A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 6

  .

  It wasn't fair.

  It was blackmail, truly, it was. Tell us what we want to know, Smith was saying, or we'll dig up and reveal all your darkest, most intimate secrets. Cooperate with us or we'll punish you.

  She couldn't cooperate with them.

  She couldn't betray the trust Nick had placed in her.

  But, even more, she couldn't have the FBI snooping around in her past. For one thing, doing so would most likely give them Nick's identity. Shawna Warren wasn't dumb. Somewhere in their file on Nick was the information that he'd grown up on Serenity Street

  . Somehow she would find someone who remembered him, who remembered Jolie. Somehow she would connect them, and then she would know.

  For another, Jolie did have something to hide. Only a few people knew—her parents, her grandmother and Father Francis, among others—but she couldn't be sure that Shawna wouldn't somehow stumble across it. She couldn't take that chance.

  She had to make some sort of deal to get them off her back.

  She had to give them something.

  Hands pushed into her pockets, she crossed the street to the shady side, taking the opportunity to look casually behind her. There was no one closer than two blocks, and that was a young girl playing hopscotch on a chalk-drawn grid. Still, she walked past Serenity, around an extra block, then came back. Satisfied that she wasn't being followed, she headed toward O'Shea's halfway down the street.

  Four sets of double doors stretched across the front of the bar. Faded black shutters were folded out against the brick wall, and grimy French doors were propped open inside. The bar had been there as long as she could remember, always bearing the swinging sign that proclaimed it O'Shea's, but Jamey was the first O'Shea in her memory to do anything more than drink there. The doors she walked through never closed, except from 2:00 a.m. until 10:00 a.m. and when the occasional hurricane blew through. They provided fresh air to combat the haze of cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. Along with the ceiling fans overhead, they offered a slight cooling breeze in summer and let in light and a little of the sun's heat in winter.

  Inside, the floor needed sweeping and the tables needed washing, but that didn't matter to the patrons drinking away their afternoon. Business was never booming—O'Shea's was too far off the tourist path, Serenity too rough a neighborhood for sightseers—but it was steady. Jamey would never get rich, but as long as the liquor didn't run dry, he would always get by.

  He was behind the bar, a towel in hand, lazily drying a glass and watching her, his customers and the baseball game on the corner-mounted television all with equal interest. When she climbed onto one of the stools that fronted the bar, he finally forgot the rest and gave his attention to her. "It's a long time since you wandered in here."

  She acknowledged that with a nod and a shrug. "How've you been, Jamey?"

  "I can't complain."

  To some degree, it seemed that had always been true. She had been ambitious, Nick had been bitter and driven, but Jamey… He'd been the good-natured one. The accepting one. The one who understood that his father was an alcoholic who couldn't help getting drunk and spending his entire check before he even made it home on payday. The one who understood that Margie O'Shea had gotten married too young, that she'd gotten pregnant too young to be a decent mother to him. He hadn't resented going hungry or being locked out of the apartment for hours on end because his mother needed to be alone. He hadn't resented being forced to accept charity from the neighbors and the church because neither of his parents was willing or able to take care of him themselves.

  More than either her or Nick, she thought, Jamey deserved a better life. He deserved to escape Serenity Street

  .

  But he was satisfied to stay there.

  Sometime she might wonder why, but not today.

  "Can I have a beer?"

  Reaching under the bar, he pulled out an icy can of soda and set it in front of her. "You don't drink beer, remember? It makes you sick."

  She gave him an exaggerated scowl. "That was twenty years ago, Jamey. I've grown up since then."

  "Not much, you haven't. So, L.B., are you here about Nicky?"

  In spite of herself, his nickname made her grin. They'd had plenty of nicknames for her when they were growing up:

  L.B.—short for little bit—half-pint, shrimp baby. That last had belonged to only Nick, and he had used it only under the most intimate of circumstances.

