A Christmas Kiss (5 page)

"I know." They'd argued about this for at least an hour at Laurette's kitchen table. What or how much Laurette heard, Cori had no idea. She had been busy stapling colored lights around the front porch pillars when Cori and Joey had finally exited. The look she'd given both of them had been sympathetic, but she had offered no advice.

"Cori, I'll have to report this." Joey found his reluctance to do so very unsettling. He'd been in the program long enough to know that WP worked only as long as the participants played by the rules. Cori was taping a target to her back, especially with a new DeCarlo trial just around the corner of the New Year.

"Do your job, Joey. Write it up.'' She got out and leaned down to look in the car windows. "No matter what happens, you tried. I thank you for that. I don't feel that the officers who claimed to be Kit's friends have really tried. If I felt that all efforts had been exhausted, maybe I could give up. But the candy confirms my belief Kit is alive, and he's trying to communicate with me."

They were back to the candy. The tiny little silver bells that had glittered on his sister's table like the proverbial thirty pieces of silver. Unless Cori, in some state of mind where she wasn't aware of her actions, had actually left them for herself. He looked into her dark eyes and saw the demons dancing there. She was a tormented woman. Her subconscious could have gotten the upper hand. Even as he thought it, though, he didn't want to believe it. He
wanted
Cori St. John to be a healthy woman with a chance at happiness. If she lived long enough.

"Thank you." Cori stood up and closed the car door. She walked over to her car and got inside, but she didn't crank the engine. Joey knew she was not leaving. She was only waiting for him to give up and go back to the office to report the fact that she was out of the program.

And on her own more than she had ever been before.

Cori sat in her car and waited until Joey drove away. Watching the black Supra disappear, she felt a sense of loss that was far too acute for a man she'd met only hours before. It was just a sign of how desperate she was. Officially, Joey Tio was out of her life.

She left her car and walked to one of the shops that paralleled the Mississippi River and found peroxide and Band-Aids, then moved to a bench on the levee where the sun shone brightly. While paddleboats that offered scenic tours, dinner and dancing drifted along on the deceptive-looking current of the yellowish river, she repaired her knee. Joey had repeatedly offered to clean her leg, but she had not allowed him to do so. The idea of his hands... well, it wasn't a good idea. She poured the peroxide and gritted her teeth against the sting. The injury was certainly not life threatening, but it was painful and a nuisance. Just the sort of thing to plague her when she needed to cover a lot of ground on foot.

When she'd patched herself up as well as possible, she gathered her things and set off for the French Market. It had once been one of her favorite places. She and Kit had developed a weekend routine of coffee and
beignets
at the Caf6 du Monde, and then a stroll through the vegetable vendors for a string of elephant garlic or the delicious peppers that grew only a short distance away in St. Tammany Parish. The Big Boy tomatoes were always ripe and firm, smelling as only homegrown produce can. Cantaloupes, melons, sugar cane during Christmas, all of the wonderful smells of a state and culture rich in history, tradition and soil.

And Kit. Always Kit with his laugh and his antics.

She passed through the south end of the market, letting her eyes wander over the fruit and produce but not stopping to buy any of it. She didn't cook anymore. There was no point, or pleasure, in cooking for one. She moved on with the general drift of the loud milling throng of shoppers. Next came the jewelry and crafts, the tables of sunglasses and unique earrings crafted by local artists. The boxes of secondhand books where a signed first edition might rest against a crate of pulp fiction.

T-shirts and sweatshirts, all bearing slogans and logos that had become symbolic of the many faces of Louisiana, were crammed table to table, as vendors cut prices in loud, bantering voices, vying for the tourist Christmas dollar.

"Hey, hey, little fox, this green is the exact color of your eyes." A smiling vendor held out a sweatshirt that was a deep shady green. "For you, six dollars."

Cori shook her head. She had come to look for something other than sweatshirts. If—when—she saw Kit, she didn't want to be hampered by shopping bags. She would have to move fast to catch him.

