by Sandra Brown
“So now you’re saying that the watch lying on top of the Bible wasn’t a Rolex?”
“It might have just looked like one to me.”
A smile spread slowly across Cassidy’s face. “It was a Rolex, all right. But there was no Bible.”
Claire gasped softly.
Crowder grunted.
Cassidy leaned in closer to her. “Claire, you didn’t kill Jackson Wilde, did you? Before yesterday, you had dozens of opportunities to confess.”
“But I never denied it, did I? Think back. You accused me of it repeatedly, but I never once denied it.”
“In principle. That’s like you. It’s also like you to confess in order to protect someone else.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I killed him.”
“You’ve got to trust me. For once, dammit, you’ve got to trust me enough to tell the truth.”
She tried to concentrate only on the earnestness in his voice and the compelling facets of his eyes, but what he represented blocked out everything else. He reminded her of the social workers who had claimed to be doing what was best for little Claire Louise. They had asked for her trust even while dragging her from Aunt Laurel’s house with her mother screaming and in tears.
“Claire, do you love me?”
Tears spilled over her eyelids and ran down her cheeks, but she refused to answer him because the truth might trap her.
“You can’t really love me if you can’t trust me. You were right last night, you know. I could never have made love to you if I were convinced you were the killer. But I’m convinced that you’re not. I swear to you that everything will turn out all right if you’ll tell me the truth now.”
The words wanted to be spoken. They were dammed up in her throat. But she was afraid. By telling him the truth, she would be entrusting her life to him. More important, she’d be entrusting the life of one she loved to him. Those one loved were more important than the truth, weren’t they? People were more valuable than ideals. People were more valuable than anything.
“Claire.” He squeezed her fingers until the bones ached. “Trust me,” he whispered urgently. “Trust me. Did you kill Jackson Wilde?”
She was perched on a precipice and he was urging her take a leap into the unknown. If she loved him, she had to believe that her landing would be gentle and safe. If she loved him, she had to trust him.
And looking into his face, she knew unequivocally that she loved him.
“No, Cassidy,” she said, her voice cracking emotionally. “I did not.”
His tension snapped. His head dropped forward between his shoulders, and he remained bent over their clasped hands for several silent moments. Finally Crowder asked, “Why did you confess to a murder you didn’t commit, Ms. Laurent?”
Cassidy raised his head. “She was protecting her mother.”
“No!” Claire’s wide, disbelieving eyes followed him as he stood up. “You said—”
“Everything will be all right, Claire,” he said, touching her cheek. “But I have to tell Tony everything you told me last night.”
Claire hesitated, then nodded. Cassidy turned to Crowder and bluntly stated, “Jackson Wilde was Claire’s father.”
Crowder listened in stunned, absorbed silence while Cassidy related the story of Mary Catherine’s seduction and abandonment by the sidewalk preacher Wild Jack Collins.
“As the investigation progressed, Claire came to believe that in a lucid moment, Mary Catherine had recognized Wilde and connived to kill him. Her suspicions were confirmed when we determined that Yasmine’s .38 had been the murder weapon. Mary Catherine had access to it, and she sometimes ‘borrows’ things and later replaces them.” He told Crowder about the incident with his fountain pen at Rosesharon.
“Yesterday Claire was afraid I would remember that and put two and two together, just as she had, so she quickly confessed to throw me off track.”
Crowder exhaled a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. He fixed his most intimidating frown on Claire. “Is Cassidy’s assumption correct?”
She glanced up at Cassidy, who gave her a terse nod. Trusting him came more easily this time. She reached for his hand. He firmly clasped hers.
“Yes, Mr. Crowder,” she admitted quietly. “Shortly after the murder, Yasmine mentioned to me that her gun had been missing but had mysteriously reappeared. That was when it first occurred to me that Mama might have taken it, used it, then replaced it. She had been in the Fairmont Hotel that night and showed more than a passing interest in the news stories about Jackson Wilde and the murder case.”
“But you didn’t tell Cassidy any of this.”
