White Hot (30 page)

“Like the luncheon yesterday.”

Mollie nodded. Guests were floating around, but not within earshot. “I’m not suggesting they’re involved, just that with Croc turning out to be Kermit Tiernay, maybe we need to look at this thing from a different angle.”

“Croc might have known they were common denominators, too, and just not told me. He could have suspected his brother, his brother’s girlfriend, his brother’s boss, or any combination of the three of you. He asked me to check you out first, maybe hoping you’d be the thief, and you were acting alone, and his worst suspicions about his brother weren’t true. He didn’t know about our past.”

“But once I was eliminated as a serious suspect, he had to take a good, hard look at his brother.”

“And it got him beaten up and left for dead.”

“Deegan couldn’t have—”

Jeremiah cut her off. “We’re speculating, Mollie, and I hate it because it usually ends up making me miss something important. But there’s nothing wrong with keeping an open mind and entertaining all the possibilities.”

“Then you’re saying it’s possible—just possible—that Deegan had his brother beaten up—or did it himself—to throw suspicion off himself.”

“Only the police aren’t biting,” Jeremiah said thoughtfully, “at least not yet. Frank Sunderland’s instincts are telling him the necklace was a plant.”

“Griffen?” Mollie suggested, her heart pounding, blood rushing to her head.

“Possibly. Maybe she’s the thief and Deegan’s protecting her. Or they’re in it together. I’ll go talk to Croc.”

“Now, you mean?”

“Sure. You’ve got a crowd here, a security guard. It’s a good time. And if Croc will level with me, maybe we can end this thing tonight. It’s a distraction,” he said, “from things I’d rather be thinking about. And doing.”

She felt a welcome rush of heat. “Tell Croc I forgive him for thinking I was a jewel thief.”

Jeremiah grinned, the light suddenly catching his eyes. “You think he’ll care?”

After he’d gone, Deegan joined her on the terrace. “I see Tabak just left.”

“Oh—yes, he promised your brother he’d stop in.”

“Mollie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She hated herself for what she was thinking. That her intern could be a thief capable of beating up his own brother, that her best friend could be in on it. She gave him a phony smile. “Looks as if you, Griffen, and I are pulling off a pleasant party. Shall we see to our guests?”

Jeremiah made the fifteen-minute drive to the Tiernays’ elegant oceanside home in ten minutes. There was a security system, but no fence, no gates. He felt a little strange driving a Jaguar up the long, curving driveway of a very expensive, beautifully landscaped home. As if he could belong here if only he tried.

And this was Croc’s home, he thought, gritting his teeth.

He parked in the driveway, hurried up the brick walk to the front door, and rang the doorbell. A uniformed maid answered and sent him around back to the guest house, which was easily three times the size of the glorified shack where he grew up. The door was open, the maid had said. He knocked and went in.

Croc was installed in a cheerful blue and white room with an incredible view of the water. His swelling had gone down even further, which made talking somewhat easier. He was sitting up in bed with a basketball game on a small television. His posh surroundings seemed to have no effect, positive or negative.

“Hey, Tabak.” His words were slurred, but intelligible.

“How’re you doing? Settling in okay?”

He nodded. “For now.”

“Doesn’t look as if your parents want to crowd you. If you’re going to go back to living out of a box, that’s what you’ll do.”

He shrugged, saying nothing.

“You’ll sort it out, Croc. Hell, a year from now maybe you’ll be a suit at Tiernay & Jones. You never know.”

Croc’s brow furrowed, and he hurled a pillow at Jeremiah, missing by yards, groaning in pain as he sank back against his pillows.

Jeremiah grinned. “You won’t be playing shortstop in the majors, that’s for sure. You’re young, Croc. You’ve got time to screw up your life and put it back together again.” He walked over to the windows and looked out at the horizon, sky and sea meeting in a haze. Twilight. Calm. He thought of Mollie and her party and her worries. “Provided you don’t get yourself killed.”

“I came too close this time.”

“Yes, you did.”

Croc made a slurping sound, trying to keep spit from running down his chin. “You’d have blamed yourself?”

“And whoever beat the hell out of you.”

Jeremiah sighed, feeling his fatigue, the frustration of his role in this mess. As a journalist, he knew where he stood: his job was to get the story and report it. But this time, he wasn’t acting as a journalist. He didn’t have a prescribed set of rules to follow. He was involved.

He walked over to the edge of Croc’s bed, his body barely visible under the blue-and-white striped coverlet. “Croc, you didn’t steal Mollie’s necklace.”

It wasn’t a question, but Kermit Tiernay said, “Nope.”

“But you know something,” Jeremiah said.

Croc turned his attention back to the television.

“I’ve had most of today to think because my best source on this thing has his jaw wired shut and can’t yak at me the way he usually does about conspiracies, fantasies, goblins, and ghosts.” His stab at humor failed, his voice registering all the tension and urgency he was feeling. “Left to my own devices, I’ve come to the tentative conclusion that we’re dealing with more than one person. One is willing to use violence. One isn’t.”

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.”