“What’re you going to do when you get sick, Helen?”
“I’m never getting sick. I’m going to fall over dead at my goddamned computer, you wait and see. If I don’t, drag my ass out of the hospital, sit me at my desk, and put a bullet in my head. Okay? You’ll do that for me?”
He frowned at her. “You have been without nicotine too long.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Look, I heard about Weasel getting beat up—”
“Croc.”
“What?”
“His nickname’s Croc, not Weasel.”
“Oh. I knew it was some disgusting animal. Well, I figured maybe there’s a connection—maybe not, either—but you could look into it—” She made a face. “Damnit, I’m not making any sense. What’s one goddamned cigarette? You think the building’d blow?”
Fatigue gnawed at Jeremiah. “Look into what, Helen?”
She straightened, focusing. “Michael and Bobbi Tiernay have two sons. This is widely known but not widely discussed. Deegan, the younger son, is at school down here, interning for your Mollie Lavender as a thumb in his old man’s eye—or maybe his mother’s, or his grandmother’s, or the whole damned family’s. It’s hard to say because they’re the stiff-upper-lip type, and because they know how to do spin control better than most. The older son is Kermit. He’s twenty-two. He flunked out of Harvard after his freshman year. He went in as a top student, but he flipped out after he got his first C, then couldn’t pull it together, and next thing, he’s back home in Palm Beach.”
“Jesus, Helen, you think—”
She silenced him with a look. “So his family tells him to sink or swim. It’s some weird, warped tough-love thing, I guess. Anyway, he takes off, disappears, there are rumors of substance abuse and general rebelliousness. They figure he’s in Colorado or someplace and go on with their lives, making it clear they do not wish to discuss their number one son.”
Jeremiah couldn’t speak. He stared at Helen, knowing she wouldn’t have dragged herself to a West Palm Beach hospital to give him rumors and innuendo. What she had was solid or she’d have kept it to herself. She certainly wouldn’t have gone without a cigarette for this long.
Croc was Michael and Bobbi Tiernay’s son?
“I’ve got his high school graduation picture somewhere.” She dug in handbag, circa 1980, and produced a black-and-white photo cut out of a high school yearbook or newspaper. “He went to private school. Apparently he was quite the egghead.”
It was Croc. Younger, cleaner, meatier, more optimistic, less world-weary. He probably hadn’t slathered his french fries in ketchup in those days, or bussed tables and detailed cars for a living.
Then Helen said, “I think he came into his Atwood trust fund when he turned twenty-one. Nothing the family could do about it.”
“That would be a lot of money?”
Helen grinned. “For an
investigative
reporter, you can be so naive about some things. Yeah, it’s a goddamned lot of money. I don’t know, Tabak,” she said, going philosophical on him, “where love and support and respect stop and enabling begins—well, I never had kids. Thank God, because I’d have messed it up.”
“Why?”
“The job. You know it as well as I do.” She shook off the attack of introspection. “Okay, so I’ve given you what I’ve got. I wished I’d put it together sooner, but there it is.”
“It was there for me to see, too. I just needed to do the legwork.”
“Yeah, well, the kid’s a friend, right?”
Jeremiah stared at her.
She sighed, nodding with understanding. “Happens to the best of us, Tabak. I’ve got some snooping I might as well do while I’m up here. A society columnist never sleeps. Plus, I need a freaking cigarette or I’m going to start foaming at the mouth.”
“Thanks for the tip, Helen,” Jeremiah said, his voice flat, his senses dulled.
“No problem. Get your head around this one, Tabak. That little shit’s been lying to you from the get-go. You know, this is going to leak out. The long-lost Kermit Tiernay, heir to the Atwood fortune, son of Michael and Bobbi. You’d better decide where you want to be standing when the poo-poo hits the fan.”
She strutted out, and Jeremiah made his way blindly to the elevators. If Croc could turn out to be a rich ne’er-do-well, he supposed he could end up a Helen Samuel in another thirty years. He shuddered at the thought.
Frank Sunderland caught up with him at the elevators. “We’ve got an ID on your buddy Croc,” he said, out of breath.
“Kermit Tiernay.”
Frank scowled. “One day, I’m going to scoop you. The younger brother’s up there with him now, and Miss Lavender. She called from the hospital.” The elevator dinged, and they got on. Frank smiled thinly. “I like her. She tells me stuff.”
“She’s a publicist, not a journalist.”
