by Sandra Brown
“Okay, okay. What about Yasmine?”
“No one claims to have seen her. But if they were having a tryst, she would naturally keep a low profile. And if you enter the hotel by the side door, you can get to the elevators without having to go through the lobby.”
Cassidy shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “So it’s back to square one.”
“Not really,” Crowder said quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s so damn simple, Cassidy. It has been from the beginning. As we speak, your killer is sitting in your office.”
“Claire didn’t do it.”
Crowder stabbed the surface of his desk with his index finger. “She had the same motive as Yasmine, only stronger. She had opportunity because she can’t account for all of her time that night. We’ve got her voice on tape asking her friend at the Fairmont to lie for her. The fibers found at the crime scene match the carpet in her car. She had access to Yasmine’s gun and opportunity to replace it once she’d used it. My God, man, what more do you need?”
“She didn’t do it,” Cassidy said tightly.
“You’re that sure of her innocence?”
“Yes.”
“Sure enough to stake your career on it?”
Crowder’s secretary stuck her head around the door. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crowder, but she insisted on—”
The secretary was pushed aside by Ariel Wilde. As she sailed in, her pale hair rippled over her shoulders. She was dressed in a white suit, reminiscent of the robe she wore on her television show.
“Well, Mrs. Wilde, how nice of you to stop by,” Cassidy said caustically. “Have you met District Attorney Anthony Crowder? Mr. Crowder, Mrs. Ariel Wilde.”
She turned her frigid blue glare on Cassidy. “God is going to rain judgment on you. You’ve made a mockery of my husband’s murder.”
Cassidy’s eyebrows shot up. “Mockery? You want to talk mockery? What about the mockery you made of your marriage by having an affair with your stepson?”
“I no longer have a stepson. Influenced by you, he turned out to be a Judas. God will punish him, too.”
“How does God punish liars, Mrs. Wilde? Because you lied to me, didn’t you? The night your husband was killed, you left Josh’s room for a trip to your hotel suite around midnight.”
“Cassidy, what are you getting at?” Crowder asked.
“I found out a few days ago that Josh leased a Chrysler LeBaron convertible while he was in New Orleans. Coincidentally, it is similar to Claire Laurent’s and has the same type of carpet.”
“I came here to tell you—”
Cassidy didn’t give Ariel an opportunity to speak. “You rode in Josh’s rental car. You could have tracked the carpet fibers into your husband’s bedroom when you went in there to shoot him.”
“I could have tracked it in there anytime,” she cried. “Rather than finding my husband’s killer, you persist in torturing me and my unborn child.”
As though on cue, two reporters and one video photographer rushed past the flustered secretary and through the open door. Ariel cupped her abdomen with her hands. “If I lose my child, the guilt will rest on your head, Mr. Cassidy. From what I read in the newspapers, it appears as though my husband’s death is connected to that filthy catalog and the whore who posed in it!”
“Yasmine wasn’t a whore.”
That calm statement came from Claire, who unexpectedly appeared in the doorway.
Cassidy’s temper snapped again. “I told you to stay put.”
“Harlot!” Ariel shouted, pointing a finger at Claire.
“Everyone, vacate this office at once!” Crowder yelled. “Who let the media in here?” The video camera swung around to get a shot of the D.A.’s flushed, angry face.
Ariel bore down on Claire. Her eyes narrowed to malicious slits. “Finally we meet face to face.”
“I avoided it as long as possible.”
“ ‘The wages of sin are death,’ ” Ariel hissed.
“Exactly,” Claire replied. “That’s why your husband had to die.” She turned and looked directly into Cassidy’s eyes. “That’s why I had to kill him.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
From then on, everything happened so quickly that, later, Claire couldn’t recall the exact sequence of events.
Ariel Wilde dropped to her knees, raised her clasped hands toward heaven, and began loudly thanking God for wielding his mighty sword of justice.
Crowder bellowed for the security guards to clear his office.
