White Hot

by Carla Neggers

  Damn it, she thought, she half-hoped the thief would show up tonight and she could catch him herself.

  “Nancy Drew,” she muttered, and exited the newsroom, aware of every eye in the place on her.

  But when she got to her car, Jeremiah was already there, slouched up against its gleaming hood as if he owned it. Mollie sputtered. “How did you get here ahead of me? How did you know where I was parked-”

  “I know all the shortcuts, and you’ll notice there are no other back Jaguars in the visitors’ lot.” He eased off the hood. “You’re on my turf now, sweet pea.”

  “So?”

  “So I want to know why you drove all the way down here to tell me about this nasty little phone call. I want to know,” he said, moving closer, “why you told me about your dinner tonight and said we should look at your pattern of activity and not just the thief’s.”

  “The we was just a slip of the tongue. As for the call-” She met his gaze, ignored the flutter in the pit of her stomach, the deep, unfathomable, undeniable yearning she had to connect with this man. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t already know about it.”

  He had no visible reaction. “Why would I know about it?”

  “Or the guy who tipped you off about me. Maybe he knows about it.”

  “You mean maybe he’s the one who made the call,” Jeremiah said, his tone steady, neutral. “And I knew about it.”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? And if you have to keep an open mind, so do I.”

  “It’s not possible I knew about it. If I had, I’d be throttling him right now. Is it possible he made the call? Theoretically, I suppose so, but my gut says no.” He considered a moment. The line of his jaw seemed harder, the muscles in his arms and shoulders leaner, tougher. Ten years of digging into crime and corruption seemed to have affected him physically, not just mentally. “But it’s good you’re keeping an open mind. Now. I’ll be at your place no later than six-twenty-five.”

  “What? Why-”

  “That’s why you told me about your dinner tonight, isn’t it?” His voice softened. “So I’d be there.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking-”

  “Think now.”

  She sighed. “I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on. I can’t stand sitting around waiting for the next phone call. I guess I wanted to find a way to help you-or for you to help me-”

  But he was shaking his head. “Mollie, we can’t be a team, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t work that way.”

  “I know. You don’t need to remind me.” She hoisted her handbag onto her shoulder, tried to ease the lingering effects of the eerie call. “I understand. Really. Thanks for putting me in touch with Frank. Maybe the police will find this guy.”

  He touched the collar of her linen shirt, just a flick of the finger that nonetheless sent shock waves through her. “You’re trying to tell yourself it’s strictly business between us, Mollie, but it’s not. It can’t be.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She sounded prim and unconvincing even to herself. She imagined he could see through the facade, straight into all the parts of her that still wanted him. “Of course it can.”

  “You’re remembering. Right now, you’re remembering.”

  Her knees quavered. “Remembering what?”

  “I was your first lover.” His voice was low, not much above a whisper, a caress. “You remember.”

  “Jeremiah…” She swallowed, telling herself this was a test, a way for him to establish terms. He liked making the rules. It was why he worked alone, it was why he stayed alone. She steeled herself against the onslaught of desire, the knot of confused emotions. “Jeremiah, I assure you, I’m long over you. I put your photo on my dartboard for my amusement, nothing more. It could have been a picture of Darth Vader.”

  He seemed amused. “And yesterday when I kissed you, could I have been Darth Vader then, too?”

  “The Emperor,” she said, unable to stop a smile.

  “And if I kissed you right here, right now, what would I be?”

  “Very forward.” But her head spun, her body burned at the thought of his mouth on hers.

  “I like being forward.”

  And his mouth descended to hers, his hand drifting to the back of her neck, where she wasn’t injured. She threw a hand back on the hood of her car, steadying herself as his tongue slid between her lips, tasted, probed, her entire body responding.

  He drew back slightly, his eyes dark, his own arousal evident. “That wasn’t too forward, was it?”

