A MAN LIKE SMITH

by Marilyn Pappano

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  Epilogue

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  * * *

  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  In her thirteen years as a reporter for the New Orleans Times-Picayune, Jolie Wade had covered more murders than any one person should ever have to know about. She had interviewed crooks as petty and insignificant as pickpockets and as important and powerful as organized crime boss Jimmy Falcone. She had dealt with men—and women—who earned their living killing other men and women, had traded insults with some of the toughest people in town, had turned her back on people who could kill her without feeling even the slightest remorse.

  And in those thirteen years, nothing had ever unnerved her like the appointment she was about to keep.

  She drove to the end of Serenity Street

  , heart of a tiny, painfully familiar neighborhood, the shabbiest section of the French Quarter. She had grown up on Serenity in a crowded apartment on the third floor of one of those old houses two blocks back. As a child, she had skipped along its sidewalks and had played in the park here at the end of the street. As a teenager, she had lost her heart and, later, her virginity, in the same park. Later still, she had lost many of her hopes and dreams and all of her illusions here.

  And all to the same man she had come to meet tonight.

  Tucking her purse under the seat, she got out of the car and locked the doors. The park looked deserted, but then, it always had that look at night. There were lots of shrubs to hide young lovers … or young thugs, out looking for an easy mark. At five foot four and not even a hundred and ten pounds, she probably looked like the easiest mark of all, but she was tough, she reminded herself. Life and hard work—and Nicky Carlucci—had made her tough.

  The sound of her car door closing seemed to echo in the quiet night. She must be out of her mind to show up here. Just because Jamey O'Shea, one of the few people from the old neighborhood that she remained in occasional contact with, had called and asked her to come was no reason to risk her safety like this. So what if Nicky had decided after eighteen long years that he wanted to talk to her? There were better ways to reach her than through Jamey, better places to meet than with old memories.

  The park was nothing more than an empty lot, bordered on two sides by the neighboring houses, across the back by a tall brick wall that provided privacy to the house on the other side and enclosed across the front with a rusted wrought iron fence. The house that had once stood there had burned down before she was born, and the owners, uninsured and as hard-luck poor as everyone else on Serenity, had simply walked away from the land. A few dedicated parents, her own included, had taken it on themselves to clear away the rubble, to haul off the trash and plant grass and shrubs and turn into a safe place for their kids to play. It had been a tiny pocket of loveliness and security on a street that knew too little of either.

  Now it was overgrown, uncared-for. Graffiti was scrawled on the walls, and the stepping stones that created winding paths were broken, unsteady beneath her weight. Twenty years ago she had felt safer here in the middle of the night than at home in the bed she had shared with her younger sister. Tonight, tough or not, she was uneasy.

  She walked only as far as the light from the nearest streetlamp that hadn't been broken could reach—not far. Stopping there, she looked around, her gaze searching the shadows, then quietly called, "Nicky?"

  There was a moment of silence. The tree frogs hushed, the crickets stopped, and the whippoorwill in one of the few trees ceased its song. After a time, everything returned to normal, then went askew again as Nicky Carlucci stepped out of the shadows and approached her.

  How many times had they met here over the course of their three-year relationship? she wondered. A hundred? Her first guess brought a cynical smile. Easily ten times that, probably closer to twenty times. Wherever they had gone, whatever they had done, they had always met here first. Nicky had always taken her home when their evenings were finished, but he had never picked her up there. Her parents hadn't approved of him. They had wanted better for their daughter than a Serenity Street

  punk, and that was all they'd seen in Nicky. Even when he had begged, borrowed and scraped together enough money to go to college, they hadn't believed he would ever make anything of himself. Even when he'd started law school—long after he had cut Jolie out of his life—her folks had still thought he was nothing more than a low-life punk.

  And, in the end, they had been right. After all his hard work, Nicky had accomplished only one thing: he had become one of the better educated and more talented crooks in the city.

