"It's been a long day for all of us," Remy said evenly, providing him with an excuse for not paying attention.
"Yeah, well, the days are going to get a hell of a lot longer if the Falcone trial starts and we still don't have Wade's informant," Shawna snapped. "Do you think you can pay attention for five minutes more, Smith, or should I take this up with Alexander?"
He straightened in his chair, turned to face them and folded his hands on the desk pad. "I'm paying attention," he said coolly. "What is it you want?"
"I'd like to put a couple of people on Jolie, and I'd like to get a line ID on her home phone."
"No."
"Come on, Smith. It's procedure."
"No," he repeated stubbornly. "Not as long as she's cooperating."
"Falcone's trial starts in a couple of weeks," she reminded him. "I agree, the stuff she gave us is good. It opens up a whole new arena of investigation. But it's not admissible in court, not without being able to prove where it came from. We need her informant for the trial."
"We made a deal with her. I made a deal with her. Do you know what she would do if we reneged? She would use the front page of the newspaper to tell everyone who can read—every crook, every informant, every law-abiding citizen—that the U.S. Attorney's office isn't to be trusted. That they made promises and didn't keep them. Do you know what kind of damage that could do?" He paused, but not long enough for a response. "No one would deal with us again—no suspects, no informants, no lawyers. We would be screwed, and we'd have no one to blame but ourselves."
Her expression argumentative, Shawna asked, "What about once the trial starts? How are you going to handle this then?"
Smith made a conscious effort to hide the discomfort her question caused. He knew exactly what she wanted to hear, what Alexander Marshall would expect to hear: that he would subpoena Jolie. That he would put her on the witness stand and question her about the evidence, about its source. That he would attempt to force her to respond and that, when she refused, he would ask the judge to find her in contempt.
That was what Shawna wanted, what Alexander wanted, and it was exactly what he would do.
Even if it was the last thing he wanted.
"I'll handle it, Shawna."
"How?"
He gave her a long, warning look. "I have a better conviction rate than anyone else in this office. I know how to handle my trials. I don't have to explain my strategy or my intentions to you. Now … is there anything else you want to discuss this evening?"
With a tight shake of her head, Shawna gathered her jacket and briefcase, muttered a cross goodbye and left his office. After a moment's silence, Remy asked, "Does that invitation to leave include me, too?"
Smith sighed. "No."
"You got problems?"
"Life without problems would be easy, and easy's no fun," he murmured.
There was a moment of puzzlement in Remy's expression, then he shrugged it off. "Michael says you spent most of Saturday afternoon down in the Quarter with Jolie." He paused. "You've got a hell of a sense of timing, pal. The biggest trial of your career is coming up in a couple of weeks, and she's going to be right smack in the middle of it."
"Maybe not."
"She's not going to roll over on her source."
"No. But maybe we can figure out who he is by then. Maybe he'll come forward on his own. Maybe his lawyer will persuade him to make a deal."
"Uh-huh. And maybe Jimmy will save us all the trouble by pleading guilty to everything and avoiding a trial." Remy fell silent for a long time. When he did finally speak again, he looked troubled. "This one's important, Smith. After what Falcone did to Valery and to Susannah … this one's damned important."
"Don't forget what he did to you." Smith drew his fingertip back and forth across the fine grain leather that covered his desk pad. "It's important to me, too. I've never wanted a conviction the way I want this one. I promise you, Remy, I'll do whatever it takes within the limits of the law to get it."
"Even if it causes problems for you with Jolie."
"I've never let my personal life interfere with how I do my job," he replied stiffly. But that wasn't exactly true. His personal feelings for Remy, Valery and Susannah had certainly influenced his professional desire to send Falcone to prison. When Falcone had threatened them, he had made the case intensely personal for Smith. And, on a more minor level, he had sat here a few minutes ago and let a portion of a work-related discussion slide right by him while he was preoccupied with thoughts of Jolie and the arrangement he had offered her.
