White Hot

by Carla Neggers

  “All right, all right. Go see him. You want to hire him a lawyer?”

  “Give me a minute. By the way,” he said, touching Mollie’s arm, “this is Mollie Lavender.”

  Frank looked grim. “I figured. Go ahead, Miss Lavender. We can talk after.”

  Jeremiah pushed open the door to the double room. The first bed was unoccupied. The second bed, along the window, held a bandaged, bruised, miserable-looking Croc. He barely made a rumple in the bed covers. Most of his head was bandaged-his neck, his right arm, both hands. His eyes and nose had swelled up, his mouth was cut and stitched, his jaw was wired shut. He was hooked up to an IV.

  An attractive, fiftyish nurse was fiddling with his IV line. “How is he?” Jeremiah asked.

  “He’s dozing at the moment. He’s been very restless, agitated, and he’s in a great deal of pain. His medication is helping.”

  “Will he need surgery?”

  “I don’t believe so, but you’d have to speak to his doctor. Right now the best thing we can do is to let him rest.”

  “He’s been worked over pretty good,” Jeremiah said, more to himself than to either Mollie or the nurse. Rage clouded his eyes. Croc, he thought. Jesus. But he needed to stay focused, think, make the right moves now, before it was too late.

  “Yes, I’m afraid whoever did this to him-” The nurse shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  Mollie, pale and breathing shallowly, said nothing.

  “If there’s a change, you can let me know? I’ll leave numbers where I can be reached. I’ll be back later.” He walked to Croc’s bed, leaned over his battered, bruised, skinny body. His chest ached from tension. Who the hell could do this to another human being? But it was the same question he’d been asking since he’d reported on his first mugging eighteen years ago, just a kid himself. He touched Croc’s bony wrist. “You hang in there, buddy.”

  Outside in the corridor, he gave Frank his various numbers: the paper, his apartment, his cell phone. Mollie supplied her work and home numbers, and Frank said to her, “I wonder if you can come down to the station and ID this necklace.” She knew that compliance with his request wasn’t as optional as he tried to make it sound.

  “I’d be glad to,” she said politely, “but I’m driving Jeremiah-”

  Frank interrupted. “I can drive you over and then drop you back at your place.”

  “Sure, okay.” She fished out the keys to the Jaguar and handed them to Jeremiah; she was staying calm, doing what had to be done in the thick of a crisis. “Leonardo also has a Jeep. I’ll use it, and you can bring his car back later.”

  Frank, Jeremiah noticed, resisted comment. “You’ll be okay?” Jeremiah asked Mollie.

  She smiled weakly, the sight of Croc, who’d had her pissed off to the point of speechlessness less than twenty-four hours ago, taking its toll. “I’ll be fine. Once I’m done with the police, I’ll go back to Leonardo’s and try to get some work done.” In other words, Jeremiah would know where to find her. “You’ll be in touch?”

  He nodded, even as he felt himself pulling back, fighting for distance, not because he regretted last night but because he owed Croc, aka whoever. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “So will I, Tabak,” Frank growled, and he escorted Mollie out.

  13

  Griffen Welles and Deegan Tiernay arrived at Leonardo’s five minutes after Frank Sunderland had dropped Mollie off. She hadn’t even had a chance to scoot upstairs yet. All she wanted to do was dive into the pool and swim until she couldn’t think coherently, then sleep in the shade. But when Deegan said, “Mollie, was that the police?” she rallied.

  “Come upstairs, you two,” she said. “I have a tale to tell.”

  She put on coffee and boiled an egg and told them about Jeremiah, Croc, herself as common denominator. She told them about seeing Jeremiah at the Greenaway, knowing him ten years ago, having his picture on her dartboard. Her voice sounded detached and clinical, yet her insides felt frayed. Coffee and food helped.

  “Jesus, Mollie,” Griffen breathed. “I had no idea.”

  Deegan paced, pounding a fist into a palm. “The police think this Croc guy’s the jewel thief?”

  “They’re not sure. I just identified the necklace they found on him. It’s definitely Leonardo’s cursed diamond-and-ruby necklace. But whether it was a coincidental mugging and the attacker just missed it, or it was some kind of setup-” She shrugged, feeling drained, confused, on overdrive. “I don’t know.”

  “This sucks,” Deegan muttered. “Look, I need to get out of here awhile. I’ll talk to you both later.”

  He shot outside, and Griffen unfolded herself from a bar stool, walked to the door, peered out, and turned back to Mollie. “I wonder what that’s all about.”

  “Something I said? He hasn’t liked Jeremiah-”

  “What’s to like? The guy’s a rough customer, even if you’ve fallen for him like the proverbial ton of bricks.” When Mollie started to protest, Griffen held up a hand, silencing her. “Do not argue with one who knows. Well, I suppose where one romance dies, another pops up somewhere in the universe to take its place.”

  “You and Deegan?”

  She flopped back onto her stool. “The last few days especially…” She frowned at Mollie’s egg. “You’re eating that dry?”

  “I put pepper on it.”

  “A hard-boiled egg with pepper. Mollie, that gives me the willies.”

  She smiled. “Tell me about Deegan.”

  “He’s been remote lately.” Her eyes shifted, and she picked at a red-polished nail. Today’s sundress was a shock of red and purple flowers. Her dark curls hung down her back. “Usually he’s so much fun, sarcastic, witty, just a great guy, you know? I never expected our relationship to last, but I’m sorrier than I thought I’d to be now that it’s falling apart.”

  “I’m sorry, Griffen.”