“Exactly.”
Two minutes later they were in Croc’s room. Frank stood back, reluctantly, and let Jeremiah approach the bed. A pale, subdued Deegan Tiernay stood over his injured older brother. Croc—Kermit Tiernay—was conscious, dazed, swollen, and beat to hell, but his blue eyes were trained on Deegan. When he saw Jeremiah and Frank, Deegan went visibly rigid, his emotions held in check.
Mollie, however, was easy to read. She glared at Jeremiah and pounced. “Damnit, you could have told me.”
“I didn’t know.”
His words didn’t register. “Your pal Croc and Deegan are
brothers.
You had to know.”
Jeremiah remained steady, despite the gnawing pain in his gut. “Well, I didn’t.”
Mollie still didn’t give up. “But you’ve known him for two years—”
“As Croc, a street kid, this crazy guy who brought me information and liked too much ketchup on his fries.” He shifted to Croc, felt a molten mix of emotions hurtling through him. “I could toss you and that bed out the damned window. Just as well you can’t talk. You’d probably try spinning me another tale. And I’d probably swallow it.”
Kermit Tiernay was too swollen and bruised to provide a readable expression, and he couldn’t speak with his jaw wired shut and his lips stitched.
Jeremiah bit off a sigh. “How’re you feeling?”
Croc nodded slightly, an acknowledgment that he was alive but that was about it.
“You hang in there, okay? Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.” He turned to Deegan, was aware of Mollie fidgeting to his right, ready to jump out of her skin. “When’s the last time you saw your brother?”
“Last Tuesday.” His voice was steady, straightforward. “I helped him get hold of guest lists from several parties. Between Griffen and a few other contacts, it wasn’t difficult.”
“Did you know why he wanted them?”
“Not at first.”
“When?”
“After the Greenaway robbery. I just assumed he was playing private eye.”
So had Jeremiah. Now, he wasn’t ready to make any assumptions until all the facts were in. A hard lesson learned. “How long have you two been in touch?”
“The past two weeks.”
“Not before?”
Deegan shook his head and glanced back at Frank, who stood quietly by the empty bed, taking it all in.
Jeremiah kept pushing. “He sought you out?”
“Yes. He asked me not to tell anyone, and I didn’t.”
“Then your parents don’t know, your grandmother, Griffen Welles, Mollie—”
“Obviously
I
didn’t know,” Mollie put in.
Jeremiah glanced at her, knowing she was scared and upset, and he pushed back the memory of her sleek body last night. He said nothing, shifting back to Deegan, who shook his head. “Nobody knew.”
Satisfied, Jeremiah turned back to Croc. He pushed back the conflicting emotions, the anger at himself and concentrated on what he had to do. “One finger up for yes, two for no. You can do it?”
One finger went up.
“Do you want me to find you a lawyer?” Jeremiah asked.
Two fingers.
“You know the police are here right now, listening in?”
One finger.
“Croc,” Jeremiah said, leaning over the hospital bed and the battered body of a young man he considered—he could no longer deny it—a friend. “Is someone setting you up?” He raised one finger, and Jeremiah asked, “Do you know who?”
This time, Croc managed a shake of the head before his eyes, already heavy, closed and he drifted off.
“I’ll tell Mother and Father.” Deegan Tiernay’s voice shook; the cockiness of the young man who’d tossed his girlfriend in the pool the other night gone. “They need to know.”
Not
want
to know, Jeremiah noticed. “They haven’t heard from him?”
“Not since they kicked him out. It’s been over two years.” He pushed a shaky hand through his hair. “They won’t like it that I’ve been in touch with him, but they’ll understand—I had no choice—”
“Good heavens,” Mollie said, “I would hope they understand. Of course you had no choice. He’s your brother.”
He smiled wanly at Mollie, without condescension. “I wish it were that simple.”
“Your brother’s in trouble,” Jeremiah said, “but we don’t have the full story yet. We need to reserve judgment.”
“Innocent until proven guilty? That’s not how it works in my family.” But he sucked in a breath before he said too much and turned back to Mollie. “After I talk to them, I’ll head back to Leonardo’s and clear out my stuff—”
“Why? I’m throwing a party tomorrow night. I need your help.”
“But I—”
“But you what? You didn’t tell me you were in contact with your brother?”
