A MAN LIKE SMITH

by Marilyn Pappano

  "Have you talked to Wade?" Alexander Marshall asked without wasting time on greetings.

  "Yes, I have."

  "And?"

  And he had enjoyed damned near every moment of it. But his boss wasn't interested in hearing that—not that he was going to be too thrilled to hear what Smith was going to tell him, either. "I told you Friday, she's not giving up her source."

  "So turn Warren loose on her tomorrow."

  "Wait, Alexander. Jolie did offer to talk to him, to ask him if he would meet with me. At least give her a chance to do that before you alienate her any further."

  "Before I alienate her? I'm not the one breaking the law here. I'm not the one interfering in a federal investigation. I'm not the one keeping crucial evidence from the FBI and the U.S. Attorney's office. Yet you think I should worry about alienating her?"

  Smith focused his gaze on a metallic gold coil in the center of the wall hanging. He'd never been able to figure out what the piece represented, if anything. He'd been too appreciative of the color it gave this gray place to care.

  Taking a deep breath, he began pacifying his boss. "Turning Jolie over to Shawna isn't going to tell you who the source is. She's good at this, Alexander. Do you think she doesn't know that you and Shawna want her head on a platter? That you're both just waiting to make her an active part of the investigation? She's not going to have the guy's name and number in her desk or at the paper or at home. She's not going to leave evidence lying around for the FBI to find with a search warrant."

  "So what do you suggest? That we do nothing? That we sit on our hands and wait for her next story? That we let her make the government look foolish?"

  "Basically, yes." He restrained the urge to point out that Jolie wasn't deliberately making anyone look foolish. She was just proving that she was better at her job than Shawna Warren and her entire team of FBI agents were at theirs. "Let's give her the time she needs to contact the guy, to see if he'll talk to me."

  Marshall was silent for a moment. "She just offered to do that, huh? All on her own?"

  Not exactly. Smith recalled that part of the conversation Friday evening in the restaurant courtyard. The dusty red brick and the ivy growing across it had provided a subdued background for her blond hair and green, green eyes, and the splash of the fountain a muted counterpoint for her Southern-soft voice. Tell me who your source is, he had asked, and she had immediately replied, I can't do that. Next request.

  Ask him to talk to me.

  I can ask. But it's pointless… His answer will be no.

  "Out of the kindness of her heart," he said lightly.

  "Jolie Wade doesn't have a heart," Marshall responded with a gruff snort. "All she cares about is headlines and bylines and abusing her position as a reporter."

  That last part made Smith's jaw tighten. Jolie believed too much in the responsibility of the press and in the public's right to know to ever misuse her authority. She benefited from her work, true, but only because she put so much of herself into it, because she was so damned good at what she did.

  "She's willing to make an effort," he pointed out, keeping his voice level, his tone mild. "All we have to do is give her a chance."

  Marshall's tacit agreement was given grudgingly. "When is she supposed to get back to you?"

  "We didn't set a time. If I don't hear from her by tomorrow afternoon, I'll call her."

  "You think her source will go for it?"

  "I don't have any idea. Maybe he will, maybe not." Jolie, he recalled, was sure the answer would be no. Maybe he could be persuaded, he had suggested. Her answer had been flat, emotionless. Not by me. If his answer is no—and, I promise, it will be—then that's the end of it. "I want him whether he comes to us on his own or because the bureau gives him no choice. But you know as well I do that we'll get more out of a willing witness than one who feels coerced."

  "Do you trust her to actually contact him? How do you know she won't say she did and that he refused when, in reality, she's done nothing?"

  "I trust her."

  "How can you be sure—"

  Smith interrupted. "Jolie's been at the paper longer than I've been working for you. This isn't the first time we've been at cross-purposes. She said she would do it. Believe me, she'll do it."

  "Then let me know as soon as she gets back to you. She's got about twenty-four hours." Ill-tempered humor became audible in his voice. "Then we feed her to Shawna."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Jolie drove past Serenity to the next street over, turned left and drove all the way to the end. It was fifteen minutes before midnight; she had come early, as was her habit, to her meeting with Nick, but unless she was wrong, he had come earlier.

  She was guessing that the Lexus with the tinted windows sitting curbside in front of an abandoned old house—the house that backed up against the park a block over—was his. In some neighborhoods, it wouldn't be safe to leave a car like that parked on the street. In this neighborhood, the young punks who might be inclined to vandalize such a car knew better. They understood that a person who could afford a car like that and who had business in a neighborhood like this wasn't someone they wanted to anger.

  A Lexus. It was exactly what she had expected of Smith—and exactly the sort of car the Nick she'd grown up with would have snickered at. Like all teenage boys, he'd had fantasies about cars, but it hadn't been leather seats, individual climate control and tinted windows that had stirred his blood. He had wanted power, something fast and wicked. Her 'Vette would have been more to that Nick's taste.

  Briefly she considered parking behind the car and entering the park as he most likely had, through the back gate. And if he slipped off again? Did she really want to make two trips totally alone through the midnight-dark yard of that empty, spooky old house?

