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 stay 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.”