White Hot

by Carla Neggers

  Croc’s eyes never left the television, but he pulled his scrawny arms out from under the covers and said, “The thief and whoever hired the thug.”

  “I’m thinking coverup,” Jeremiah said. “Someone wanted to pin this thing on you to keep the real thief from being caught. In order to frame you, he had to steal the necklace from Mollie. He did it in the most expedient way he could, possibly because he doesn’t blend in with the Palm Beach crowd as easily as the real thief.” He paused. “Are you following me?”

  Croc lifted his gaze to him and said nothing.

  Jeremiah smiled, without humor. “You’re not following me-you led me here. Mr. Harvard.” He felt his body go stiff, willed himself to stay centered. “The thief steals. He likes the element of risk and danger. He doesn’t attack. This second person wants to mislead the police, you, me, Mollie. Mislead, cover up, and scare off.”

  “Protect.” Croc winced, hissing as he breathed through his wired teeth. “Mislead the police.”

  Croc’s words were almost unintelligible, but Jeremiah got their meaning. He breathed in, thinking.

  “The thief…” Croc adjusted his position, groaning almost inwardly from the pain. “Ribs.”

  “I know, Croc. You don’t need this aggravation.”

  He waved a bony, bruised hand in dismissal. His eyes, a muddier green than usual, grew serious. “The thief…daring and stupid…”

  “Like you were at nineteen?”

  He nodded without comment, but Jeremiah knew he, too, was thinking about his younger brother. His face screwing up in pain, he threw back the covers and kicked his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Croc, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Mollie’s party. I gotta go.”

  Jeremiah felt a sudden chill. “Why? What do you know?”

  His bony feet landed on the floor, and he reeled, steadied himself, held a crooked arm over his wrapped ribs. He had on shorts and a polo shirt, both new. “Let’s go, Tabak.” Drool dribbled down his chin. “No time.”

  “Croc, this is insane. You’re hurt. You’ll never make it to the damned car. I won’t make it before the maid calls the police and accuses me of kidnapping.”

  “Let her.”

  “Croc…”

  The eyes leveled on Jeremiah, the imaginative, hyperbolic Kermit Tiernay replaced by a young man of great focus and clarity. “Tabak, Mollie’s next.”

  He held his breath. “You can tell me on the way.”

  Mollie’s first Palm Beach cocktail party went off without a hitch, her guests departing promptly at eight, off to other dinners and parties. She and Griffen slumped on lounge chairs, Griffen moaning in relief before beginning the cleanup. “I don’t know why I was so nervous,” she said, kicking off her shoes. “You’d think it was my reputation on the line.”

  Deegan dropped onto a chair beside her. He looked handsome, calm, confident. Mollie wondered if she’d been an ass for suspecting him. He grinned at her and Griffen. “At least it went off without incident.”

  Griffen groaned. “Thank God.”

  “It makes me wonder if my brother really is…well, no, it doesn’t. Kermit wouldn’t have the energy or the ambition to steal.”

  “You think he’s innocent?” Mollie asked.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Griffen, suddenly restless, flung herself to her feet. “I’d better start cleaning up or I’m likely just to strike a match and call it a night. Deegan, would you mind doing a survey of the house, give me an idea of what kind of mess I’ve got to face in there?”

  “No problem.”

  He strode off to the well-lit house, and Mollie followed Griffen over to her makeshift wine bar. “Griffen, there’s no rush-”

  “Thanks, but we’re all tired. I know I am.”

  Mollie hesitated. “About what you said earlier-”

  Griffen swung around, her dark curls whipping into her face. “Will you forget what I said earlier? Please?” She sounded grouchy and tired more than distressed. “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “But, Griffen, if you’ve got any ideas or insight about what’s going on with the Tiernays and this jewel thief-”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry, Mollie. Look, I need to get busy. I’m dead on my feet.”

  Mollie relented, wondering if Griffen’s obvious romantic problems with Deegan had affected her judgment and what she’d said hadn’t meant anything. She’d rehashed her friend’s words dozens of times while trying to enjoy her guests.

  It would help if Jeremiah returned.

