*The building was located on North Peters Street, one block from where it merged with Decatur. It was last in a row of scarred brick warehouses that had thus far withstood the path of progress in this old industrial district of the French Quarter. Most of the buildings, including the nearby Jax Brewery, had been gutted and redeveloped into fashionable eateries and shopping malls.

The renovation had resulted in a discordant blending of authentic New Orleans with crass commercialism. The oldtimers, who wished to preserve the mystic atmosphere of the Vieux Carre considered such commercialization an abomination, a desecration of the district's uniqueness. Those who clung to it did so with tenacity and defiance, as the facade of French Silk evinced.

The ancient bricks had been painted white, although the side of the building that was exposed to the intersecting street bore the cruel marks of age. In keeping with Creole architecture, there were glossy black shutters on all the windows. Black grillwork simulating balconies had been added to the second and third floors. Above the entrance, suspended from twin black chains, was a discreet sign bearing the name of the business written in cursive.

Cassidy soon discovered, however, that the front door was also a facade and that the real entrance to the warehouse was a heavy metal door on the Conti Street side of the building. He depressed the button and heard a loud school bell ringing inside. A few seconds later the door was opened.

"What do you want?" The woman who confronted him was built like a stevedore. RALPH, spelled out in blue letters and centered in a red heart, had been tattooed on her forearm. Her upper lip was beaded with perspiration that clung to the hairs of a faint mustache. She looked no more like she belonged in a lingerie factory than a linebacker did at a debutante ball. Cassidy's heart went out to Ralph.

"My name is Cassidy. Are you Claire Laurent?"

She uttered a sound like a foghorn. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"No. I'm looking for Claire Laurent. Is she here?"

She gave him a suspicious once-over. "Just a minute." Propping the door open with her foot, she picked up a wall-mounted telephone and pressed two digits on the panel. "There's a guy here to see Ms. Laurent. Kennedy somebody."

"Cassidy," he corrected with a polite smile. He was no Schwarzenegger, but he could hold his own in an ordinary brawl. Still, he'd hate to tangle with this Tugboat Annie.

She glared at Cassidy while waiting for further instructions. Cupping the mouthpiece of the telephone, she spat past his shoulder. Finally she listened, then said to him, "Ms. Laurent wants to know what about."

"I'm from the district attorney's office." He removed the leather folder from his breast pocket and flipped it open to show her his ID.

That won him another glare and a slow, distrustful once-over. "He's from the district attorney's office." After a moment she hung up the telephone. "This way." She didn't looked pleased about her boss's decision to see him. Her rubber soles struck the concrete floor like each footfall might have a cockroach beneath it. She led him past row upon row of boxed goods that were being labeled and loaded for shipping.

Large fans mounted in the walls at ceiling level were blowing hard and noisily. But they succeeded only in circulating warm, humid air. Their blades interrupted the sunlight streaming in, creating an effect like a strobe and lending a surreal atmosphere to the warehouse.

Cassidy felt a trickle of sweat running down his side and forgave the woman her sweating upper lip. He shrugged off his suit jacket and held it over his shoulder. Then he loosened the knot of his necktie. As he moved across the warehouse, he noticed that it was spotlessly clean and highly organized. The busy workers, seemingly unaffected by the heat, chatted happily among themselves. A few glanced curiously at him, but none had glared at him like Tugboat. He supposed that suspicion was the nature of her job, which was obviously to keep out the scumbags and undesirables like himself.

When they reached the freight elevator she slid open the heavy double doors. "Second floor."

"Thank you."

The doors clanged shut, sealing him in an elevator larger than his apartment's bathroom. On his way up, he rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

He stepped into a corridor that ran the width of the building. Branching off it were other hallways and offices, from which he could hear sounds of clerical activity. Directly in front of him was a set of wide double doors. Instinctively he knew that he would find Ms. Laurent behind them.

Indeed, the doors opened onto a carpeted, air-conditioned office that was exquisitely furnished, complete with a smiling receptionist behind a desk made of glass and black lacquer. "Mr. Cassidy?" she asked pleasantly.

"That's right." He hadn't expected so plush an office above an ordinary warehouse. He shouldn't have removed his jacket and loosened his tie. However, he didn't have time to correct that before the receptionist escorted him to another set of double doors.

"Ms. Laurent is expecting you. Go right in."

