French Silk (30 page)

"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 action."

Chapter 14

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T
he 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 fate 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.

Yasmine could barely contain herself. Her first impulse was to rush through the gates and brutally attack the man who had turned her into a woman so desperate and jealous that she was reduced to spying. Imagine the shock of the formally attired, bejeweled wedding guests if she were to publicly expose Alister Petrie, the best among them, as a lying adulterer. Could she ever regale them with lurid accounts of what he did in bed!

But she couldn't cause a scene without exposing herself as a jealous fool, and she wasn't prepared to do that. She was clinging tenaciously to a few shreds of pride, even though it would have been immensely satisfying to witness Alister's mortification.

She was somewhat mollified when he spotted her. He did a comical double take. His smile collapsed. Appalled disbelief caused his features to go slack. For several moments his jaw hung open, making him look stupid.

As she moved along the fence, Yasmine kept her stare fixed on his fearful eyes. When she passed through the gate, he looked ready to bolt. She took perverse pleasure in moving straight toward him. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips. She got close enough to see sweat popping out on his forehead. At the last possible moment she angled off, walking away from him at no wider a margin than ten degrees.

She took Chartres Street uptown. Although she wanted to gauge Alister's reaction to the close call she'd given him, she didn't glance back once.

Claire and Mary Catherine were eating dinner when she arrived at French Silk. Claire apologized for not waiting for her. "There's so much to do before leaving tomorrow, I wanted to get dinner out of the way early."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not hungry." Yasmine didn't break stride until she reached her bedroom door, which she soundly closed behind her to discourage a visit from Claire.

Having reached the sanctity of her room, the tears that she had stubbornly withheld welled up in her eyes. For the next hour and a half she vacillated between red rage and black despair. One minute she fantasized killing Alister slowly and painfully while his wife watched. The next, she fantasized making love to him until thoughts of all else were obliterated.

Emotionally spent, she lay on her bed, her forearm over her eyes. There was a discreet knock on her door. "I don't want to talk right now, Claire," she called out.

"I wouldn't have bothered you, but something just arrived for you."

"What?" She lowered her arm and sat up. "A delivery?"

"Yes."

Yasmine padded barefoot to the door and opened it a crack. Claire extended her along, slender, flat box. Ignoring Claire's sympathetic expression, she took the box, thanked her, and closed the door. The box contained a single Sterling rose nestled amid green tissue paper. It was a perfect, flawless bloom of smoky lavender petals. The sweetness of the gesture pierced her soul like a thorn. Mewling with heartache, she cradled the rosebud against her chest and fell back on the pillows, weeping.

Several minutes later the ringing telephone roused her. She rolled toward the nightstand and lifted the receiver. "I just got it," she said, knowing even before he identified himself who the caller was.

"Darling."

The sound of his voice precipitated another bout of tears. "I thought you'd be furious with me for stalking you," she said.

"I was, at first," he admitted.

"You looked like you'd just swallowed a golf ball when you spotted me through the fence."

"If the bride had reached out and grabbed my nuts, I couldn't have been more astonished." They laughed together softly. Then he said, "I can't blame you for spying, Yasmine. I've been a pig. My time and energy have been consumed by my reelection campaign. I'm so damned busy. Everybody pulling on me in a thousand different directions. I've neglected you. Out of necessity, but… What I'm saying is, I'm sorry. Be patient with me, darling. When the election is over things will be different. You'll see."