White Hot

16

Mollie chose a dressy suit from her own closet and joined Deegan, Griffen, and Griffen’s small part-time staff on the terrace. Leonardo’s house and grounds were immaculate, designed for parties, and Griffen, with enviable calm, had whisked in food and drink, tossing brightly colored cloths over folding tables to make instant hors d’oeuvres tables and wine bars. She’d rearranged Leonardo’s pots, added more of her own, did up strings of dried flowers, and somehow, with very little apparent effort, made the terrace look festive.

George Marcotte’s security guard had posted himself at the gates, which he’d agreed to leave open for arriving guests. Mollie was unaccustomed to having security guards lurking. The guard was big and beefy and intimidating enough that if Mollie were a thief, she’d stay away from Leonardo Pascarelli’s house tonight.

The weather was perfect, warm and calm under a cloudless sky. A night for spontaneity and friends, she thought, feeling optimistic.

Jeremiah had called from the hospital. Croc was being released, still no charges filed against him. His parents had compromised, agreeing to let him stay in their guest house until he recuperated. Mollie wondered if Bobbi Tiernay really felt she knew her son after more than two years. She couldn’t imagine becoming that alienated from her own family. Why hadn’t Croc just stewed awhile, then gone home? Was that ever an option?

She found herself articulating her thoughts to Griffen, who was, she said, enjoying the lull before the storm. Guests hadn’t yet started to arrive. Griffen was uncorking wine bottles. “I’ve known kids like Kermit Tiernay my whole life,” she said, looking tired but not unduly so. “The poor little rich kid who’d practically commit murder to get his parents to acknowledge his existence. Or her. I don’t know if it’s worse with girls or not. People feel sympathy for poor kids with neglectful parents, but not rich kids, because they’ve got all the trimmings. The camps, the private schools, the lessons. But they still want the nights home watching TV or playing cards with their mums and dads. That’s only normal.”

“You’re not describing yourself, are you?” Mollie couldn’t contain her shock at the depth of Griffen’s emotion; she seemed personally outraged. “Is that what your upbringing was like?”

“Mine? No, no. I’ve got a great relationship with my parents.” She seemed a bit irritated, even offended, at Mollie’s misinterpretation. “Not all us rich kids are fucked up, you know.”

“Deegan doesn’t seem to have suffered his brother’s fate.”

“No.” She uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, calmer. “Some people are just naturally more resilient, I think. But imagine, Mollie. You’re the child of rich, selfish parents who think they adore you. I mean, they really believe they adore you. They believe you can do no wrong. That you’re perfect.”

“That would be a hard way to live. Nobody’s perfect. Everybody makes mistakes.”

She set the wine bottle down, a slight tremble to her long, thin hands. “Yes, exactly. So you have these adoring parents, and they never ask you to do anything hard in your life. In fact, they make sure you never do anything hard, which makes you wonder if they really do believe in you-if all that adoration is just an excuse for them to ignore you. If you’re perfect, you don’t need attention. If you can do no wrong, you don’t need attention. If you never have to do anything hard, you don’t need attention. They get to congratulate themselves for the wonderful life they’ve given you.”

“And you end up perpetuating the illusion that you’re perfect, because that’s what’s expected of you.”

“But you grow up craving your parents’ attention, only you’re cocky and you’re fun to be around and you’ve never, ever had to face the consequences of your actions.”

“That would be tough,” Mollie said carefully, wondering if Griffen was trying to tell her more than was on the surface, but she could hear Jeremiah warning her against speculating. “At some point, you will make a mistake. You’ll shatter the illusion.”

“It’d take a lot to shatter that kind of illusion.”

Mollie felt a chill despite the warm temperature. “I suppose you could also grow up and realize your parents are what they are and there’s no changing them.”

“Yeah. I suppose. But how many people accept their parents’ shortcomings before they’ve acted out against them?” She grinned suddenly, but there was no humor, no pleasure, in her dark eyes. “God, I’m sounding like a therapist. Not to worry. I’m just a Palm Beach girl who knows how to cook.”