She opened the door for him and stepped aside. He went in and received the next in a series of surprises. He had anticipated a glamorous office that lived up to the lavish reception area. Instead, this was a work space-space being the operative word. There seemed to be acres of it. The room was as wide as the building and half as deep. A wall of windows offered a panoramic view of the Mississippi River. There were several drawing tables, each outfitted with a vast assortment of implements, and three headless dress forms, and easels, and a sewing machine, and swatches of fabric ... and a woman.

She was seated on a high stool, bending over one of the drawing tables, pencil in hand. As the door closed behind Cassidy, she raised her head and looked at him through a pair of square tortoiseshell eyeglasses. "Mr. Cassidy?"

"Ms. Laurent?"

After removing her glasses and leaving them and the pencil on the table, she came toward him with her right hand extended. "Yes, I'm Claire Laurent."

Her face, figure, and form weren't at all what he had expected. For a moment, while he clasped her hand courteously, his head went a little muzzy. What had he expected Claire Laurent to look like? Another Tugboat Annie? Another petite doll like the receptionist? She was neither. It hardly seemed that she and the doorkeeper belonged to the same species, much less the same sex. For while Claire Laurent was wearing wide-legged trousers the color of ripe tobacco and a loose, tailored silk shirt, there was certainly nothing masculine about her. Nor was she pert and cute like the secretary.

She was tall. Slender. She had fashionably wide shoulders. Her breasts were compact but definitely discernible. Supported by lace, he guessed, because he caught glimpses of it between the soft lapels of the ivory shirt. Her eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, and if whiskey had a voice, it would sound like hers, like a blend of satin and woodsmoke.

"You wanted to see me?"

He released her hand. "Yes."

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

She indicated a sitting area comprised of a divan with deep cushions and a low table between two upholstered chairs. In one of the chairs was a basket overflowing with what appeared to be crochet or knitting. On the table were several crystal decanters reflecting the late afternoon sunlight and casting rainbows on the white plaster walls and hardwood floor.

"No, thanks. Nothing."

"May I hang up your jacket?" She reached for it.

He almost passed it to her before thinking better of it. "No, thanks. I'm fine. Sorry to be so casual, but downstairs is a sweatbox."

Because she wasn't what he'd expected, it had cost him a few seconds of control. Cassidy liked always to be in control, and somehow he wanted to pay her back for stealing that from him. Feeling ornery, he had spoken the statement innocently, but he'd intended it as a dig, which she'd have to be a real airhead to miss. She wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Her eyes flickered defensively, but she obviously decided to let it pass. "Yes, it can sometimes get uncomfortably warm. Please, sit down."

"Thanks."

He moved to one of the chairs and sat down, draping his jacket over his knee. She sat on the divan, facing him. He noticed that her lipstick was wearing off, as though she'd been pulling that full lower lip between her teeth while deep in concentration. Her hair was a light shade of auburn that shimmered like fire in the sunlight. She must have been raking her hands or her pencil through it because the curls and waves were tousled.

Immediately, he knew several things about her. First, Claire Laurent was a working woman. She wasn't hung up on feminine affectations and vanity. She was also a woman trying to hide her nervousness behind hospitality. Only the pulse beating at the base of her elegantly smooth throat gave her away.

From her throat, his eyes moved to the trinket hanging from a black silk cord around her neck. She followed his gaze down and said, "It was a gift from my friend Yasmine."

"What's in it?" The small vial lying against her chest contained a clear liquid. "A love potion?"

His gray eyes connected with hers with an almost audible click. Suddenly Cassidy wished that he hadn't gone to bed last night with a semi-hard-on. He also wished that his errand here today weren't an official one.

She removed the stopper from the vial. At the end of the short wand was a minuscule spool. She raised it to her lips and blew through it. Dozens of tiny, iridescent bubbles burst from it and drifted up and around her face.

He laughed, partly because the bubbles surprised him and partly to release some of the energy building inside him.

"A whimsical distraction for when work gets me down," she said. "Yasmine frequently gives me gadgets like this because she says I take myself too seriously." Smiling, she recapped the vial.

"Do you?"

She met his direct gaze. "Do I what?"

"Take yourself too seriously."

He knew from her reaction that he'd overstepped his bounds. Her smile congealed. Still cordial, but with a hint of impatience, she asked, "Why did you come to see me, Mr. Cassidy? Is it regarding that hot check I reported to the D.A.'s office?"

"Hot check? No, I'm afraid not."