“No. In fact, each time Ariel Wilde brought my mother’s name up, I panicked. I was afraid that someone, particularly Mr. Cassidy, might discover that Jackson Wilde was her long lost lover, which would certainly provide her with motivation to kill him. I thought of taking legal action to silence Mrs. Wilde, but was advised by an attorney that litigation would only spark more interest. I wanted to avoid that at all costs.”
“You could be charged with obstruction of justice.”
“I would protect my mother with my dying breath, Mr. Crowder. She poses no threat to the rest of society, and I don’t sit in judgment of her for taking her revenge on Wild Jack Collins.”
“You figured that after a while Cassidy would give up, call off the investigation, and the case would go unsolved.”
“I was hoping that’s the way it would be.”
“What if we’d convicted somebody else?”
“It would never have happened. You had no evidence.”
“You had it all thought out, I see,” he said, regarding her with a degree of admiration.
“All but one element. I didn’t think that Yasmine’s gun would ever be fired again.” She glanced down and touched the bracelet around her wrist. “When Cassidy told me that it was the weapon that had been used to kill Wilde, I confessed so that my mother wouldn’t fall under suspicion.”
She looked at Crowder imploringly. “She can’t be held accountable. She doesn’t even realize she’s done anything wrong. It would be like a child killing a scorpion that’s stung him and caused tremendous pain. She probably doesn’t even remember now that—”
“Claire, you don’t have to worry about Mary Catherine,” Cassidy said. “She didn’t kill Wilde.” His confident statement took them by surprise.
“How do you know?” Crowder asked.
“Because he was shot by Congressman Alister Petrie.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“This is getting silly.”
Belle Petrie, who was making her bed, gave her husband a quizzical glance. “What’s silly, dear?”
Petrie felt an almost overwhelming urge to piss on the carpet, send the étagère full of Baccarat crystal crashing to the floor, or place his hands around her throat and choke the life out of her. He wanted to do something rash to destroy the cool scorn with which his wife had been treating him.
“I’m getting tired of sleeping in the guest room, Belle,” he said testily. “How much longer am I going to be condemned to marital Siberia? I’ve admitted to being a naughty boy, so when will you permit me to sleep in my own goddamn bed?”
“Lower your voice. The children will hear you.”
He lunged at her, knocked the decorative bolster pillow from her hand, and took her roughly by the shoulders. “I’ve apologized a thousand times. What more do you want?”
“I want you to let go of me.” The words were as sharp and brittle as icicles. Coupled with the arctic glint in her eyes, they served to dismantle Alister’s temper tantrum. He released her and stepped back.
“I’m sorry, Belle. This last month has been a living nightmare.”
“Yes. I imagine that having your mistress blow her brains out in front of your daughter could put a wrinkle in your month.”
“Christ. You won’t give an inch, will you?”
He’d apologized repeatedly for his affair an
d its ghastly denouement. So far, his apologies hadn’t made a dent in Belle’s tough armor. The marital harmony that had been briefly reestablished when he broke off the affair with Yasmine had been shattered again by her sensationalized suicide. When her revolver was linked to the Wilde murder, he’d panicked and thrown himself on Belle’s mercy, pleading for her help.
“I’ve done everything you told me to do, Belle,” he said now. “I confessed my affair to Tony Crowder and that Cassidy character.” Petrie’s eyes turned dark. “If I can help it, he’ll never get that D.A.’s office. Smug son of a bitch. You should have heard the way he talked to me. He attacked me physically!”
She appeared singularly unsympathetic.
“Okay, so I got myself in a mess. We had to stop Cassidy’s investigation before my affair with Yasmine became public. In order to do that, I called in a favor from Crowder. I didn’t like standing there in front of them with my pants down, but I did it because you advised me to, and, in retrospect, I think it was good advice. Crowder ordered Cassidy to redirect his investigation, pronto. In a day or two no one will remember Yasmine’s suicide because everyone’s attention will be on that Laurent broad’s confession. Now, can’t we drop this subject once and for all? Can I sleep in my own bed tonight?”
