“I called the paper,” Croc said, “and some woman picked up your phone and barked into it, said you’d gone home.”
Helen. After his low blow, she might feel fewer compunctions about picking through his desk—and about telling an unknown on the phone where to find him. On the other hand, Croc could be very charming. Jeremiah figured Bennie and Albert had let him stick around because they had knives. A little adrenaline rush, wondering if Croc was legit or if they’d have to take him down. They seemed almost disappointed when he followed Jeremiah inside.
“I don’t know why those old geezers haven’t cut their hands off yet,” Croc said on his way up the stairs. “Whittling’s hard. You ever try it?”
“I grew up in the Everglades, Croc. I can whittle just fine.”
When they reached his floor, Jeremiah unlocked his door, pushed it open, and motioned for Croc to enter first, noticed he was even more jittery than usual. “You smell my animals?” Jeremiah asked, trying to be conversational, get Croc to relax.
He paused, inhaled deeply, shook his head. “No, why?”
“In case I have anyone over, I like to know the place doesn’t smell like a zoo. It’s like people with cat boxes. They get used to the smell, don’t realize the place stinks.”
“Smells okay to me.”
Not that Croc had an acute sense of smell. Jeremiah offered him a can of iced tea, all he had in the refrigerator. Croc took it, popped the top, and drank long and hard, as if he hadn’t had anything to drink in days. A strange all-or-nothing kind of guy. He checked out the cages on the table and made noises at the animals, who each ignored him in turn. “I had fish once when I was a kid. I didn’t take to them and they all went belly up. Then I had a dog, and he was all right. I guess he’s dead by now.”
“You don’t know?”
“Nope. He was still alive when I left home.”
Pushing Croc about his past was a guaranteed way to shut him down. Jeremiah nibbled on the occasional crumbs Croc dropped—dead fish, a dog—and figured one of these days he might put together the whole cookie of just who Blake Wilder was, how he’d ended up on the streets at twenty-something. He sensed he was an odd stabilizing force in Croc’s life, someone who took him on his own terms.
When he didn’t go on, Jeremiah figured Croc had said all he planned to say about his childhood pets. He popped the top on his own can of iced tea. “So, what’s up?”
“I’ve been doing a little legwork.” Still more fidgety than usual, he paced in front of the table, polishing off his iced tea in a few big, crude gulps. He crushed the can with one hand, then dropped it on the floor and squished it down to pancake size. “Some of the rich crowd have been kind of excited about the robberies, you know, sort of getting off on the thrill.”
“What’re you doing, sneaking around Palm Beach and talking to rich people?”
“Hey, I never give away my methods. From what I’m hearing, the Mollie attack changed some minds. I mean, the scream, the bloody neck. Spooked some folks.”
“Well it should.” Jeremiah took a swallow of tea, which tasted mediocre at best, nothing like the sun tea he and his father used to make. They’d leave the jug out on the dock all morning long. He pulled his mind back to the task at hand. Croc in his kitchen, pacing, angling for something. “Look, Croc, I don’t want you asking questions on my behalf. If you stick your nose in a hornet’s nest, it’s your doing. It’s not going to be on my conscience.”
“ ’Course. That goes without saying.” Croc frowned, studying Jeremiah as if he were seeing him for the first time since he’d gotten back. “You okay?”
“No. I’m in a lousy mood. What else have you heard?”
Croc didn’t answer immediately.
Jeremiah inhaled, not wanting to take his mood out on his young friend—cohort, source, whatever Croc was these days. Kissing Mollie in a damned parking garage had used up what little patience he’d gotten up with that morning. “Croc—”
“Well, if you’re crabby and I say something that pisses you off, I don’t want you feeding me to your lizard here.”
“My lizard’s a vegetarian.”
“Oh. Okay.” He glanced over at the sleeping creature. “Ugly bastard, isn’t he?”
Jeremiah set his can down on the counter with a bang that he didn’t intend. No muscle control. He needed a run, an hour in the weight room, something to burn off the tension that had gripped him the moment he’d spotted Mollie walking across the
Trib
cafeteria.
“Heck, you are cranky.” Croc grinned, highly entertained; but at Jeremiah’s dark look, he got serious. “Okay, I know this isn’t much, but some people in high places think Friday’s attack definitely wasn’t the work of our jewel thief. Could be a copycat, someone squeezing in on our guy’s territory, or it could be a deliberate attempt to throw the police off the trail.”