  He stood in the lamp light for a moment without speaking, and she used the time to study him. Physically, the past eighteen years hadn't changed him much. He was lean and looked tough, as always. Growing up as he had, living only his earliest years with his mother and dividing the next twelve years between abandoned buildings around the neighborhood and the sanctuary of St. Jude's four blocks down and one street over, he couldn't have survived if he hadn't been tough.

  He carried his age well, she thought. He was only a few years from forty, but there were no lines, no telltale wrinkles. Of course, he didn't seem to have a conscience to cause him any worry. He apparently felt no guilt for the laws he'd broken, no remorse for the things he'd done. Even now, under federal indictment for a number of crimes and facing the near-certain probability of years in prison, he showed no regret.

  He certainly showed no regret for what he'd done to her so long ago.

  He lit a cigarette, a habit she'd found nasty twenty years before and disliked even more now, held the match until the flame was licking a breath away from his fingertips, then dropped it to the ground, where a bit of yellowed grass smoldered before the flame died. "You won a bet for me. Jamey bet ten bucks you wouldn't come. I knew you would."

  He had always been so sure of her when they were teenagers, too. He had never asked; he had told, demanded or simply taken. She'd been too easy for him, her best friends had insisted when he had dropped her. She'd given and given until he'd had everything, until there had been no reason for him to come back. She could bet, they had been certain, that the new girl he was seeing up in Baton Rouge wasn't so easy.

  Maybe she hadn't been … or maybe she had. All Jolie knew was that when he'd come back from Baton Rouge after law school, it had been without the woman he'd been so determined to marry that he had broken Jolie's heart without a second thought.

  "Aren't we a little old for clandestine meetings?" she asked, forcing her voice into its usual, even keel.

  He blew out a stream of smoke that curled upward between them, then gave a hoarse laugh. "Honey, most of my life has been conducted in clandestine meetings."

  "I guess in your business, it's in everyone's best interests."

  "Censure, Jolie?" He laughed again. "I thought a journalist was supposed to be unbiased. Besides, from what I understand, you spend plenty of your time in the shadows, too."

  That was true enough. Sometimes the people she met with couldn't afford to be seen talking to her. Some of her best sources of information could suffer a serious reversal of fortune if just how friendly they were with her ever became public knowledge.

  Was that the case with Nicky? Had he chosen this park for their meeting because it was shadowed, dark and far from where anyone might expect to find either of them these days and not because—as she had thought—of old memories and the thousand and one nights they had slipped in and out of here together? Did he even remember any of those nights?

  With an involuntary shiver, she took a step back. "It's late, Nicky. I've got to be at work in another eight hours, and I'd like to get some sleep first. What do you want?"r />
  "I'd rather be called Nick. I'm a little old for Nicky."

  She knew that. She knew, in fact, that he actually preferred his given name, Nicholas, but that was a gesture of respect given him only by people who didn't know him or who were afraid of him. She knew him, and she wasn't afraid of him.

  He studied her a moment before going on. "I understand you're damned good at what you do."

  She acknowledged him with nothing more than a shrug. "So was I."

  "A damned good crook wouldn't get caught."

  Now it was his turn to shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not. I've read just about everything you ever wrote about Falcone." Jimmy Falcone. She had known the most powerful organized crime boss in southern Louisiana—currently under indictment, along with Nick, for every crime the FBI could nail him with—would eventually enter into the conversation. That was why Nick had won his bet with Jamey. She was something of a local expert on Jimmy Falcone. She'd made a name for herself tracking him and his activities, both legal and illegal, for the past thirteen years. She knew his organization probably as well as the FBI did … but Nick knew it better. For about ten years now, he had been one of Jimmy's most loyal and most trusted advisors.

  "Get to the point, Nick," she said impatiently. She wanted to go home, have a drink and then pamper herself with a long, luxurious bubble bath. She wanted to wash away the memories, the disappointment and the distaste that was rapidly growing inside her.

