassidy exclaimed angrily. “Glenn had no right to—”


  “Dammit, he had every right. This is his case, too, remember? He doesn’t want it fucked up by a prosecutor with a valentine where his head should be.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to do this to you, kid. But you leave me no alternative. I’ve got to take you off the case.”

  “Don’t, Tony.” Cassidy left his chair and leaned over Crowder’s desk. “I’ve got to have it. I’ll bring the culprit to trial and I’ll get a conviction. My career’s riding on it. I won’t squander this opportunity. Not for anything.”

  “Not even for a woman you’re attracted to?”

  “Especially not for that.”

  Crowder studied him for a moment. “You sound like you mean it.”

  “I do.” Cassidy debated over whether to broach a subject that had always remained closed to discussion. However, last night he had told Claire that from here on, he was playing to win. Crowder needed to be convinced of that, too. “You must have wondered, Tony, why I switched from defense counsel when I came here.”

  “I thought it was curious that you gave up a lucrative practice in exchange for the salary this parish pays you. But after reviewing your win/loss columns, I considered myself too lucky to have you on my side to start prying. Why bring it up now?”

  Cassidy began pacing the length of Crowder’s office. “As you said, I had a money-making practice going. I’d racked up an impressive number of wins, some in court, others in plea bargains. Either way, my clients were walking, and I was feeling pretty damn smug about it and very sure of myself.”

  “I know the type.”

  Cassidy nodded grimly to Crowder’s comment. “A particular client retained me to defend him. He was a bad-ass with a list of priors as long as my arm. He’d been sent up for assault but had served only a fraction of his sentence when he was released. A few weeks into his parole, he phoned me. He said I came highly recommended. Said he’d heard I wasn’t afraid of anything. Said he was confident I would see to it that he walked.”

  He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment, and added, “The hell of it was, Tony, I was confident of it too. I took his case. This time he’d been charged with sexual assault, although the woman had managed to get away before he could rape her.”

  He ceased pacing and stared out the window. “The victim was in her early twenties, pretty, good figure,” he began softly. “My client had accosted her when she came out of her office building at dusk. I didn’t have a prayer. He’d literally been caught with his pants down half a block from the scene. The prosecutor turned down all offers of a plea bargain. He wanted this guy behind bars. The case went to trail. All I could rely on was showmanship, and by then I had it down to a science,” he said, making a fist and squeezing hard.

  “I pulled out all the stops. By the time I got finished with that girl in cross-examination, the jury was convinced she was a whore who wore miniskirts to work in order to lure her male co-workers. I actually remember thinking how lucky I was that she was chesty because it substantiated my case. I made sure the jury’s attention was called to her breasts. Christ.”

  He rubbed his eyes, attempting to eradicate the disturbing mental picture of the sobbing young woman he’d stripped and assaulted on the witness stand. “I crucified her, ruined her reputation, painted her up to be a cock-teaser who had teased one cock too many and, as a result, got more than she’d bargained for.”

  He lowered his hand from his eyes and stared vacantly beyond the window blinds. “It was a brilliantly orchestrated defense. I kept the media apprised of the sordid details, then played their interest for all it was worth. If the jury brought in a guilty verdict, I could always reverse my position and say that my client had been tried in the press.

  “But they didn’t bring in a guilty verdict.” His voice reflected the puzzlement he still felt each time he thought about it. “The jury fell for my theatrics. They acquitted the son of a bitch.”

  “You were doing what you were paid to do,” Tony remarked.

  “That doesn’t excuse it.”

  “Half the law community would pat you on the back and envy your success.”

  “Success? Grossly manipulating the jury and abusing my role as defense attorney?”

  “So you went overboard,” Tony said. “It’s been, what, five years or better? Let it go, Cassidy. Excuse yourself for that one mistake.”

  “Maybe I could if that were all of it.”

  “Oh, hell.” Crowder leaned back, preparing himself for the worst.

  “Two weeks after his acquittal, my client abducted an eleven-year-old fifth-grader off her school playground and drove her to a deserted area of a city park; where he raped her, sodomized her, then strangled her with her training bra. And those were only the crimes that have legal names. The others were—are—unspeakable.”

  Crowder let several moments of strained silence lapse. “You closed your law office after that.”

  Cassidy turned away from the window and faced his superior. “Closed the office, shut down my life, relieved my wife of the stigma of being married to me, and left town. That’s when I came here.”

  “Where you’ve been damned diligent. A real asset to this office.”

