White Hot

by Carla Neggers

  “Don’t try to talk now.”

  “Bastard,” she whispered, and Jeremiah knew she meant the thief. Her neck must hurt like hell, and there’d be a bruise. But he hadn’t strangled her, knifed her, shot her, carried her off into the night.

  Still, Jeremiah could feel the blackness coming into his eyes. She removed her hand from the raw streak along her neck. Her palm was smeared with blood. Another weak attempt at a smile. She would, he knew, be embarrassed at making a scene. This wasn’t her turf, her people. With a bunch of crazy musicians, she’d have felt free to scream, curse, cry, go after the guy, do whatever she damned pleased.

  She sank her head back against the wall, thick locks of hair dislodging from their pins. “Really. It’s just a scratch.”

  She shut her eyes, and Jeremiah could see her willing control over herself, fighting back nausea, shock, fear. People were rushing up the corridor. Someone was yelling for security, the manager, the police.

  And Jeremiah remembered Croc’s words. I think this thing could get dangerous.

  A warning? Or a threat?

  And here was Mollie, their only common denominator, Croc’s only lead, once again in the thick of things.

  “The thief,” he said. “Did you see him?”

  She shook her head, wincing. “He grabbed the necklace from behind. He just snapped it and ran off.” She gulped in air, her face, if possible, even paler. “I felt the brush of his hand. I think he was wearing gloves.”

  She shivered, visibly steeling herself against shaking as more people gathered round. Jeremiah stayed close to her. “It’s over now, Mollie. You can explain later.”

  Her eyes, clear and so blue, focused on him, reminded him that he needed to take great care not to underestimate her. “Am I looking a bit green at the gills?”

  He smiled. “More than a bit.”

  “I’d hate to throw up,” she said dryly. “Then I’d feel like a real idiot. It’s bad enough as it is. No one else who was robbed screamed bloody murder.”

  “No one else was physically attacked.”

  A thickset hotel security man in a nondescript navy suit materialized at Jeremiah’s side, two doormen and the hotel manager coming up fast behind him. The manager-in his mid-forties, good-looking, well-dressed-calmly urged guests to return to the Starlight Room or move on to the ball. The security man spoke into a walkie-talkie, supervising a thorough search of the hotel and grounds, the protocol of handling a robbery on the premises quickly and efficiently kicking into gear.

  Tiny Diantha Atwood inserted herself into the discussion. She spoke firmly, graciously to the manager, requesting to be kept advised of all developments. Despite her pleasant tone, Jeremiah detected a hint of disapproval directed at Mollie. He wasn’t sure which was her greater social error: screaming, or getting robbed in the first place.

  The walkie-talkie crackled with news that the search had so far turned up nothing.

  “This thief seems to disappear with ease,” Jeremiah said, and added, just to be provocative, to separate himself from the rest of the crowd, “Maybe you should consider searching the guests.”

  The hotel manager blanched. Diantha Atwood inhaled sharply, lips thinning as she glared at Jeremiah, as if she’d forgotten he really was a reporter, not just a coup for her party. “That’s out of the question.”

  Of course it was. But Jeremiah didn’t regret his comment. He’d served notice that the hotel, and the police when they arrived, ought to consider that they might have a thief among the black-tie crowd, not just some thug scampering through the shrubbery to make good his escape. He figured part of his job was to probe, push, goad. Do what had to be done, short of breaking the law and violating journalistic ethics, to get to the truth.

  But Mollie was frowning at him, and he expected she knew what he was up to. This new-found ability she had to guess what was on his mind was a little disconcerting, but also quite intriguing. No gullible twenty-year-old was she.

  The police arrived, and Jeremiah withdrew to let them take Mollie’s statement. He had no intention of discussing his interest in the jewel thief, or how it had come about, with them. First chance he got, he’d check his police sources for what they had. He noticed that Mollie had perked up. She was still pale and shaky, but she was on her feet and spoke in a clear, calm voice to the detective. Jeremiah wasn’t planning to go far. He wondered if she knew that.