“Griffen, are we talking about Deegan here? Or are you getting theoretical? Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s out front meeting guests.” She grabbed another bottle of wine, shoved in the corkscrew. “If I give everyone food poisoning, I guess I can always become a shrink. Here comes Chet Farnsworth. The guests must be arriving. I’d better concentrate or I will poison the guests.” She spun around, her cheeks rosy with exertion, a touch of embarrassment. But she was being evasive, and Mollie knew it. “Look, what I said-forget it, okay? It’s bullshit. I’ve been working too hard. It’s my busy season, and I just…I’ve just been thinking too much, I guess. You won’t mention this conversation to Tabak, will you? Reporters. You know what hounds they are. And he was born suspicious. God knows what he’ll read into this, and then he’ll have to know.”

“I understand, Griffen. I don’t need to tell anyone about our conversation, unless you know something that the police-”

“No!” She paled, horrified. “No, of course not. God. I’d better get to work or there go both our reputations.”

She breezed off into the kitchen of the main house, which was brightly lit, almost looking lived in. Mollie greeted Chet and his wife, still feeling vaguely uneasy. But she pushed back her questions and concentrated on her guests and her party.

“You’re okay?” Chet asked, concerned. He was a man who missed nothing, a good thing, Mollie supposed, in both an astronaut and a pianist.

“Just a little nervous. I’ve never done this kind of party.”

“Relax. It’ll be fun.” He winked at her. “If things start dragging, I’ll pull everybody inside and play the piano. Pascarelli has one, I assume?”

“A grand piano in the front room. He likes to play it and sing drinking songs with his friends.”

Chet laughed. “I think I’m going to like this guy when I finally meet him.”

He and his wife drifted off to the hors d’oeuvres and wine, and Mollie moved to greet the Tiernays and Diantha Atwood as they came down the brick walk. They were simply but elegantly dressed, and only if one were looking-and Mollie was-would one see the strain of the past forty-eight hours. What a horrible way, she thought, to have a long-lost son reenter their lives.

Before she could welcome them, Deegan materialized behind his parents and grandmother with, incongruously, Jeremiah at his side. Mollie’s breath caught. Jeremiah wore a dark, casual suit that fit his frame perfectly, emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs.

Mollie smiled, “Welcome-thank you for coming.”

“Our pleasure,” Bobbi Tiernay said, taking her hand briefly. “What a wonderful setting, Mollie. Deegan told us you’d considered canceling after what happened. I’m so glad you didn’t. We brought Kermit home late this afternoon.”

No mention of shoving him in the guest house. “Are the police any closer to finding out who attacked him?”

“No,” Michael Tiernay said, his wife visibly uncomfortable beside him, “and I’m afraid Kermit’s not able to be of much help. The attack happened fast, and it was dark.”

Diantha Atwood smiled politely. “There’s so much confusion right now. We’re just delighted to have an evening free to meet some of the people Deegan has been working with. I see Chet Farnsworth.” And she subtly moved in his direction, her daughter and son-in-law following her lead.

Deegan, looking sheepish, said with just a hint of sarcasm, “Gran’s the expert at coping with the socially awkward moment.”

Mollie grimaced. “I should learn to keep my big mouth shut.”

“You’re just direct,” he said. “Be glad. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go give Griffen a hand.”

“By all means.”

Mollie turned to Jeremiah, who, she knew, had been watching and listening with interest, if not objectivity. “Anything new?”

He shook his head. “Croc has no idea how the necklace ended up in his back pocket. None. Zip. Or so he says. I think he has ideas-Croc always has ideas-but I’ve been on his case for two years about sticking to the facts.”

“What’s his mood like?”

“Contemplative. When he has something to say, he’ll say it. That’s one thing, anyway, he and his Kermit Tiernay alter ego have in common.”

Mollie could sense Jeremiah’s confusion, his sense of betrayal mixed in with his loyalty, his affection, for a troubled young man. “Have you had a chance to speak with him alone, or are his parents always hovering?”

