SECRET Revealed (16 page)

J
anuary was a blur of work and carpools. Julius’s food truck business was taking off and now
his
schedule was the moving target. But early February meant the ramp up to Mardi Gras, and more than once, poor Gus found himself coloring on the glass coffee table in my office, killing time after school until his dad could pick him up. I had to swallow my complaints because there had been years and years of Julius picking up the parenting slack while I was chasing stories or on a stakeout that went longer than planned.

“Why’s Dad taking so long? I’m bored,” he said, playing a game on my phone in my office, the coloring books no longer capturing his attention.

“I’m sorry you’re bored, baby,” I said, peering over the half-dozen vases stuffed with flowers on my desk. “You have two busy parents doing their best.”

Were
we doing our best? His dad was busy trying to get a business venture off the ground and his mom was trying to
reclaim her sex life. I felt mother’s guilt spread through me in a cold wave.

I checked my watch. Matilda and I were to celebrate that night. My port lands story, the one I broke last year that landed a bunch of politicians in jail, had been nominated for a local Emmy that morning. Or rather,
I
had been nominated, hence the flowers.

Just then Julius rounded the corner of my office carrying a fistful of yellow roses.

“Hey! Sorry I’m late! Heard about the nomination on the radio. Way to go, Solange,” he said, grinning. When I hugged him, he lifted me right off my feet with an intimacy that turned the heads of a few people in the newsroom.

“Yes, well, thanks,” I said as he set me down again. I tucked my blouse back into my skirt.

“You’re gonna wiii-iiin,” Gus singsonged.

“What makes you so sure of that, buddy?” I asked, as Julius gathered up his son’s jacket, backpack and several toys strewn about my office floor, and I plucked my phone from the kid’s hands.

“ ’Cause you’re the Formidable Solange Faraday,” Gus said.

Julius cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Uh, I see,” I said, uncertain whether Gus meant it as a compliment. It’s true that when I wanted something I went after it at all costs; I’d taught my son that was how you achieved success. Was it wrong to be formidable?

“Okay, let’s go, bud,” Julius said, not wanting to linger on the topic of ambition a second longer. “See you in a few
days, Solange. And try to have some fun tonight. Let loose. Celebrate!”

“I will, thanks,” I said, and kissed Gus good-bye. I wanted to add,
I’m not all work, Jules. I play too. In fact, after my celebratory dinner, which will, admittedly, involve a bit of work, fun does await me. More fun than you could ever imagine me having
.

But getting nominated for that story made me hungry for another notch in my journalistic belt, one I hoped Matilda could help me carve.

By now, we had a regular table at Tracey’s, a tippy two-top near the server area in front of the kitchen. Matilda was already waiting for me, with yet another clutch of flowers—four oversize peonies, my favorites—and two glasses of champagne. As much as I was enjoying the fantasies and looking forward to more, I was also relishing newfound female companionship. Before S.E.C.R.E.T., I had no idea how much I missed that. And because she was so smart, challenging and honest, Matilda’s company was particularly welcome. She had a lot in common with Marsha Lang, minus all the worries about staying on top and looking good while doing it.

“Congratulations, my dear,” she said, clinking her glass to mine. “Here’s to uncovering more great stories in this great city.”

More great stories
. Yes! This was my in.

“Since we’re on the topic of great stories, do you know who’d be my dream ‘get’—the person I’d really like to interview?”

“Michelle Obama?”

“No, I mean locally.”

“Who?”

“Pierre Castille, the Bayou Billionaire. Don’t you think he’d be fascinating?”

“I imagine he’s a busy man.”

She had an amazing poker face. Ever since I saw Pierre Castille drunkenly escorted from the S.E.C.R.E.T. charity event, I had been convinced that there was a link between him and S.E.C.R.E.T. But Matilda was giving nothing away. Realizing the roundabout method wasn’t working, I set down my utensils and clasped my hands together on the table. After more than twenty years as a journalist, I had learned there are times when you have to lay your cards on the table.

“Matilda, I know you know Pierre Castille. I know you’re associated with him in some way. Further, I think you know how to reach him.”

She studied my face placidly. “What’s your particular fascination with Mr. Castille?”

“I told you. He’s a local big shot, a power player in a city where a lot of powerless people live. And he’s elusive. No other news network has interviewed him, so that would be a feather in my cap. And I’d like to ask him some questions about his plans for some land he owns and how his fortune could be better used to—”

Matilda exhaled. “He was a recruit, Solange. In S.E.C.R.E.T. As I’m sure you’ve suspected.”

I
had
suspected, but still, I tried to mask my astonishment.

“Really? And what happened?”

“Without going into great detail, he pulled some stunts that left our organization in a potentially compromised situation, both economically and in terms of our anonymity. Last year he behaved fraudulently, almost criminally, towards a candidate. So yes, we were associated with Mr. Castille. But we did not escape that association unscathed, my dear. No one does. Not even, I suspect, the Formidable Solange Faraday.”

Twice in one day people close to me had called me formidable. This time, though, I saw it wasn’t a compliment. This time, it was a warning, but one I tried to ignore.

“I’m not sure I quite follow. If S.E.C.R.E.T. was in financial trouble, why did your organization give away fifteen million dollars last year?”

“That was Pierre’s money,” Matilda said, and she went on to explain how Pierre had fraudulently purchased a painting meant to finance S.E.C.R.E.T. for several years to come. “If we’d kept that money, he’d have effectively become our benefactor. And that’s exactly what he wanted—for us to be under his control. We couldn’t have that.”

What a shocking story this would make, filled with intrigue, sex and a tainted fifteen-million-dollar deal.