  She retreated into the house to see about cleanup and Deegan. She felt a faint uneasiness at not quite knowing who was still behind Leonardo’s gates, on the property with her. When she got everyone out, she planned to jump in the pool, clothes and all.

  If Jeremiah was back, maybe not clothes and all.

  She smiled, her body humming at the thought of him.

  She gathered up paper cocktail napkins on the kitchen counters, no sign of Deegan in the sprawling kitchen.

  Then she heard a noise coming from the media room. She stopped, motionless, and listened, her heart drumming.

  A sob.

  Someone was crying.

  Moving quietly, she edged to the doorway and peered into the huge leather-and-wood room.

  Deegan Tiernay sat in the middle of the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, shaking, sobbing.

  “Deegan?” Mollie rushed in. “Deegan, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  He shook his head, and when she reached him, she saw tears streaming down his cheeks and chin, dripping onto his knees, all the cockiness and charm gone. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose was running. And she knew it had all gotten to him. He was twenty, and his brother had nearly been killed, and it was his fault.

  “Deegan…”

  “You know, don’t you?” His voice was hoarse from crying; she could see him squeezing his knees together as hard as he could, as if that would somehow keep him from flying apart. “Griffen…Griffen’s suspicious. I can tell. She’s different…God, I can’t believe…” He sank his face between his knees and sobbed uncontrollably, his back shaking.

  Mollie touched his shoulders, felt the hot sweat and strong muscles through his shirt. “Deegan, you’re young.” She was surprised at the gentleness of her own voice, her lack of animosity toward him. He would have to account and make amends and pay for what he’d done, and he would have to get help. “You can’t see the forest for the trees right now. If you call the police yourself…”

  His head shot up, and he screamed, a numbing, wordless, fierce sound that seemed to come from his very soul. Finally, his shoulders slumping, he got control of himself. He sniffled. “Mollie, this isn’t your problem. I never meant to make it your problem.” His lower lip and chin trembled. “I’m so scared. Kermit…he can’t take the fall for me.”

  “I know. I understand.”

  “No, no, you don’t. I didn’t…I could never have done that to my own brother. To you. I…you…” His voice croaked, tears and spit mixing together on his chin. “I was just having fun. Then everything went haywire.”

  She frowned. “You mean you didn’t attack me or make the threatening call? Deegan-”

  “Whoa, kid. Don’t answer that.”

  They both looked up at the sound of the calm, unfamiliar male voice. The security expert. George Marcotte. His man must have let him in. He was a big, fit, muscular man whose size at the luncheon yesterday Mollie had found reassuring. Now she stared at him, confused, banking back the flutter of fear.

  He addressed Deegan first. “Relax, kid. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

  Mollie rose. “Mr. Marcotte-”

  “Now, hold on, Miss Lavender. Just hold on.” He seemed perfectly calm, as if he did this sort of thing every day. “I’m glad my guy kept your little party this evening crime-free. However, I have something I need to do. You can sit on the couch there and be quiet. Okay?”

  As if she had a choice. Glancing at Deegan
, whose face had gone pale beneath the red splotches, she dropped onto the couch in the middle of the room. Leonardo’s media equipment-for viewing, recording, and listening-surrounded her.

  Marcotte moved deeper into the room. He didn’t swagger, didn’t waste any energy on unnecessary displays of ego. Again he addressed Deegan. “Here’s the deal, kid. The thefts stop.”

  “They already have-”

  “Wait.” He held up a hand, quieting Deegan. “Let me finish here. As I said, the thefts stop. If they’ve stopped already, that’s good. Then I can stop beating up skinny kids and robbing pretty blondes to throw the police off your scent. I mean, it was a kick at first, and a man’s got to make a living, but I take no pride in that kind of work.”

  Mollie came forward on the couch. “The police-”

  “The police have shit. They’re confused as hell. This whole thing will die a nice, quiet death if this spoiled little fuck here knocks it off and you and that reporter knock it off.”

  “Jeremiah and me? We haven’t-”

  “You have and you are. Look, I don’t care. Really. I’m on a time clock, so to speak. I’m hired to get results, and results I get. My point is, if we all just figure out what’s in our individual interest, we’ll do okay here. If not, then this thing keeps going, and it keeps getting worse. That’s hard on you. It’s hard on me. You remember my speech, right? Expedience is the key here. You fight only to get away. And I’m offering you a way out.”

