White Hot

“Sure. What the hell.”


Jeremiah debated how much to tell her; there were a lot of things he’d rather have buzzing around him besides Helen Samuel. If he told too much, she’d buzz. If he told too little, she’d really buzz. “I knew Mollie briefly about ten years ago. A source said she’s one of the common denominators in this jewel thief story.”

“Meaning she was at every party hit,” Helen said, staying with him.

“Right. I checked her out, just in case she’d stumbled into something. She’s only been in town a few months.”

“Five. She set up shop in Leonardo Pascarelli’s guest quarters. He dotes on her.”

Jeremiah had to allow that Helen Samuel was a formidable force in south Florida. She knew everything about everybody and made up none of it. She just didn’t keep much of it secret, either. “I don’t think she knows anything about our jewel thief.”

“You haven’t kept up with her in the past ten years, I take it?”

He didn’t avert his gaze. “No.”

“Part on good terms?”

“No.”

She grinned, leaning toward him. “One day, Tabak, you’re going to bump up against a woman who’ll like nothing better than to hand you your balls on tongs, and you’re going to want her so bad—” She laughed hoarsely. “And when she won’t have you, you’ll hear half the women in Miami let out a cheer at you finally meeting your match.”

“You’re assuming I’m the one who did Mollie wrong. Maybe it was the other way around.”

She shook her head, confident. “It wasn’t.”

Jeremiah decided a change of subject was in order. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. You going to this children’s hospital ball tonight?”

“I’ll pop in. Why? You want to sit at the table with the bigwigs from the paper?”

“I was invited,” he said.

She snorted. “Star reporters. Christ, what a business. In the old days—”

He couldn’t let her get started on the old days. “I’m more interested in the pre-ball private cocktail party. Our thief hasn’t hit any of the big galas. I’m not expecting anything, I’d just like to see what’s what at this kind of event.”

“A party’s a party. You’re just angling to see this Mollie Lavender.”

“Helen—”

She waved a hand. “Forget it, I’m just jerking your chain. If you can’t find your invitation, I wouldn’t worry. I expect our illustrious publisher will pull up an extra chair for his star reporter if you show up.”

Under ordinary circumstances, it would have to be a command performance before he’d sit at a Miami Tribune table at a Palm Beach charity ball, even one benefiting a children’s hospital. Even then, he’d shoot himself in the foot first.

“Be tacky to show up at the pre-ball private party and skip the main event,” Helen said.

He gave her a deadpan look. “I wouldn’t want to do anything tacky.”

“You’re so full of shit, Tabak. Keep me posted on Mollie Lavender.”

She withdrew with her green-flecked pink drink.

Jeremiah debated calling to see about putting a billboard up on 95 saying he’d slept with Mollie, just to get it over with. Or sending an e-mail around the Trib staff. Yes, it’s true. I slept with Leonardo Pascarelli’s flute-playing goddaughter ten years ago.

But, in a strange way, he trusted Helen to keep her mouth shut, at least for now.

So he focused on the task at hand, which was finding the damned invitation. He dragged his wastebasket over and dug in with both hands. Because he tended to throw things away prematurely, he didn’t deposit organic matter, or allow anyone else to deposit organic matter, in his wastebasket.

Gold lettering? Cream-colored paper?

This story was getting complicated, not from a professional standpoint—he wasn’t writing it—but from a social one. One way or the other, by the time his little jewel thief mystery was solved or he gave it up, he figured he was going to end up having to buy a suit.

He spotted the invitation six inches from the bottom. Holding back the rest of the trash with one arm, he fished it out and dropped it onto his desk. Yes, he had one hell of a memory. Cocktails at six in the Starlight Room of the Palm Beach Sands Hotel, then on to the ball.

He sat back, pleased with himself. Then he noticed the fine print.

The gig was black-tie.

There was no way out of it. He was going to have to buy that damned suit. It was two o’clock. That gave him two hours, no more, before he had to hit the interstate north.

“Hell,” he said through clenched teeth, and lurched to his feet. He rushed out in such a way that eyes widened, and he knew his compatriots at the Trib thought that Jeremiah Tabak, star investigative reporter, was following up a hot lead, not heading out in search of a suit.