“You never told me she was black.”
“What?”
“Your mistress was black.” Belle’s fists were clenched at her sides. Her nostrils flared with indignation and disgust. “It’s humiliating to both of us that you had to find your fun outside this bedroom. But to think of the father of my children sleeping with a… Did you kiss her on the mouth? Oh, God!” She rubbed the back of her hand across her lips in a scrubbing motion. “The thought of it makes me sick. You make me sick. That’s why I don’t want you in my bed.”
Alister didn’t like being upbraided like a twelve-year-old caught jerking off. He’d suffered enough humiliation yesterday in the D.A.’s office, so he struck back. “If you knew just half the sex tricks Yasmine did, I wouldn’t have had a mistress in the first place. Black, white, or any other color.”
Belle’s eyes drilled into his. She didn’t raise her voice, but her soft-spoken tone was more sinister than a shout. “Watch yourself, Alister. You’ve committed a series of monumental blunders. Left to your own devices, you probably would have dug yourself in so deep you couldn’t get out. But thanks to my quick thinking, you walked away from your mistakes unscathed.”
She turned and took something from the nightstand drawer. “I’m curious about the misdeeds you’ve committed that haven’t yet come to light.” She tossed the small object in the air, flipping it end over end like a coin. “You see, I know that you had words with Reverend Wilde the day of his death. Despite appearances, the two of you weren’t on the best of terms when you joined him on the podium that night.”
She caught the object in her hand and looked down at it musingly as she continued. “If I discovered your mistress, perhaps the reverend had, too. You’re not smart enough to hire someone discreet to do your dirty work for you. You might have been stupid enough to take matters into your own hands, tried to solve your problem without guidance, which we both know you desperately need.”
Alister watched as she replaced the matchbook, bearing the logo of the Fairmont Hotel, in her bedside drawer. “I hope I’m wrong, but I suspect that you eagerly grasped my idea to confess to your mistress only to cover up an uglier transgression.
“If that’s so, then heed this warning. I’m through with covering up for your mistakes, Alister. For instance, if Mr. Cassidy came to me with questions about that night, I would be forced to tell him that I had called your room at the Doubletree repeatedly and received no answer. To protect myself and my children, I would be pressed to show him that matchbook.”
Her voice turned cold. She pointed her finger at him. “I’m giving you fair warning—if you get out of line again, I’ll divorce, disgrace, and disinherit you. Once my family and I are finished with you, you’ll be lucky to get a job skimming out cesspools.
“You’re being placed on probation, dear,” she said with saccharine sarcasm. “In public, you’ll be the shining example of truth, justice, and the American way. You’ll be a devoted husband and a doting father, a smiling, sterling pillar of virtue and integrity.
“After a while, you might earn back your place in my bed. Until the time I deem you worthy, don’t even ask to rejoin me there. I can’t bear the thought of having your hands on me. Do I make myself clear?”
“As a bell,” he replied flippantly. “No pun intended.”
He marched from the room, slamming the door behind him. Who needed her arid, sterile bed, he asked himself angrily as he returned to the guest room to finish dressing. She was so stiff and dry, he’d just as soon fuck a corn husk.
He relished his anger. It kept him from acknowledging his fear, which was insidiously lurking in the dark shadows of his mind like a rat, waiting for an opportune time to dart out and seize him.
Not for a single second did he doubt Belle’s threat of exposure and desertion if he messed up again. Nor did he question her ability to ruin him if she so desired. She had not only the impetus of a woman scorned to motivate her, she had the muscle and the money behind her to make good her threats.
She liked being a congressman’s wife. It elevated her, gave her prestige. But, hell, with her fortune, she could buy herself a judge or a governor or even a senator if she wanted one. In other words, Alister Petrie could be replaced. What if Cassidy hadn’t bought his story? What if he did question Belle?
That possibility made his knees weak and his bowels loose. He stumbled to his unmade bed and sat down on the edge of it, holding his throbbing head in his hands. Belle had him by the short and curlies, and she damn well knew it. The bitch.
