He turned down their offers of beer and a whittling knife and took the stairs up to his fourth-floor apartment. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, an eat-in kitchen. No maid, no gardener, no high-tech security. The upkeep was minimal, his neighbors were all so deaf they didn’t object to his state-of-the-art sound system, and his landlord didn’t come by often enough to know about his snake, turtle, and lizard, castoffs from a friend’s pet shop. He kept their cages on his kitchen table. He’d found that lizards in the bedroom were a deterrent to romance. He didn’t eat in much himself, and only his snake ate the occasional live animal, so it wasn’t as if his critters were disgusting on a regular basis. Nevertheless, when he had company, he removed their cages from the table.
It was not the sort of lifestyle he expected the goddaughter of Leonardo Pascarelli to appreciate. Then again, her parents were flakes. Who knew? Maybe all Mollie needed was a place to hang her dartboard.
He checked his voice mail, his eyes glazing over at the polite requests for his presence and expertise at three different functions. Maybe four. He wasn’t paying close attention. His had been an unintentional leap to celebrity status, not a calculated one. He’d erase these messages without answering them. He knew it was rude. But rude didn’t worry him.
The last message was from Croc. “Tabak? You there or did your lizard eat you for an afternoon snack? I’ll call back at eight.”
It was quarter of now. Jeremiah got a beer and some spinach from the refrigerator and waited for Croc to call. He sipped the beer, fed his turtle the spinach, and thought about Mollie walking on the beach with the wind in her hair and the sand in her shoes. She hadn’t gone to pieces. She hadn’t tried to drown him. And when he’d kissed her, she hadn’t smacked him one. All in all, things could have gone worse.
He just wished he knew how she’d come to Croc’s attention.
When the phone rang, he picked it up on the first ring. “Croc?”
“None other,” he said.
“I need a way to reach you.” Jeremiah suddenly felt grouchy. “I can’t just sit around waiting for you to call. You have a phone number, an address?”
“I’m calling from a pay phone up in Broward. It’s costing me. You got anything?”
“No.”
“Shit. I know this Mollie Lavender’s hooked into this thing somehow.”
“Why her, Croc? Tell me the rest. You’ve got more, and I know it. Is it something to do with Leonardo Pascarelli, a client, the gardener, someone she pals around with? I’m not playing games with you. I need everything you’ve got.”
“I gave you my best lead.”
Best didn’t mean only. Jeremiah gripped the phone. “Croc, you’d better not be this damned thief yourself. If you are, I swear to you I’ll find out and I’ll nail your hide to the wall one inch at a time.”
Croc took no offense. “What, you think I wouldn’t stick out in Palm Beach? I’m insulted. Keep digging, Tabak. I’ll dig on my end. Anything comes up, I’ll let you know. Right now, I’m hearing stirrings. I don’t like it.”
“What kind of stirrings?”
“Just talk. I think this thing could get dangerous.”
“Croc, goddamnit—”
“I don’t have shit, Tabak. Just feelings. One thing I know for sure is, none of the hot ice has been fenced locally. Not one rock. So our thief’s either sending it out or holding on to it.” He paused, and Jeremiah pictured him at some rat-hole pay phone, resisted a surge of sympathy for a wasted life. “Any chance you can search Pascarelli’s place?”
“Jesus Christ, Croc. No, I can’t search Pascarelli’s place. I’m a reporter, not a goddamned burglar. And I’m not a lunatic.” Jeremiah went still, eyeing his turtle, thinking. “Croc…don’t you go trying to search Pascarelli’s place yourself. I don’t need a loose cannon on my hands.”
“Hey, I was just kidding. I know you play by the rules.”
“You’d best play by those same rules. You break the law, don’t expect me to be landing at your jail cell with bail money.”
“A cheap bastard like you? Nah. I wouldn’t expect that. Whoops, I’m running out of time. Hate to spend another quarter listening to you spout off. Keep digging, okay?”
“How can I reach you?”
But Croc had hung up, and Jeremiah growled at the phone and hurled it into the kitchen. He went through a lot of phones that way. His lizard stared at him, motionless. His snake slept. His turtle continued to eat his spinach. Jeremiah swore viciously. His gut burned. His head pounded. Whatever calm he’d managed to find en route south had deserted him. Things didn’t feel right. He couldn’t pinpoint what, or why it was getting to him. Rich people were losing a few baubles to a clever, nonviolent thief. It wasn’t dangerous, it wasn’t sick, it wasn’t controversial or depressing, and he probably shouldn’t trust his instincts to work right up in Palm Beach.
He should find a real story or go fishing with his father for a week. He had no business chasing down a jewel thief, especially not on behalf of a street creep who wasn’t being straight with him.