“You’re the cops haven’t hauled you in as a suspect.”
“That’s not luck, Tabak, that’s skill. How’s she doing?”
Jeremiah glanced up at the mezzanine. All he needed was an enterprising police officer to take a peek down into the lobby and see a Miami Tribune reporter talking to an obvious informant. The cops would pounce. “She’s shaken up, but not seriously hurt. You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
Croc shrugged. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business, hearing what I hear.”
“You arrive before or after Mollie was attacked?”
“Ah.” His clear gaze settled on Jeremiah. “You’re making sure I didn’t swipe the necklace. Well, I didn’t. Too much effort involved.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Jeremiah pointed out.
“True.”
Stonewalled. Croc didn’t like to divulge his tactics. Jeremiah gave up for the moment. “I suppose now you can eliminate Mollie Lavender as a suspect.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because she’s up there bleeding, Croc—”
“Yeah, so? Why did she wear an expensive necklace? Why didn’t anyone see anything? Why no trail? You got no clues, no suspects, no witnesses, no evidence. You can’t eliminate her or anyone else yet.”
Jeremiah checked a hiss of impatience. “You think she ripped the necklace off her own neck?”
“Why not?”
“The question is why?”
“How the hell should I know? Okay, here’s one. Insurance.”
“It’s Pascarelli’s necklace. The money would go to him.”
Croc was unchagrined. “Then she wanted to inspire fear in potential victims—make them nervous so they won’t put up a fight next time she gets light fingers.”
“That doesn’t wash, either. If there’s a threat of violence, people will leave the real stuff in the vault. It’d dry up business.”
Croc frowned. “Okay. I’ll give that one some thought.” A foot started going, then a hand, fingers drumming. “She could also want the thrills, the attention. High-profile party, daring thief. Makes good drama, Tabak.” He paused, a half-second halt in his fidgeting as he eyed Jeremiah. “So what’s the story between you two?”
“Between Mollie and me?”
“No, between Diantha Atwood and you. Come on, Tabak. Don’t bullshit. You’re no good at it.”
Jeremiah balled his hands into fists. Tension. Irritation. Frustration. He felt them all. Sitting there and trying to appear calm required every scrap of self-control he had. “Mollie and I had a brief relationship about a million years ago. It ended badly.”
“How brief?”
“A week.”
“When?”
“Ten years ago. She was a music student on spring break.”
Croc was silent a moment. Then he sighed. “Now you tell me.”
“It has no bearing on your jewel thief.”
“Bullshit. It explains why you’re not seeing this thing with your normal cold, clear, cynical eye. Jeez, I can’t believe I missed this one. You and our Miss Mollie. I tell you, Tabak, she’s involved. You mark my words. I’m checking into her clients—and that caterer friend and her boy-toy, Miss Mollie’s intern. Look like a couple of nitwits to me.”
Jeremiah gave him a steady look. “Croc, if you’re not careful and keep landing yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, people are going to start suspecting you.”
He went still, a rarity for him. “Do you? Come on, seriously. Do you suspect me?”
“Not yet,” Jeremiah said.
He couldn’t tell if Croc was insulted or not. “I guess that’ll have to do.”
“Maybe if you quit holding back—”
But Croc hurtled to his feet, suddenly looking as if he wanted to jump out of his skin. “Listen, I need to get out of here. Atmosphere’s getting to me. I might be barking up the wrong tree with this Mollie Lavender character, but I don’t think so. I think she’s right up there on a high branch, laughing at the rest of us while we scurry around in the muck.”
“Your instincts about people aren’t reliable, Croc.”
“Maybe not, but you put Miss Mollie up on a bulletin board, and all roads lead to her.”
Croc wasn’t known for his felicitous metaphors, but Jeremiah got his point. Mollie as common denominator. Mollie screaming. Mollie bleeding. Mollie up there with the police and hotel security even as he and Croc sat there discussing her.
What did Jeremiah know about her anymore?
But it was nuts. She was the goddaughter of a world-famous tenor, the daughter of flaky musicians, a publicist for flaky clients. Considering her as their jewel thief was just silliness. A diversion. A way of not thinking about her in other terms, such as in danger, in despair…or, Jeremiah thought grimly, in his bed, which maybe was scariest of all.
“Hey, Tabak, you’re lucky I’m on your side.” Croc grinned, somehow looking even bonier, out of place yet not the least bit awkward in the elegant surroundings. “I’m the one here who’s clear-eyed and without prejudice.”