He smiled thinly. “Trust me, Mollie, the Tiernays don’t hover. Michael’s trying, and maybe in her own way so is Bobbi. But, Jesus, could you be here tonight? Sure, they want to support Deegan, but he’s right-they’re also running up the flag, demonstrating that their older son might be a suspected jewel thief, but they’re from strong stock, they’ll carry on.”

“Where would you be if you were in their shoes?” Mollie asked.

“We’d all be with Croc.” His eyes darkened, lost in the shifting shadows of the pool lights, Griffen’s candles. Mollie could feel his somber mood. “The parents, the grandmother, the brother. I’d have told him his publicist boss could throw a cocktail party without him.”

“Which I did tell him.”

“I know you did. I’m not criticizing them, him, you. Look, you’ve got guests,” he said. “See to them. Have fun tonight.”

She sighed, felt a little breathless, asked abruptly, “Do you think the real jewel thief will show?”

He went still. “Mollie…”

“It’s not Croc. You know it’s not. And it’s not me.”

It was as if a mask had dropped over his face. “This isn’t the time. I think your mutt owner has just arrived.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll go mingle.”

She watched him saunter off to the wine bar, couldn’t stop herself from imagining more parties, all different kinds of parties, with him at her side. His was a commanding presence, mitigated by his dark good looks and easy humor. Like herself, he was accustomed to going it alone, forging his own way, yet he was also surprisingly good with people, at ease with them, tolerant if opinionated.

He wandered among the crowd, saying little, and she could see that a Palm Beach cocktail party just wasn’t his thing, that where he was most comfortable, most himself, was when he was working a story. And that knowledge slammed her fantasies up against the hard wall of reality. Resolving mysteries, unraveling intricacies. Those were what made Jeremiah Tabak get up in the morning. And once he had things sorted out in his mind, resolved and unraveled, finished, he was on to his next mystery, his next set of intricacies.

And no matter how good his intentions, how much he believed he wanted to be with her now, his attention span for her just might not extend beyond figuring out who’d ripped the necklace off her neck Friday night, and why, and how all the pieces fit together.

He joined her at the wine bar. “You’re looking restless,” he said.

She managed a smile. “I was just thinking the same about you.”

“I am restless. Have you noticed Griffen and Deegan? They seem to be on the skids to me. I’m wondering if they know more than they’re saying.”

“Me, too.” She inhaled, thoughts and images swarming over her, snippets of conversations flooding her brain. “Jeremiah-”

He stiffened. “What is it?”

“I haven’t thought of this before, but it’s been sifting around since I talked to Griffen a little while ago. It’s possible-they could be another common denominator.”

“Griffen and Deegan?”

She nodded. “I’m not positive. She said something to me earlier, and it’s been eating at me…” She paused, pushing through her uncertainties about him, about what she was saying. “I could never testify to it-and maybe it’s just the wine and the stresses of the past few days-but I wouldn’t be surprised if they made some kind of appearance at every event the thief hit. They might just stop in for a few minutes, like they did on Friday, or Griffen would be catering-”

“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.”

“Jeremiah and me? We haven’t-”

“You have and you are. Look, I don’t care. Really. I’m on a time clock, so to speak. I’m hired to get results, and results I get. My point is, if we all just figure out what’s in our individual interest, we’ll do okay here. If not, then this thing keeps going, and it keeps getting worse. That’s hard on you. It’s hard on me. You remember my speech, right? Expedience is the key here. You fight only to get away. And I’m offering you a way out.”

Mollie suddenly felt chilled. “Mr. Marcotte, you don’t understand Jeremiah Tabak. He isn’t going to back off a story just because you want Deegan-”

“Not me, Miss Lavender. I don’t give a shit about Deegan.”

“All right. Then Jeremiah isn’t going to back off just because whoever hired you wants to keep Deegan from getting caught. My God. Why didn’t you put the fear of God into him sooner?”

Marcotte shrugged his massive shoulders. “We thought he’d get scared off at the idea of some real muscle horning in on his territory.”

“That was the attack on me.”