  He took one last pull from the cigarette, then flicked it away and spun on his heel, disappearing into the shadows. Jolie watched the butt arc through the air, a thin glowing point in the darkness, then land nearby. Though only bare earth surrounded it, she took the few steps necessary to grind it out beneath her running shoe before returning to the stepping-stone path.

  Nick returned, carrying a thick green folder, the kind that was accordion-pleated and closed on three sides. She automatically reached for it, but he held on to the open side with both hands. "You can use this however you want—keep it, turn it over to the feds, toss it. There's just one condition, Jolie."

  "What?"

  "Keep me out of it. If any of Jimmy's people connects me to this, I'm dead. I know that probably doesn't matter much to you, but I'd kind of like to hang around a while longer."

  If it had been any man besides Nick talking about any man besides Jimmy, Jolie likely would have thought he was exaggerating, but not Nick. Not about Jimmy. Jimmy Falcone was cold. The only life that meant anything to him was his own. Only he and God knew exactly how many deaths could be laid at his feet, but the number was frighteningly high. Even though Nick had done more to keep Jimmy out of jail and his business prospering in the past ten years than anyone else, if Jimmy thought for a moment that Nick was betraying him, he would give the order for his death in the blink of an eye.

  So why was Nick apparently doing just that?

  She pulled on the folder, freeing it from his grip, and began thumbing through the contents. It was difficult to see in the dim lamp light, but there were pages of computer-generated notes, some photographs and a number of tape cases, each holding four microcassettes. Evidence against Falcone. Documentation of his illegal activity. Wouldn't her law-and-order colleagues—Michael Bennett, a New Orleans cop, Remy Sinclair, the FBI agent that Falcone had recently tried to kill, and Smith Kendricks, the prosecutor who was taking Falcone to trial in the near future—love to get their hands on this? She would bet Kendricks hadn't even dreamed of being lucky enough to come up with a cooperative Nick Carlucci.

  She looked up at Nick again. "If this stuff is of any value—"

  "It is."

  "Then why aren't you taking it to the feds? Why aren't you using it to make a deal for yourself?"

  "I'm not interested in making deals."

  "What are you interested in?"

  He was looking at her, but he wasn't seeing her. His gaze pierced straight through her and veered off somewhere in the distance. When he answered, it was a flat monotone that was all the more effective for its lack of emotion. "Justice."

  Five minutes ago, she would have laughed at such an answer. She would have replied that justice was a noble concept with which Nick Carlucci had not even a passing familiarity. That look, though … that look proved her wrong. Which of Jimmy Falcone's wrongs was Nick putting right? she wondered.

  Taking a few steps toward the iron fence, toward the light, she flipped through the top few pages again. "Since you've become a defender of justice," she said, deliberately injecting a note of cynicism into her voice, "why don't you give this stuff to the government? Kendricks can make better use of it than I can. I can only write newspaper articles that make Falcone look bad. Smith can use it in court to—"

  Hearing a rustle behind her, she spun around. She saw nothing, but from the back of the lot came the soft sound of a gate closing. That gate was the only other exit from the park; it led into the narrow strip of yard of the rear house and onto the next street. Remaining utterly still, after a moment she heard the closing of a car door and the sound of an engine that soon faded.

  With a shiver, she clutched the folder tightly and walked quickly toward her own car. The Nicky she knew never would have walked off and left her that way. He would have waited until she'd made it safely to her car before pulling his disappearing act. Then, as she unlocked the car door, she muttered a curse aloud. The Nicky she knew had done a hell of a lot worse than leave her standing alone in the middle of a park. He'd pulled another disappearing act back then, this one at a time when she'd needed him desperately, and he'd done it without a moment's concern for her.

  Safely locked inside the car, she dropped the folder in the passenger seat. Making a U-turn, she drove back down Serenity Street

  to Decatur, then headed home. Thoughts of a drink, a soothing bath and bed had disappeared from her mind.

