Because of Jolie.
Because, as far as she was concerned, this job was a liability.
Because, as far as his job was concerned, she was a liability.
What would he do if he left the U.S. Attorney's office? Going to work for the Orleans Parish District Attorney was one possibility … but that wouldn't resolve the problems. He doubted that Jolie was held in any higher regard by the D.A.'s office and local-level law enforcement, Michael and a few others excepted, than she was at the federal level. Private practice was always an option, but he really couldn't see himself handling divorces and civil suits, and she had been right last night about criminal law. He couldn't defend people he knew were guilty. He just couldn't.
That didn't leave much. Corporate law, which would bore him in no time. Teaching, something that held zero interest for him. Maybe politics. There were lots of Kendrickses in politics, although he had never imagined he might be one of them. Beyond that, he was fresh out of ideas.
Since both his career and Jolie's were a problem, it would be easier if she would switch. She wouldn't even have to quit her job. She could simply give up the crime reporting and do something else. The Times-Picayune was filled every issue with non-crime-related stories; someone was writing those stories, and there was no reason why that someone couldn't be Jolie.
But they didn't give Pulitzer prizes for writing about street repairs or garden parties or new industry coming to town. She would never give up her shot at being the best, and, in her opinion, the best wrote the hard-hitting stories. Neither street repairs nor garden parties nor new industry come to town packed a hard enough punch to qualify.
But if he was willing to give up his job, if he was willing to change the entire focus of his career, then she had to be willing to give him something in return.
A baby sounded just about perfect.
What he was suggesting was a compromise, a concept that was probably damn near alien to Jolie. She gave in on occasion, but always unwillingly and only when she felt she had no choice. Did he want her that way—unwilling and without choice?
His scowl slowly gave way to a smile, one that was thin humorless and filled with regret. Did he want Jolie that way?
Damned right he did.
He wanted her anyway he could get her.
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Jolie sat on a bar stool at O'Shea's, her feet dangling inches above the floor. If she pointed her toes straight down, she could rest them on the crossbar—just barely. She didn't try, though; she simply let them dangle.
She had never been one to hang out in bars, had never had the money or the time or the inclination, but she could understand the appeal such places held for people who were down. The worn, torn shabbiness of O'Shea's was a perfect match for the way she felt in spirit.
It was Wednesday morning, a few minutes after ten, and she felt as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She hadn't slept well last night—had blamed her restlessness on the heat, although the air conditioner had kept the temperature at a chilly sixty-eight degrees, or on mysterious hot-and-muggy-weather ions or on full-moon craziness. Truth was, she had been restless because she was alone. Because her pillows and the old quilt that covered her bed had smelled of Smith. Because he had looked at her with such disappointment. Because he had left her with that quiet apology and that sorrowful expression in his eyes.
Because she was afraid he might not come back.
She had already heard that the FBI's plan to pick up Nick last night had been a bust, and she knew that they must know—that Smith must know—she was the one who tipped him off. She hadn't meant to send him into hiding. She had simply wanted him to know that she hadn't intentionally betrayed him. She had wanted him to be prepared so that when the agents arrived, he wouldn't do something foolish or reckless. She hadn't intended for him to go on the run and possibly place himself in danger.
She had wanted, she admitted gloomily, to salve her conscience. She had wanted to be able to say to herself, "All right, I made a mistake. I shouldn't have allowed Smith to discover Nick's identity, but since I did, I've done what I can to make it up to Nick."
But what she had done was wrong. It was liable to drive her and Smith even farther apart. It was sure to increase the disappointment she'd stirred in him. It could even cost Nick his life.
God help her.
With a sigh, she glanced at her watch. Less than ten minutes had passed since Jamey had arrived at the bar from somewhere down the street and unlocked the doors. Time sure flew, she thought sourly, when you were utterly miserable.
After dozing fitfully toward dawn, she had gone for her morning run, only to give up after less than a mile and return home. There she had showered and dressed for work, then gathered all the material Nick had given her at their last meeting. It was still in her car, tucked under the seat in its green accordion folder. She would do something with it today—would give it to Shawna or maybe take it by Smith's office. She wasn't above trying to buy her way back into his good graces.
In fact, that was why she was here. After a few fruitless hours at the paper, she had mumbled some excuse wandered out and wound up here. She needed Jamey's help.
She had been waiting outside, along with a painfully shabby old gentleman, when Jamey had opened the doors five minutes before ten. He had greeted her with no more than a nod before turning his attention to the old man, fixing him a cup of coffee and sliding a couple of beignets onto a napkin to accompany the whiskey he was also serving. The two men were talking now—or, at least, Jamey was. His was the only voice she could hear, his questions unimportant, his remarks casual. How are you feeling today? I didn't see you around yesterday. What do you think of this heat? Is there anything I can get for you?
She wondered if there was anyone else to ask the old man about his health, anyone else to notice when he didn't come around. Probably not. At least he had Jamey.
Finally Jamey returned to the bar, offering her a cold soda, fixing himself a glass of iced water. She had never seen him drink, not even beer, not even when they were kids. Granted, his father was an alcoholic; that was the best reason of all, she supposed, not to drink.