“Well, I should warn you that I
am
going to put in a request for a feature interview with him,” I said. “But I’ll steer
clear of topics that might … inflame him.” If there was a way to expose Pierre without inadvertently exposing anyone in S.E.C.R.E.T., especially myself, I wanted to find it.

“Putting in the request and having it granted are two different things,” she said. “He’s a tough man to coax into the sunlight.”

Matilda downed the rest of her champagne and then shook her head as though to clear it of bad memories. Tonight’s prying session was officially over.

“That’s as much attention as I’d like to pay to that man. Because you, my dear, have a lot more to celebrate. Your night is just beginning, after all,” she said, signaling for the bill.

Of course!
I had momentarily forgotten the other purpose of our dinner—my Step Four fantasy was meant to begin from here.

“Ready?”

I glanced around the crowded sports bar. “As I’ll ever be!”

Matilda dug into her purse and pulled out a set of car keys. I looked at the logo on the chain and burst out laughing.

“Are you kidding me? A
Rolls
?”

She dropped the keys into my palm.

“Rolls-Royce
Phantom
. You have the car for twenty-four hours. The GPS has been pre-programmed. Just hit ‘Go’ on the main menu and follow the directions.”

“It’s so much car! It’s
too
much car!”

“It is a lot of car. We’re nothing if not generous. But you’ll … need the room.”

Right
. “And what am I looking for exactly?”

Matilda glanced around the restaurant and leaned a little closer to me. “You’ll know,” she whispered.

I thanked her and said good-bye, spinning the key chain around my index finger as I made my way to the door.

The Rolls was parked boldly right in front of Tracey’s on Magazine. A few stray smokers, all men, heard me beep it open with my key chain. A long, slow whistle accompanied me as I strutted around to the driver’s side to slink in, just in time to avoid the rain. I’d never be sure if that whistle was for me or the car, but it didn’t matter.

Inside, the buttery leather seats and that dense smell of new-car luxury gave me a momentary high. I felt around for the windshield wiper controls and cued up the GPS system. A smooth female voice instructed me to
Please drive to the highlighted route
. I buckled up, threw the Rolls into gear and started off, my bracelet and three charms jangling with my every rotation of the upholstered wheel.

The GPS voice was relaxing, sexy. The directions took me out of the downtown core, out of the city, past the park and down towards the 90. With every rainy mile, I was putting work concerns behind me. I’d figure out some way to get at the Pierre story some other time. Tonight was for me. I wanted to say,
See, Julius? I’m not all work, no pleasure. You can have both. You can
.

I let my mind wander. Maybe I was heading to some out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfast. Or some secluded mansion near Slidell where a handsome stranger was already pouring drinks. All I knew was that the day’s events, the nomination especially, had made me, well, horny, and this
was a fantasy I was going to let myself enjoy. After all, wasn’t this one all about
Generosity
?

The highway morphed into Pontchartrain Drive somewhere over the Bayou Sauvage. If not for the driving rain, I would have enjoyed my slow build of arousal. But the weather was so bad that on a particularly steep bend I had to cut my speed in half, my visuals now down to a few yards in front of me. I started to get that “mom panic,” that sense that I shouldn’t be putting myself in jeopardy because there was more at stake than my life—no matter how much I wanted to accept this Step. I imagined the reports:
 … and no one knows why local news anchor, Solange Faraday, was driving a rented Rolls-Royce on the outskirts of the city on this cold, wet night …

I was on the cusp of turning around when my tires hit a bump on the road, instantly sinking the car on the front right side. I clenched the wheel and eased off the accelerator so I could steer down a gravel side road. I came to a tricky stop on the shoulder. The rain was torrential by now, but I left the headlights on and threw my trench coat over my head to check the damage. Sure enough, the front right tire was flat.

Shit, shit, sonofabitch
. There goes my Step Four, I thought, collapsing back into the front seat and fishing out my phone. I punched auto-dial on my AAA number.

Nothing.

“You have
got
to be kidding!” I muttered. No cell service. I was in a dead zone.

Seconds later, things went from bad to scary when a set of headlights approached me from behind, inching closer
and closer, until I could make out the front of an old, white pickup truck.

Outside my windshield it was pitch black. Behind me, the only light came from the reflection of the truck’s headlights on the wet road. I heard the engine shutting off. I watched the driver’s silhouette exit the truck and slam the door. It was a man. He ran in the rain towards my car.
Shit
.

I hit the button to lock my doors.

Tap tap tap
.

“You okay in there?” the driver yelled through the streaming wet glass.

I couldn’t make out his face, but his forearms and wrists were covered in vivid, black tattoos. The sight of them against his pale skin sent a chill up my spine.

“I’m okay!” I yelled. “Just a flat. Someone’s on the way! Thank you! Bye!”

He hesitated, his torso—the only part of him I could see—turning left, right, taking in the blackness that now surrounded both of us. His head was over the top of the car. His white T-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his muscles, more tattoos apparent through the increasingly translucent material.

“Okay then, just checking!” he yelled through the window. “I just don’t want to leave you out here alone. I’ll go wait in my truck ’til someone gets here! No worries!”

Oh god. Will he follow me when I peel away? How far is Mandeville?

Through the rearview mirror, I watched him trot back to his truck, so wet his jeans hung low on his narrow
waist. I started up my engine and blasted the heat, and was getting ready to drag the Rolls in its current state to the nearest
anything
, when I saw him struggle with his door. After a few seconds, I could see him run around to the other side, making the same full-body effort with the passenger door.

This isn’t happening. Why is this happening?

He seemed to stop and think, for maybe three seconds, before running back to my car, defeated, his arms wrapped around him.

Drive away, drive away, Solange. This is how people get killed. They’re stupid. They don’t react fast enough
.