  Mollie suddenly felt chilled. “Mr. Marcotte, you don’t understand Jeremiah Tabak. He isn’t going to back off a story just because you want Deegan-”

  “Not me, Miss Lavender. I don’t give a shit about Deegan.”

  “All right. Then Jeremiah isn’t going to back off just because whoever hired you wants to keep Deegan from getting caught. My God. Why didn’t you put the fear of God into him sooner?”

  Marcotte shrugged his massive shoulders. “We thought he’d get scared off at the idea of some real muscle horning in on his territory.”

  “That was the attack on me.”

  “Yep. Didn’t work. The little fuck swiped Lucy Baldwin’s watch. Didn’t work to try to put the fear of God in you, either, I might add. So, it was on to Plan B.”

  “Croc.”

  “He’ll take the fall for the thefts. Deegan here will get with the program and shut up.”

  “And me?” she asked quietly.

  “I’m thinking.”

  Deegan sniffled, but he’d stopped crying. He looked spent. Dropping his hands to the floor, he pushed himself up on his feet. A flash of the old cockiness asserted itself. “You can go to hell. So can whoever hired you. I’m calling the police and confessing. You can explain what you did.”

  “They’ll lay everything on you. All the thefts, the call, the attack on your brother. That’s the idea, you know. To put you between a rock and a hard place. If you confess, you get the whole ball of wax dumped in your lap because it’s easier that way.”

  “You fucking son of a bitch-”

  “Who hired you?” Mollie asked, breaking in before Deegan could try to jump the guy. “The Tiernays? They must have realized Deegan was in over his head and tried to stop him-”

  Marcotte snorted. “You kidding? They don’t have a clue what their little angel here’s been up to.”

  Diantha Atwood came into the room from the opposite entrance. Regal and calm, she sighed at her grandson. “I thought this might work. I honestly thought it might. Obviously we’ll have to try sterner measures.”

  Deegan gaped at his grandmother. “What are you talking about?”

  “I had hoped we could leave this case unsolved. But I can see that even if you will listen to reason, Mollie and Jeremiah won’t. So, we have to solve this case for them. Or for Jeremiah, at least.”

  “I said I’d confess-”

  “No, no. That’s not an option.” She quietly removed her hand from behind her back and leveled a gun, not a big one but big enough, at George Marcotte. “We caught Mr. Marcotte here in the middle of robbing Mr. Pascarelli’s house. He tried to fire on us, but I, in self-defense, shot him. We then discovered my favorite, most expensive bracelet in his pocket. He’s our thief.”

  “You crazy old bat,” Marcotte said. “What about Tabak and Lavender?”

  “Let me worry about them. I believe you’re what’s called the fall guy, Mr. Marcotte. Everything will be credited to you.” She kept her gun leveled at him. “Please don’t despair, Deegan. It’s no loss.”

  Mollie’s tongue and lips had gone dry, her throat was so tight she could barely breathe. Deegan, motionless, continued to stare at his grandmother. “Gran, you can’t do this. It’s wrong. Jeremiah will be back any minute, and Mollie will tell the police exactly what she saw. She won’t lie for you.”

  “But you will,” Diantha Atwood said.

  Which had to mean, Mollie thought, that she wouldn’t need to lie. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? You’ll say I got caught in the cross fire or that Marcotte killed me first and that’s why you fired on him. Something.”

  “That’s stupid.” Marcotte glared at the older woman, showing no sign he was afraid. “Lady, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Diantha Atwood gave him a cold look. “I should remember, if I were you, who has to resort to beating up weaker people in order to survive in this world. Deegan, please leave the room. I don’t want you to have to see the ugly reality of what your behavior has forced me to do.”

  “Gran…”

  “Go, Deegan. Now.”

  He hesitated, panic and confusion clouding his face. His grandmother aimed her gun. Mollie had no idea if the woman knew how to shoot. Marcotte, she could see, had the same question. He moved. Deegan jumped, dove for his grandmother, yelled, “No!” as the gun went off.

