stepson. He placed his arm around her shoulders and spoke softly into her hair.
"Guess that's all for now." Cassidy stood.
Glenn followed him to the door. "Smells like yesterday's fish heads, doesn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," Cassidy said. "It's almost too pat to be a lie."
Glenn made an unappealing snorting sound as he fished for a fresh Camel in the crumpled pack he took from his shirt pocket. "You're shittin' me, right? It's plain to see. They've got the hots for each other and bumped off the preacher to get him out of their way."
"Could be," Cassidy said noncommittally. "Maybe not." Glenn eyed him shrewdly as he lit his cigarette. "A smart boy like you didn't fall for those pretty blue eyes, did you, Cassidy? And all that crying? Hell, before you got here, they were praying out loud together." He sucked deeply on the Camel. "Surely you don't believe they're telling the truth?"
"Sure I believe them." As Cassidy went through the door, he glanced over his shoulder and added, "About as far as I can piss through a hurricane."
He rode the elevator down alone, and it opened onto pandemonium. The lobby of the Fairmont Hotel was a city block long. Ordinarily, it was a paragon of stately refinement and luxury, with its matte black walls, red velvet furniture, and gold leaf accents—a grand old dame of a hotel. But this morning it was teeming with frustrated, angry people. Police were trying to ignore the aggressive media reporters who were in hot pursuit of the facts surrounding the astonishing murder of Jackson Wilde. Hotel guests who earlier had been rounded up by police and questioned in the ballroom were now being systematically dismissed; they appeared reluctant to leave, however, before venting their outrage. Hotel staff were being questioned while also trying to placate their disgruntled clientele.
Cassidy elbowed his way through the noisy crowd. He overheard one woman with a midwestern twang surmising that a psychopath was loose in the hotel and that they were all doomed to be slaughtered in their beds.
A man was shouting at the top of his voice that "they" were going to hear about this, although it was unclear who "they" were.
Disciples of the Reverend Jackson Wilde, upon hearing of their leader's demise, had contributed to the confusion by congregating in the lobby and making it a temporary shrine. They were weeping copiously and noisily, holding spontaneous prayer meetings, singing hymns, and invoking the Almighty's wrath on the one who had slain the televangelist.
As he made his way toward the University Street entrance, Cassidy tried to avoid the local media, but to no avail. The reporters surrounded him.
"Mr. Cassidy, did you see—"
"Nothing."
"Mr. Cassidy, was he—"
"No comment."
"Mr. Cassidy—"
"Later."
He maneuvered his way through them, dodging the cameras, deflecting extended microphones, and prudently declining to say anything until District Attorney Crowder placed him in charge of prosecuting Wilde's murder case.
Assuming Crowder would.
No, there could be no assumption to it. He must.
Cassidy wanted this case so badly he could taste it. Moreover, he needed it.
* * *
Yasmine strutted through the automatic doors at New Orleans International Airport. A redcap, dwarfed by her extraordinary height and dazzled by her legs beneath the short leather mini-skirt, trudged behind her carting two suitcases.
At the sound of a car horn, Yasmine spotted Claire's LeBaron parked at the curb as scheduled. Her suitcases were stowed inside the trunk, which Claire unlocked from the dashboard, the redcap was tipped, and Yasmine slid into the passenger seat with a flash of brown thighs and a waft of gardenia perfume.
"Good morning," Claire said. "How was your flight?"
"Can you believe it about Jackson Wilde?"
Claire Laurent glanced over her left shoulder, then daringly pulled into the erratic flow of traffic made hazardous by buses, taxis, and courtesy vans picking up and
"Guess that's all for now." Cassidy stood.
Glenn followed him to the door. "Smells like yesterday's fish heads, doesn't it?"
"Oh, I don't know," Cassidy said. "It's almost too pat to be a lie."
Glenn made an unappealing snorting sound as he fished for a fresh Camel in the crumpled pack he took from his shirt pocket. "You're shittin' me, right? It's plain to see. They've got the hots for each other and bumped off the preacher to get him out of their way."
"Could be," Cassidy said noncommittally. "Maybe not." Glenn eyed him shrewdly as he lit his cigarette. "A smart boy like you didn't fall for those pretty blue eyes, did you, Cassidy? And all that crying? Hell, before you got here, they were praying out loud together." He sucked deeply on the Camel. "Surely you don't believe they're telling the truth?"
"Sure I believe them." As Cassidy went through the door, he glanced over his shoulder and added, "About as far as I can piss through a hurricane."
He rode the elevator down alone, and it opened onto pandemonium. The lobby of the Fairmont Hotel was a city block long. Ordinarily, it was a paragon of stately refinement and luxury, with its matte black walls, red velvet furniture, and gold leaf accents—a grand old dame of a hotel. But this morning it was teeming with frustrated, angry people. Police were trying to ignore the aggressive media reporters who were in hot pursuit of the facts surrounding the astonishing murder of Jackson Wilde. Hotel guests who earlier had been rounded up by police and questioned in the ballroom were now being systematically dismissed; they appeared reluctant to leave, however, before venting their outrage. Hotel staff were being questioned while also trying to placate their disgruntled clientele.
Cassidy elbowed his way through the noisy crowd. He overheard one woman with a midwestern twang surmising that a psychopath was loose in the hotel and that they were all doomed to be slaughtered in their beds.
A man was shouting at the top of his voice that "they" were going to hear about this, although it was unclear who "they" were.
Disciples of the Reverend Jackson Wilde, upon hearing of their leader's demise, had contributed to the confusion by congregating in the lobby and making it a temporary shrine. They were weeping copiously and noisily, holding spontaneous prayer meetings, singing hymns, and invoking the Almighty's wrath on the one who had slain the televangelist.
As he made his way toward the University Street entrance, Cassidy tried to avoid the local media, but to no avail. The reporters surrounded him.
"Mr. Cassidy, did you see—"
"Nothing."
"Mr. Cassidy, was he—"
"No comment."
"Mr. Cassidy—"
"Later."
He maneuvered his way through them, dodging the cameras, deflecting extended microphones, and prudently declining to say anything until District Attorney Crowder placed him in charge of prosecuting Wilde's murder case.
Assuming Crowder would.
No, there could be no assumption to it. He must.
Cassidy wanted this case so badly he could taste it. Moreover, he needed it.
* * *
Yasmine strutted through the automatic doors at New Orleans International Airport. A redcap, dwarfed by her extraordinary height and dazzled by her legs beneath the short leather mini-skirt, trudged behind her carting two suitcases.
At the sound of a car horn, Yasmine spotted Claire's LeBaron parked at the curb as scheduled. Her suitcases were stowed inside the trunk, which Claire unlocked from the dashboard, the redcap was tipped, and Yasmine slid into the passenger seat with a flash of brown thighs and a waft of gardenia perfume.
"Good morning," Claire said. "How was your flight?"
"Can you believe it about Jackson Wilde?"
Claire Laurent glanced over her left shoulder, then daringly pulled into the erratic flow of traffic made hazardous by buses, taxis, and courtesy vans picking up and
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