“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…”