  A few stragglers remained at the Atwood party, the indomitable hostess and her daughter and son-in-law reassuring them that Mollie was just fine. “She was startled,” Bobbi Tiernay said, “that’s why she screamed.”

  Startled? She was attacked from behind. She’d had her damned necklace yanked off her. Who the hell wouldn’t have screamed bloody murder? Mollie, however, was the new publicist in town and therefore vulnerable to taking the blame for ruining a pleasant evening of drinks and small talk.

  Jeremiah reminded himself that no one there was accustomed to what amounted to a mugging occurring under their noses. Bobbi Tiernay, like most of the others, would want some way to make herself feel less vulnerable. So, blame the victim. A Cary Grant-type jewel thief on the loose was one thing. They could all have fun with that. But Cary Grant never drew blood.

  “You’re going to be late for the ball,” Diantha Atwood told him.

  Jeremiah decided he’d rather be boiled in oil, staked to an ant hill, and shot in the ass than sit through a Palm Beach charity ball, even one for a good cause. He’d start to twitch even before the salads were served.

  “Or are you going to play reporter?” she asked coolly. “I noticed you were the first to reach Mollie. You have excellent reflexes.”

  Play reporter. As if he could click his instincts on and off again. As if he had no idea of the responsibility to the community his role as a journalist entailed. He didn’t like the attack on Mollie, its daring nature or its violence. He especially didn’t like the fact that its victim was Mollie. But to Diantha Atwood, it was a black mark on her party, a social awkwardness to be smoothed over and forgotten.

  Don’t get ahead of the facts, he warned himself. The woman could be as shaken as anyone else by the sour turn of events and was just acting out of her own shock and fear.

  “I’ve offended you,” she said, her eyes steady on him. “Please, forgive me.”

  “Not to worry.” He gave her a wink. “I’ve been accused of worse than playing at my job. Thanks for the party.”

  “Are you going to write this for the Tribune?”

  “Conflict of interest,” he said, and headed out, hoping she believed his conflict arose from having been a guest at her party and wasn’t guessing at his relationship with her grandson’s boss.

  The police and hotel people were still gathered around Mollie in the hall. Jeremiah walked the other way and looked over the balcony down at the main lobby. Lots of flowers and polished brass, a fountain, soft chairs and couches, marbled floors and thick carpets, men in tuxedos and women in long dresses arriving for the charity ball. Even Jeremiah, who was looking, couldn’t tell a hunt for a jewel thief was taking place.

  He stiffened, all but fell off the damned balcony. There, planted on a cushiony loveseat like he owned the place, was Croc. He had his skinny legs stretched out, his ankles crossed, and his hands clasped behind his head as he watched an elegant couple pass in front of him.

  If Jeremiah had had a rock, he might have dropped it on Croc’s head.

  As if reading his mind, Croc glanced up at the balcony, grinned, and waved. Jeremiah’s grip tightened on the polished brass rail. He pried his fingers loose and took the escalator two steps at a time down to the lobby. He’d probably have jumped over the rail except he didn’t want to draw the cops’ attention.

  “Yo, Tabak,” Croc said when Jeremiah dropped onto the loveseat next to him. “Cozy, huh? Nice place, although I’m not crazy about the flower arrangement over by the fountain. Too New England. You know? This is Palm Beach. People want glitter and ostentation.”

 
Ostentation? “Croc, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “Watching the festivities.” He folded his hands on his middle; he had not one ounce of fat to spare. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but clean. If he had a diamond-and-ruby necklace on him, it would have to cause a noticeable bulge somewhere. “You should have seen them shuffling to get the cops in here without a lot of fanfare. Very discreet. I was impressed.”

  “Then you know about the attack on Mollie Lavender?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re the cops haven’t hauled you in as a suspect.”

  “That’s not luck, Tabak, that’s skill. How’s she doing?”

  Jeremiah glanced up at the mezzanine. All he needed was an enterprising police officer to take a peek down into the lobby and see a Miami Tribune reporter talking to an obvious informant. The cops would pounce. “She’s shaken up, but not seriously hurt. You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

  Croc shrugged. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business, hearing what I hear.”

  “You arrive before or after Mollie was attacked?”