  She wondered what sort of endearments a man like Smith would use in circumstances like that. No likely candidates came to mind.

  "I need to get in touch with Nick. Do you have a way to do that?"

  "Yeah, I can do that."

  "Would you ask him to meet me tomorrow night?"

  "Same place, same time?"

  She thought about returning to the park at midnight, and a little shiver danced down her spine. Reluctantly she shook it off and nodded.

  "Is it safe to call you and let you know what he says?"

  "I think so. Just be discreet. Oh, and Jamey? If anyone comes around asking questions about me…"

  "I've covered for you and Nicky since you were fifteen years old. I'll cover for you now."

  "Thanks," she murmured.

  He subjected her to a long, steady gaze before asking, "How much trouble are you going to get into over this?"

  "I don't know. It seems that's mostly up to Nick."

  "Maybe this time you'll get something out of your association with him."

  She smiled bitterly. She'd gotten something out of it last time—a broken heart, which Jamey knew about, and some mighty big losses, which he didn't. Sliding to the floor, she pulled a crumpled dollar from her pocket and laid it on the counter. "Thanks, Jamey." Taking the can of soda with her, she left, replacing her sunglasses when she stepped out of the dimly lit bar into the relentless sun. Her first impulse was to turn back toward Decatur and to leave the area as quickly as possible, but on second thought she turned toward the end of the street. She took a stroll down memory lane.

  Serenity had never been much to look at—even a hundred and fifty years ago, it had been a place where the Quarter's less fortunate lived—but in the past thirty years it had gone into a significant decline. Most of the businesses she remembered—a corner grocery, a couple of family-owned restaurants, a small drugstore, a five-and-dime—were gone, and their buildings were abandoned or taken over by bars. When she was a kid, it had been possible to live life within the twelve blocks or so that made up the neighborhood. Except for medical care and schools, everything a family needed was located within that small area.

  Everything except decent jobs. Decent lives.

  She wasn't sure exactly when she had realized that things were better for other people. That not all families lived in cramped apartments without air-conditioning, where the only heat came from the kitchen stove. That not all little girls wore hand-me-downs collected from the church or various cousins and friends, that not all of them slept two or three to a bed, four or five to a room. That not all fathers worked two jobs just to put enough food on the table, that not all mothers struggled as hard as hers did.

  At some time, though, realization did hit, along with the determination that, when she was grown, she would have a better life. Her children would have a better life. Her parents, when they retired, would have a life easier than anything they'd ever known, and she would make it all possible. Hard work and goals were all it would take. She would be the first person, she decided, in either her father's or her mother's families to go to college; because she needed scholarships, she applied herself to her schoolwork. She studied hard, made straight As and studied even harder. She didn't allow anything to distract her from her plans … until the summer she was fifteen and Nicky Carlucci changed everything.

  Realizing that she had stopped walking, she looked up and saw an all-too-familiar house across the street. Their house—or, rather, the house where the Wades, the O'Sheas and, for a time, the Carluccis
had lived. Victorian in style, it had once been a reasonably nice place, though not in this century. Built to house only one family, its three stories had been subdivided into eight apartments—if calling the Carluccis' single corner room an apartment wasn't being too generous.

  She didn't remember much about Mrs. Carlucci, except hearing her aunt tell a gathering of friends that the Mrs. was really a Miss, that there'd never been a Mr. and that Carlucci was the woman's family name. At the time, Jolie had been too young to understand the significance of it, and by the time she'd been old enough to understand, she'd had too big a crush on Nick to care.

  They had played together, studied together, grown up together—and the summer she was fifteen, they'd done a whole lot more together. The boy who had always been brash and confident about everything had been sweetly nervous that sultry night, only a little more experienced than she was. It had been the scariest, most important thing she'd ever done.

  It had also been the biggest mistake in her life.

  But she wouldn't undo any of it if she could, not what had happened then, not what had come later.

  Although maybe she would alter it.