The reporters thrust microphones toward Claire and began firing questions.
The video photographer planted his soiled sneakers in the seat of an expensively upholstered chair in order to get a better camera angle on the unfolding scene.
The secretary behind Claire shrieked, “Oh my God!” when she turned to see a throng of Wilde disciples swarming toward the office.
When Claire had time to reflect on those first tumultuous moments following her confession, the recollections were blurred images as though she had experienced them from behind a foggy window pane. One memory, however, stood out with painfully stark clarity—the way Cassidy looked at her.
A myriad of emotions flickered across his face. Disbelief. Remorse. Guilt. Befuddlement. Disillusionment. Pain. Yet, this kaleidoscope of reactions didn’t effect his stare, which remained steadfastly on her, glinting and hard.
It was broken only when one of Ariel’s followers jostled Claire from behind, and, in order to keep her balance, she had to grab the door jamb. Unchecked by security guards who hadn’t yet arrived, the crowd pressed in from behind.
Ariel ended her prayer and sprang to her feet, pointing an accusing finger at Claire. “She murdered my husband, one of this century’s outstanding spiritual leaders!”
The video cameraman had a hard time capturing it all on tape. The reporters continued to shout their questions into Claire’s face. Those outside the office undulated toward the door like a tidal wave, gaining momentum, going over and around the desks of secretaries, fighting Crowder’s staff and each other for better vantage points.
Claire’s name rippled through the crowd as word of her confession spread. It was repeated with mounting hatred. Within moments, the crowd resembled a lynch mob.
“It was her all along!” she heard a man shout.
“May her and French Silk be damned to eternal hell!”
The animosity escalated. The shouts became louder, the epithets meaner. Crowder ordered the reporters to leave. He yanked the video photographer from his perch. That unbalanced the camera on the man’s shoulder. It crashed to the floor, and he began angrily accusing Crowder of infringing on his first amendment rights.
Since the camera was no longer operative and therefore undamaging, Crowder ignored him and turned his attention to Ariel Wilde. “Get your flock out of here!”
“ ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,’ ” she cried, her eyes fanatically bright.
Cassidy, apparently galvanized to action by the increasing size of the crowd and their growing hostility, rushed toward Claire and wrapped his hand around her forearm. “If this keeps up they’ll tear her to pieces.” He had to shout to Crowder to make himself heard. “I’m getting her out of here.”
“Where are you taking her? Cassidy!”
That was the last Claire saw or heard of Crowder, because Cassidy threw his arm across her shoulders, turned her around, and began battling a path through the wall of malcontents.
“Clear this area! Get these people out of here!”
The secretaries and clerks responded to the authoritative ring in Cassidy’s voice and began making ineffectual attempts to disperse the crowd by nicely asking them to leave. The crowd wasn’t listening. Uniformed security guards finally converged on the scene and joined the melee, barking orders and issuing threats of imminent arrest that went unheeded.
It became obvious to Claire that Cassidy was trying to get her to the stairwell. But when they reache
d the marked exit, a burly Bible-thumper wearing a T-shirt that read GOD IS LOVE blocked the door and sneered at Claire. “You’ll burn in hell for what you did, sister.”
“Get out of our way or you’ll see hell a lot quicker than she does,” Cassidy threatened.
The man snarled, reached out and grabbed a handful of Claire’s hair, and pulled hard. Several strands were ripped from her scalp. Claire cried out in pain and instinctively raised her hands to protect her head.
Cassidy acted on instinct too. He rammed his fist into the man’s gut, then, when he doubled over, caught him beneath the chin with a blow that sent his head crashing back into the wall.
The people nearest them began to scream. In a matter of seconds full-fledged panic broke out. Cassidy yanked open the door and gave the center of Claire’s back a hard shove that sent her stumbling onto the landing.
He grabbed a security guard by the back of his collar and used him as a shield to block the exit. “Give me time to get her away from the building. Don’t let anyone through this door,” he shouted as he pulled the door closed. The guard, still unclear as to what was going on, nodded dumbly.