"I know that. But until now your personal life has never included Jolie Wade."
"You don't like her much, do you?" It was Michael who got along well with her, Michael who openly admired her. Remy, Smith recalled, had always tolerated her. They rarely carried on conversations but traded insults and barbed taunts. Michael and Jolie were friends. Remy and Jolie were adversaries.
"For a smart-mouthed, hotshot, overconfident reporter, she's not so bad." Remy grinned unexpectedly. "She certainly knows how to get Shawna stirred up. All she has to do is smile, and Shawna's blood pressure shoots off the charts."
I knew the moment I saw that smug little smile of Jolie's… Smith grinned, too. He knew exactly the smile Shawna had been referring to. It was the same one that usually made Remy scowl—the same one that, personally, he found amusing. Of course, he wasn't competing directly against her in any way, which, in a very real sense, the FBI agents were. He could afford to be amused.
"Come on. I'll walk out with you." Remy got to his feet and stretched. "You want to come over for dinner?"
Smith pulled on the suit coat he'd removed when the agents had arrived, straightened his tie and picked up his briefcase. "I'm sure Susannah appreciates you inviting guests over without asking."
"You're not a guest. You're family. Want to come?"
He considered it a moment, then shook his head. "I'm kind of tired. I'll go on home."
As they walked down the quiet hall to the elevator, Smith noticed that his friend was favoring his right leg. The first time Falcone's people had tried to kill Remy, he'd been shot three times at close range—in the arm, the chest and the thigh. A bulletproof vest had saved his life, and the arm wound had been minor, as minor as a gunshot wound could be, but the bullet that had gone through his thigh had done some serious damage to the femur. The cast had been off since March, and he no longer needed crutches or a cane to get around, but he still had a titanium plate screwed into the bone for support, and he still had occasional aches.
"Been overdoing it lately?" Smith asked softly.
Remy's grin was wry as he stepped into the elevator. "I didn't think the limp was so noticeable anymore."
"It's not."
"My granddaddy used to tell me that he always knew when it was going to rain because he could feel it in his bones. Now I know what he meant. Those clouds building off to the west may not bring any rain, but they're sure increasing the humidity."
Downstairs, they stepped outside, then parted, each heading for his car. As he drove, Smith considered stopping somewhere for dinner, then decided to go on home. Remy was right about those clouds. The humidity was unbearably high, the air thick and still. The calm before the storm, he thought with a thin smile. He didn't really feel much like eating now, and he certainly didn't feel like being caught out if the storm did break. He could always order something delivered later.
He could, if he got energetic, find something in the freezer to cook.
Or he could finish off the leftovers from his and Jolie's lunch.
When he walked in the door of his condo, the scent of perfume, as elusive as the woman who wore it, greeted him. It was in the living room, hovering over the dining table, weaving down the hall and drifting faintly in his bedroom. She had spent barely an hour there, and yet she had left her mark.
As he pulled off his jacket and tie, the first rumble of thunder sounded. Seconds later lightning streaked across the sky. The first r
aindrops were fat, striking the window with audible little plops. As they came harder and faster, they grew smaller, coating the glass, blurring the world outside.
Tired and feeling just a little melancholy, he returned to the living room, put a Louis Armstrong CD in the player, got a cold beer from the refrigerator and went to the patio door. Lightning raced down again, and a flash across the river signaled a strike, probably a transformer somewhere. Immediately behind it, sheet lightning brightened the sky.
He should have accepted Remy's dinner invitation. He should have gone by Michael's or stopped at his favorite restaurant or worked late and had dinner delivered to the office. He should have—
The ringing of the doorbell interrupted his thoughts. For just an instant he thought of Jolie, saw her as she'd looked this afternoon out there on the patio, her arms looped around the top rail, wearing the smile that Shawna hated, and his fingers tightened around the bottle he held. But it wouldn't be her at the door. She wouldn't come over without calling first. She wouldn't have an answer to his suggestion so quickly.
