He flipped off the shower. Mollie was whatever she was.
She was dressed for business, hair shining and pulled back, coffee mug and a bright yellow file folder on the table in front of her. “You’ve got ten minutes before Griffen and Deegan get here.”
“I should make the sofa bed look slept in?”
“You should get dressed. They won’t know what to do finding a half-clothed man in my apartment.” She smiled over the rim of her mug. “Not that you’d be easy to hide. And as you pointed out last night, my deep, dark secret’s out anyway.”
“Regrets?”
“None.”
She watched him pour coffee. He didn’t hurry. It wasn’t as if he was indecent. He sipped the hot, strong coffee, then set his mug on the counter. “You’re sure? Two nights in a row, Mollie.”
“I’m aware of that.” She grinned at him. “You’re no dream, Tabak, but I suppose you’re no nightmare, either. You’re just…here.”
“So I am.”
“Trust me, okay? Even if you prove to be an utter snake in the grass and slither off after we’ve settled who’s behind what regarding Croc and the jewel thief, I will not for one single, solitary second regret the past two nights.”
“Will you wish me time in a fiery hell?”
Her bottomless eyes sparked with sudden, irreverent humor. “An eternity.”
By the time Griffen and Deegan arrived to pull together the cocktail party that evening, Jeremiah was fully dressed and at the table, drinking his second cup of coffee. Mollie didn’t explain his presence. Her friend and intern took their raised eyebrows into her living room office.
“You see, Jeremiah,” Mollie whispered in his ear, “I’m not what most people would regard as your type. Publicist, flutist, goddaughter of a world-famous tenor. You’re a reporter who keeps reptiles on his kitchen table.”
“You have your oddities, sweet pea.”
She winked, enjoying herself. “You’re one of them. Off to the hospital?”
He nodded. “And I’ll check in at the paper. Helen Samuel’s going to want a full report.”
“You’re invited tonight, of course.”
“Ah. I’ll check my calendar.”
“I’ve seen your desk, Jeremiah. You don’t keep a calendar.”
He shrugged, finished off the last of his coffee, and got to his feet. “My life’s not that complicated.”
“It’s not planned. It’s plenty complicated.”
Before he left, he popped into the living room, already a whir of activity. Deegan glanced at Jeremiah and seemed to read his mind. “I checked in on my brother this morning. He’s doing well, all considered. His doctors think he can be released today.”
“Isn’t that soon?”
He shrugged. He was dressed casually, expensively, a contrast to his older brother’s ragged, threadbare clothes and general scraggliness. “Hospitals don’t like to keep you hanging around these days. He doesn’t need surgery, and he’s off intravenous.”
“Where will he go?”
Deegan’s expression was unreadable. “My parents were still arguing that question this morning. My father wants him home. Mother doesn’t. She’s suggesting they put him up in an apartment and hire a home nurse until he’s back on his feet.”
“Then what?”
“Up to him. She’s not a monster-she’s just trying to establish proper boundaries.”
“And your father?”
He swallowed, cutting his eyes around at Griffen, who was listening to every word even though her ear was stuck to a telephone. He said, “He doesn’t think this is the time to worry about boundaries. First, get him well, then find out what happened to him, then, if necessary, kick him back out into the streets.”
“What about his Atwood trust fund?” Jeremiah asked. “Doesn’t he have money of his own?”
The blue eyes leveled on Jeremiah, steady, just a tad surly. “I wouldn’t know. And if you’re wondering, I want my brother home, too.”
Jeremiah grinned at him. “I was.”
“But my father’s concerned with appearances-how this will affect his reputation-and I’m not.”
Griffen hung up the phone before he could clear out. “That was George Marcotte,” she said with a twinge of amazement. “Granny Atwood and Momma Tiernay have hired him for us for tonight. Under the circumstances, they think we should have a private security guard or two, and Marcotte’s firm will provide them or he’ll be here himself.”
“Then they don’t believe the police have their man?” Jeremiah asked sharply.
“Beats me.” She lifted her thin shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, her dark curls framing her face, lessening the tugs of tension at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “I just figure they’re worried about Mollie’s bad luck and their boy Deegan.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to take extra precautions.”
She smiled, rallying. “Guess not.”
“Then Gran and Mother are coming tonight?” Deegan asked.
“They say they are. But I would think it will depend on your brother and his condition, if the police learn any more today. He’ll probably be able to talk to the police today.”
Deegan grinned at her. “Griffen, Griffen, it’ll depend on what else is on their calendar and whether making a show of support of me is in their best interests. They’ll want to be seen in public and still the wagging tongues.” He shrugged. “That’s reality, not criticism. They have their survival techniques, just as a kid on the streets does.”
“Come on,” she said, “it’s not as if you’re in any danger of following in big brother’s footsteps. I don’t know how you can stand to be so cynical.”
“Okay, I’m wrong. They don’t care about their reputation and the gossip. They’ll show tonight because they want to see Leonardo Pascarelli’s house.”
Griffen laughed in mock horror. “Deegan.”
Mollie entered the room, her presence enough to end the conversation. Griffen started dialing a number, and Deegan sat at the computer. Jeremiah, thinking that he wouldn’t like to be a fly on the wall when these two were alone, blew Mollie a clandestine kiss, just to see her fume and blush at the same time, and departed.
Croc was being visited by Frank Sunderland, a lawyer, and his father when Jeremiah arrived at the hospital. He didn’t hang around. He headed back to Miami in the sleek black Jaguar, appreciating its maneuvering ability on the road even if it didn’t intimidate people as much as his truck did. In a beat-up, rusted old truck, you found that drivers in fancy cars gave way. Not so in a Jaguar.
He checked in with Helen Samuel, back at her desk, cigarette smoking on her ashtray, another smoking on her lower lip. “Christ,” she croaked. “I’m in the goddamned boiling pot with you. The brass told me to get them on the horn the minute I saw you. They’re probably getting a million calls right now. Half the building’s on the lookout. Spies everywhere, Tabak.”
He was unconcerned. “Anything more on the Tiernays?”
She eyed him through half-closed eyes. “About once or twice every five years or so I regret not having kids. This isn’t one of those times. I’d have no doubts I’d have screwed mine up as badly as the Tiernays have screwed up theirs. Kermit, at least. The younger one-Deegan-seems okay, except he’s got a girlfriend ten years older than he is and he’s interning for your blonde instead of for his father.”
“That’s not in the same league as what Croc’s alleged to have done.”
“Alleged? I love you hard-news types.”
“Helen…”
“Well, it’s not as if it’s easy to get anyone to talk about the Tiernays, parents or kids. Most think Kermit needed his ass kicked, if not tossed into the gutter. After two years on the streets, they figure, yeah, he could go the cat burglar route, have a little fun, stick it to his old pals up on the Gold Coast.”
“Not to mention his parents.”