But, if that was his reason, he had certainly picked a strange profession for himself.
"You're a good man, Jamey O'Shea," she remarked, popping the tab on her soda can.
He followed her glance to the old man, then shrugged. "Uh-huh. I know you well. When Jolie Wade comes around with compliments, she's wanting something. What is it you want today, half-pint?"
Her flippant answer came automatically, without an ounce of lightheartedness. "To be five foot ten and beautiful."
"You don't ask for much, do you?"
"Only six inches and a new face." And a chance to relive the past twenty-or-so hours. But as long as she was wishing, she wouldn't turn down a chance to relive the last twenty years.
"There's nothing wrong with the face you've got." He went to turn on a fan at the end of the bar, then returned. "Nothing wrong with being short, either. Plenty of men like women who are little and delicate." With a sidelong look and something close to a smile, he added, "I hear Assistant U.S. Attorney Smith Kendricks is one of them."
The mention of Smith's name added a new shade of blue to the moroseness she was already feeling. She had wanted to call him—in the middle of the night, around dawn, this morning—to apologize for warning Nick, but she had been afraid to, afraid that he wouldn't understand why she'd done it, that even if he did understand, he wouldn't forgive her.
She wasn't exactly sure she understood herself.
And if anything happened to Nick, she knew she would never forgive herself.
"Right now Smith Kendricks prefers any kind of woman over the kind that I am," she said bleakly. "He found out about Nick."
"That he's behind your articles about Falcone?"
She nodded. "And that he and I were…" She let it trail off with a shrug. She
didn't have to be more specific. Jamey probably knew more about her and Nick twenty years ago than anyone else … but even he didn't know everything.
"And it makes a difference to him?"
"I don't know," she replied honestly. "Maybe it does."
His expression made it clear what he thought of that. Of course, Jamey had a strong streak of forgiveness in him; he'd had to develop it in order to deal with his mother and father. He'd had plenty of practice at forgiving people their shortcomings.
She doubted that Smith had ever known anyone with failings like hers.
And he didn't yet know her biggest secret of all.
That was something he might never understand. She would know how Smith would react—if Jamey could help her, if Nick would—tonight.
With a sigh, she got down to the point of her visit. "Have you seen or talked to Nick since last night?"
He looked at her head-on, his blue gaze steady. He could be about to tell her God's honest truth or to spin the most outrageous tale, and his expression would never change. There would be nothing in his eyes to declare that this was the truth, nothing to hint that it was a lie. "If you're going to ask where he is, save yourself the trouble. I don't know. I imagine someplace where the FBI and Falcone can't find him." He used a metal scoop to pour ice into his glass, then refilled it from the tap. "If you're going to ask if I know how to get hold of him, I think I could manage. I can't guarantee, though, that he'll want to talk to you or meet with you or anything like that."
Her mood sank a notch lower. "He must be pretty angry."
"Not angry. Just looking out for himself. You know, you're probably pretty hot right now. Having any contact with you could get him caught."
"I imagine they're running a background check on me, and they've probably tapped my phone, but I'm not being followed—not yet, at least. I never would have come here if I was."
Jamey shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me. I can't tell the feds anything that two dozen other people on this street can't. I don't have anything to hide from them. My business is legit, my background is clean." Leaning on the bar, he grinned. "I'm a responsible, law-abiding, upstanding citizen. Who ever would have believed it?"
Jolie smiled faintly in response. There had been more than a few uncharitable souls on Serenity twenty years ago who were convinced that none of them would amount to much of anything—not Jamey, Nick or her.
They had been more right than wrong.
Mimicking his position, she took a deep breath. "If you can get in touch with him, ask him to meet me as usual tonight. Tell him I'm sorry I screwed up, and tell him that, if he'll come, I'm bringing Smith Kendricks with me."
It wasn't a great plan—she would be the first to admit it. Smith might not agree without notifying the FBI first or insisting that they be present. She might get him there, only to find that Jamey was unable to reach Nick or that Nick had chosen not to trust her again. Even if Nick did show up, even if Smith did go without notifying Shawna Warren, there was still plenty of room for things to go wrong. Nick could refuse to listen to Smith. Smith could refuse to listen to her. Smith could feel that what little she was offering—a face-to-face meeting with Nick, no more, no less—wasn't enough to make up for what she'd done last night.
In fact, the plan was downright lousy. But it was the best apology she could offer.
"Do you want me to let you know what Nicky's answer is?" Jamey asked.
"No. I'll be there either way. If he doesn't show, then I'll know."
"That park's not a safe place at night."
"Hopefully, Smith will be with me."
He made a face at that. "Big deal. Like prosecutors don't get mugged in this city?"
She forced a halfhearted grin. "I run fast and scream loud. If I get into trouble, you'll hear me all the way down here."
"You need to get into a new line of work, one where running fast and screaming loud aren't considered vital skills."
She slid slowly to the floor, her gaze steady, her voice quieter. "I've been thinking about that." All too often lately she had found herself thinking that maybe being a reporter wasn't all there was to life. Maybe she could be a few other things, too.