  Mollie straightened, tried to ignore the strain of her breasts against her linen top, the agony of wanting him. She was shaking with it, unsteady, her mind flooded with memories of him slowly, erotically exploring her body with his hands, then his mouth, teeth, and tongue, until, finally, when she was hot and quivering, taking her with hard, deep thrusts.

  His dusky gaze told her that he, too, was remembering.

  She willed coherency upon her thoughts. “Look, Jeremiah-” She swallowed, adjusting her shirt so her pebbled nipples wouldn’t show. “I know what you’re doing, but you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to fall for you. It was my choice to drive down here. And I take full responsibility for the consequences of that choice.”

  “Hell, it sounds as if you decided to climb Mount Everest.”

  She smiled. “You just concentrate on doing your job, okay?”

  He dragged one finger along the line of her jaw, sending a stream of liquid heat straight into her bloodstream. “I always do.” He winked. “See you at six-twenty-five.”

  Jeremiah went back to his desk feeling grumpy, out of sorts, and way too damned much as if he should have taken Mollie back to his apartment for the rest of the afternoon. He checked his messages. Nothing. He plopped into his chair and stared at his blank computer screen. Neutrality and objectivity had gone straight to hell with the appearance of Mollie and her bottomless eyes, bruised neck, and tale of a nasty phone call.

  Helen Samuel couldn’t wait to accost him. “Okay. Tell me what Mollie Lavender was doing here.”

  Jeremiah swung around in his chair. Bad coffee and frustration burned in his stomach. Fatigue pounded behind his eyes. “You know why you’ve lasted as long as you have, Helen? You’re by nature a very nosy woman.”

  She grinned at him, unoffended. “Yeah, yeah. You’re just in a bad mood because you wanted to write the story about Friday night and couldn’t. You’re feeling conflicted.”

  “Conflicted? Jesus, Helen. A reporter has to make these kinds of calls all the time.”

  “Bullshit. You’ve got a woman wearing a necklace owned by one of the most famous tenors in the world. You’ve got the necklace ripped off at a fancy private party. You’ve got a gloved hand. You’ve got a daring, clever cat burglar. And you were right there. Jesus. It has to kill you. No wonder you’re a grouch.”

  He shoved back his chair and stood up. “That’s right, Helen. I was right there. I was a part of the goddamned story. No way could I write it. I did the right thing. So I’m not conflicted.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a grump. You’re still on this thing, aren’t you?”

  He sighed. “Damned lot of good it’s doing me. I don’t have a clue who’s behind the robberies, or why, or how he’s getting into exclusive parties without being noticed. I don’t know if it’s a man or woman. I don’t know if it’s someone acting alone or a group. You know, even if the Trib had reported that Mollie Lavender, Palm Beach publicist, was robbed at Diantha Atwood’s party Friday night, it would only have filled two inches on page thirty-seven.”

  “All right, all right.” Helen studied him with an air of superior knowledge and experience that quickly got on his nerves. “You sure you’re not in over your head, Tabak?”

  “If I were,” he said irritably, “I wouldn’t tell the Trib’s goddamned gossip columnist. I’m going home and feeding my lizard. He’s better company than what I get around here.”

  Helen grunted
, unintimidated. “Your lizard have any say about what kind of company he has to put up with?”

  Traffic on the causeway out to South Beach was miserable, the lousy weather bringing the tourists off the water and into the shops and restaurants. Although he groused and grumbled, Jeremiah supposed if he were a tourist, he’d be here, too.

  He had to hunt a parking space, which didn’t improve his mood, and when he got to his building, he found Croc out front with Bennie, the ex-tailor, and Albert, the ex-mobster. Not once in two years had Croc shown up at Jeremiah’s home, always preferring to meet at public places on Ocean Drive. He looked like a street bum with his scraggly hair and clothes. Bennie pointed at him with his whittling knife. “This guy says he’s a friend of yours. We were letting him hang around for a while, see if you showed up.”

  “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 hous
e. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Mollie would be expecting him.

  9

  Whittling, 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.”