  “Ah.” His clear gaze settled on Jeremiah. “You’re making sure I didn’t swipe the necklace. Well, I didn’t. Too much effort involved.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” Jeremiah pointed out.

  “True.”

  Stonewalled. Croc didn’t like to divulge his tactics. Jeremiah gave up for the moment. “I suppose now you can eliminate Mollie Lavender as a suspect.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because she’s up there bleeding, Croc-”

  “Yeah, so? Why did she wear an expensive necklace? Why didn’t anyone see anything? Why no trail? You got no clues, no suspects, no witnesses, no evidence. You can’t eliminate her or anyone else yet.”

  Jeremiah checked a hiss of impatience. “You think she ripped the necklace off her own neck?”

  “Why not?”

  “The question is why?”

  “How the hell should I know? Okay, here’s one. Insurance.”

  “It’s Pascarelli’s necklace. The money would go to him.”

  Croc was unchagrined. “Then she wanted to inspire fear in potential victims-make them nervous so they won’t put up a fight next time she gets light fingers.”

  “That doesn’t wash, either. If there’s a threat of violence, people will leave the real stuff in the vault. It’d dry up business.”

  Croc frowned. “Okay. I’ll give that one some thought.” A foot started going, then a hand, fingers drumming. “She could also want the thrills, the attention. High-profile party, daring thief. Makes good drama, Tabak.” He paused, a half-second halt in his fidgeting as he eyed Jeremiah. “So what’s the story between you two?”

  “Between Mollie and me?”

  “No, between Diantha Atwood and you. Come on, Tabak. Don’t bullshit. You’re no good at it.”

  Jeremiah balled his hands into fists. Tension. Irritation. Frustration. He felt them all. Sitting there and trying to appear calm required every scrap of self-control he had. “Mollie and I had a brief relationship about a million years ago. It ended badly.”

  “How brief?”

  “A week.”

  “When?”

  “Ten years ago. She was a music student on spring break.”

  Croc was silent a moment. Then he sighed. “Now you tell me.”

  “It has no bearing on your jewel thief.”

  “Bullshit. It explains why you’re not seeing this thing with your normal cold, clear, cynical eye. Jeez, I can’t believe I missed this one. You and our Miss Mollie. I tell you, Tabak, she’s involved. You mark my words. I’m checking into her clients-and that caterer friend and her boy-toy, Miss Mollie’s intern. Look like a couple of nitwits to me.”

  Jeremiah gave him a steady look. “Croc, if you’re not careful and keep landing yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, people are going to start suspecting you.”

  He went still, a rarity for him. “Do you? Come on, seriously. Do you suspect me?”

  “Not yet,” Jeremiah said.

  He couldn’t tell if Croc was insulted or not. “I guess that’ll have to do.”

  “Maybe if you quit holding back-”

  But Croc hurtled to his feet, suddenly looking as if he wanted to jump out of his skin. “Listen, I need to get out of here. Atmosphere’s getting to me. I might be barking up the wrong tree with this Mollie Lavender character, but I don’t think so. I think she’s right up there on a high branch, laughing at the rest of us while we scurry around in the muck.”

  “Your instincts about people aren’t reliable, Croc.”

  “Maybe not, but you put Miss Mollie up on a bulletin board, and all roads lead to her.”

  Croc wasn’t known for his felicitous metaphors, but Jeremiah got his point. Mollie as common denominator. Mollie screaming. Mollie bleeding. Mollie up there with the police and hotel security even as he and Croc sat there discussing her.

  What did Jeremiah know about her anymore?

  But it was nuts. She was the goddaughter of a world-famous tenor, the daughter of flaky musicians, a publicist for flaky clients. Considering her as their jewel thief was just silliness. A diversion. A way of not thinking about her in other terms, such as in danger, in despair…or, Jeremiah thought grimly, in his bed, which maybe was scariest of all.

  “Hey, Tabak, you’re lucky I’m on your side.” Croc grinned, somehow looking even bonier, out of place yet not the least bit awkward in the elegant surroundings. “I’m the one here who’s clear-eyed and without prejudice.”