  Cassidy shrugged, wondering if he would ever get over his feelings of inadequacy. Would he ever win a conviction that would atone for that young girl’s life? Would he ever be able to face her stricken parents and say, “Finally, I’ve made amends”? Never. But he would keep trying.

  “I won’t ever be negligent in my duty again, Tony. I’ll never let another psychopath slip through the cracks, never unleash a rapist/murderer onto an unsuspecting public, most of whom have a misplaced trust in us and the legal system.”

  “Their trust isn’t always misplaced. Every now and then we get the bad guy.”

  Cassidy put all his powers of persuasion into his gaze. “I’m not going to let you down, Tony, because I can’t let myself down. I swear I’ll deliver Wilde’s killer, no matter who it turns out to be.”

  Tony gnawed the inside of his cheek. “Okay, I’ll give you a couple of more weeks,” he said impatiently. “But consider your head on the chopping block with the ax hanging over it.”

  “I understand.” Now that the matter was settled, Cassidy saw no need to linger. Both would be uncomfortable if he groveled with gratitude.

  He headed for the door, but Crowder halted him. “Cassidy, I have to ask. If you uncover that missing element that indisputably links Claire Laurent to the murder, will it be a problem for you to prosecute when a conviction would mean mandatory life imprisonment for her?”

  Cassidy searched his soul, but he already knew the answer. “Absolutely not. I’d do it with no qualms whatsoever.”

  As he left the office, he pledged to uphold his promise to Claire, to Tony, and to himself. Under no circumstances would he let his personal interests interfere with his professional duty.

  He left the district attorney’s building and crossed the street to the police department. Howard Glenn was seated behind a battered, cluttered desk, reclining in a swivel chair, a telephone receiver cradled between his ear and his shoulder. Cassidy came to a halt at the very edge of the desk, his stare boring into Glenn.

  “We’ll talk later,” Glenn said into the receiver, then hung up.

  Cassidy said, “The next time you have a complaint about me, don’t tattle. Come straight to me with it. Man to man. I’d extend you that courtesy.”

  “I thought my superintendent—”

  “You thought wrong,” Cassidy said harshly. “I’m in control of my emotions, of my dick, and of this situation, and it pisses me off that you presumed to have my hands slapped. Don’t do it again. If you’ve got any problems with me, let’s hear them now.”

  Glenn maneuvered his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other while carefully gauging the A.D.A. “I’ve got no problems.”

  “Fine.” Cassidy checked his wristwatch. “It’s almost noon. I’ll meet you after lunch in my office and we’ll discuss our next course of act
ion.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The chimes of St. Louis Cathedral rang out as the bride and groom emerged beneath a hail of rice and good wishes from friends and family. Bridesmaids in frothy pink gowns gleefully battled over the tossed bouquet. The bride paused to kiss her weeping mother goodbye, while the grinning groom, impatient with the seemingly endless round of farewells, scooped the bride—lace gown, tulle veil, and all—into his arms and carried her to the long white limousine awaiting them.

  From behind the iron picket fence that enclosed Jackson Square, directly in front of the cathedral, Yasmine watched the romantic scene with a volatile mix of yearning and cynicism. That morning, she’d read in the society page that Congressman and Mrs. Alister Petrie would be attending the late afternoon wedding mass. Yasmine, who had arrived in New Orleans the night before, had walked from French Silk to the cathedral and posted herself behind the fence with the hope of catching a glimpse of her errant lover.

  Although she’d notified him of her arrival, he hadn’t contacted her. She had expected him to arrange an evening of lovemaking before she had to leave for the location shoot in Mississippi. She had kept a vigil over her telephone but hadn’t received a call last night or today.

  “Guess he was too busy getting ready for the wedding,” she muttered angrily as she watched the procession of well-turned-out guests file through the tall, narrow cathedral doors.

  But when she spotted him, her anger evaporated and her heart twisted with love and longing. He epitomized the American dream: a handsome, charming, successful man… with an adoring wife for garnish. Yasmine had seen Belle Petrie only in photographs. Alister’s wife was slight and blond, pretty in a pale, aristocratic sort of way, and not nearly as vapid as Yasmine had imagined.

  At the sight of Belle and Alister together, all the blood in Yasmine’s body seemed to rush to her head. It pulsated through her veins with envy. She felt it pounding in her brain, against her skull, the backs of her eyes, her eardrums.

  As Alister moved among the crowd, shaking hands and smiling, he appeared not to be as miserably unhappy as he claimed to be. On the contrary, he seemed complacent and content, a man who had the world wrapped around his little finger. Nor did Belle appear deprived of anything, especially marital bliss.