A MAN LIKE SMITH Page 9

  But someone had done it anyway.

  Turning her attention away from the boys, she opened the door and slid inside. The stereo was still in the dash where it belonged. The cassettes were still in the passenger seat, the five was still dipped to the visor, and the leather seats were intact. Nothing had been taken. Nothing had been damaged.

  On the contrary, her uninvited visitor had left something behind on the passenger-side floorboard: an accordion pleated folder in bright green.

  She started to reach for it, then, remembering the boys, drew back. Slamming the door, she locked it, started the engine and made a one-eighty across the potholed street. Instinct told her to floor it, to make a loud and very quick retreat from Serenity to the safety of her own neighborhood, but she ignored the impulse and drove down the block at less than twenty miles an hour.

  The group followed her progress, including one boy standing directly under the streetlamp. As she slowed even more, he raised a match to the cigarette in his mouth, cupping his hands to shelter the flame, drawing her attention to the thin black gloves he wore on this sticky warm night.

  She got only an instant's look at him—not too tall, thin, dirty blond hair and unshaven jaw—but she committed the image to memory. If she ever saw him again—this being Serenity Street

  and her job being crime, she was sure she would—she wanted to remember him.

  And if, in breaking in, he had left so much as a scratch on her precious 'Vette, she thought, annoyance creeping in to replace fear, she damned sure wanted to remember him.

  * * *

  Monday morning Smith was contemplating having lunch at his desk when the intercom buzzed. At the secretary's announcement that he had a visitor, the idea of a take-out sandwich and canned soda gave way to thoughts of a quiet restaurant, a secluded table, the outstanding food New Orleans was famous for and an intriguing guest.

  All business, of course.

  He agreed to see the visitor—who didn't have an appointment, his secretary had needlessly informed him—and rose from his desk just as Jolie came through the door. She closed it behind her, then came across the room and tossed an envelope onto his desk. It landed with a thud and slid an inch or two before coming to rest on the yellow pad he'd been making notes on.

  He looked from her to the envelope. It was thick, about ten-by-twelve inches, and had seen better days. A tear across the front had been reinforced with clear tape, and the top layer of the heavy kraft paper had been torn off along with whatever mailing label it had once carried.

  After a moment he looked back at her. She was wearing dark green trousers, a rose-hued shirt and a tapestry vest woven through with both colors, and she was standing between the two chairs, one hand on her hip, wearing a brash, smug smile. She was the prettiest sight—and the most welcome—his office had seen in a long time.

  "Good morning to you, too," he said in dry greeting without reaching for the package. He knew what was in it—knew from that smile, knew from the way her mind worked.

  "Aren't you even interested?" she asked, gesturing toward his desk.

  He didn't bother telling her that he was already studying what was most interesting to him in this room. It would probably make her smile fade, would send a wariness into her eyes. It would most likely make her uncomfortable, and he wanted her to learn to be very, very comfortable with him.

  Slowly he shifted his attention to the envelope. Reaching for it, he sank back into his chair. A flimsy metal clasp secured the flap; when he straightened the prongs, one broke off and landed without a sound on his desk pad. He grasped the envelope by the opposite end and tilted it, letting its contents slide out onto the desk, giving it a shake to dislodge them when they got stuck. When the envelope was empty, he surveyed the gift: a stack of papers, a few photographs and two tape cases containing eight microcassettes.

  Her source's material.

  He didn't touch any of it. Shawna Warren would want to process it for fingerprints. Naturally, they would find Jolie's, but there was no need to add his own. Not that he expected there would be others. If Jolie was voluntarily turning the data over, then it was a safe bet that hers were the only prints on it.

  And it was an even safer bet that her informant had turned down Smith's request for a meeting.

  "Are these originals or did you make copies?"

  "That's what I was given."

  He gestured toward the chairs, and she slid in a comfortable sprawl into the closest one. She looked at-home comfortable. Leaning forward, his hands clasped on the desk top, he felt stiff and formal. "Are you giving this to me free and clear, or are you here to deal?"

  "Deal?" she asked innocently. "I'm a law-abiding citizen, Smith, with evidence that a crime's been committed. I'm simply turning it over to the proper authorities."

  "And what do you get in return?"

  "An exclusive on the Falcone ease would be nice, but I know I'm not going to get that." She grinned once, quickly, before turning serious. "Actually, I thought maybe we could deal." While he waited for her to go on, she straightened in the chair, settled both feet firmly on the floor and lost her amused edge. "I was hoping maybe you could cut me some slack."

  "Go on."

  "There's a lot of information there. Records of payoffs. Photographs of very private meetings with very prominent politicians. Tapes of some of those meetings. Most of the documentation is very detailed. There's enough there to allow the FBI to broaden the scope of their investigation to include a number of people a whole lot more important than one reporter."

  "I assume some of this documentation incriminates your source, as well as Falcone and those politicians."

  She simply shrugged. It was no answer at all, and the answer he preferred. If she had said yes, it would have given the FBI a field of possible suspects to begin weeding out. If she'd said no, she would have been lying, and he really didn't want to hear Jolie lie to him.

