"Of course you can. Do you want to put them out in the garage or in one of the closets upstairs?"
"The garage will be fine." She would prefer to leave the box in the closet, where the air-conditioning and cooler temperatures would somewhat offset the effects of humidity, but she knew her parents' garage. As far as she could recall, no car had ever been parked inside it, because the day the family had moved into this house, her folks had immediately started filling it with items unneeded in the house but too good or too important to throw away. After thirteen years, it was almost full except for a few narrow paths between stacks. It was also the perfect hiding place.
"Let me get the keys," Rosemary volunteered. "You get your things and I'll meet you out back."
With a nod, Jolie left through the front door as her mother disappeared into the kitchen. She hurried down the steps and removed the box from the passenger side of the car. She had packed most of its contents at home this morning, then added a few things from her desk at the newspaper office. On the bottom were all but the last of her high school yearbooks; the blank pages, front and back, where her friends had written sometimes funny, sometimes sentimental and occasionally outright vulgar notes, contained a number of references to Nick. Her senior yearbook, though, was still on a shelf at home. By the time she'd received it, he had already removed himself from her life.
On top of the annuals was a stack of stenographer's notebooks, filled with notations and information from previous stories and other informants. Her address book, slim and pocket-size and very private, was sandwiched between them. She had tossed in a few letters from the two sisters closest to her in age, Meg and Theresa—letters that had been written the summer after high school when Jolie had moved to Mississippi to live for a time with her mother's family—along with the journals she had begun when she was fourteen but had given up on at eighteen. The last thing she'd added was a photograph—small, blurry, the colors fading and distorting with age. She hadn't wanted to part with the picture, not even temporarily, but she felt she had no choice.
All of those last items—the notebooks and the address book, the letters, the journals and the photo—were secured inside two folders.
Green accordion-pleated folders, wrapped with rubber bands and stacked one on top of the other.
Pushing the door shut with her hip, she carried the box along the side of the house, where hydrangeas bloomed, to the lush backyard. Maybe it came from living all their lives in apartments, first as children themselves, then raising their own thirteen kids in one, or maybe it had something to do with those kids growing up, getting out on their own and needing less of their parents' time, but her mother and father had thrown themselves into yard work with total commitment. Their grass was greener and thicker than any of the neighbors'. Their flowers were healthier and produced bigger blooms. Their roses were of blue-ribbon quality, their azaleas had topped six feet and their vegetable garden could feed the entire block for the entire summer. The yard was a lovely place and particularly satisfying, Jolie knew, after the bare-dirt parcels of Serenity Street
.
Rosemary was waiting beside the garage, a key ring in hand, testing various keys in the lock. Jolie watched patiently as she tried, then discarded, a half-dozen keys. "If you don't know what they go to, then maybe you should get rid of some of those keys."
But her mother had heard the suggestion before. "If I threw them out, then I'd find out what they went to," she said matter-of-factly. She gave her daughter a triumphant smile as the next key she slid into the padlock turned the tumblers.
As Rosemary opened first one wide wooden door, then the other, sunlight edged inside. The garage was as orderly as a room full of junk could be. Finding anything in there would be like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack. Jolie wouldn't want to be given the job.
She fervently hoped Shawna Warren wouldn't take it upon herself.
While her mother waited at the door, Jolie went inside, turning this way, then that, looking for the perfect spot.
"Since you'll be picking it up again soon," her mother suggested reasonably, "why don't you leave it near the door?"
"I want to put it where I know it'll be left alone. I've got some stuff in here I don't want disturbed." She didn't explain any more than that. Her mother didn't need a better explanation. She understood.
About halfway back along the far wall, she found the spot she was looking for. Boxes were stacked in a single row against the wall, some reaching over six feet high, some only four or five. One particular box was empty, its contents needed and reclaimed. There were water stains down the side, the corrugated cardboard was wrinkled and misshapen, and a thin layer of dust coated the flaps, two open, two folded down.
Setting her own box down, she carefully raised the folded flaps only as far as necessary to slide her smaller box in side. Just as carefully, she folded all four flaps into place, then gently blew across them. Dust lifted, swirled, then resettled, coating the top of the box evenly.
It wasn't a perfect hiding place, she acknowledged as she stepped back. If Shawna Warren did get a search warrant and turned up nothing at the newspaper or Jolie's house, she would know that Jolie had hidden everything elsewhere, and her parents' house would probably come first to the agent's mind. Then it would be a simple matter of asking Rosemary. As much as she loved her daughter, she wouldn't lie to the government to protect her.
But a search warrant had to be confined to specific places. While Jolie had no doubt that a federal magistrate would give the FBI free rein to search her property, she thought—hoped—he would require some sort of compelling reason before unleashing them on her family. She would have liked to confirm that with Smith before coming here, but she wasn't sure he would tell her, and she hadn't wanted to give him any hints about her plans.
"Are you sure you can't stay for lunch?" her mother asked as Jolie walked out into the sunlight again. "I have roast left over from Sunday dinner and a fresh-baked loaf of bread."
