White Hot Page 16

  “I’m just rattled,” Mollie said carefully. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  Chet sat at the breakfast bar and spoke to her in crisp, straightforward terms. “Here’s what you do. You work the problem. You don’t get sidetracked. You don’t feel sorry for yourself. You focus on what you need to do, and you do it. Fears and speculation are just distractions.”

  Mollie drank some of her iced coffee. She’d be perked up in no time. Not only was it strong, it was thick. Chet must have added a half cup of sugar. “You’re right, Chet. Thanks.” She smiled. “I guess I should be glad you’re not getting all protective and telling me to hide under your bed.”

  “Hiding doesn’t solve the problem.”

  “If there is a problem,” she put in.

  “Well,” Chet said gruffly, “it’s my bet this thief didn’t follow you home in a rusted, banged-up red VW that sticks out like a sore thumb in this neck of the woods.”

  Mollie considered his point. “You’re probably right. Whoever it was is long gone by now, and you didn’t come here to discuss my problems. Shall we get to work?”

  Chet beamed at her. “That’s the spirit.”

  11

  Jeremiah fetched a cup of coffee and a hot dog from the cafeteria and ate in his truck on his way home after two minutes at his desk to check messages. There was one from Frank, his cop friend up in Palm Beach, demanding to know what he’d been doing at the luncheon today. Damned cops. Spies everywhere. Jeremiah deleted the message. First he’d lived through the long, miserable night, then he’d lived through the long, miserable day. He’d lost all perspective and objectivity. He was becoming a damned loose cannon.

  He’d borrowed a friend’s BMW for the day and trekked up to the Gold Coast just because his instincts had sounded the alarm and he didn’t like leaving Mollie up there on her own. The BMW wasn’t his stupidest idea of the past twenty-four hours, but close. He wanted to be inconspicuous, and he didn’t want Mollie jumping in the front seat with him, pissed, distracting, thinking she had a right to every synapse that fired off in his brain.

  He headed back to South Beach, where he growled at the old guys on the porch, who ignored him, and changed for a run on the beach. He’d torture himself with exercise instead of thoughts of Mollie and her troubles and his role in them. He’d seen the police arrive at the mansion. He’d called the paper and got the skinny. Old lady loses watch. Maybe the work of the Gold Coast cat burglar. Maybe just an old lady losing a watch.

  In the thick of things again, Miss Mollie was.

  He walked over to the water and ran on the hard-packed sand on the edge of the outgoing tide, pounding hard, pushing himself. But the thoughts persisted, surging up every time he managed to bank them down. Had he brought this trouble down on Mollie himself? It was convoluted thinking, but he remembered Croc’s comment that up in Palm Beach, convoluted was the norm.

  When he finally couldn’t run another step, his lungs burning, his legs aching, Jeremiah forced out another half-mile, then splashed into the ocean. He dove deep, feeling the sweat and the fatigue and the tension slide out of him.

  Afterwards, he sat on the sand and dried himself in the warm sun, like a big old sea lion. Maybe he should just give it up and head into the Everglades and go fishing with his father. What good could come from his continued involvement with a string of Gold Coast robberies? And if Croc was involved, if Mollie was involved, he could be risking his reputation.

  Croc materialized out of nowhere and dropped down onto the sand two feet away. He had on jeans, a denim shirt, and sneakers, as if it were fifty degrees out instead of nearly eighty. “Nice afternoon to run yourself to death, eh?”

  “Perfect. How’d you find me?”

  “I came by your place and saw you head out in your shorts, figured I’d give you time to run off the demons. You succeed?”

  Jeremiah stared out at the glistening, turquoise water. “No.”

  “Miss Mollie, Miss Mollie. Well, she’s pretty and smart, but I don’t trust her. Our thief had another attack of light fingers today. Lucy Baldwin lost a diamond Rolex in the ladies’ room. The police aren’t too sure if she thinks she was wearing it or if it was our guy. But I don’t see Lucy Baldwin as a forgetful, spooked old lady.” He stretched out his skinny legs in the sand. “Nah. I don’t buy it.”

  Recognizing the name of one of Palm Beach’s most respected, wealthiest year-round widows, Jeremiah frowned at Croc. “How do you know this stuff? Were you there?”