“Yep. Didn’t work. The little fuck swiped Lucy Baldwin’s watch. Didn’t work to try to put the fear of God in you, either, I might add. So, it was on to Plan B.”

“Croc.”

“He’ll take the fall for the thefts. Deegan here will get with the program and shut up.”

“And me?” she asked quietly.

“I’m thinking.”

Deegan sniffled, but he’d stopped crying. He looked spent. Dropping his hands to the floor, he pushed himself up on his feet. A flash of the old cockiness asserted itself. “You can go to hell. So can whoever hired you. I’m calling the police and confessing. You can explain what you did.”

“They’ll lay everything on you. All the thefts, the call, the attack on your brother. That’s the idea, you know. To put you between a rock and a hard place. If you confess, you get the whole ball of wax dumped in your lap because it’s easier that way.”

“You fucking son of a bitch-”

“Who hired you?” Mollie asked, breaking in before Deegan could try to jump the guy. “The Tiernays? They must have realized Deegan was in over his head and tried to stop him-”

Marcotte snorted. “You kidding? They don’t have a clue what their little angel here’s been up to.”

Diantha Atwood came into the room from the opposite entrance. Regal and calm, she sighed at her grandson. “I thought this might work. I honestly thought it might. Obviously we’ll have to try sterner measures.”

Deegan gaped at his grandmother. “What are you talking about?”

“I had hoped we could leave this case unsolved. But I can see that even if you will listen to reason, Mollie and Jeremiah won’t. So, we have to solve this case for them. Or for Jeremiah, at least.”

“I said I’d confess-”

“No, no. That’s not an option.” She quietly removed her hand from behind her back and leveled a gun, not a big one but big enough, at George Marcotte. “We caught Mr. Marcotte here in the middle of robbing Mr. Pascarelli’s house. He tried to fire on us, but I, in self-defense, shot him. We then discovered my favorite, most expensive bracelet in his pocket. He’s our thief.”

“You crazy old bat,” Marcotte said. “What about Tabak and Lavender?”

“Let me worry about them. I believe you’re what’s called the fall guy, Mr. Marcotte. Everything will be credited to you.” She kept her gun leveled at him. “Please don’t despair, Deegan. It’s no loss.”

Mollie’s tongue and lips had gone dry, her throat was so tight she could barely breathe. Deegan, motionless, continued to stare at his grandmother. “Gran, you can’t do this. It’s wrong. Jeremiah will be back any minute, and Mollie will tell the police exactly what she saw. She won’t lie for you.”

“But you will,” Diantha Atwood said.

Which had to mean, Mollie thought, that she wouldn’t need to lie. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? You’ll say I got caught in the cross fire or that Marcotte killed me first and that’s why you fired on him. Something.”

“That’s stupid.” Marcotte glared at the older woman, showing no sign he was afraid. “Lady, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Diantha Atwood gave him a cold look. “I should remember, if I were you, who has to resort to beating up weaker people in order to survive in this world. Deegan, please leave the room. I don’t want you to have to see the ugly reality of what your behavior has forced me to do.”

“Gran…”

“Go, Deegan. Now.”

He hesitated, panic and confusion clouding his face. His grandmother aimed her gun. Mollie had no idea if the woman knew how to shoot. Marcotte, she could see, had the same question. He moved. Deegan jumped, dove for his grandmother, yelled, “No!” as the gun went off.

Diantha Atwood screamed in horror. “Deegan! Deegan, my God, no!”

Mollie dropped beside him, saw the blood oozing from his right side. She grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and pressed it against the wound while his grandmother became hysterical. “It’s okay, Deegan,” she whispered as he grimaced, barely breathing, barely conscious. “I’ll get you to a hospital. I’ll take care of you. Just hang on.”

In her peripheral vision, Mollie could see Marcotte moving fast, removing the gun from Diantha Atwood’s flagging grip and backhanding her to the floor.

“You stupid bitch,” he said, calm, cold, “you shot your own grandson.”

At which point, Jeremiah charged into the room, Kermit Tiernay hobbling behind him, white-faced, taking in his bleeding brother and horrified grandmother.