  “There’s nothing between Mollie and me.”

  Croc just laughed, and Jeremiah watched him saunter over to the revolving doors and walk out of the hotel without anyone giving him so much as a second glance.

  Mollie stumbled onto the escalator with the hotel manager hovering behind her. She felt unsteady and vaguely embarrassed, but the nausea had abated. Her neck stung. It was like a nasty rope burn, one of those short, intense bursts of pain that would subside quickly, the worst probably over by morning. Or so she kept telling herself as she clung to the escalator rail.

  The police were still up with hotel security, searching for clues. She didn’t expect they’d find anything useful. The thief had been quick, deft, clever, and daring. He wouldn’t leave a trail. She knew nothing about crime and criminals-mercifully, she thought-but what she knew about this crime and this criminal told her the police weren’t going to find him. Not tonight.

  She gave an involuntary shudder. “Are you all right?” the manager asked, worried. His concern seemed genuine, not simply strategic.

  “I’ll be fine, thanks.” She smiled, trying to encourage herself as much as him.

  He held out a hand, ready to catch her if she passed out as the escalator came to the lobby and she slid off. She must look even worse than she felt. Neck bloody, face pale, dress askew. And she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Her eyelids were heavy, and even as she shivered and shook, she felt as if she could drop off to sleep. The aftermath of her ordeal, she knew. The excess of adrenaline, the drop in blood sugar, plain old nerves. Her entire system was out of whack.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a ride home?” the manager asked. “I can have someone drive your own car back at the same time.”

  Her own car. It wasn’t hers any more than the necklace or the dress. Or her “home.”

  He’d made the same offer twice on the mezzanine. Mollie understood. He thought she was being needlessly, even recklessly, stubborn about driving herself back to Leonardo’s. Certainly she needed to reassert normalcy into her life, but she could do it tomorrow, after she’d had a chance to rest from her ordeal. But she wanted to do it now.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jeremiah making his way across the lobby. If possible, he looked even more devastating, more darkly unpredictable than he had upstairs. It was the combination
of elegance and irreverence, she decided, feeling giddy from champagne and adrenaline. He moved with such ease no matter where he was-or with whom. He wasn’t fazed by the Atwood and Tiernay crowd, and he’d seemed right in his element with a crime committed, a woman crumpled at his feet, police and security people swarming.

  “I’m a friend,” he told the manager with unsurpassed gall. “I’ll drive Mollie home.”

  The manager looked relieved. “Wonderful. Ms. Lavender, if there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate. You can reach me anytime, night or day.”

  She mumbled her thanks, and he retreated back up the escalator, leaving her alone with Jeremiah. “The hotel can send your car,” he said, taking charge.

  “I’m fine. There’s no need for you to drive me home-”

  “Mollie, you’re not getting behind a wheel.”

  “I look worse than I feel.” She knew she was white-faced, her eyes sunken, her mascara smudged. With her low-cut dress, there was no hiding the marks on her neck. Why couldn’t the thief have stolen her handbag? She could feel rage roaring to the surface, but banked it back down.

  “This isn’t about you, it’s about me and everyone else who doesn’t want you on the road right now. Indulge us.”

  “You just want to grill me about the thief,” she said, not willing to give in no matter how much she knew he and the manager both made sense.

  “Believe whatever you need to believe. It just doesn’t make sense to drive, not when there’s an alternative.”

  “I know,” she said reluctantly. “But I’ll be back up to snuff in the morning.”

  “Of course you will.”

  She shot him a look, but immediately saw he wasn’t being patronizing, just simply stating his belief. She’d be okay in the morning. She could drive, she could make her own decisions without the influence of adrenaline, a touch of alcohol, not enough food. To her surprise, Jeremiah’s quiet confidence helped ease some of the tension that still had her in its grip.

  They went outside-the air warm, cooler gusts coming in off the water. Limousines and expensive cars rolled up in long lines, depositing ball-goers in their elegant clothes and glittering jewels. Mollie didn’t regret her decision not to stay. She wanted to be alone, sitting out on her deck listening to the crickets and the palm trees in the evening breeze.