Cassidy gripped her hand and began running down the stairs. “Are you all right?”
Claire discovered that she was too frightened to speak. Like the bewildered guard, she nodded, but in his haste Cassidy didn’t even look back.
The stairs served as a fire escape and opened to the outside, so they were able to avoid the chaos occurring in the atrium lobby of the building. It was crawling with Jackson Wilde’s followers, confused employees, and those unfortunate enough to have business in the D.A.’s office that afternoon.
As soon as they were outside, Cassidy dragged her along behind him, around the rear of the building, toward where his car was parked on the opposite side. “Shit!” He halted so quickly, it jarred Claire’s teeth. “My car keys are on my desk.”
He didn’t waste a moment to think about it, but went in search of something to break the window. He returned precious seconds later with a loose brick from a nearby construction site. “Turn your head.”
He bashed the window with the brick, reached inside the shattered glass and unlocked the door, then barely gave Claire time to get in before slamming it behind her. She reached across the interior and opened the driver’s door for him.
“How are you going to start it?”
“The way the thieves do.”
While Claire brushed broken glass from the seat, he hotwired the car. Within minutes they had made their escape. Surrounding the city hall complex was a maze of one-way streets that required careful negotiation even by those who drove it every day. As he drove, Cassidy jerked his cellular phone off its stand and tossed the receiver into Claire’s lap.
“Call French Silk. Tell them to shut down for the day. Tell everybody to get the hell out and away from there.”
“They wouldn’t dare—”
“You saw them back there. God only knows what these maniacs will do when they hear you’ve confessed.”
Claire feared for her building and its costly inventory, but mostly for the safety of her employees. She fumbled with the rubberized digits on the transmitter. “My mother. I’ve got to get her to a safe place.”
“I’m thinking,” he said tautly as he raced through a yellow light.
Claire spoke to her secretary. “There’s been a new development in the Wilde case.” She cut her eyes to Cassidy; he glanced at her briefly. “It might be dangerous for French Silk to remain open today. Send everyone home. Yes, right now. Tell them not to report to work until notified, but assure them they’ll receive full pay. Secure the building. Quickly. Now, please patch me into the apartment phone.”
While that was being done, she said to Cassidy, “You have to take me home so I can see to my mother.”
“I can’t take you near that place, Claire. Ariel’s got a communication system more effective than any public utility. But you’re right, if they storm the building, it’ll be unsafe for Mary Catherine to be there.”
The thought filled Claire with panic. “You’ve got to take me to her now, Cassidy.”
“I can’t.”
“The hell you can’t.”
“Could she go home with Harry?”
“I’ve got to—”
“Don’t argue with me, goddammit! Can Harry take her home with her?”
He averted his eyes from the traffic long enough to look at her. Claire wanted to dispute him, but the suggestion was viable. She spoke tersely into the telephone. “Hello, Harry, it’s me. Listen closely.” Once she had made her request, she said, “I know it’s an imposition but I need to know that Mama’s safe and being well taken care of. Don’t alarm her. No, I’m sure you’ll handle it beautifully. But timing is vital. Get her out immediately. Yes, I’ll be careful. I’ll call later and let you know where I am.”
She replaced the telephone and sat stiffly, staring forward. Cassidy weaved through traffic, taking the streets in a random, zigzag pattern. He drove well but fast. His eyes remained in constant motion, moving from side to side like a mine sweeper.
“Shouldn’t you be taking me to the police station?”
“Later. When they’ve scattered the crazies and I don’t have to worry about losing you to some fanatic who wants an eye for an eye.”
“Then where are we going?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“You mean you don’t have a destination in mind?”
“About a dozen so far. I’ve discarded them all. I can’t take you to French Silk. Once they figure out you’re not there, they’ll look for you at my place.”
“There are hundreds of hotels and motels.”
“They’ll be checking the registration desks.”