Mollie made her voice work. “He’s got a gun.”

“I see,” Jeremiah said.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Some dark force seemed to drive him forward, and Mollie shot to her feet, grabbing another throw pillow and whipping it at Marcotte. It was just enough to distract him for a fraction of a second. Jeremiah dove. The two men went down hard, Marcotte’s superior size and experience no match for Jeremiah’s fury. He gripped Marcotte’s gun hand, keeping him from firing, pounding his knuckles into the floor, yelling, “Mollie, goddamnit, get the gun!”

Croc jumped down beside his brother, ignoring his grandmother as she tried to push him away. Kermit wasn’t her favorite anymore.

Mollie scrambled to Jeremiah, pulled the gun from Marcotte’s hand even as he got position on Jeremiah and threw him off. Both men sprang to their feet, coiled, ready to rip each other apart.

Hating the feel of the gun in her hands, Mollie leveled it. “Stop. Stop! Marcotte, I’m not a good shot, but you’re one hell of a big target. Who knows what I’d hit. So cut your losses and…and just stop.”

He did, breathing hard. “You’re a bunch of crazy fucks. The money’s not worth this crap. Damn, I don’t know why-” He glared at Diantha Atwood. “You’re going down with me, bitch.”

Jeremiah turned to Mollie, and she gave him a quivering smile. “You’re late.”

“I’m never late,” he said. “I was just in the nick of time.”

The gun was shaking. She was shaking. “Deegan…”

Jeremiah moved toward her. “We need to call an ambulance and get the police here. I don’t know where the phones are. Maybe if you give me the gun…”

She had it in a death grip. She couldn’t seem to pry her fingers loose.

Marcotte watched it, the color going out of him. “Jesus Christ. Her finger’s on the damned trigger.”

“It’s stuck.”

“Tabak…”

“Mollie.” His voice was soothing, as if he were making love to her. He eased beside her and touched her shoulder, a whisper of warmth. “I’ll put my hand under the gun. You just relax and let go. Okay?”

She nodded.

One hand still on her shoulder, he placed the other one palm up under the butt of the gun. His skin felt so hot. No wonder she couldn’t let go. Her fingers were icicles.

“Mollie, the phone. You need to call 911. Just let go, and I’ll get rid of this thing. Come on, sweet pea. I’m here. We’re here together.”

Her fingers released.

Marcotte sagged. He sank against the wall.

Croc had his arms around his brother, his head in his lap, and if he was in any pain from his own injuries, he didn’t show it. He kept the pillow pressed up hard against the wound. Deegan was unconscious. Diantha Atwood sobbed soundlessly, her slender body shaking violently. “Call an ambulance,” she said hoarsely. “Please. Hurry. I was only trying to protect him. Things just got out of hand.”

With a fresh wave of adrenaline kicking in, Mollie left Marcotte and Diantha Atwood to Jeremiah and raced into the kitchen. She gave the 911 dispatcher everything she had, told her she might want to get Frank Sunderland here, and in the back of her mind-far back, where she was still sane and led a normal life-she knew she’d have to tell her family and Leonardo about this one.

When she hung up, she stood in the dark, quiet kitchen. Jeremiah. There’d been nothing neutral or objective in the way he’d tackled the thug who’d beaten up his friend, who had a gun on her. She smiled, fighting back tears. He was maddening. Utterly maddening. And yet, once again, she couldn’t imagine her life going on without him.

But it might have to.

The story had reached its conclusion, and as confident as she was that what they’d had in the past few days was real to him, she just couldn’t be sure it would last.

Then she thought of Deegan Tiernay, bleeding in the next room, and Croc, and Diantha Atwood, and she picked up the phone to call Michael and Bobbi Tiernay.

But as she reached for the phone, it rang. She picked up the receiver. “Mollie Lavender.”

“Mollie, m’girl, I knew you’d be there.”

It was Leonardo, boisterous and exhausted. She felt the tears forming, spilling into her eyes. “Leonardo, it’s what, three or four o’clock in the morning in Austria?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I had to know. Tell me, m’darling, how was your party?”