  Croc squinted, his face crinkling up. “Yep. So were you. I saw you in your Beemer. Why didn’t you stick around?”

  “There didn’t seem to be any need.”

  “I guess Lucy Baldwin losing a watch isn’t up there in excitement with Mollie Lavender getting a necklace snatched right off her neck.” Croc kept his eyes on the water, which was calm, no big swells moving in, and he added, “I followed her.”

  “Mrs. Baldwin? Why-”

  “Miss Mollie.”

  “Jesus, Croc.” Jeremiah cursed himself. He should have spotted Croc-if anyone would stick out in Palm Beach, he would-but he’d never seen him. “What were you trying to accomplish?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know, it just seemed like something to do. I figured you lacked the appropriate objectivity. Anyway, she made me on the way home. I’m surprised she hasn’t shown up on your doorstep to blame you.”

  “You’re lucky she didn’t call the damned police. I would have. I’d have your ass in the slammer. Ever occur to you that you might have scared the hell out of her?”

  “Trust me,” Croc said, confident, “this lady’s no damsel in distress.”

  Jeremiah was silent. Seagulls whined and wheeled overhead, and he could hear the laughter of beachgoers in the distance. His stretch of beach was quiet, just him in his wet running shorts, Croc in his jeans.

  Croc yawned and fidgeted simultaneously. “You have to admit, it’s a tad incredible that she’s been at the scene of every robbery. And she’s the only victim who’s been physically assaulted. Awfully convenient, if you ask me. Nice way to take suspicion off yourself.”

  “Hell, you’re even more cynical than I am.”

  “Ain’t no one more cynical than you, Tabak.” He grinned. “You’re just not thinking with your head these days. If Miss Mollie isn’t the thief herself, maybe it’s a client or someone who works for her, or someone who’s using her to gain access. Maybe she’s being set up. Maybe she’s got enemies we can’t even begin to fathom. The possible scenarios abound.”

  “And maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree altogether.”

  Jeremiah got to his feet, brushed the sand off wet shorts and legs, gripped with a tension he didn’t want to fully understand. He knew it had everything to do with Mollie. He’d done stories more dangerous and complex than this one, but this time, he couldn’t stand back and observe with clarity and neutrality. He was involved.

  “You can lay off this story, Croc. You’re going to land up in jail if you don’t watch it.”

  Croc remained in the sand, angled a look up at Jeremiah. “You’re falling for her, aren’t you?”

  Jeremiah ignored him. “Go for a swim. The water’s nice.”

  When he arrived back at his building, Mollie was sitting out front with the guys. She’d changed from her business clothes to slim khakis and a white shirt that, he hoped, made her look paler than she actually was. Otherwise he’d probably have to head back to the beach and drown Croc.

  “I stopped by the paper,” she said, “but you weren’t there. I found your street on the map.”

  Albert, the ex-mobster, settled back against his half-shredded lounge chair. He was plump and had a full head of snow-white hair. “Bennie and I was just showing her some of our wares.” Indeed, they’d arranged a display of whittled animals on their table. Flamingos, parrots, toucans, alligators. “Sal’s gone in for lemonade.” Salvatore Ramie was a defrocked priest. Albert wiped sawdust from his knife blade with his thumb. “You want to s
tay for lemonade, Jeremiah? Or you want we should send Sal up with the pitcher?”

  “Sal doesn’t have to-”

  “Sal won’t mind,” Bennie said. He was bony and short, almost totally bald, his fingers still callused from decades of tailoring.

  Mollie smiled at the two old men, both obviously taken in by her blonde good looks and easy charm. “I’d love some lemonade. If you’re sure your friend won’t mind bringing it upstairs, I really need to talk to Mr. Tabak.”

  “Sure.” Albert grinned, dark, smart eyes flashing between her and Jeremiah. “You and Mr. Tabak go on up and talk.”

  Jeremiah led her inside and up the two flights to his apartment. Their rundown Art Deco building had potential, but it didn’t approach Leonardo Pascarelli’s sprawling house. Mollie seemed not even to notice. She said behind him, “I know you want us to steer clear of each other, but-”

  He glanced back at her. “But the thief might have hit the luncheon today, and you were there.”

  She nodded grimly, and said nothing.