“Mollie, he’s a suspect in the attack on you on Friday. He might have made the threatening call on Monday—”
“First things first, Deegan.” Her voice was strong, clear, confident. “Will you tell Griffen, too, or shall I?”
“I’ll tell her,” he said, and retreated, with Frank Sunderland spinning on his toes and following him out.
Mollie touched Jeremiah’s hand. “I’m sorry I jumped on you.”
“I probably would have done the same in your place.”
“Do you want to hang in here awhile?”
He nodded, watching Croc sleep. “I can’t believe the little bastard’s a damned millionaire. Helen Samuel says his Atwood trust is worth a fortune.”
“He’s tapped into it?”
“We don’t know.” He winced at the
we.
“Damn, I can’t believe I’ve collaborated on a story with her.”
Mollie smiled. “You two are a lot alike.”
“Don’t you start, too. That’s what she keeps telling me. You walked into a hell of a scene, didn’t you?”
“Deegan was sobbing. The cop guarding Croc called your friend Frank.” She was silent a moment, her clear gaze on the broken body in the neat, clean bed. “What do you suppose drove him onto the streets?”
“I don’t know, but he got into Harvard. After that, things seemed to fall apart. Maybe the parents can tell us.”
“Do you think they will?” she asked.
Jeremiah took in a breath. “I’ll find out, one way or the other.”
She curved a hand around the back of his neck, slid her fingers into his hair, and kissed him lightly. “Yes, you will, and not because you’re a reporter.” She dropped her hand, smiled warmly. “You’re also his friend.”
“Mollie.” His voice quaked, but he ignored the knot of fear in his throat. “If the attack on Croc wasn’t a coincidence—if he was set up—then someone’s trying to cover their own tracks.”
She nodded, still steady, although he could see that she’d followed his thinking, perhaps had already reached the same conclusion. “I’m the common denominator, and we still don’t know what it means, if anything. And I was attacked and threatened—” She swallowed visibly, but maintained her composure. “If Croc isn’t the jewel thief, or if the police don’t accept him as the jewel thief, I could be in danger.”
“You could be in danger, period.”
“Well. I guess next time I speak to Leonardo, I’ll tell him he’s not paranoid after all for having such an elaborate security system.”
“You’ll be there?”
“Waiting for you,” she said, and left him alone with Croc, aka Blake Wilder, aka Kermit Tiernay.
Jeremiah leaned over the kid’s sleeping body. “Where the hell your folks get a name like Kermit? No wonder you went off the deep end.”
He pulled up a chair and sat, wondering if Kermit Tienay’s parents would show up.
14
“Y
our brother’s a derelict and a jewel thief?” Griffen repeated for at least the third time, her stunned rage upon hearing news of Kermit Tiernay no surprise to Mollie. She, Griffen, and Deegan were at Leonardo’s pool, sitting in the shade, oblivious to the bright, hot afternoon sun. Griffen sputtered, still furious. “And you didn’t
tell
me?”
“I didn’t know for sure,” Deegan said, remarkably calm under the circumstances. “I only suspected.”
Mollie watched a chameleon scurry into the grass. “We still don’t
know
your brother’s the thief.”
Neither reacted to her comment. Griffen, straddling a lounge chair, her sundress billowing in front of her, was still beside herself. “This explains why you’ve been acting so weird. You should have called the police, Deegan. They could have picked him up before he did any more damage.”
“Call them with what? I didn’t even know where to find him.” He was on his feet, pacing, the only sign he was affected by the morning’s events. “I did the best I could with what I had.”
Griffen wasn’t mollified. “Well, maybe someone did him a favor by beating the crap out of him. This thing was escalating. I’m glad it’s over.”
Deegan paused a moment, his gaze resting on his lover. “As Mollie said, we don’t know that Kermit is guilty.”
“It’s the most obvious, easiest explanation. So, it’s probably the
right
explanation. That’s how things work in the real world, even in Palm Beach. Conspiracies are for the movies. Most criminals are idiots. Your brother’s an idiot who got mugged by an idiot.” She leaned back and hoisted up her knees, her bare feet on the chair in front of her. She squinted up at Deegan. “Simple.”
He sighed, threw up his hands, and grinned suddenly, turning to Mollie. “Don’t you love it when she’s on a tear?”
“Go to hell,” Griffen told him.
Mollie shook her head. “I’m not saying a word.”
But all the fight had gone out of Griffen. “So, how’d Mum and Dad take the news their number one’s son’s back in town?”