  No way. She drove past the Lexus and around to the end of Serenity, parking the 'Vette underneath a streetlamp near the iron gate.

  Unlike last time, the street wasn't deserted tonight. A group of teenage boys hung out on the corner nearly a block away, gathered underneath a streetlight. They had watched her drive past, and now they turned as one to watch her get out of the car and walk toward the park entrance. Although none of them made any unusual moves, there was something threatening about them.

  It was their stillness, she realized. She'd spent enough time in rough neighborhoods to become accustomed to the tough talk and the crude suggestions that aimless young men tended to make to solitary young women. But not one of these young men made a sound. They simply watched her, and she cautiously kept an eye on them as she left the sidewalk for the park's crooked, uneven path.

  As before, she ventured only as far as the light from the street. Although she saw no sign of Nick, she could already smell the smoke from his cigarette, its scent thinned by the heavy night air. She had complained long and loud about his habit twenty years ago, but he had never paid attention. She had even repeated the pop slogan that kissing a smoker was like licking an ashtray—and, with a devilish grin, he had proceeded to prove her wrong. No matter how he tasted, kissing Nick had been her teenaged idea of heaven.

  Thank God she had grown up.

  "Nick?"

  He didn't come forward, but he finally spoke. "Over here."

  She followed his voice and, soon enough, the glowing tip of his cigarette to a distant corner. There was a bench there, a regular little park bench with wooden slats and wrought iron supports, just like you might find in any real park in the city. This one, though, was set in concrete, she remembered, to keep someone from walking off with it.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, she saw Nick leaning against the wall, looking casual and relaxed, although she knew he was neither. One ankle was crossed over the other, one hand—the one not needed for the cigarette—was in his pocket, and the bricks were probably warm against his back. She wondered briefly if that was how he felt comfortable these days—with
something solid and unyielding protecting his back.

  "You got my message."

  He didn't respond to that, but she grimaced. Of course he got it; how else would he know to be here?

  She sat down on the curlicued arm of the bench farthest from him. "Do you by chance have a group of sixteen- or seventeen-year-old kids standing watch on the corner?"

  "Maybe."

  That meant yes … but it didn't mean she could feel safe when she left. If Nick had paid the kids to warn him of anything suspicious, they would do that—and nothing else. They wouldn't raise a ruckus if someone messed with her car—or with her—unless he had specifically instructed them to.

  Somehow, she didn't think he had been so gallant.

  "I saw your story. Not bad."

  "Gee, thanks," she replied sarcastically. He never had been much on offering praise … but maybe that was because he'd gotten so very little of it himself when he was a kid and it mattered.

  If her sarcasm touched him—she doubted it—he didn't let it show. "What do you want?"

  "I'm here to deliver a message."

  With an impatient gesture, he waited for it.

  "Smith Kendricks wants to talk to you."

  "No."

  "You didn't even think about it," she protested.

  "I don't need to. I don't want to talk to him."

  "You've put me in a difficult position, Nick."

  A sardonic smile came through in his voice. "Honey, I've had you in all sorts of difficult positions. As I recall, you enjoyed every one of them."

  Clamping her jaw shut, Jolie clasped her hands tightly together. At that moment, she hated him. Regardless of the past that tied them together, she hated him. But that was no reason to let him get to her. She despised an inordinate number of the people she dealt with, but she still managed to remain civil and to get her job done. She wouldn't let Nick Carlucci be the one to change that.

  When her temper had cooled a degree or two, she spoke again, carefully forming the words. "If you would talk to Smith, just once, it would certainly make things easier on me."

  "Smith?" he echoed. He ground out his cigarette after lighting another one, then came to sit, as she was, on the opposite arm of the bench. "You're on a first-name basis with the assistant U.S. Attorney who's planning to send me to prison?"

  "You made it so easy for him, Nick," she said sweetly. "You made a big mistake when you tried to use Susannah Duncan to get to Remy Sinclair. You didn't count on her falling in love with him, did you?"

  "I didn't count on her doing anything. I didn't count on her at all."

  Her gaze narrowed on the shadowy planes of his face. "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing. Is that all you want?" He sounded impatient. Weary.

  "Will you at least think about meeting with Smith?"

  "What would you get out of it if I do?"

  "I escape FBI harassment and possible charges, for contempt among other things." She paused. "I don't want to go to jail for you, Nick."

  His shrug was as callous as his words. "That's a risk you take in your line of work."

  "They're going to find out about you anyway," she said quickly as he started to rise from the bench. "If I don't come up with your name, the FBI's going to investigate me. They're going to find out that I grew up on Serenity Street

  , and they're going to start interviewing people. They'll look at our school yearbooks. They'll talk to anyone down here who still remembers me. They'll track down people who have moved away."

  "So?"

  "Don't play dumb, Nick. And don't pretend the feds are dumb, either. Don't pretend they won't find it interesting that I—with a highly placed source in Falcone's organization—used to run around with Nicky Carlucci, who just happens to be Falcone's own personal lawyer."

  He sat still for a long time, ignoring her, ignoring even the cigarette that burned close to his fingers. Then, abruptly, he moved, getting to his feet. "I'm not talking to Kendricks."