"I really can't, Mama. Thanks for the offer, though." Impulsively she gave her mother a hug. "Thanks for the use of the garage. I'll get that stuff out of your way when I'm all finished at home."
"Don't worry about it." Bypassing the back door, Rosemary walked to the car with her arm around Jolie. "Tell me something, sugar. Are you going to be the first of my children to land in jail?"
"Anything's possible," she replied with a lightness she didn't feel. "I am trying to avoid it, though."
"I wish you would. It would really put a crimp in my schedule if I had to make time for visiting day down at the jail." Then her mother's smile faded, and she became as serious as Jolie had ever seen her. "This involves him, doesn't it?"
The first him that came to mind was Smith, who would be waiting for her at his condo in less than fifteen minutes. Then she remembered all the times she'd heard that simple little word from her mother in that disdainful, derisive tone.
You're going out with him, aren't you?
I'm asking you to quit seeing him.
I'm not going to stand back and let you throw your life away for the likes of him.
She swallowed hard. "Mama, I can't tell you—"
Rosemary's smile was sad and distant. "You don't have to tell me. You're protecting Nicky Carlucci. You're risking jail for him."
"I can't discuss this, Mama."
"Didn't he hurt you enough eighteen years ago? Do you have to give him a chance to do it again?"
Jolie gave her another hug, then pulled away and opened the car door. Before climbing in, though, she hesitated. "Don't bring this up with Daddy," she insisted, then softened it. "Please."
The look Rosemary gave her was haughty. "I would never mention Nicky Carlucci's name in your father's house. He despised Nicky as a boy and he despises the man even more. This is between you and me."
"Thank you."
"And between you and me, Jolie, you'd have to be a fool to go to jail to protect Nicky, and I didn't raise you to be a fool.
"
Jolie grinned as she slid into the seat. "Being foolish is something else I try hard to avoid. Mama, I've got to go, or I'll be late for lunch. I'll talk to you soon. Give my love to Daddy."
As she backed out of the driveway, she returned her mother's wave, then headed back toward downtown. If only Smith knew to contact her mother, the questions of cooperation, the First Amendment and jail would all become moot points. Rosemary Wade knew where her loyalties lay—with family, God and country. She would have no misgivings about telling what she alone had guessed, not if it meant saving her eldest daughter from the indignity of a jail cell.
Not if it meant repaying Nick, after eighteen long years, for a little of the trouble he had caused.
Not if it meant finally seeing him pay. Rosemary would take great pleasure in that, in knowing that for once he was in as hopeless a situation as he'd left her daughter.
And sometimes, Jolie had to admit…
Sometimes so would she.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
Smith had been right. By doing no more than walking into his condo, Jolie had changed the entire character of the place. She did more than make it sizzle. For the first time since he'd moved in, it felt like a home and not a showplace. For the first time, he knew someone lived there.
She was standing near the glass wall in the living room, gazing out. It provided the best view: the Mississippi, wide and brown, winding on out to the Gulf; the high-rise office buildings and hotels of downtown New Orleans; Jackson Brewery sprawled between the river and Decatur Street; and the trees and ages-old rooftops of the French Quarter.
"This is a great place," she said, turning to smile at him as he unpacked the take-out lunch he'd brought with him at the beveled-glass-and-stone table in the breakfast nook between kitchen and living room. The nook was raised six steps above the living room, was big enough only for the table and four chairs, and achieved some measure of separateness from the lush potted plants that were placed along the edge of the curving floor.
"It meets my needs."
Still smiling, she rolled her gaze heavenward. "The man owns a chunk of prime riverfront property, and it meets his needs. Please, Smith, what more could you ask for?"
He could think of several answers that he was certain she wouldn't like—starting with someone to share the place with—but settled for one that was equally true. "Grass. A hammock. Windows that open. Not having seventeen stories of parking garage and other people's homes underneath me."
"If you wanted a house, why did you buy a condo?"
He shrugged. "It was easier." Easier to choose, easier to maintain, easier to not get attached to. Buying a house was a complicated decision—a family sort of decision. He would have wanted something that he was comfortable with, something that his wife, when he eventually married, would like, something that would suit his children, when they eventually had them. Every aspect of house buying would have been important, while the condo had been simple. He had paid for it, the designer had decorated it, and he had moved in.
He could move out tomorrow and never miss the place.
Climbing the steps, she chose to sit in one of the side chairs where she could still catch the view. "The easy decisions are rarely the best ones," she remarked. "You, of all people, should know that."
"Why me?"
"Because of your line of work. You see firsthand what taking the easy way out does for a lot of people—the ones who believe it's easier to steal than to struggle, easier to get rich dealing drugs than to work for minimum wage, easier for a witness to keep his mouth shut and stay healthy than to come forward and testify."
"So why aren't you taking the easy way out?"
She grinned. "Because I'm not like those people. Easy's no fun."
Sliding into the seat across from her, he began dishing out food. Aware from previous accidental meetings that they shared a taste for Chinese food and a preference for the same tiny little restaurant, that was what he'd chosen for lunch. "So that explains your choice of careers and your particular specialty within the career. Cloak-and-dagger meetings, impending court appearances, the threat of jail… It's not easy, but it's fun, right?