  Just a little.

  Sighing heavily, she turned away from the house. Away from the memories.

  Away from the regrets.

  * * *

  Smith stood on the levee behind the Café du Monde, staring down at the Mississippi River as it flowed sluggishly toward the Gulf. It looked pretty much the way he felt—relatively calm on the surface, but with edges and currents underneath. This was the way he felt after a long, frustrating day at work.

  And this afternoon he had Jolie to thank for it.

  He had come to the river after she'd left him at Jackson Square

  . He hadn't been prepared to bring their afternoon to an end just yet, but she apparently had. It was just as well. After his warning to her, things had never quite gotten back on an even keel.

  What mysteries were hiding in Jolie's past? he wondered as he tracked the progress of the ferry as it made its return trip from the west side of the river. Would she ever trust him enough to confide in him? Was there anything he wouldn't do to find out?

  Yes. He wouldn't misuse his authority. He wouldn't take advantage of his position to delve into her background, not unless it was official. Not unless she became the subject of an active investigation.

  For her sake—for his own sake—he hoped it didn't come to that.

  "Mr. Kendricks?"

  He'd heard little from that soft, melodic voice that flowed as smoothly as the river, but he recognized it immediately. Turning, he saw Cassie Wade standing a few feet away. "Hello, Cassie."

  "Hi. I was looking for Jolie when I saw you up here. I trust you didn't succumb to temptation and throw her in the river."

  He smiled at her choice of words. If he was going to succumb to temptation and throw Jolie anywhere, it sure as hell wouldn't be the river. A bed would be his first choice, although a sofa, the ground or the back seat of his car would make acceptable substitutes. "I swear, I haven't drowned anyone today. The last I saw of her was at Jackson Square

  about an hour ago. I assumed she was going looking for you."

  "She probably did." She moved a few steps closer, then leaned against the piling there. Settling comfortably, she removed her hat and let the slight breeze rustle through her hair.

  As he'd told Jolie last night, Cassie was a lovely girl, but on first look—and second—he had found no family resemblance. Where Jolie was short, Cassie was tall. Jolie, though slender, gave an impression of strength, of toughness, while Cassie looked delicate enough to break. While Jolie was fair—blond-haired, golden skinned, green-eyed—Cassie's complexion was pale, her long hair was brown and her eyes were calm, deep brown.

  But there were a few similarities, after all, he decided, though nothing so obvious as coloring, height or build. They both had this measuring, evaluating way of looking at a person that left him feeling unprotected. Although Jolie's grins were usually quick and bright enough to blind, her smiles, like her sister's, were sweet, almost shy. Their voices fell into the same range, and their accents were virtually identical. If Jolie ever got serious and calm, or if Cassie ever became excited, brash or angry, they would be difficult to tell apart sight unseen.

  "What happened to Trevor?" he asked, more to break the silence than because he cared.

  "He had to go to work."

  "He works?" He tried not to sound too surprised, but it came through anyway, making Cassie smile indulgently.

  "Yes, he works. I know my parents don't approve of him, but it's only because they've refused to get to know him. They remember what it was like with—the others, and they're determined not to give me a chance."

  She'd been about to say with Jolie—Smith was sure of it—but she'd covered so smoothly that anyone less interested wouldn't even have noticed. He wanted to question her, wanted to ask exactly what it was that her parents remembered about Jolie. She had admitted that teenage rebels like Trevor had once been her type. What had happened? How serious was it that, fifteen years after she'd made the passage from teens to twenties, her parents remembered well enough to try to keep their youngest daughter from repeating her sister's mistake?

  But if Jolie had gotten irritable about his finding out from Michael that she'd grown up in the Quarter, she would be out-and-out furious over him pumping her sister for information on something that had likely happened before Cassie was even born.

  And while there were many ways he would like to see Jolie, furious wasn't one of them.