Then he would have to answer some questions. Why? Why had he married her and left? Why hadn't he let her know he was alive? Why? Why? Why? And most especially, why on the night of their wedding?

Joey had raised that question. And others just as painful. She had not responded because she didn't have an answer. Maybe when she did have one—an answer that wasn't something she'd imagined or made up—maybe then she could put the past behind her and go forward.

What wasn't fair was that she was in more of a prison than Ben DeCarlo was. She still watched the news out of Baton Rouge. She'd seen DeCarlo, his handsomeness only heightened by the leanness of his jaw, the hungry look that had come into his pampered face since his incarceration at Angola, the maximum security prison farm in Louisiana. Somehow, prison had made him even more handsome than before.

If she closed her eyes, she could still see him coming in through the big door of Augustine's. She could smell the fresh garlic bread baking at the nearby Le Croissant du Jour as he swept through the door, his dark brown overcoat flapping in the breeze. She could see the honey-blond streaks in his hair.

They looked professionally done, but after she'd seen him on television at the prison, she knew they were from the sun, not a bottle. She also saw the anger in his blue eyes, flickering deep, almost hidden but not quite. He was a dangerous man who intended to have his way. The wine merchant-cum-politician who would have inherited the most powerful crime family structure in the city—if he'd only waited for his father to die a natural death.

What was it Shakespeare had said about children? Sharper than a serpent's tooth. It had long been alleged, by Kit and all of his cop buddies, that Antonio DeCarlo had been responsible for a lot of people taking a swim in the murkey depths of the Mississippi River. Dixie Mafia. And Antonio DeCarlo had been the reputed head of the Louisiana branch of "the family." Of course, officially there was "no proof of any mobsters operating in the state." No
solid
proof. But the law enforcement racketeering specialists called RICO were all over the DeCarlo family at the time Ben killed his parents.

Kit's disappearance was tied to the double murder—and her testimony. She had concluded her testimony on December 22, the last and most powerful of the eyewitnesses to the murder. Kit had disappeared December 24 about nine o'clock in the evening, while Cori, still in her bridal gown, had been dancing at the elegant reception her sister had organized at the exclusive Riches'. Kit never made it to the reception. He had gone to check on more champagne, a trip only a few blocks out of the way, but it had been a special champagne. The perfect ending to a perfect day, he'd said. And he had never returned.

She forced herself to remember the times Kit had talked about the murder case, searching his past casual conversations for some clue that she had overlooked. Kit had it figured that Antonio was getting ready to put Ben out of the family, and that's why he was hit. The bold daylight hit was Ben's last attempt to grasp control of the family crime unit, even if he had to call the shots from behind Angola's miles of concertina wire. It had been an interesting theory, and one Kit enjoyed talking about.

Personally, Cori would have been only too glad to bury the images of that day forever in the far reaches of her mind. Only Kit's gentle persuasion, his total belief in the duty of each citizen to participate in justice, had convinced her that she had to testify. That and the promise that he would go into the WP

program with her; they would build a new life together.

The sound of a loud whistle drew Cori out of her reverie, and she found that she was at the end of the market. Her favorite pizza place was only a block away, and she considered stopping for one of the small, thin-crusted pies topped with sweet peppers, cheese and thick slices of Italian sausage. She had forgotten all the delicious temptations of New Orleans.

She took a seat on an empty bench and scanned the crowd instead. She could only use her body as bait, hoping that the man she'd seen earlier would find her. In a city of more than half a million, she had no way to track him.

The wind off the river was cool, and she drew her sweater closer around her. She could wait. In the past two years, she'd gotten very good at waiting.

Joey pushed the car to the limit of safety as he sped to the Marshals office. His intention was to report that Cori St. John had broken her cover and was in New Orleans, and was in grave danger. If he alerted the entire office, perhaps they could pull together some kind of tailing unit that might be able to keep her alive until the trial. But he knew that was next to impossible. They didn't have the manpower for that kind of operation, even for a day or two, much less several weeks. No, but court action could be taken to place Cori under protective custody. She'd be madder than a panther with a knot tied in her tail, but she would also be alive—and able to testify.