"I didn't exactly choose the career," she admitted as she reached for the sesame chicken. "When I started college, I didn't have much of an idea what I wanted to do. I just wanted to learn. I wanted to escape."
"Escape what?" He tried to keep his tone casual, tried not to reveal how interested he was in the conversation, tried not to give any hint that his interest was purely personal.
"The way I'd grown up. The neighborhood I grew up in."
He didn't pursue that line. Her reaction Saturday afternoon when they had talked briefly about where she'd grown up had been enough to warn him that it was a particularly sensitive point with her. "Where did you go to school?"
"Mississippi. Ol' Miss. I had a full scholarship, and I worked full-time in summer and part-time the rest of the year. That's the only time I've ever lived away from New Orleans."
"And now you can't wait to go elsewhere. Won't you miss it when you're gone? No family and friends, no Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest, no Christmas bonfires on the river?" Was her laughter a little strained or did it merely seem so to him because he wanted it to? "I'll make new friends. It may surprise you people in the government, but am considered a likable person. As far as family and the rest, that's what they have cars, trains and planes for."
"But it won't be the same. Visiting your family two or three times a year can't begin to compare with living nearby. Sometimes I wonder what kind of relationship I would have with my family if I hadn't left home when I was eighteen."
"Do you regret it?"
He considered it for a long moment before shrugging. "Sometimes. Don't get me wrong. I'm reasonably satisfied with my life here. I like New Orleans, and I intend to stay. I like my job, I have good friends, and I feel as if I belong here. At the same time, it would be nice to be more than casual acquaintances with my family."
Her smile was as dry as her tone. "There's nothing casual about the relationships between any of the Wades. Of course, when fifteen people share a four-bedroom apartment, they get to know each other very, very well."
He thought about that—fifteen people in four bedrooms. Allowing one room for her parents and another for the four brothers, that meant Jolie had shared her room with three or four sisters. From the time he was three or four years old, he'd had his own private suite of rooms at his parents' home—a bedroom, a sitting room and bath—while Jolie had been lucky to get a private moment to herself. No wonder she had been eager to escape. No wonder she had worked hard to earn a scholarship, then had worked even harder to get through college. She had seen it as a way out, a way to a better life for herself.
But how much better did it have to get before she would allow herself to quit pushing?
"So you went away to college without any specific plans," he said, returning to their earlier subject. "What drew you to journalism?"
"One of my part-time jobs was with the local paper. I walked in my first day, and it was as if a light bulb had come on over my head. I knew right away that that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to write the news. I wanted to inform the public." Her smile was self-deprecating. "I wanted to make a difference."
"You've accomplished those goals. What more, besides a Pulitzer, do you want?"
"To be the best." She answered simply, unequivocally. It wasn't about money—although money was always nice, Smith acknowledged, especially to someone who'd grown up without it—or respect, also nice. She wanted to be the best.
And she couldn't very well do that in New Orleans, Louisiana.
"What about a family? Does that figure into your plans anywhere?" When she started to reply, he raised one hand to stall her. "Not kids. You made your feelings quite clear about that Saturday. What about a husband? Aren't you ever going to get married?"
She cut the last egg roll in half, dipped it i
n sweet-and-sour sauce and took a bite, chewing slowly before finally swallowing and dryly asking, "Didn't we cover that Saturday, too?"
The snatch of conversation she was referring to echoed in his mind. Don't you ever feel the urge to give the wedding march a spin? Don't you ever hear your biological clock ticking?
Never.
Never? Not even after you have a Pulitzer or two?
Never.
But she had followed up that last flat response with more—with talk about helping to raise her brothers and sisters, about never wanting children of her own. She hadn't made any specific references to the marriage part of his question.
"Not exactly. You kind of got hung up on the kids. You didn't get around to rejecting marriage as thoroughly as you rejected motherhood."
She finished the egg roll, wiped her hands on a napkin and settled back in the chair to study him. "Interesting that you should ask, considering that you're older than I am, about as ambitious and still single yourself."
"But I haven't ruled it out. Marriage has always been part of my plans. I just haven't met the right woman yet."
"Maybe you haven't met her because she doesn't exist."
He shook his head. "I don't believe that." He had a damned good reason for not believing it, and she was sitting across the table from him. "Besides, we're not talking about me or the existence of a Ms. Right—or Mr. Right—for every one of us. We're talking about you and your narrow-minded refusal to even consider the possibilities."
She stared at him, irate astonishment bringing a spark of green fire to her eyes. "Narrow-minded?" she repeated, her gaze sharpening, her voice harder and tighter. "You're calling me narrow-minded? You—a lawyer, a prosecutor, who lives by the book, who sees right and wrong, black and white and no shades of gray—are calling me narrow-minded?"
"Yes," he replied mildly. "You're also stubborn, hardheaded and just a little hot tempered, too."
"And you're a chauvinist," she retorted. "You just can't quite accept the idea of a woman who doesn't need a man to be happy."
A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 10