"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.

*The 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."

"You and Belle look so happy together, Alister," she remarked as she slowly wound the telephone cord around her finger. His apology had sounded sincere, but she couldn't dismiss the happy picture he and his wife had made as they stood hand in hand in front of the church.

"I suppose she is happy," he said. "She doesn't have the same passions that I do. That we do. Since I stopped making love with her, she doesn't even miss it. All she ever wanted was a successful husband and beautiful children. She's got that. She doesn't know what real passion is. God," he moaned. "There's no comparison between you, Yasmine. You've got to know that."

"No, there's no comparison. She's got you and I don't."

"I reside with her," he said evenly. "She doesn't have my heart. It's not her I think about every hour of the day. I want to be with you right now."

"I'll meet you," she offered eagerly.

"I can't. We're involved in this wedding shit for the rest of the evening. Following the reception, there's an after-party and an even more intimate gathering after that. It's essential that I mingle with these people. They're influential. Three-fourths of the money in Louisiana is represented here tonight. I only sneaked away long enough to order the rose for you and to call."

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Alister," she said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. "I'll be in Mississippi for at least a week."

After a slight pause he said, "Next Thursday night. Can you make a round trip to New Orleans?"

"Yes. Rosesharon is only a two-hour drive from here. It'll be a long night for me, but I've got to see you."

"Thursday then."

After finalizing their plans, Yasmine said breathlessly, "I can't wait."

"Neither can I, but right now I've got to go. Belle will start missing me. This call was supposed to be a quick business call."

"I love you, Alister."

"Oops, there she is. She's signaling for me to rejoin the party. See you next Thursday."

He didn't even say goodbye before hanging up. Dejectedly Yasmine replaced the telephone. For a long while she sat on the edge of her bed, staring vacantly, immobilized by despair. Never in her life had she felt more blue. Even the rose could no longer cheer her. She'd hugged it so tightly, it was already beginning to wilt.

She finally mustered enough energy to move to her dresser, where she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Even the crying hadn't marred the perfection of her face. She studied her image objectively, then asked, "Why the hell are you putting yourself through this, you dumb bitch?"

It wasn't fair. Alister was at a party, laughing, drinking champagne, dancing, surrounded by people who thought he was bloody marvelous. Here she was: Yasmine, goddess of fashion runways and magazine covers, weeping alone. "What's wrong with this picture?" she asked her reflection.

Men were bastards. All men. From the abusive father who had deserted her mother when Yasmine was still in diapers, to her current lover, they were sorry, low-down, scummy sons of bitches who rarely had to account for their actions. Seldom did one get his just desserts.

Of course there were exceptions. Once in a blue moon one got the punishment he richly deserved. Like Jackson Wilde.

Claire was clearing away the dinner dishes when she heard Mary Catherine cry out. Dropping the sponge into the sink, Claire ran from the kitchen into the living room. Mary Catherine was sitting in an easy chair reading the evening edition of the Times Picayune. All the color had drained from her face. Her hands were trembling.

"Mama!" Claire cried in alarm. "What is it?" She rushed to Mary Catherine and caught the newspaper as it slipped from her lifeless fingers. "My God," Claire whispered after reading only a few paragraphs of the front-page story. She lowered herself onto the arm of her mother's chair.

"Does Mr. Cassidy think you killed Reverend Wilde, Claire?"

"He's only doing his job, Mama."

"Did he kiss you?"

"What does it matter?" Claire asked bitterly. "It's been reported that he did."

Mary Catherine covered her face with her hands. "This is all my fault. My sins are reflecting on you. If I hadn't sinned-"

"Mama, stop that!" Claire drew her mother's hands away from her ravaged face. "You were young. You fell in love and gave of yourself. You weren't the sinner. You were sinned against."

"But it says in the newspaper that because of your upbringing you would try seducing the prosecutor to stay out of trouble. Oh, Claire, I'm sorry. I never wanted anyone to judge you by what I did."

"This," Claire said, flicking her hand at the newspaper, "is the handiwork of a wicked, vicious, spiteful woman. Ariel Wilde is trying to make me look guilty in order to turn the attention away from herself. Mrs. Wilde doesn't know you or me. What difference does it make what she thinks of us? Let her believe what she wants to."

"But other people, Mr. Cassidy..." Her face reflected her torment. In a fast, hushed voice she whispered, "If only he'd come for me as he said he would. I was there, on time, with my things. I'm sure it was today he said we were to meet. But he wasn't there and-"

"Listen, Mama." Claire hastily hunkered down in front of the chair and clasped Mary Catherine's hands. "I just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you come to Mississippi with us tomorrow?"

"Mississippi?"

"Yes. For a vacation. Wouldn't you enjoy a few days away?" Mary Catherine's troubled face began to relax. Claire pressed her point. "Harry can come along to keep you company while I'm working. Please come. I want you there with me."

Mary Catherine coyly laid her hand against her throat, looking as flustered as a wallflower who's just been asked to dance. "Well, Claire Louise, if you really need me there..."

"I do, Mama." Claire stood and assisted Mary Catherine to her feet. She whisked the newspaper out of sight. "Start choosing what you want to take with you. I'll call Harry and have her spend the night here. We'll get an early start in the morning. I've rented a van so there'll be plenty of room. We'll stop for breakfast somewhere along the way. Oh, this will be a lovely trip! It's been ages since we went away together."

"Yes, ages," Mary Catherine said as she drifted toward her room. "I'll take that new afternoon dress."

"By all means. You look beautiful in that shade of blue." As soon as Mary Catherine disappeared into her room, Claire snatched up the evening newspaper and read the infuriating article. It was trash, but it effectively planted in the reader's mind that Claire Laurent, publisher of the scandalous French Silk catalog, was a hussy who had tried seduction as a means of avoiding a murder rap.

Claire tried to locate Cassidy by telephone but was unsuccessful. After cooling down a bit, she reasoned that it was just as well she didn't speak with him. He wouldn't be enjoying the notoriety either. It would be better for them to handle this situation individually rather than as a team, which would only fuel Ariel's hints of an unethical and highly improper affair.

She called Harriet York, informed her of the change in plans, then checked with the proprietors of Rosesharon to make certain they had another bedroom available. As soon as Harry arrived, Claire left her to help Mary Catherine pack while she went downstairs to her workroom to place a long-distance call. She caught her business attorney in New York on his way out to dinner, but he patiently listened while she read him the majority of the newspaper article.

"I warned her not to slander me again," Claire told him when she finished reading. "She's waving a red flag in my face, daring me to sue her."

"That's what worries me," the lawyer said. "She wants to prolong her feud with you and take advantage of the publicity it generates. She's got nothing to lose by pursuing it. You, on the other hand, abhor publicity. Unless you want your private life exposed even more than it already has been-"

"I don't."