  Diantha Atwood screamed in horror. “Deegan! Deegan, my God, no!”

  Mollie dropped beside him, saw the blood oozing from his right side. She grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and pressed it against the wound while his grandmother became hysterical. “It’s okay, Deegan,” she whispered as he grimaced, barely breathing, barely conscious. “I’ll get you to a hospital. I’ll take care of you. Just hang on.”

  In her peripheral vision, Mollie could see Marcotte moving fast, removing the gun from Diantha Atwood’s flagging grip and backhanding her to the floor.

  “You stupid bitch,” he said, calm, cold, “you shot your own grandson.”

  At which point, Jeremiah charged into the room, Kermit Tiernay hobbling behind him, white-faced, taking in his bleeding brother and horrified grandmother.

  Mollie made her voice work. “He’s got a gun.”

  “I see,” Jeremiah said.

  But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Some dark force seemed to drive him forward, and Mollie shot to her feet, grabbing another throw pillow and whipping it at Marcotte. It was just enough to distract him for a fraction of a second. Jeremiah dove. The two men went down hard, Marcotte’s superior size and experience no match for Jeremiah’s fury. He gripped Marcotte’s gun hand, keeping him from firing, pounding his knuckles into the floor, yelling, “Mollie, goddamnit, get the gun!”

  Croc jumped down beside his brother, ignoring his grandmother as she tried to push him away. Kermit wasn’t her favorite anymore.

  Mollie scrambled to Jeremiah, pulled the gun from Marcotte’s hand even as he got position on Jeremiah and threw him off. Both men sprang to their feet, coiled, ready to rip each other apart.

  Hating the feel of the gun in her hands, Mollie leveled it. “Stop. Stop! Marcotte, I’m not a good shot, but you’re one hell of a big target. Who knows what I’d hit. So cut your losses and…and just stop.”

  He did, breathing hard. “You’re a bunch of crazy fucks. The money’s not worth this crap. Damn, I don’t know why-” He glared at Diantha Atwood. “You’re going down with me, bitch.”

  Jeremiah turned to Mollie, and she gave him a quivering smile. “You’re late.”

&nb
sp; “I’m never late,” he said. “I was just in the nick of time.”

  The gun was shaking. She was shaking. “Deegan…”

  Jeremiah moved toward her. “We need to call an ambulance and get the police here. I don’t know where the phones are. Maybe if you give me the gun…”

  She had it in a death grip. She couldn’t seem to pry her fingers loose.

  Marcotte watched it, the color going out of him. “Jesus Christ. Her finger’s on the damned trigger.”

  “It’s stuck.”

  “Tabak…”

  “Mollie.” His voice was soothing, as if he were making love to her. He eased beside her and touched her shoulder, a whisper of warmth. “I’ll put my hand under the gun. You just relax and let go. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  One hand still on her shoulder, he placed the other one palm up under the butt of the gun. His skin felt so hot. No wonder she couldn’t let go. Her fingers were icicles.

  “Mollie, the phone. You need to call 911. Just let go, and I’ll get rid of this thing. Come on, sweet pea. I’m here. We’re here together.”

  Her fingers released.

  Marcotte sagged. He sank against the wall.

  Croc had his arms around his brother, his head in his lap, and if he was in any pain from his own injuries, he didn’t show it. He kept the pillow pressed up hard against the wound. Deegan was unconscious. Diantha Atwood sobbed soundlessly, her slender body shaking violently. “Call an ambulance,” she said hoarsely. “Please. Hurry. I was only trying to protect him. Things just got out of hand.”

  With a fresh wave of adrenaline kicking in, Mollie left Marcotte and Diantha Atwood to Jeremiah and raced into the kitchen. She gave the 911 dispatcher everything she had, told her she might want to get Frank Sunderland here, and in the back of her mind-far back, where she was still sane and led a normal life-she knew she’d have to tell her family and Leonardo about this one.

  When she hung up, she stood in the dark, quiet kitchen. Jeremiah. There’d been nothing neutral or objective in the way he’d tackled the thug who’d beaten up his friend, who had a gun on her. She smiled, fighting back tears. He was maddening. Utterly maddening. And yet, once again, she couldn’t imagine her life going on without him.