  “Yeah, yeah. What about you and Jeremiah Tabak? Any hope there?” She squinted at Mollie, then laughed. “My God, you’re blushing! We must be talking fast and furious then, huh?”

  Mollie bit into her egg and toast, noticing Griffen’s involuntary shudder of disapproval, as if she couldn’t help herself. “I just came from the hospital. It doesn’t seem right to be fretting about my love life right now.”

  “It’s human nature, Mollie. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Some of us know the real thing when we see it, and we find it right out of the chute. Others of us-” She sighed, obviously meaning herself. “Others of us either don’t know it or just have to keep trying. If I find the right guy before I’m forty, I’ll be happy. Heck, after I’m forty.”

  “Ever the optimist, right, Griffen?”

  She grinned. “You got it. So, does Tabak think his buddy Croc is the jewel thief?”

  “I don’t know, we haven’t talked outside the presence of the police.”

  “But you doubt it,” Griffen said.

  “Maybe…I’m trying to keep an open mind.” Her egg finished, she rinsed her hands in the sink. Her mind was racing, impulsivity rearing its head. She looked around at her friend. “Griffen, why don’t I have a party?”

  “A party? Mollie, what the hell-”

  “Tomorrow night. Are you free? I can hire you to cater. We’ll make it spontaneous and fun, real informal. It’s supposed to be nice weather. We can have it out by the pool.”

  Griffen was eyeing her dubiously. “What, are you trying to set a trap for the real jewel thief?”

  “I would if I could-if he’s not already in the hospital with his jaw broken. No, I just want to assert some control over my life. A spontaneous cocktail party could be my statement about the attack on me the other night, my relationship with Leonardo, my intentions here in south Florida. I’m my own person, and I make my own decisions.”

  “And you won’t be driven off by a nasty phone call and a nasty thief.”

  She nodded. “Right.”

  Griffen mused a moment, the sunlight streaming in through t
he kitchen window, the curtains billowing in a pleasant breeze. “It could be a fun, gutsy thing to do. I expect it doesn’t hurt to assert your independence with a guy like Jeremiah Tabak, either.” She clapped her hands together, grinning. “I’m getting to like this nutty idea better and better.”

  “Is tomorrow night too soon?”

  “Of course, but that’s what makes it perfect. It won’t conflict with any of the big parties this week, and Leonardo doesn’t do parties, so people are already curious about this place. We can capitalize on that. And, of course, they’re yakking about you a mile a minute, and now we’ve got this jewel thief in the hospital and a sexy investigative reporter…” She drummed the counter with her red nails, musing. “Oh, this definitely could work!”

  “People will come?”

  “Everyone will come.” She slid smoothly to her feet, tucked thick curls behind her ear. “I’ll put together a menu and guest list and stop back by this afternoon. We’ll have to move on this thing if we’re going to pull it off. Deegan can help-I’ll see if I can track him down. Guess it’s a good thing we came in separate cars.”

  After Griffen left, Mollie wandered aimlessly around the apartment before she came to grips with what she had to do. Take a shower, get dressed, put out any fires that needed putting out in her office, and check back in at the hospital. Maybe the police would have more information. Maybe Jeremiah would. Either way, hanging around inside Leonardo’s gates would only drive her crazy.

  Jeremiah drove out to the stretch of relatively isolated beach and marsh where Croc was found, then to the police station to see the necklace and talk to the officers first on the scene, not that they had much to offer. Croc still wasn’t in any condition to give a statement, but he’d managed, apparently, to indicate that he hadn’t recognized his attacker and couldn’t provide a detailed description. The police had no reason to believe there was more than one attacker.

  Mollie had already gone home. Frank had driven her himself, and he was still steamed at Jeremiah. “You’re holding back on me, aren’t you, Tabak?”

  Jeremiah debated, then gave him the rest. “Mollie Lavender is what got me into this thing.” He tried to sound detached, professional. “Croc found out she’s been at every event we know the thief hit.”

  “How’d he know?”

  “How does he know anything? He must have been snooping around, had access to guest lists-I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Frank appraised him with cop skepticism. “It’s a bitch having that kind of missing link. What about you and this Lavender woman?”

  “What about us?”

  “You came up from Miami in the same car.”

  “That we did.”

  The conversation ended there because Frank had all he needed without Jeremiah explaining the nitty-gritty of his and Mollie’s relationship. Hell, he didn’t know it himself. He’d fallen for her ten years ago, and he was falling for her again. Simple.

  “Any luck on running down Croc’s real name?” Jeremiah asked.

  “No, but when we find out, we’ll track you down right away, Tabak, and let you know, especially seeing how forthcoming you’ve been with us.”

  “Hey, I made Mollie call you about her threatening phone call.”

  Frank just scowled, and Jeremiah, who prided himself on knowing when a well was dry, headed back to the hospital. He barely noticed the crush of snowbirds out enjoying the perfect winter day, just drove the winding, pretty streets of Palm Beach with his mind focused on the task at hand. Croc, jewels, Mollie. The lies Croc had told him, the dozen different ways Mollie might fit into them. He didn’t speculate, didn’t let his thoughts get ahead of him, just articulated the questions and the facts with cold precision.

  He was walking past the information desk when he heard a hoarse, familiar voice. “Tabak-thank God.” He turned, and there was Helen Samuel in a pink ladies-who-lunch suit that made her look like a wizened Loretta Young. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen her outside of the Miami Tribune building, maybe not even in the parking lot. She grinned at him. “They won’t let me smoke in here. Nazis. Two more minutes and I’m having a seizure.”

  “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 ti
p, 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.”