  As he unlocked the door, she said, “Those men admire you.”

  “I add a little spice to their lives, that’s all. A Miami investigative reporter in the building. Gives them something to talk about.”

  “That’s not all. They think you’re straight up. Ethical. Sal says you’re a bleeding heart down deep-”

  “Sal? He’s an ex-priest. He got kicked out for punching out a cardinal or something. He should talk bleeding hearts.”

  He pushed open his door, motioned for her to go first. He did not ask if she could smell his critters, but he breathed in deep as he crossed the threshold. The cages of reptiles gave off no odor he could detect. Mollie didn’t wrinkle up her nose, just gave the place a quick, efficient scan, taking in the functional, spare furnishings. He had a hell of a stereo system and a great TV, one whole wall of books, a computer, a good leather reading chair with a decent floor lamp. White walls. No view.

  She wandered into the kitchen, and he heard her gasp, then breathe out again. He came up behind her. She glanced back at him. “I didn’t expect snakes and lizards.” Her small smile helped her to look less pale. “Although I don’t know why.”

  “Just one lizard, one turtle, one snake.”

  “Do they have names?”

  “No.”

  She ventured over to the table and peered at the cages, keeping her distance, as if she weren’t convinced they were properly latched. “How can you have pets with no names?”

  “I guess I don’t really think of them as pets. It’s not like having a dog who knows its name. These guys’re your basic reptiles.”

  “The turtle’s kind of cute.”

  The doorbell rang. Jeremiah said, “That would be Sal with the lemonade.”

  Mollie followed him back to the living room, and he let Sal in with his tray holding a lemonade pitcher, two tall glasses filled with ice, and a vase with a single sprig of coral bougainvillea. “The flower was Bennie’s idea.” He set the tray on the trunk Jeremiah used as a coffee table. Sal was remarkably spry for a man coming up on ninety. He was, supposedly, an Old Testament scholar, and he’d become a fine whittler.

  “Thanks, Sal,” Jeremiah said. “I feel like I ought to tip you or something.”

  Sal winked. “Just stop by tomorrow morning and give the boys all the details.” He turned, gave Mollie a solemn little bow. “Nice meeting you, Miss Lavender.”

  Jeremiah locked up after him and turned back to Mollie. “Worst house, best location.”

  “They’re charming.”

  “Don’t let them fool you. They’ve all lived long, full lives. Here, you drink lemonade,” he said, starting down the hall. “I’ll take a shower. I jumped in the ocean after my run and now I’m all salty.”

  He made the shower fast and cold. He hadn’t brought any clean clothes into the bathroom with him and had to wrap a towel around his waist and trek into his bedroom. If Mollie was peeping around corners, he didn’t see her. Just as well. Her presence was distracting enough without actually knowing for sure she was angling to see him in his skivvies. He pulled on chinos and a T-shirt, towel-dried his hair, and rejoined her.

  She was sitting on his reading chair, lemonade in hand, knees together, ankles tucked to the side. No question. She’d seen him sneak from the bathroom. He suppressed a grin and poured himself a glass of lemonade.

  She cleared her throat. Some of her earlier paleness returned. “So, how did you find out about Lucy Baldwin?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Croc,” she said with certainty. “Well, the police aren’t ready to say it was our thief. Could have been your garden-variety, strike-while-the-iron’s-hot thief, not our guy. A lot of people could have slipped into the ladies’ room, seen the watch, tucked it in their pocket, and slipped out again.”

  Jeremiah sat on the couch, taking a long swallow of the lemonade. It was too sweet for his taste. A hint from Sal, maybe, to lighten up. “Croc said he followed you home.”

  “Yes.” A coolness came into her so-blue eyes. “You didn’t put him up to it?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Does he always keep such close tabs on your stories?”

  “No, never. I wouldn’t allow it. He knows I’m not officially on this thing, and he feels some ownership of it because he brought it to me.”

  “I see.” She drank more of her lemonade, her eyes not on him. “Tell me about this Croc character. How does he know I’ve been present at all the incidents? Be straight with me, Jeremiah.”

  He took another swallow of lemonade. “I don’t know how he made you as a common denominator. He won’t tell me.”

  She remained calm. “Then he’s unpredictable.”