  "He refused to meet with me, didn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  She shrugged again. "I don't claim to know how men think—crooked ones in particular. I don't know what's going through his mind. I don't know why he won't cooperate with you. I don't even know why he is cooperating with me."

  "Haven't you asked him?"

  She nodded.

  "What did he say?"

  "He said he wants justice."

  "And you believe him?"

  She hesitated before answering, but her voice revealed no doubt. "Yes, I do."

  Justice. It was probably the last answer Smith would have expected. What did Jimmy Falcone or any of the people who worked for him know of justice? These were people who thought they had a God-given right to kill, to threaten, to destroy. Nothing mattered to them besides money, power and more money. Jimmy's idea of justice was to try to kill Remy for getting too close in his investigation. He and his disreputable lawyer had kidnapped Susannah Duncan's brother and used him to blackmail her into betraying Remy so they could make yet another attempt to kill him; to them, that was justice.

  "One of Jimmy's people out for justice. That paints quite a picture, doesn't it?" He made no effort to control the derision in his voice. "Revenge is a more likely motive. Or maybe he's looking to make a deal. Before his trial date, he'll show up, claiming the material and wanting special consideration."

  "I don't think so."

  So her informant was one of those already indicted. He had asked her Saturday afternoon, but she had sidestepped the question. Granted, though, that bit of information didn't narrow the field any. The grand jury had returned indictments against a substantial number of defendants in this case, including everyone he might suspect as Jolie's source.

  "Okay," he said, returning to the earlier subject. "You're passing on the information he gave you. I'm supposed to give it to Shawna and convince her that you're cooperating with us—at least, as much as you're capable of—and so she should leave you alone."

  Jolie nodded.

  "You know Shawn
a. You know how she feels about you. You're asking a lot."

  "There's some good stuff there, Smith, and there will be more to follow. I'll see that you get everything I get. I think that deserves a little special consideration."

  He didn't doubt that. What little he could see with his hands-off approach—a ledger sheet that appeared to document payoffs, including payments to a number of highly recognizable names—was alone worth the consideration Jolie was asking for. While he already knew he would argue the point on her behalf, his wasn't the final say. The bureau could make life miserable for Jolie without his approval or backing. "What if she refuses?"

  Her expression changed, growing subtly harder, less generous. "Then you won't get anything from me. You'll have to read the paper like everyone else."

  "There won't be anything to read if you're in jail," he pointed out.

  "Oh, there would be plenty to read, just nothing that would help you. It would be stuff about the First Amendment, about the freedom of the press, about the right of a reporter to shield the identity of a source."

  For a moment he turned away, swiveling his chair around so he could see out the window. It was one of those rare clear days when everything radiated heat, when the very air seemed to shimmer with it. It was a day for lazing in the shade or floating down the river. He wondered idly if Jolie had a talent for lazing. She did have that porch swing, a definite point in her favor.

  When he turned to face her again, it was with a rueful smile. "Tell me something, Jolie. Isn't life tough enough on its own? Do you have to go and complicate everything?"

  She smiled, too. "It keeps things interesting."

  He didn't bother agreeing. "Let me get this clear. Your source will probably supply you with more records. If we leave you alone, you'll use the information to write your articles and then you'll hand everything over to us. If we don't, you keep it to yourself, in which case Shawna would insist on getting a search warrant to find it. Do we agree so far?"

  Jolie nodded.

  "Of course, being prepared for that eventuality, you would make sure that there wasn't anything to find."

  "In which case Shawna would probably have me arrested. And even if the assistant U.S. Attorney is ordinarily a reasonable man," she said with a slow, teasing smile, "he would still stand up in court opposite me and ask a judge to find me guilty of contempt and to give me a little time in a jail cell to contemplate the consequences of my actions."

  She had been in court with him a time or two too many. Those were exactly the words he had used on more than one occasion. "If it counts for anything, he wouldn't be happy about asking."

  "If it's worth anything to you, I wouldn't be happy about going to jail."

  It was worth something, but he didn't acknowledge what. At least he knew for sure that she wasn't looking for a way to gain some notoriety, preferably nationwide, for herself. "If you go to jail," he pointed out, "the stories stop."

  "So does the information. You think this guy's going to drop off packages of evidence with the jailer?"

  "So if we leave you alone, we eventually get everything except his identity."

  "And if you harass me, you wind up with nothing."

  "All right." At her questioning look, he shrugged. "I'll talk to Shawna and Alexander. I'll convince them that it's in our best interests to let you handle this your way. I'll remind them that a little cooperation is better than none at all."

  He expected one of her flashing triumphant smiles, but all she did was nod as she got to her feet. "I appreciate it, Smith."

  Without considering the wisdom of what he was about to do, he also stood up. "Then prove it."

  The look she gave him was undeniably wary. "How?"

  "Have lunch with me." Before she could turn him down, he went to work persuading her. "It's the middle of the day, Jolie. We'll be in a public place surrounded by other people. We're both on a tight schedule. What harm could it possibly do?"