  "You can't blame them for worrying," he said, referring back to Cassie's parents. "You are their baby."

  Smiling broadly, she replaced her hat, throwing a loosely woven shadow across her face. "I'm their baby—and Jolie's. And Meg's. And Theresa's, Allison's, Susan Marie's, Mary Kay's… They all helped raise me, and they all feel that entitles them to a say in how I live my life."

  "Families are like that."

  She gave him a look that was much too wise for a teenager. "To say that so acceptingly, Mr. Kendricks, either you must be an only child or you live very far away from your family."

  "I'm the middle of three, and they're in New England. And I'd prefer it if you would call me Smith." After her nod, he went on. "Would you like some help finding your sister?"

  "No, thank you. I'm going to leave a note on her car, then catch a cab home."

  He looked across the river, hoping the offer he was tempted to make would somehow disappear before it made its way into words. Of course, he couldn't be that lucky—or that smart. "I'm ready to go. I'll give you a ride."

  "That's not necessary."

  "I know."

  "I hate to impose…"

  "You didn't ask. I offered." Even though he shouldn't have. Even though it didn't mean he was likely to see Jolie again today. Even though being nice to her sister wasn't going to earn him any points with her. In spite of all that, he turned away from the river and asked, "Where is Jolie's car?"

  * * *

  As it turned out, he was half wrong, half right. He did see Jolie again, and being nice to Cassie wasn't going to earn him anything more than suspicion from her.

  He was sitting on the porch swing, discussing movies with the younger Wade, when the squeal of tires around the corner nearly a block away made her stop in midsentence. "Here comes Jolie now. Daddy says she drives like a bat out of hell, but Jolie swears she hasn't earned even one of all those speeding tickets she's gotten. She insists cops are just prejudiced against people who drive little red sports cars."

  Smith had heard that theory before, although he'd never seen any data to prove it. However, if he were a cop, he imagined the combination of a flashy red 'Vette driven by a beautiful little blonde just might be more than he could resist.

  To say nothing of the attention-getting squeal of the tires, he added with a grimace, as she brought the car to a sudden stop in front of the house.

  She'd alread
y seen—and recognized—his Blazer in the driveway. Now she crossed the yard to the porch, stopping at the top step. Although she was wearing those big glasses again, he swore he could see through them to the suspicion and wariness that were clouding her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

  Cassie rose from the swing. "Don't be rude, Jolie. I left you a note saying I'd found a ride home."

  "You didn't say it was with the assistant U.S. Attorney."

  "I didn't feel it was necessary. Smith, thanks. I'll see you around."

  After she disappeared inside, Jolie moved one step closer. "So why are you still here?"

  "We were talking." That was true, and it sounded better than the rest of the truth: I was waiting for you to come home so I could see you one more time.

  "And what can you find to discuss with a seventeen-year-old girl?"

  "Music. Movies. Books. Our tastes are very similar."

  "That figures," she mumbled.

  He raised his right hand as if being sworn into testify. "I didn't ask her a single question about you, I swear."

  She was so silent for a time that he found himself wishing she would remove those glasses so he could see what was in her eyes. Even if he couldn't read her thoughts, gazing into her green eyes was a pleasure in and of itself.

  When she did finally break her silence, her tone was serious, her manner cautious, and her words left him momentarily speechless. "I know she seems older, and she is mature for her age, but she's still just a child, Smith. You do understand that, don't you?"

  His stare of surprise slowly gave way to a scowl. "Of course I understand that. Hell, Jolie, I'm old enough to be her father. You know I wouldn't…" Breaking off, he finished with an impatient gesture.

  "No, I don't." She pulled her glasses off and settled them on top of her head, the earpieces gliding through her hair, then came to sit at the opposite end of the swing. "Yes, I do. What can I say? I'm the oldest, and she's the baby. I tend to be overprotective." Turning to face him, she lifted her feet to the seat and leaned back against the arm. "So what are you doing here?"