What could he do about it?
For the time being, nothing except wait. He’d had several close calls. Belle was still on his side, but for how long? Only as long as her cushy position in the world wasn’t threatened. God forbid it ever was.
All he could do now was hope to sweet Jesus that Claire Laurent’s phony confession stuck.
Cassidy’s stunning statement brought Crowder to his feet. “Have you lost your frigging mind? Pardon me, Ms. Laurent.”
Claire didn’t notice his crude language. She was in shock, coupled with profound relief. Her mother wasn’t a suspect! But Alister Petrie?
“I know it sounds crazy,” Cassidy said, “but when I lay out all the facts, you’ll begin to see, as I did, that Petrie is guilty of killing Jackson Wilde.”
“You’re just pissed off at him,” Crowder said. “A word of advice, Cassidy—don’t mess with him. He’s poison.”
“You’re making my case for me, Tony.”
“Petrie’s got enough money supporting him to float a battleship.”
Cassidy held up both hands. “His wife has the money. And Petrie was using it to pay off Wilde.”
Crowder resettled his bulk in his chair. “Pay off Wilde? You mean Wilde was blackmailing him?”
“Look at this.” Cassidy produced the list of Wilde’s contributors. “Glenn gave this to me yesterday right before all hell broke loose. I forgot about it when Claire confessed and didn’t have an opportunity to look at it until early this morning. But by then it only proved what I’d already figured out.”
“It doesn’t prove a damn thing,” Crowder said, grouchily flicking his hand at the sheets of paper.
“Listen to me, Tony. Several people, and more than a handful of companies, were funneling ‘offerings’ into Wilde’s ministry. Glenn has found several who’ll testify that it was hush money.”
“Joshua virtually admitted to me that his father took bribes in exchange for absolution,” Claire told Crowder.
“He admitted it to me, too,” Cassidy said. “This Block Bag and Box Company is a pissant business owned by Petrie’s wife’s family. Right after they married, he was made president of the corporation, but it’s a figurehead p
osition from which he draws a handsome monthly salary. It also gives him access to the company books and the authorization to sign checks.”
Cassidy pointed to the printed material lying on Crowder’s desk. “Why in hell would Block Bag and Box Company contribute over a hundred thousand dollars to a televangelist’s ministry, Tony? It started with a check for five thousand dollars, dated almost a year ago. The amounts increased in increments.”
“Somebody else would have reviewed the books.”
“If anybody questioned him about it, Petrie probably passed off the contributions as needed tax deductions. Who’s going to cross the owner’s son-in-law?”
Crowder gnawed his lower lip. “What was Wilde blackmailing him for? They kissed each other’s ass.”
“Publicly. Because it behooved both of them. My guess is that Wilde knew about Petrie’s affair with Yasmine and threatened to expose it.”
Claire said, “Yasmine told me several times that Petrie secretly disliked Jackson Wilde. He only used him to win votes.”
“Petrie had access to Yasmine’s gun, Tony. He could have taken it, used it that night, and then replaced it during a rendezvous. I’m sure he’d be smart enough to wear gloves or wipe off the fingerprints.”
“How’d he get into Wilde’s suite?”
“Maybe Wilde was expecting Petrie to deliver another ‘offering,’ ” Cassidy said caustically. “He would have had no qualms about admitting Petrie to his room late at night.”
“Naked?” Claire asked.
“It was documented in the newspapers that they had exercised together at a local health club that afternoon. Wilde wouldn’t have been self-conscious about his nudity.” Cassidy turned to Crowder. “Yesterday, I moved to that window,” he said, pointing. “I watched as Petrie left the building. His entourage hustled him into a van. It’s white with blue interior. It’s a Chrysler van, Tony.”
Claire’s mind was clicking along faster than Crowder’s. “The carpet in that van would match my LeBaron’s,” she said excitedly.
“Most probably. Petrie had been in that van the night Wilde was killed. He tracked the fibers into Wilde’s bedroom. If we get carpet fibers from that van, I’m betting they’ll match those taken from the scene.”