“Even out of town?”
He shook his head no. “With a broken window, I can’t keep this car on the road for long. Too easy to spot.”
“Take me back.”
He made a scoffing sound. “Not likely. Even if you’ve got a death wish, I don’t.”
“I’ve confessed to murder, Cassidy. A felony. Every police officer in the state will be out looking for me. I don’t want to make matters worse by becoming a fugitive.”
“You’re not a fugitive as long as you’re in my custody. As soon as we get where we’re going, I’ll call Crowder. Once the coast is clear, I’ll take you to the sheriff’s office to be booked. Hopefully we can get you in before the press gets wind of it.” He shot her a quick glance. “Between now and then, I’ve got to make sure you’re not taken out by some bastard with a Bible in one hand and a sawed-off shotgun in the other.”
He wasn’t overdramatizing. She touched the sore spot on her scalp and shuddered when she remembered the hatred she had seen in the man’s eyes.
“Any ideas?” he asked. “Unfortunately I don’t own a fishing cabin, or a boat, or a place—”
“Aunt Laurel’s house,” Claire said suddenly. “It’s been closed up for years. Only a few people know I still own it.”
“Have you got a key with you?”
“No, but I know where one is hidden.”
She found the latchkey beneath the rock under the third camellia bush in the flower bed on the left side of the porch, where it had been secreted for as long as Claire remembered. Cassidy had expressed concern about leaving his car on the street in front of the house, so they parked it in the rear alley.
Entering the old townhouse was like stepping through a time warp. Although it had the close, musty odor of any unoccupied dwelling, Claire’s sense of smell was stirred by dozens of fond memories: Aunt Laurel’s rose sachet, pomander balls made of dried oranges spiked with cloves, dusty old lace, jasmine tea, and Christmas candles.
The entryway catapulted Claire’s childhood to the forefront of her mind. Some memories were as gauzy as the curtains that hung in the slender windows flanking the front door. Others were as vivid as the colors in the authentic Persian rug. Some were golden, like the butter-color
ed sunlight that cast dappled shadows on the walls. Others were as somber as the grandfather clock that had stopped ticking and stood tall and silent.
Cassidy shut the door behind them and relocked it, then peered through the curtains until he was satisfied that no one had followed them and that they hadn’t aroused the curiosity of nosy neighbors. Turning his back to the window, he surveyed his surroundings. Claire watched closely for his reaction, realizing that she wanted him to like and appreciate the house as she did.
“How long has it been since you were here?” he asked.
“Yesterday.” He shot her a stunned look and she smiled. “It seems that way.”
His eyes took a more detailed inventory of the two-story entry. “It looks like a granny’s house.”
“Did you have a granny, Cassidy?”
“Only one. On my mother’s side.”
“Did you have aunts and uncles and lots of cousins?”
“Assorted.”
“Hmm. I always wished for them.” She gave him a wistful smile, then asked him to follow her. “Let me show you the courtyard. That’s my favorite part of the house. Later I’ll take you upstairs.”
“What about a phone?”
“It was disconnected when we moved out.”
“I’ll have to use my car phone.”
“This minute?” she asked with disappointment.
“Not this minute, but soon, Claire.”
“I understand.”
He followed her through a formal dining room and a quaint kitchen into what she called the sun room. It had windows on three sides and was furnished in white wicker with floral chintz cushions that were comfortably sagged in their centers. The sun room opened onto the courtyard. Claire unlocked the French door, pushed it open, and stepped outside onto the ancient bricks.
“Over there where the double French doors are is the living room,” she said, pointing. “Or the parlor, as Aunt Laurel called it. Up above it, on the second floor, is my bedroom. Sometimes in the summer, when the mosquitoes weren’t too bad, Mama and Aunt Laurel would let me make a pallet there on the balcony. I loved falling asleep to the sound of the water trickling in the fountain. And in the morning I could smell fresh coffee and honeysuckle before opening my eyes.”