“Then you’re off Mollie? You don’t think she could have ripped the necklace from her own neck?”
“I didn’t say that. Let’s say she’s our thief. She knows she’s the only common denominator we’ve got. So to throw us off, she fakes an attack on herself. Or let’s say she’s in with whoever the thief is and wants to throw us off
his
trail.”
“This is getting convoluted, Croc.”
“It’s Palm Beach. You’ve got to think convoluted or you can miss the boat. These people know how to cover their tracks.”
Jeremiah tried to figure out what Croc was saying. “You’re mixing your metaphors.”
“All I’m saying is, anything’s possible when that much money and those kinds of reputations are at stake. My usual haunts, it’s usually more straightforward.” He leaned back on his chair, his feet going, one hand drumming the table; the critters didn’t seem to mind, just slept in their cages. “So how come you’re in such a foul mood? I mean, this is bad even for you.”
“Mollie came to see me,” Jeremiah told him, a quick tactical decision. “She had a threatening phone call this afternoon.”
“Whoa,” Croc said, still drumming his fingers.
“Yeah. The caller said Miami’s a dangerous town and suggested she go back to Boston.”
“Which says he knows she’s from Boston.” Croc jumped up, paced, if possible even more restless and jittery. “Wow, this is interesting. I’ve got to put this one into the old mental slow-cooker and let it simmer.”
“Croc, if you know anything you haven’t told me, you need to part with it now.” Jeremiah kept his tone calm, steady, serious. “A woman’s been hurt and threatened.”
Croc went momentarily still. “You’re either going to trust me, Tabak, or you’re not.”
“That’s a two-way street.”
“Yep. Sure is.” He grinned. “Thanks for the iced tea.”
“That’s it? You’re out of here?”
“That’s it, I’m out of here.” He started for the door. “See you around.”
Two seconds later, Croc was gone. Jeremiah felt like kicking things, but his critters were still sleeping. With a growl, he grabbed his jackknife and headed downstairs. Bennie and Albert handed him a chunk of wood, and he whittled until it was time to head north to Palm Beach and his six-twenty-five rendezvous at Pascarelli’s house. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Mollie would be expecting him.
9
W
hittling, traffic, and an attack of common sense almost kept Jeremiah from making it to Leonardo Pascarelli’s by six-twenty-five. As it was, he arrived in Palm Beach with only two minutes to spare. Griffen Welles, not Mollie, opened the front gates for him and met him in the driveway. She had on a short, sleek white cover-up over a bright pink bathing suit, her long, golden legs just the right side of too thin. She tossed back her dark curls, eyeing him with frank curiosity and maybe a little suspicion. “Mollie’s around back at the pool. I assume you’re looking for her?”
“I am.”
If Griffen were looking for a more complete explanation, she didn’t say as she led him along a beautifully landscaped walk back to the pool. He had his share of rich friends. He could certainly afford a higher lifestyle than he was living, although nothing approaching that of Leonardo Pascarelli, which was still relatively modest by Palm Beach standards. He had no interest in maintaining and protecting an expensive piece of property, never mind living in it. If Croc were there, he’d be buzzing in Jeremiah’s ear about whether Mollie had grown accustomed to her godfather’s standard of living and didn’t want to give it up.
Still, Jeremiah had to admit it was a hell of a nice backyard. The pool sparkled in the fading sun, and Deegan Tiernay was doing a deep dive off the board. He looked very young and energetic. Jeremiah watched him breaststroke underwater. It was a coolish evening, the rain at bay for now, the air laden with the smells of lush flowers and vegetation, the light shifting with the swaying of palms and oaks. There was none of the rawness and pungency of the wild swamp grasses of the Everglades to the west, a different world from Palm Beach, more Jeremiah’s kind of paradise.
Deegan surfaced at Jeremiah’s toes. “Mollie’s gone upstairs. She’ll be back down in a minute.”
He went back under, and Griffen, watching him, said to Jeremiah, “We’ve got a pitcher of margaritas. Interested?”
“No, thanks.”
She eased onto a lounge in the sun and slipped her sunglasses down over her eyes. “I haven’t been into the pool yet. I’m not hot enough yet. Mollie’s sweet to let us hang out here for the evening. It looks as if we’ll get more rain. I have a pool at my condo, but it’s not as big or as private. And needless to say, we aren’t going to hang out at Deegan’s house.” She bent a long, tanned leg. “I’m glad I wasn’t born rich. I’d hate to have the pressures on me he has on him. My folks do all right, but they’re hardly in the Atwood-Tiernay league.”
