French Silk (3 page)

"Dead?"
Claire braked hard, pitching them forward.

"Deader'n a doornail, as my mama used to say."

Claire stared at her, whey-faced and incredulous, and repeated, "Dead?"

"Apparently he preached one sermon too many. He pissed off someone enough to kill him."

Claire nervously wet her lips. "You mean he was murdered?"

A furious driver gave a blast of his horn. Another made an obscene gesture as he steered around them and sped past. Claire forced her foot off the brake pedal and back onto the accelerator. The car lurched.

"What's the matter with you? I thought you'd be applauding. Do you want me to drive?"

"No. No, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. In fact you look like shit."

"I had a rough night."

"Mary Catherine?"

Claire shook her head. "Some bad dreams that have been keeping me awake."

"Dreams about what?"

"Never mind. Yasmine, you're sure about Jackson Wilde?"

"I heard it in the airport while I was waiting for my luggage. They had a TV on in the Avis booth. People were crowded around it. I asked somebody what was going on, expecting something like the
Challenger
explosion. This man says, 'That television preacher done got hisself shot last night.' And since I have a voodoo doll in the image of one particular television preacher, my interest was naturally piqued. I shoved my way closer to the set and heard the news for myself."

"Was he killed at the Fairmont?"

Yasmine looked at her curiously. "How'd you know that?"

"I heard that's where he was staying. From Andre."

"Andre. I forgot about him. Bet he's having conniptions this morning." Before Yasmine could comment further on their mutual friend, Claire asked another question.

"Who discovered the body?"

"His wife. She found him this morning in his bed with three bullet holes in him."

"My God. What time did she find him?"

"Time? Hell, I don't know. They didn't say. What difference does it make?" Yasmine took off her head scarf and shook loose the long, full Afro for which she was famous. From her oversized handbag she retrieved several bangles and slid them over her slender hands. Next, she put on gigantic disk earrings. With no more than these few cosmetic changes, the image of the most successful ethnic model since Iman began to emerge.

"Have they arrested anyone yet?"

"Nope." Yasmine applied coral gloss to her lips with a fine-tipped brush. After dusting her cheeks with blush, she viewed her exquisite face from all angles in the visor mirror.

Rush hour was over, but as always there was heavy traffic on the expressway. Claire weaved through it with the ease of experience and familiarity. She had lived in New Orleans all her life. Since Yasmine now divided her time between New Orleans and New York, Claire usually picked her up at the airport.

"Did the killer leave clues? Did they find the murder weapon?"

Impatiently Yasmine flipped the visor back into place. "It was like a news bulletin, you know? The details were sketchy. The reporters were after some guy from the D.A.'s office to make a statement, but he didn't say zip. What's with the twenty questions?"

"I can't believe he's dead." Claire hesitated before saying the last word, as though she couldn't bring herself to utter it. "He preached at the Superdome last night."

"They showed film of that on the news story. There he was on the TV screen, face red, white hair bristling, screaming about fire and brimstone. He pleaded with every American to get down on his knees and beg for redemption." Yasmine's sleek brows drew together. "How could the Lord hear anybody else's prayers with Wilde yelling so loud?" She shrugged. "I'm glad he's finally been shut up. Now he's out of our hair."

Claire sharply cut her eyes toward Yasmine. "You shouldn't say that."

"Why not? That's how I feel. I'm sure as hell not going to burst into tears and pretend to mourn his passing." She made a scoffing sound. "They should give the one who plugged him a medal for ridding this country of a pest."

The Reverend Jackson Wilde had used his television program as a forum for his crusade against pornography. He had adopted this issue as his special mission, pledging to eradicate obscenity from America. His fiery sermons had whipped thousands of his followers into a frenzy. Consequently, artists, writers, and others in the creative arts were being virulently and personally attacked, having their work banned and in some instances vandalized.

Many viewed the televangelist's crusade as a threat much more severe than the prohibition of peddling dirty magazines. They considered it an endangerment of rights granted by the First Amendment. The legal definitions as to what was obscene and what wasn't was unclear, and since the U.S. Supreme Court had been unsuccessful in establishing definite guidelines, Wilde's opponents naturally protested using his narrow opinion as the standard by which material was measured.

Warfare had been declared. In cities and towns, battles were being waged in movie theaters, bookstores, libraries, and museums. Those opposing Reverend Wilde found themselves lumped together and labeled "nonbelieving heathens." They were promoted as this era's heretics, witches, and pagans, anathema to every true believer.

Because the catalog for the lingerie line French Silk had fallen under Jackson Wilde's censure, Claire, as its creator, had been thrust into the unwelcome limelight. For months he'd lambasted the catalog, grouping it with hard core pornographic magazines. Yasmine had agreed with Claire's assertion that they should ignore Wilde and his ridiculous accusations rather than try to defend what neither felt needed defending.

But Wilde wasn't easily ignored. When his sermons failed to provoke the response he wanted—a televised debate—he'd used his pulpit to attack Yasmine and Claire personally, citing them as lewd, lascivious, contemporary Jezebels. His sermons against them had heated up even more when, a week earlier, he'd brought his crusade to New Orleans, home of French Silk. Yasmine had been in New York taking care of other business interests, so Claire had had to bear the brunt of Wilde's vicious insults.

That's why Yasmine was baffled by Claire's reaction to the news of his death. French Silk was Claire's brainchild. It had been her conception. Her business acumen, vivid imagination, and instinct for what the women of America wanted had made the mail-order business a stunning success. For Yasmine herself, it had prolonged a waning career. It had been her salvation, although even Claire didn't realize to what extent.

