“I’m not surprised. I always had the feeling Blake Wilder was something he’d pulled off a tombstone or out of a Hardy Boys book. Croc lives in a fantasy world half the time, Frank. Spies, fairies, elves, conspiracies. He listens at keyholes. He’s not a man of action. I don’t see him as a jewel thief.”
Frank sighed irritably, his dark, smart eyes flashing. “Yeah, well, maybe if you’d told me about him sooner-”
“There was nothing to tell. Still isn’t.”
“Damned reporters. What about this jewel thief story? It’s not your thing, Tabak. What’re you doing sniffing around in it?”
Jeremiah debated a moment, his instincts on alert anytime a cop was asking the questions and he wasn’t. “Croc put me onto it.”
“How?”
“Asked me to look into it.” In Jeremiah’s opinion, there was no need to bring up Croc’s Mollie-Lavender-as-common-denominator theory. “He believed there was a single thief at work even before the police did.”
Frank frowned, suspicious. “How come?”
“He refused to say. I’ve been at his throat about holding back on me right from the beginning. Frank, I don’t have anything. If I did-” He tightened his hands into his fists. “Damn it, maybe that kid wouldn’t be in there-”
“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.”