Would she?
At the second ring, he pushed away from the glass and crossed to the door. He was right. It wasn't Jolie standing there when he opened the door.
It was Trevor, Cassie's boyfriend. Like Saturday, he was unshaven, sullen and sulky, but he was also soaking wet. The drenching he'd received made him look more like a harmless kid than the young rebel he wanted to appear. "Are you Mr. Kendricks?"
"Yes, I am. You're Cassie's friend, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
Sir. There was a time the formality would have impressed him, before Michael and Evan had taught him—and he had soon learned on his own—that when the people he dealt with started peppering their conversation with respectful sirs and pleases, they were generally lying through their teeth.
But Trevor wasn't one of those people, even if he did look the part.
"Come on in," Smith invited, stepping back. "I'll get you a towel."
"No, thanks. I've got to get to work. Cassie's sister asked me to deliver this on the way." Reaching inside his leather jacket, he withdrew an envelope and offered it to Smith. It was white, greeting-card size, and his name was written across the front in smeared blue ink. It was also wet. With a slight flush, the young man apologized for that. "Sorry. I couldn't find a parking space nearby. I've gotta go now."
Studying the envelope, Smith murmured his thanks, closed the door and slowly returned to the patio door. Was rejection easier delivered in an impersonal note by a sullen stranger? He didn't think so.
Damn, he really should have gone to Remy's.
With an exasperated sigh that echoed through the room, he set his beer down on the closest table, unsealed the flap and reached inside for Jolie's rejection. Instead, all he found was a ticket for a cruise on the riverboat Natchez and, attached to the back, a yellow sticky note. In the same handwriting that had addressed the envelope was a brief note: "Saturday, 1:30."
His smile came slowly, growing until it split into a grin. In her own unorthodox way, Jolie had given him exactly the answer he'd wanted, had hoped for, but honestly hadn't expected. She was giving him another Saturday afternoon and a lazy float down the river. She was giving him a chance.
Sliding the ticket into his shirt pocket, he picked up his beer again and turned his attention back to the weather. Coming on home alone hadn't been such a bad idea, he decided. In fact, he was pretty damned satisfied with where he was and what he had.
New Orleans in July, a summer storm, a cold beer and blues in the air.
And a date with Jolie on Saturday.
What more could a man ask for?
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Jolie wasn't a nervous person by nature. Granted, she had a lot of energy, but she generally put it to good use. She didn't fidget, didn't pace, didn't do anything that might reveal uneasiness. In writing the kind of stories she wrote and interviewing the people she interviewed, impressions were important. Being perceived as brash, bold and tough was good. Appearing nervous and edgy wasn't.
But on this bright Saturday afternoon she was pacing. Her palms were damp, and it couldn't be blamed on the heat.
It could be blamed on the fact that nearly a week had passed since her lunch with Smith. Since he'd suggested that they attempt a relationship.
Relationship. As a child, reading to explore the world and to escape her own dreary little part of it, she had learned to treasure language. As a reporter, she had developed tremendous respect for words, their subtle nuances and their power. But relationship was one word that she absolutely hated. It smacked of snootiness, of pretension, of imprecision. It was trendy.
However, much as she hated it, she couldn't come up with a better substitute. Friendship was too benign, affair too intimate. Romance was too personal, liaison too illicit.
And so relationship it was. Nearly a week since he had suggested it. Nearly a week since she had agreed.
Nearly a week since she'd seen or heard from him.
What if he didn't show up today? What if he had changed his mind? What if he had tried to call this morning to tell her that he wasn't coming? She should have returned home after picking up Cassie this morning, should have checked her machine or messages, instead of going shopping at the secondhand shops that carried her sister's favored styles.