Now the bastard who had threatened to end all that was dead. To her way of thinking, it was cause for celebration.

Claire, however, saw it differently. "Since Wilde had labeled us his enemies, and considering that he was murdered, I don't think we should be heard gloating over his death."

"I've been accused of a lot of things, Claire, but never of being two-faced. I don't mince words. What I feel, I say. You were bred in a hothouse of gentility, while I was scraping and clawing to survive in Harlem. Me, I come on like gangbusters, while you barely flutter the air when you move. I've got a mouth as wide as the Lincoln Tunnel. Your voice would melt butter.

"But there's a limit to even your patience, Claire Louise Laurent. This preacher man was on your ass for almost a year, since the first time he trashed French Silk's catalog from his gilded pulpit. It was like having your baby publicly spanked for being a wicked child.

"You've withstood his narrow-minded censure with a poise and grace that did your southern heritage proud, but truthfully now, deep down, aren't you glad the pious son of a bitch is dead?"

Claire stared vacantly beyond her hood ornament. "Yes," she said quietly, slowly. "Deep down, I'm glad the son of a bitch is dead."

"Hmm. Well, maybe you'd better follow your own advice and think of something else to tell them."

"Them?" Claire snapped out of her trance, and Yasmine directed her attention to the next block. Several TV vans with satellite dishes were parked along Peters Street in front of French Silk. Reporters and video cameramen were milling around them.

"Damn!" Claire muttered. "I don't want to be involved in this."

"Well, brace yourself, baby," Yasmine said. "You were one of Jackson Wilde's favorite targets. Whether you want to be or not, you're involved up to your eyebrows."

Chapter 2

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"
Y
ou've failed to get convictions on your last three cases."

Cassidy had expected that argument. Even so, the criticism stung. Rather than showing his agitation, he assumed a self-confident air. "We knew going in that those three cases were weak, Tony. In each one, all the defense attorneys had to do was say, 'Prove it.' I did the best I could with what little evidence I had, and you damn, well know that."

District Attorney Anthony Crowder crossed his stubby, hairy hands over his vest and leaned back in his leather desk chair. "This conversation is premature. The police haven't even made an arrest yet. It might be months before they do."

Cassidy stubbornly shook his head. "I want to work alongside them on the investigation to make certain something vital doesn't slip through the cracks."

"Then I'll have the police commissioner on my back for your butting in on what should be a matter strictly for his department." .

"I'm glad you mentioned the P.C. You're buddies. Have a talk with him. See if you can get Howard Glenn on the Wilde case."

"That seedy—"

"He was first on the scene, and he's good. The best."

"Cassidy…"

"Don't worry about me overstepping my bounds. I'll exercise all my powers of diplomacy."

"You don't have any powers of diplomacy," the district attorney reminded him. "Since you joined this office five years ago, you've done some good work, but generally speaking you have been a pain in the butt."

Cassidy grinned confidently, unfazed by Tony Crowder's gruff put-down. He knew how the D.A. really felt about him. Unofficially he was Crowder's heir apparent. When his current term was up next year, he planned to retire. It was tacitly understood that Cassidy would get first crack at Crowder's office and his endorsement. He might exasperate the older man, but Crowder recognized in Cassidy the same combination of ambition and grit that had once characterized and driven him.

"I've prosecuted and won more cases for you than any other lawyer in the department," Cassidy said without false modesty.

"I know that," Crowder snapped. "You don't have to remind me. But you've also caused me more trouble."

"You can't accomplish anything if you're seared of making waves."

"In your case
tidal
waves."

Cassidy sat forward and fixed Crowder with a compelling stare. His steady gray eyes had intimidated reluctant witnesses, impressed cynical judges, swayed skeptical jurors, and, in his private life, made sweet talk superfluous. "Give me this case, Tony."

Before Crowder could verbalize his decision, his secretary poked her head around the door. "Ariel Wilde is holding a press conference. It's' being broadcast live on all the TV stations. Thought you might be interested." She withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Crowder reached for the remote control on his desk and switched on the TV set across the room.

The widow's pretty, pale features appeared on the screen. She looked as frail and defenseless as a refugee angel, but there was steely conviction behind her voice. "This tragedy will not put an end to my husband's crusade against the Devil's handiwork." That won her a chorus of amens from the faithful followers who were pressing against the ranks of security people, reporters, and photographers surrounding her.

"Satan knew we were winning this battle. He had to take desperate measures. First he used this corrupt city as a tool against us. City officials refused to provide my husband the 'round-the-clock protection he requested."

"Oh shit," Crowder said, groaning. "Why'd she have to blame the city? The whole damn world is watching."

"Nobody knows that better than she does." Cassidy left his chair, sliding his hands into his trousers pockets as he moved closer to the television set.

As eloquent tears trickled down her ivory cheeks, the widow continued her speech. "This beautiful city is rank with sin and corruption. Take a walk down Bourbon Street if you want to see the stranglehold the Devil has on New Orleans. Jackson Wilde was a conscience, whispering into the ear of this city that it had become a moral cesspool, a slimy reservoir for crime and immorality.

"Other than these few here who have come to lend support and mourn his passing, local officials resented Jackson for his divinely inspired honesty." The camera panned a somber group that included a judge, a congressman, and several city officials.

Crowder made a rude sound. "Politicians."

"Some thought Jackson Wilde and voters made good bed-fellows."

"I'd rather fuck a goat," Crowder grumbled.

"My husband was treated with an indifference that bordered on hostility," Ariel Wilde cried. "That indifference to his safety cost him his life!"