  “Unpredictable, yes, but I suspect he’s just playing James Bond. I told him to stay away from you. Now. Tell me about Leonardo. What are you going to do when your year at his place is up?”

  “What does that have to do-”

  “Indulge me, Mollie.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll do. I hope I’ll have enough saved for a condo, maybe a little house. I don’t think I want to stay in Palm Beach. I’d like to move a bit farther south, to Boca or even Fort Lauderdale.”

  “As far south as Miami?”

  “There’d have to be a good reason.”

  Jeremiah glanced at his bare-bones furnishings, his reptile cages in the next room. Dangerous thinking. Very dangerous. He shifted back to the subject at hand. Work. It had always pushed back the dangerous thoughts. “You won’t miss Leonardo’s place? All that space, the pool, the hired help.”

  She sat back, relaxing slightly. “I’ve been living in the lap of luxury. It’s been fun. But I can always pop in for a visit. Leonardo’s one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. My parents have a standing invitation to come down, but they’re always so busy and involved with their work-and they’d probably barely notice their surroundings if they did come. That kind of stuff’s wasted on them.”

  “They don’t swim?”

  “Mother does laps for exercise. Swimming’s purely utilitarian for her. She’d love to see Leonardo, of course.” Mollie paused, narrowed her eyes on Jeremiah, suddenly suspicious. “You don’t think I’d start stealing because I’m worried about having to give up my Leonardo Pascarelli lifestyle, do you? You know, I’m not so different from my parents that I even want that much opulence. It wouldn’t occur-”

  “Mollie, I don’t suspect you.”

  She inhaled, the blue of her clear eyes deepening with irritation. “But you’re neutral,” she said stiffly. “You won’t say categorically that I couldn’t possibly be the thief. You won’t take my side. You’re incapable of taking anyone’s side. That’s why you’re a reporter. You can remain apart, aloof, uninvolved.”

  “I strive for balance and objectivity, yes.” His tone was steady, but he was already on his feet, already moving toward her. “It’s a goal, not necessarily something that comes easily or is even alw
ays possible. In this case, it’s not.”

  And he removed her lemonade glass from her stiff fingers, set it on the floor, and drew her up to her feet. A flush of color, of anticipation, had risen in her pale cheeks. He touched her mouth. “Mollie, Mollie.” He tasted her lips. “Do you think I can be neutral where you’re concerned?” He tasted them again, felt the spark of her response. “Objective? Balanced?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really?”

  And he kissed her, long and hard and deep. If she’d drawn back, if she’d even hesitated, he would have come to his senses. But she didn’t, and he let his hands drift down her back, the curve of her hips. He let himself experience the full impact of their kiss on him, on her. She tucked her arms tentatively around him, and he could see she’d shut her eyes, probably trying to convince herself this was a memory of a past encounter, not a real moment in the present.

  “Open your eyes, Mollie,” he whispered, “don’t try to pretend this is a memory.”

  She looked at him, her mouth close to his, her eyes half-opened. She raised one hand and brushed it along his jaw. “It’ll be a memory soon enough, won’t it?”

  “It’s not one now.”

  “I have to be realistic. As much as I want this…” She kissed him lightly, her hand drifting down his shoulder, and it was all he could do to stand there and listen to her. She drew back slightly. “I know it won’t last.”

  “Because it didn’t last time?”

  “You went into it last time wanting a weeklong diversion. I went into it…” She breathed, maintaining her calm. “I went into it not knowing what I wanted. Now, I’m not so inexperienced. I know myself better. And I know you.”

  He eased his fingers into her hair, caressed the back of her neck, where she was warm and not so tense. “Maybe we’re here now because what we had ten years ago did last.”

  His mouth found hers again, and their bodies melded, nothing held back as they tasted, touched, rekindled a desire like no other he’d ever known. It boiled through him like a hot river, and he knew at some point, soon, it would rage out of control, break down all his dams of resistance. Then where would they be? In the past again. Succumbing to instinct and desire instead of using their heads. Even as his palms skimmed over her soft breasts, as he explored her mouth, he knew he would have to exercise self-discipline now if he didn’t want to lose her forever. Physically, she was ready. Emotionally, she didn’t trust him. More important, she didn’t trust herself to trust him.