  Jolie stood up, too, moving to block his way. "I don't want them snooping around in my background."

  For a long time they stared at each other. His face was as utterly expressionless as anything she'd ever seen, as if there were life inside … but no soul. Finally, as if he'd let her look long enough, he took a long step back. "Are you ashamed of where you come from, Jolie?" he asked softly. "I always heard you wore your poverty-stricken background like a badge of honor, proof of how far you've come." His voice softened even more and took on a shiver-inducing slyness. "But maybe it's not the poverty part you're ashamed of. Maybe it's the running-around-with-Nicky Carlucci part. That wouldn't set too well with some of the people you're trying to impress, would it?"

  "I'm not ashamed of anything, Nick," she said quietly. But it was a lie. She was ashamed—not of growing up poor, not of him, but of herself. "Please. Just let me arrange a meeting for you with Smith."

  He raised his hand as if to touch her. When she involuntarily stepped back, he gave a dry, bitter little chuckle and lowered his hand again. "I can't, Jolie. But give them the documents when you're done with them. Maybe that'll hold them off for a while."

  "Can they use them?"

  "Right now their only value is investigative. To be admissible in court, Kendricks would have to prove where they came from. Until then, though, there's plenty of information there to justify expanding their investigation to cover a few dozen more people."

  "What about fingerprints?"

  He grinned. "They won't find mine anywhere except on the folder, so kindly put everything in another folder and destroy the original."

  "Isn't that destroying evidence?"

  He shrugged. "Then keep the original. Just hide it away where they'll never find it. And remember, they'll think to look everywhere."

  "And what if that's not enough, Nick?" she asked, a challenging tone in her voice. "What if they still want you?"

  For a long time he was silent, gazing off into the darkness. She would like to think that he was caught in a moral dilemma—his desire to protect himself by retaining his anonymity somewhat weakened by his desire to keep her out of trouble—but she was kidding herself. The man he had become was bothered by neither morals nor dilemmas. He was looking out for himself.

  Finally he looked at her again. "Make up your mind, Jolie. You can be the hotshot crime reporter who risks life and limb and investigation by the FBI for a story, or you can fold at the first threat. I brought the stuff to you because you know Falcone and because you're good at what you do, but if you don't want it anymore, if you can't handle the responsibility, I think I can find someone else who can. The decision is yours."

  She wanted to defend herself, wanted to point out to him the times she had put herself at risk for a story. But unless she could explain why this time was different, any defense would be pointless.

  And the last thing she ever wanted to do—especially to this man—was explain.

  He was waiting impatiently, as if he had better places to be and better things to do than stand here with her. After a moment, she quietly responded. "I can handle it."

  He nodded once in acknowledgment, then started to walk off. A few feet away, he turned back. "Consider this, Jolie. Maybe the FBI's not so good at what they do. They've looked into my background, and they haven't come up with you."

  It was small comfort, but she would take whatever she could get.

  "When will your next story show up?"

  "I'm working on it now. It'll be a couple of days."

  "I'll be looking for it." With that, he spun around and walked away.

  Jolie sank down onto the bench behind her, her legs suddenly feeling weak. Nick had always had a way of cutting through to the heart of an issue, and he was right this time. She could be a hotshot crime reporter, or she could take care to never do anything that might stir up interest in herself. She could go after the important stories, the hard-hitting ones, and occasionally be forced into defending her principles, or she could avoid ever having t
o defend herself and her beliefs, avoid ever putting herself on the line.

  And if she chose the latter, she might as well give up her beat and switch over to the society pages. If she had no more courage than that, she deserved to be stuck in reporter hell, covering nothing more important than garden parties and teas.

  Somewhere on a nearby street, a gunshot sounded, reverberating in the still night. A voice shouted, a dog began barking, and Jolie rose from the bench. This was neither the time nor the place to be debating her courage. She had it—how else could she have conducted some of the interviews she'd done?—but this was a better time to be smart.

  And smart people didn't venture out alone on Serenity Street

  after dark.

  She hurried through the park to the gate. A quick glance to her left showed that the young men were still there, still silent, still watching her. Pulling her keys from her pocket, she crossed the sidewalk, circled around the car and inserted the key to unlock the door.

  It was already unlocked.

  Even though she knew beyond a doubt that she had locked it when she got out.

  Standing very still herself, she looked at the boys again. She had nephews their age, but she clearly understood that age and gender were all Meg's and Theresa's sons had in common with these young men. These guys, typical of Serenity Street

  , were troublemakers, punks. Their families either couldn't control them or didn't care or, worst of all, were just like them. Their neighbors and teachers—assuming they bothered to go to school—were likely afraid of them. Every one of them, she would bet, had had an arrest record before they turned fourteen. She had probably written about some of their crimes in the paper.

  And one of them had been inside her car.

  There was nothing to steal—a few cassette tapes of classic rock, a five-dollar bill clipped to the sun visor and a few bucks in change in the ashtray. This time she had left her purse, with her ID, cash and credit cards, at home. No need to tempt someone to smash a window or jimmy a lock.