  She laced her fingers together. "You just agreed to argue my case with Shawna and your boss. They'll give a lot more weight to your opinion if they think you're speaking from a strictly professional point of view. They wouldn't be so impressed if they thought that friendship was possibly influencing your position."

  "Then we can go someplace very private where there won't be anyone else around." Certain that she would refuse, he spoke in a voice that was part persuasion, part resignation.

  A long, still moment passed. He was about to accept that, once again, silence would be her answer when she replied. "All right. Where?"

  There were a number of restaurants where privacy could be had, from secluded tables to private rooms to discreet entrances. He didn't consider any of them. "My place." Reaching for a pen, he wrote the address on a slip of yellow paper, ripped it off and held it out to her.

  Jolie looked at the ragged edge of the paper. Part of her wanted to snatch it out of his hand before he could change his mind. Part of her wanted to change her mind before she could take the paper. In the end, though, she reached out and, without touching him, slipped the address from his grasp. "When?" she asked, wondering if her voice really sounded huskier than normal or if it was just her imagination.

  "Give me forty-five minutes to take care of this." He gestured without looking to the papers and tapes on his desk. "Have you ever been fingerprinted before?"

  She shook her head.

  "They'll need to do that, to compare your prints against the ones they find on this stuff."

  "They'll have to call me. I'm not volunteering anything else." She gave a slight shake of her head. It felt odd discussing business as if she hadn't just agreed to go to his condo for a very private lunch. "If they ask, tell them I'll be in the office most of the afternoon." Sliding the thin strap of her purse over her shoulder, she started toward the door. "I'll see you soon."

  He nodded once, but already his attention was elsewhere. As she let herself out, he reached for the phone and began dialing.

  Jolie closed the door behind her, then started toward the elevator, passing the stiff-necked secretary who had tried to stop her earlier. She didn't look at the woman, didn't speak to her, didn't do more than vaguely recognize her presence.

  Alone in the elevator, she looked down at the paper she had crumpled in her hand. She knew the address, knew exactly where the building was. She had never been there before, had certainly never been inside any of the condos, and she shouldn't be going there today. She had to be out of her mind, agreeing to have lunch with him at all, agreeing to do it in such a private place. If she had to be an idiot, she should at least do it publicly or maybe at her own house. There was something so much safer, so much less intimidating, about her house.

  Once she got to her car, she climbed in and simply sat there a moment, the engine running, the chill blasting from the air conditioner dispelling the heat that had gathered during her short absence. She could return to the paper and work on the next Falcone article for a half hour, or she could go for a drive. She wasn't far from the interstate. She could drive across Lake Pontchartrain and back. That was always a soothing, high-speed way to relax.

  Or she could run an errand that she should have taken care of before coming to Smith's office.

  With a resolute sigh, she backed out of the parking space and headed away from the central business district.

  Her parents had finally managed to leave Serenity Street

  thirteen years ago, right about the same time she had graduated from college. It had been a toss-up at the time as to which event was more important to her. She still couldn't quite decide.

  The new neighborhood wasn't impressive, but it wasn't inner-city poor, either. The houses were older, built before the forties. Most of them were white, had broad porches and were flanked on one side or the other by a narrow driveway. Every house had a yard, and most of them had a detached garage out back that bordered the alley. It would have been a nice place to grow up, she thought wistfully as she slowed to a crawl before turning i
nto the driveway. While none of them had escaped Serenity Street

  entirely—Cassie had been four years old at the time of the move—at least the younger kids had gotten to balance it out with life on everyday-average Oak Street

  .

  Wide stone steps led to the porch and the front door, painted black to match the shutters. Knowing that, as a concession to the rising crime rate, her mother kept the door locked these days, she knocked, then pushed her hands into her pockets. A set of wind chimes occasionally tinkled in the corner, and the fragrance of her father's flowers drifted on the slight breeze. From a few blocks down came the toot of a car horn, and the sound of a television was muted through the door, but other than that, the block was quiet. Peaceful.

  Serenity Street, in spite of its name, had never been quiet or peaceful.

  God, she was forever grateful to be free of it!

  Opening the door, her mother greeted her with a surprised smile. "What are you doing out this way?"

  "Running errands. How are you, Mama?"

  Rosemary Wade brushed back her graying blond hair. "I'm fine, honey, just trying to stay cool. I was taking a break from the laundry and watching my soaps."

  "I won't keep you from them. I just—"

  Before she could go on, her mother interrupted her. "Don't worry about it. I can call Joanne across the street and catch up on what I miss. Come on in where it's cool. You can sit down, have a little lunch with me."

  Jolie let her draw her inside into a small entry that led to the living room on one side, the dining room on the other and the kitchen and stairs straight back. "Thanks, Mama, but I can't stay. I have an appointment for lunch." Or was it a date? "Listen, I was wondering if I could store some things over here for a while. I've been doing some clearing out, and I'd like to get them out of the way until I'm finished." The words she had prepared this morning came out easily, naturally, and—as far as they went—they were true. But they felt like a lie. They felt shameful.