Jeremiah shrugged, remaining on his feet. After whittling, he had showered and dressed in dark trousers and dark shirt, allowing him to play either spy or dinner guest, depending on Mollie’s state of mind. He went back and forth on which he’d prefer. A couple of hours with Leonardo Pascarelli’s friends? Or a couple of hours sneaking around in the rain?
“I suppose you don’t have a lot of sympathy for that sort of pressure,” Griffen went on, her attention focused on him now, not her boyfriend in the pool.
Jeremiah shrugged. “A big trust fund and a snotty grandmother aren’t the worst life can throw at you. Deegan will figure that out pretty quick. He’s no dope.”
“That he isn’t.”
Deegan jumped out of the pool and, bypassing his towel, splashed water on her, laughing when she squealed and leaped to her feet. He grabbed her by the elbows like the kid he was and heaved her into the pool. She went in fanny first, all the way under. She bobbed up instantly, laughing, splashing, pretending she was going to kill him. Deegan sat on her chair. “Ten laps before you’re allowed out!”
She stuck her tongue out at him, looking more like a teenager herself, but eased off into the water, doing a slow backstroke. Deegan didn’t take his eyes off her. And she knew it. Jeremiah observed the proceedings with mild interest. His lifestyle did not include many twenty-one-year-old rich kids dunking their older girlfriends in a pool owned by a world-famous opera singer. He was, he thought dryly, out of his element.
“So,” Deegan said, eyes still on Griffen, “Mollie didn’t seem surprised to have you show up. I didn’t ask why not, because it’s none of my business.”
A smart lad indeed. Mollie didn’t respond too well to overprotective males, as Jeremiah himself had discovered. He supposed it came from having a flaky family. He figured she’d been left to her own devices from the time she was a tot and had learned early on how to take care of herself, responding to a sort of benign, even healthy, neglect on the part of her parents. He’d had the run of the Everglades from the time he could walk and understood that defiant gene, if not the Lavenders particularly.
“I wouldn’t underestimate her if I were you,” Deegan went on seriously. “She tends to take people at face value more readily than I would, but she’s not naive.” He talked as if he were sitting in a sociology class. He peered over at Jeremiah. “She knows you’re probably on this jewel thief story.”
This, Jeremiah thought, was true. However, he had no intention of discussing his relationship with Mollie—or his work—with her college intern. “I’d say she knows a lot.”
Deegan didn’t take the hint. “I’ve been around reporters since I could walk. You live and breathe the next story. You’re never off.” He reached for the margarita pitcher. “Mollie’s new in town, but she’s got people looking out for her. Her clients are all loyal.”
“Including Ash, the dog.”
Deegan didn’t like that one. He almost came up off his chair, but instead just angled a nasty look at Jeremiah. “You’re a real asshole, aren’t you?”
“I have my moments,” Jeremiah said mildly.
But the kid wasn’t finished. “She’s been straight with me right from the start, no BS, no coddling or hand-holding. Not just anyone would let Michael Tiernay’s son intern for them, you know. Anything goes wrong, he could ruin them. But if everything goes
too
well, then they look like a toady.”
“Tough balancing act.”
“It’s not one thirteen-year-old shooting another in the back, but, yeah, it’s tough.” His tone wasn’t as defensive as it could have been given the sentiment beneath his words. “I’m also known as a spoiled pain in the ass. That doesn’t help.”
“Are you?”
Deegan paused, looked back at Griffen’s long, slim, tanned body as she swam back toward their end of the pool. His mouth was grim, and he said with unexpected self-awareness, “I’m trying not to be.”
Jeremiah breathed in the fragrant air, wishing he’d had more sleep last night. He was missing something. Some connection, some fragment of insight, information, truth. Here he was, sitting by a pool in Palm Beach chatting with a rich kid who was neck deep in trying to establish his own identity. It was as if someone had transported him, Jeremiah Tabak, hard-hitting
Miami Tribune
investigative reporter, out of his real life and dropped him on the damned moon. This was Helen Samuel’s territory, not his.
A fragment floated by, and he grabbed it, turning to Deegan. “Your parents gave you the green light to intern with Mollie because of her relationship with Leonardo Pascarelli, didn’t they?”