Like a wife.
Or maybe…
Even thinking about it hurt, but maybe, just maybe, she could even be a mother.
If it wasn't too late.
If she hadn't ruined everything.
Balancing her purse on the bar stool, she rummaged inside for some money. When she offered a buck for the drink, he shook his head. "My treat."
Digging inside again, she came up with a five and laid them both on the counter. "Buy your friend some lunch," she suggested as she turned away. She was halfway to the door before he spoke.
"Hey, jolie blonde."
When she looked back, he looked as serious as ever.
"You're not so bad yourself." Then he grinned. "If things don't work out with Kendricks, come on back here. I'll fall in love with you myself."
She thought of that heart-sore possibility—that things might not work out with Smith—but managed a faint smile anyway. "Watch out, O'Shea," she warned over her shoulder as she walked away. "I just might take you up on that."
* * *
The last person Smith had expected to see when his doorbell rang late that evening was Jolie, but there she stood, looking lovely and nervous and as if the past twenty-four hours had been as difficult for her as they had been for him. He wanted to draw her into his arms, wanted to kiss her, wanted to pretend that they didn't have more problems than any couple should ever have.
But, unsure that she would come to him willingly, unsure that he could let her go if she did, he didn't reach out. He didn't touch her at all, even though he ached to. He simply looked at her.
She hesitated, obviously uneasy, then gestured inside. "Can I come in?"
She had been nervous the last time she'd come to his house on a sticky, hot evening. They had made love that night—only two nights ago, he realized with a jolt of surprise. He felt as if he'd known her forever, as if they'd been lovers forever.
He felt as if he had loved her forever.
He stepped back, far back so they wouldn't accidentally touch, and waited for her to enter. After she did, after the soft shuffle of her footsteps on the tile floor had faded, he closed the door and moved to follow her. She was waiting for him in the living room, not seated comfortably but standing, as she had once before, in front of the sculpture. She wasn't looking at it, though. Even from this side view, he could tell that her gaze, and her thoughts, were far from this ugly mass of glass, stone and steel.
Finally, when the silence in the room grew heavier, thicker, taking on a form of its own, she faced him. "I'm sorry I warned Nick."
The apology should have been enough. He shouldn't need an explanation, but he did.
"Why did you? You were worried about him. You were concerned that he was setting himself up so Falcone could kill him. If we had been able to pick him up last night, he would be in protective custody. Falcone couldn't get to him. He would be safe. But, thanks to you, he's still out there somewhere. He's still within Falcone's reach." Hearing the accusatory note in his voice, he broke off, drew a deep breath and asked once again, more quietly this time. "Why did you do it, Jolie?"
"I made a promise to Nick that I would protect his identity, and I broke it. It wasn't intentional, but the results were the same. I betrayed his trust. I screwed up." She shrugged, setting her hair ashimmer. "I had an obligation to tell him what I had done. I asked him not to leave his house, not to go into hiding, but that was his choice. Don't you see, Smith? Whatever he did had to be his choice. I had no right to reveal his identity to you, and I had no right to decide that he should be taken into protective custody or forced to cooperate with you against his will. He had to make that decision for himself. I had to let him do it."
He wrapped his fingers around one of the sculpture's protruding glass rods. It was smooth, cold, lifeless. In this cond
o he was surrounded by cold, lifeless forms. As soon as the Falcone trial was over, he decided, he was going to hire some movers to get rid of every piece that could be moved except Michael's painting, and he was going to start over, choosing his own furniture, his own art. Better yet, instead of movers, he might just call a Realtor and start looking for an entirely new place to call home. Someplace cozy. Someplace warm and inviting. Someplace that suited him.
Someplace like Jolie's place.
But he could move into the coziest, most inviting house on the market—hell, he could duplicate Jolie's little yellow house right down to the cobalt blue bottles on the windowsill and the framed bits of lace on the walls—but without her, it would still be cold. Empty. Unwelcoming.
The way his life would be without her.
Compromise, he reminded himself. That was what they had to learn to do.
In that spirit, he could see the logic that had led her to warn Carlucci. The rational part of him could even understand it. Carlucci had made it clear from the beginning that he didn't want to deal with the government. He had known that, at any time in the past few months, he could walk into Smith's office with his evidence and cut a deal to hang Falcone and save himself, and he had chosen not to. He had turned down Smith's request through Jolie for a meeting. Whatever his reasons, he had wanted to handle things his way, and being taken into protective custody by the FBI wasn't part of his plan.
But Smith still thought Jolie had been wrong to call him.
"What if he gets killed, Jolie?" he asked quietly. "What if Falcone figures out who his leak is and kills him?" He paused, but she wasn't eager to reply. "Carlucci lives in one of the houses at Falcone's compound. It's maybe a hundred yards from one house to the other. Do you think Jimmy hasn't noticed that he's gone? That he took off in a hurry last night and hasn't come back? Do you think that doesn't make Jimmy wonder? Maybe he asks a few questions, maybe he figures out a few answers … and maybe Nick Carlucci turns up a floater in Lake Pontchartrain. What then, Jolie?"
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