"Then I'm at a loss."

"Reverend Jackson Wilde." He tossed out the name without preamble. It lay like a gauntlet between them. She didn't pick it up but merely continued to gaze at him inquisitively. He was forced to elaborate. "I assume you've heard about his murder."

"Certainly. Didn't you see me on TV?"

That took him aback. "No. When was that?"

"The day Reverend Wilde's body was found. The day before yesterday, wasn't it? Reporters came here to get my statement. It must not have been as dramatic as they wanted, because I didn't make the evening news."

"Were you relieved or disappointed that you were cut?"

"What do you think?" Her smile had disappeared.

Cassidy took another tack. "What do you know about the murder?"

"Know?" she repeated with a shrug. "Only what I read in the newspapers and see on television. Why?"

"Were you acquainted with Reverend Wilde?"

"Do you mean had I ever met him? No."

"Never?"

"No."

"But he knew you." She remained silent, although she didn't look quite as calm, cool, and collected as she had a few moments ago. "Didn't he, Ms. Laurent? Well enough that your opinion was sought by the media when he was found dead."

She wet her lips with a dainty, pink tongue that momentarily distracted him. "Reverend Wilde knew me by name, as the owner of French Silk. He condemned me from his pulpit as a pornographer. 'Smut-peddler' is how he referred to me."

"How did you feel about that?"

"How do you think I felt?" Suddenly giving vent to the agitation he'd sensed behind her calm facade, she stood up and rounded the divan, so that it was between them.

"I'll bet you didn't like it one damn bit."

"You're absolutely right, Mr. Cassidy. I didn't. The term smut doesn't apply either to my business or to my catalog."

"Did you know you were on Wilde's hit list?"

"What are you talking about?"

Cassidy removed a sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket, which still lay across his knees. He shook out the folds and handed it to her, yet she made no move to take it from him.

"Among Wilde's personal effects," he said, "we found this handwritten list of publications. Playboy, Hustler, all the girly mags you'd expect. Along with the French Silk catalog."

That morning when he and Howard Glenn had discussed the few facts they had on the case, Glenn had expressed little interest in this list. The veteran detective was focusing his investigation on Ariel and Joshua Wilde. To his way of thinking, they were the most likely suspects.

He was probably right, but Cassidy hadn't wanted to leave a single clue dangling. His offer to check out French Silk had earned him an indifferent shrug from Glenn, who obviously felt that he was wasting his time.

Having met Claire Laurent, Cassidy didn't think so. She hardly fit a criminal psychological profile, but she was sure as hell intriguing and she had had a real ax to grind with the late preacher.

She stared at the sheet of paper for a moment, then gestured at it angrily. "I don't know anything about this list. My catalog has nothing in common with those magazines."

"Apparently Wilde thought it did."

"He was wrong."

"Ms. Laurent, your company was targeted for defamation and harassment until you were forced out of business. According to the date on this, Wilde made a holy vow a few weeks before his death and signed his name to it in his own blood."

"Obviously he was insane."

"He had thousands of devoted followers."

"So did Adolph Hitler. Some people are sheep who have to be told what to believe because they can't think for themselves. If they're told what they want to hear often enough, they'll follow anyone and adhere to any misinformation they're fed. They're brainwashed. I pity them, but they're free to make their own choices. I only want to be let alone to make mine. That's the only quarrel I had with Jackson Wilde. He presumed to impose his beliefs on everyone. If he didn't approve of my catalog, fine. But who gave him the right to condemn it?"

"He would say God had."

"But we only have Wilde's word on that, don't we?"

She was drawn up tighter than a guitar string threatening to snap. Her breasts rose and fell, disturbing the liquid in the small bottle hanging from her neck. Cassidy learned something else about Claire Laurent in that heated moment. Beneath her cool reserve beat a passionate heart.

He suddenly realized that he was standing, although he didn't remember rising to his feet. "You had a real problem with the televangelist and what he might do to your business, didn't you, Ms. Laurent?"

"He was the one with the problem, not I."

"He had pronounced you his enemy and pledged not to let up on you until he won."

"Then it was his own crusade. I wasn't a participant."

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean?"

"Hadn't open warfare been declared between the two of you?"

"No. I ignored him."

"Where were you the night of September eighth?"

Her head snapped back. "Pardon me?"

"I believe you heard me."

"September eighth was the night Wilde was murdered. Am Ito understand that you're implicating me?"