She kicked a stone, sending it skidding across the parking lot and raising a tiny puff of dust, then glanced at her watch. The Natchez was already boarding for the afternoon cruise. If Smith didn't show, she decided, squaring her shoulders, she would go without him. She'd done it plenty of times before. It wasn't as if she needed or even particularly wanted company for the cruise. After all, this was a private summer ritual, one she had never shared with anyone else. There was really no reason to start now.
Then she turned, intending to head for the dock, and saw him standing a few yards away, watching her, and she knew that he was a perfectly good reason to start making a few changes in her life.
He was the best reason she could imagine.
Pushing her hands into the hip pockets of her denim shorts, she offered him a smile that neatly disguised every single doubt she'd had. "You're almost late."
"You knew I'd be here."
"Of course I knew," she bluffed. "But I figured you'd be on time."
He glanced over his shoulder. "People are still standing in line to board. I'm not late. I'm never late."
She gave him a long, head-to-toe look. She had dressed in her version of casual—denim shorts, a yellow cotton tank top, sandals and a ponytail secured with a yellow band. He was dressed in his own version of casual—tailored shorts in olive drab, neatly pleated and belted, a polo shirt in pale yellow, neatly tucked, and deck shoes. Just as she had last weekend, she wished for a shirt in a vivid jewel tone—with his coloring, emerald green would be flattering. And jeans. Soft, faded, snug-fitting jeans.
Not that he didn't look perfectly fine dressed the way he was.
He just looked too fine.
Too fine for her.
"We'd better get in line," she suggested. "You don't get seasick, do you?"
He chuckled. "Not since I was about five and learning to sail with my uncles."
She reached for her sunglasses, which dangled by one earpiece from a corner of her shoulder bag, and slid them into place. They shielded her eyes from the glaring afternoon sun, but she had the vaguely uneasy feeling that the dark shades offered little or no protection from the probing way Smith looked at her. "I guess back on the East Coast, you rich folks do that sort of thing, don't you?" she asked.
"I guess we do. I got my first sailboat before I got my first car. It was beautiful. You would have liked it."
Shaking her head, she gestured toward the Natchez with its multiple decks looming above them. "This is the only boat I've ever been on, and I have no intention of ever setting foot on anything smaller. I can't swim. I've seen floaters on the job, so
believe me, drowning as a means of death holds no appeal whatsoever for me."
"I was a good sailor. I never sank a single boat or lost a single passenger." The line moved ahead a few feet, and they moved with it. "How can you not swim? You've lived all your life on the Gulf Coast, surrounded by water."
She had to tilt her head back to give him her driest look. "The Mississippi isn't exactly the most inviting water to jump into—or Lake Pontchartrain. And since my folks never owned a car until I was out of college, family trips to the beach were out of the question."
"There are community pools."
"Not in my community." Then she recanted. "Actually, there was a pool in our neighborhood. It had been built … oh, probably in the twenties or thirties. By the time I came along, it had long since fallen into disuse and was about half filled with garbage."
"Next winter I'll lease a boat and we'll sail down to the Caribbean. I'll teach you how to swim while we're there."
Abruptly she looked away so he couldn't see the tension that made her clench her jaw. Winter was six months away. She seriously doubted this relationship of theirs would survive half that long.
In odd vulnerable moments she wondered if she would survive.
Halfway up the gangplank, they reached the reason for the slow boarding: a photographer was stationed there, snapping shots of the passengers. By the time the cruise ended, the photos would be developed and offered for sale, a few bucks a print. When he called, "Want a souvenir picture to take home with you?" Jolie smiled politely, shook her head and started to go on.
Smith had other ideas.
Catching her hand, he pulled her back. "Sure, we do."
"This is for tourists, Smith," she protested, trying to free herself without a struggle.
"I've never taken the cruise before. Today I'm a tourist, and I want the souvenir photo."
Still she hung back. "Why?"
"To show everyone who knows you and who won't believe me when I tell them that I got a date with Jolie Wade."
"All you have to do is stand still for a moment and smile," the photographer coaxed.
A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 12