  Thanks to Nick, she had work to do.

  * * *

  Assistant U.S. Attorney Smith Kendricks sat at his desk, the newspaper spread open in front of him. Seated across from him were two of the best cops he'd ever worked with—Michael Bennett and Remy Sinclair. In one way or another, each of them had some involvement with the investigation into Jimmy Falcone's activities. Michael's wife—and Remy's cousin—Valery had been a witness to one of the murders Jimmy had ordered, and Remy had been the agent in charge of the FBI's investigation until Falcone's people tried to kill him. He had survived the shooting and a subsequent attempt and was now, along with his bride, Susannah, one of the government's prime witnesses against Falcone.

  Michael and Remy were both also the best friends Smith had.

  And they were both familiar with the problem facing him now.

  "How does she do it?" he asked, tapping his fingertip on the column where Jolie Wade's latest story ended.

  "She's a resourceful woman," Michael replied, while Remy simply made an annoyed sound but didn't say anything.

  Smith knew well how each of his friends felt about the reporter. Michael had known her for years; he liked her and had a mutually satisfying, strictly off-the-record working relationship with her. Remy, however, like most FBI agents, saw all reporters as thorns in the bureau's side. He didn't willingly cooperate with her on anything, even though it had been her sources who had provided the information necessary to nail Remy's dirty partner a few months back. His respect for her abilities was given only grudgingly—but at least it was given.

  What Smith wasn't so sure about were his own feelings for Jolie. Personally, he liked her. She was intelligent, direct and tenacious as hell. She had an uncanny way of knowing who could be trusted and who couldn't. She was passionate about her work, about truth and honesty and the people's right to know. She was a damn good writer, willing to work and work hard for every story she got. She had spent thirteen years on the local paper and had developed an extensive network of sources and informants, better than any local cop had. She didn't always approve of the way the local law enforcement did their jobs—the NOPD, the FBI and the U
.S. Attorney's office had all come in for their share of front-page finger pointing—but she was always fair. Whenever she criticized them, it was because they had done something wrong.

  Professionally… With the government's case against Jimmy Falcone set to go to trial in four weeks and with Smith prosecuting, the last problem he needed right now was Jolie in her investigative mode. She was doing more than simply covering the news today; she was uncovering new news.

  And it dealt with his case.

  In very accurate, very intimate detail.

  In more accurate and more intimate details than even he and the FBI had.

  Smith closed the newspaper and leaned back. It was Friday evening, past quitting time, and he was supposed to have dinner tonight with Michael and Remy and their wives. Instead, he imagined he was going to still be here long after the blackened fish Michael had promised was a mere memory, dealing with his boss and likely with Shawna Warren, the case agent who had replaced Remy after his shooting. Despite their dedication to preserving and upholding the laws of the land, he suspected neither Alexander Marshall nor Shawna would object if freedom of the press was somehow expunged from the Bill of Rights.

  Hell, Jolie, he thought with a scowl; then a grin took over. "You have to admire her timing. She'll go home and spend a pleasant, relaxing weekend, while the rest of us—both the government and Falcone's people—scurry around frantically trying to find out how she knows what she knows."

  Now it was Remy who was scowling. "You don't have to admire anything about her. You just have to haul her in here and demand that she give up her source."

  "Right," Michael agreed sarcastically. "And after that, you can turn the tides, balance the budget and end world hunger. Jolie's got so damn many sources because she takes care of them. People tell her things because they know she won't give them up. Not ever. Not for anything."

  Leaving his desk, Smith went to the window and gazed out. The sun was edging farther west, but it was still muggy and hot outside—typical weather for New Orleans in July. He liked Louisiana summers. Of course, he spent his days here in the office or in court and his evenings in one air-conditioned place or another, but he liked the heat—the intensity of it. The lethargy it brought on. The slower pace it required.