Of course it was. But Jeremiah didn’t regret his comment. He’d served notice that the hotel, and the police when they arrived, ought to consider that they might have a thief among the black-tie crowd, not just some thug scampering through the shrubbery to make good his escape. He figured part of his job was to probe, push, goad. Do what had to be done, short of breaking the law and violating journalistic ethics, to get to the truth.
But Mollie was frowning at him, and he expected she knew what he was up to. This new-found ability she had to guess what was on his mind was a little disconcerting, but also quite intriguing. No gullible twenty-year-old was she.
The police arrived, and Jeremiah withdrew to let them take Mollie’s statement. He had no intention of discussing his interest in the jewel thief, or how it had come about, with them. First chance he got, he’d check his police sources for what they had. He noticed that Mollie had perked up. She was still pale and shaky, but she was on her feet and spoke in a clear, calm voice to the detective. Jeremiah wasn’t planning to go far. He wondered if she knew that.
A few stragglers remained at the Atwood party, the indomitable hostess and her daughter and son-in-law reassuring them that Mollie was just fine. “She was startled,” Bobbi Tiernay said, “that’s why she screamed.”
Startled? She was attacked from behind. She’d had her damned necklace yanked off her. Who the hell wouldn’t have screamed bloody murder? Mollie, however, was the new publicist in town and therefore vulnerable to taking the blame for ruining a pleasant evening of drinks and small talk.
Jeremiah reminded himself that no one there was accustomed to what amounted to a mugging occurring under their noses. Bobbi Tiernay, like most of the others, would want some way to make herself feel less vulnerable. So, blame the victim. A Cary Grant-type jewel thief on the loose was one thing. They could all have fun with that. But Cary Grant never drew blood.
“You’re going to be late for the ball,” Diantha Atwood told him.
Jeremiah decided he’d rather be boiled in oil, staked to an ant hill, and shot in the ass than sit through a Palm Beach charity ball, even one for a good cause. He’d start to twitch even before the salads were served.
“Or are you going to play reporter?” she asked coolly. “I noticed you were the first to reach Mollie. You have excellent reflexes.”
Play reporter. As if he could click his instincts on and off again. As if he had no idea of the responsibility to the community his role as a journalist entailed. He didn’t like the attack on Mollie, its daring nature or its violence. He especially didn’t like the fact that its victim was Mollie. But to Diantha Atwood, it was a black mark on her party, a social awkwardness to be smoothed over and forgotten.
Don’t get ahead of the facts, he warned himself. The woman could be as shaken as anyone else by the sour turn of events and was just acting out of her own shock and fear.
“I’ve offended you,” she said, her eyes steady on him. “Please, forgive me.”
“Not to worry.” He gave her a wink. “I’ve been accused of worse than playing at my job. Thanks for the party.”
“Are you going to write this for the Tribune?”
“Conflict of interest,” he said, and headed out, hoping she believed his conflict arose from having been a guest at her party and wasn’t guessing at his relationship with her grandson’s boss.
The police and hotel people were still gathered around Mollie in the hall. Jeremiah walked the other way and looked over the balcony down at the main lobby. Lots of flowers and polished brass, a fountain, soft chairs and couches, marbled floors and thick carpets, men in tuxedos and women in long dresses arriving for the charity ball. Even Jeremiah, who was looking, couldn’t tell a hunt for a jewel thief was taking place.
He stiffened, all but fell off the damned balcony. There, planted on a cushiony loveseat like he owned the place, was Croc. He had his skinny legs stretched out, his ankles crossed, and his hands clasped behind his head as he watched an elegant couple pass in front of him.
If Jeremiah had had a rock, he might have dropped it on Croc’s head.
As if reading his mind, Croc glanced up at the balcony, grinned, and waved. Jeremiah’s grip tightened on the polished brass rail. He pried his fingers loose and took the escalator two steps at a time down to the lobby. He’d probably have jumped over the rail except he didn’t want to draw the cops’ attention.
“Yo, Tabak,” Croc said when Jeremiah dropped onto the loveseat next to him. “Cozy, huh? Nice place, although I’m not crazy about the flower arrangement over by the fountain. Too New England. You know? This is Palm Beach. People want glitter and ostentation.”
Ostentation? “Croc, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Watching the festivities.” He folded his hands on his middle; he had not one ounce of fat to spare. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but clean. If he had a diamond-and-ruby necklace on him, it would have to cause a noticeable bulge somewhere. “You should have seen them shuffling to get the cops in here without a lot of fanfare. Very discreet. I was impressed.”
“Then you know about the attack on Mollie Lavender?”
“Yep.”