That was the goal he had to keep in mind. Cori was a key witness in keeping Ben DeCarlo behind bars and off the streets of his city. Ben's absence hadn't cut down on the gangland style deaths; if anything, since his incarceration, the bodies found in trunks, the execution-style slayings, were becoming more and more a part of the scenario of New Orleans. But Joey could only guess that if Ben were out, the body count would climb even higher.

As he forced his train of thought along these lines, he could still see Cori's green eyes, shadowed with self-doubt and so much pain that she obviously didn't believe she could be hurt worse. Well, she was wrong about that. If Ben's men had any idea she was in town—a target so simple to take down that it made deer-hunting seem like brain surgery—she wouldn't last through the night.

Ben DeCarlo wanted out of prison. And Cori St. John was one of four people left who could see that he didn't get out.

Joey's long stride carried him from the parking lot and into his office and directly to the file cabinet, where he pulled Cori's file. He'd read it several times, but after his encounter with her, he wanted to refresh his memory. Especially about Kit Wells and his peculiar disappearance.

He flipped through the pages of the file, noticing that for a time after moving to Houston Cori had dyed her hair a dark shade of brown that rivaled Laurette's tresses. But she had gone back to her natural mahogany that so perfectly set off her eyes. She was thinner than she'd been when she married Kit. And so much sadder that he sat and stared at the photo of the bride in her candle-lit gown. The wedding had been in Jackson Square, at night. A candlelight ceremony that used the Christmas beauty of the park perfectly.

An artistic wedding that showed Cori's talents to their fullest.

But the true artwork was the glow on her face, the way her eyes held on to the figure of Kit Wells, handsome in his tuxedo... and with just a hint of something in his expression. Joey lifted the picture closer.

Why hadn't he noticed before? There was a trapped look in Kit's face. Maybe
it
was just the huge commitment of marriage. Or maybe it was the fact that he
knew
he wouldn't stick around to see the wedding through.

Joey lowered himself into his chair, the photo still in his hand.

Maybe Cori St. John wasn't as crazy as the members of the NOPD thought she was. Maybe Kit Wells had found himself in a place so tight he'd had no choice but to cut and run.

Joey tapped the photo against his desk and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment.

He visualized the scene from earlier in the morning. He'd been in the shadows cast by the awnings at the Cafe du Monde. Cori had been across the street, staring at the artwork and watching two kids who were hustling coins from the tourists with a tap dance act. He'd surveyed the scene carefully, waiting for a time to approach Cori and to try to drag her back into the net of the WP program. Captain Blake had alerted the U.S. Marshals that Cori was headed to New Orleans. As her handler, he'd been prepared to intercede, intercept and protect.

And then she had frozen, staring into a corner of the park. Before he had a chance to figure out what she was looking at, she'd run headlong into the traffic. By the time he'd launched himself across the street and knocked her out of harm's way, whatever, or whoever, she'd been watching was gone. If there had been anyone there to begin with.

He picked up her file and reread the familiar notations. The first year into the program she'd been a model witness. She'd made the move to Houston, established a new studio, started a new life. She'd buried herself in the day-to-day of a big city where even successful art studios didn't call much attention to themselves.

She'd called the NOPD regularly to check and see if any progress had been made in the investigation into the disappearance of Kit Wells. Weekly calls. As regular as a paycheck. Always asking the same questions. To the point where Blake had begun to view her as a nuisance.

Six months ago, when Blake had told her firmly the case was closed, that Wells was considered dead and that as his beneficiary, she would receive all his benefits, Cori had failed to sign any of the checks or to make any of the arrangements for his retirement benefits. She had written a letter insisting that Kit was alive. Until she had proof, she refused to participate in death benefits.

That was when Blake and the NOPD began to consider that Cori St. John was unstable. Of course, this information had to be kept secret. As one of the key witnesses in Ben DeCarlo's retrial, Cori's stability could not be questioned.