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.

*"You'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!"

When the roar of agreement from the crowd subsided, she continued. "Then the Devil used one of his demons to silence his staunchest foe, Reverend Jackson Wilde, with a bullet through his heart. But we won't be silenced!" she shouted, raising her thin arms and shaking her fists. "My beloved Jackson is with the Lord now. He's been granted a well-deserved rest and peace, praise the Lord."

"Praise the Lord!" the flock echoed.

"But my work isn't finished. I'll continue the crusade Jackson began. We'll ultimately win this war against the filth that would foul our hearts and minds! This ministry won't stop until America is swept clean of the offal that fills its theaters and bookracks, until museums supported by your tax dollars are rid of pornography that passes itself off as art. We're going to make this country an ideal for the rest of the world to follow, a country free of smut, a nation whose children are reared in an environment of purity and light."

A shout of approval went up. Policemen had a difficult time holding back the surging crowd. The camera angle widened to take in the entire chaotic scene. Ariel Wilde, seemingly spent and on the verge of collapse, was led away on the arm of her stepson. Wilde's entourage protectively closed ranks around her.

Random close-ups of the crowd showed faces streaked with tears, streaming eyes pinched shut in soulful anguish, lips moving in silent prayer. The mourning disciples linked arms and began singing in unison Jackson Wilde's theme song, "Onward, Christian Soldiers."

With a precise flick of his wrist, Tony Crowder switched off the set. "Damned hypocrites. If they're so concerned about the welfare of their children, why aren't they home with them teaching them the difference between right and wrong, instead of parading for a dead saint?" He sighed in exasperation and nodded toward the TV. "Are you sure you want to get involved in that mess, Cassidy?"

"Absolutely."

"Off the record, its gonna be a frigging three-ring circus, especially when the police start rounding up suspects."

"Which right now is limited to about six hundred people-everyone in and around the Fairmont Hotel last night."

"I'd whittle it down real quick-to the widow and stepson."

"They're tops on my list, too." Cassidy grinned engagingly. "Does this mean I have the case?"

"For the time being."

"Come on, Tony!"

"For the time being," the older man repeated loudly. "You're putting yourself in a hotspot, and it's bound to get hotter. I hate to think what will happen if you provoke Ariel Wilde. She's as loved and adored as her husband was. You might incite a riot if it ever comes down to arresting her for killing him."

"There'll be skirmishes, sure. I'm prepared." Cassidy returned to his chair and sat down. "I've taken heat before, Tony. It doesn't bother me."

"Doesn't bother you, hell. You thrive on it."

"I like to win." Cassidy locked gazes with his superior. His grin faded until his lips were a thin, firm line. "Which is the real reason I want this case, Tony. I'm not bullshitting you now. I need a win. I need one bad."

Crowder nodded, appreciating his protege's candor. "There are less volatile cases I could throw your way if a win's all you're looking for."

Cassidy shook his head. "I need a big win, and bringing Jackson Wilde's killer to justice is going to be one of the biggest legal coups of this year, if not the decade."

"So you're after headlines and coverage on the six o'clock news," Crowder said, regarding him with a frown.

"You know me better than that, so I decline to honor that comment with a rebuttal. Since this morning, I've taken a crash course on Jackson Wilde. I don't like what the preacher was or what he stood for. In fact I disagree with just about everything he advocated. His version of Christianity doesn't jive with the one I was taught in Sunday school."

"You went to Sunday school?"

Cassidy ignored that barb too and stuck with the point he was trying to make. "Whatever else Wilde was, he was a human being with a right to live to a ripe old age. Somebody denied him that right. Naked and defenseless, he was murdered by someone he trusted."

"How do you know that?"

"There wasn't a sign of forced entry on any of the doors into the suite. The locks hadn't been jimmied. So either the perp had a key or Jackson let him in. Apparently Jackson was lying in bed, either sleeping or talking to whoever killed him. He was a religious fanatic, possibly the most dangerous one since Rasputin, but he didn't deserve to have someone cold-bloodedly put a bullet through his brain."

"And heart and balls," Crowder added.

Cassidy's eyes narrowed. "That's quirky, isn't it? The shot to the head and the heart were already overkill. Why the balls, too?"

"The killer was pissed."

"Good and pissed. It smacks of self-indulgence, doesn't it? Female vengeance, for instance."

"You think the wife offed him? Like some others of his ilk, you think Wilde had a sweet young thing on the side and Ariel found out?"

"I don't know. I just have a strong hunch the killer was female."

"Why's that?"

"It only makes sense," Cassidy said. "If you were a woman and wanted revenge on a guy, isn't that where you'd shoot him?"

Claire was breathless by the time she reached her living quarters at the French Silk offices. She heard Yasmine and her mother talking together in another room, but she slipped down the hallway unnoticed and went directly to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Their arrival at French Silk had created a tumult among the reporters who had the building staked out. They had swarmed Yasmine and her the moment they alighted from the car. Claire was tempted to duck her head and dash inside but knew that avoidance would only prolong the inevitable. The media wouldn't leave until she made a statement. They would continue to be an impediment to her business, an annoyance to her neighbors, and possibly a source of anxiety to her mother.

Never sure of what Yasmine might say, Claire asked her to go inside and see that Mary Catherine was kept unaware of what was happening outside. After mugging for the cameras, Yasmine did as Claire requested.

Dozens of questions were shouted at Claire, but she caught only snatches of one before the next one was hurled at her. It was impossible to answer them all, and she wouldn't have anyway. Finally she held up her hands for silence. Speaking into the microphones directed at her, she said, "Although Reverend Wilde had proclaimed me a sinner and his enemy, I'm terribly sorry about his death. My heart goes out to his family."

She moved toward the entrance to French Silk, but her progress was blocked by the clamoring journalists.

"Ms. Laurent, is it true that despite his repeated invitations, you refused to debate Reverend Wilde?"

"They weren't invitations, they were challenges. I only wanted to be let alone to run my business."

"How do you respond to his allegations of-"

"I have nothing more to say."

"Who murdered him, Ms. Laurent?"

The question stopped Claire in her tracks. She gazed with stupefaction at the balding reporter who had rudely asked the question. Smirking, he met her stare unflinchingly. The others fell silent, expectantly awaiting her answer.

In that startling instant, Claire realized that her conflict with Jackson Wilde wasn't over. He was dead, but she wasn't free of him. Indeed, the worst might be yet to come. Why had the reporter asked her specifically about the murder? Did he have a reliable source in the police department? Had he heard rumors about possible suspects?