He sat on the edge of a ratty chair. Fatigue gnawed at every muscle. He hadn’t slept last night. He doubted he’d sleep tonight. He’d spent the day plumbing every source he had. Police, lawyers, street informants, fellow reporters. He’d lost hours wandering around on the Internet for anything on Mollie, Leonardo Pascarelli, Blake Wilder, recent jewel heists, cat burglars. Helen would tell him he’d have been better off hitting the streets himself. She might be right. At least he would have been physically as well as mentally exhausted. Now every nerve ending seemed to twitch.
“That’s one way of putting it,” he said. “I wish I knew what I’ve gotten myself into.”
“Brass find out you were at the Sands last night and didn’t report the story?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“They won’t like being scooped by the freaking Palm Beach Daily News.” She grabbed her cigarette case and tapped out a long, slim cigarette, the other one still burning in her ashtray, smoke curling up from its inch of ash. “I don’t like it, either.”
“You had the story last night?”
“Of course. Just think, Tabak, you and I could have written the same story at the same time.” She gave a hoarse laugh. “Scares the shit out of you, doesn’t it?”
“We’d have come at this thing from different angles,” he said.
“I’m not so sure about that. You think Mollie Lavender is in the thick of this cat burglar/jewel thief business, and so do I.” She settled back in her chair, her coral lipstick bleeding into the tiny vertical lines in her upper lip; she wasn’t beautiful or young, and her chain-smoking had taken its toll in wrinkles and skin texture, but she was, Jeremiah thought, a handsome and complex woman, and more astute than he’d ever realized. She said calmly, “How hard have you fallen for her?”
He bit off a sigh. “Helen, Jesus.”
“Okay. Here’s the way it is, Tabak. We’re living in a celebrity culture. You’re damned near a celebrity reporter, which should be an oxymoron, but isn’t. So. That means if you get involved with a flaky arts and entertainment publicist who also happens to be the only goddaughter of a world-famous opera singer, people are going to notice, and they’re going to want to know more.”
“It’s none of anyone’s damned business.”
“Doesn’t matter. And if she turns out to be a jewel thief, you’re in the middle of a scandal. If you withheld information from the public, your goose as a credible reporter is, as we say, cooked.”
“For one thing, not that I need to explain to you or anyone else, what I have isn’t solid—”
“You were there last night, Tabak.”
He ignored her. “For another, I’m not in a position to withhold anything from the public. It would be a conflict of interest for me to write this story.”
“That’s what I was going to say in my column.” She held the fresh cigarette tight in one hand. “But that’s too damned subtle. I’ve been at this job a long time, and I’m smelling a scandal. My advice—not that you’re asking—is to pass the baton and bow out.”
“Let someone else do the story,” Jeremiah said.
“That’s right.”
He sighed.
“I know, I know.” She tucked the unlit cigarette on her lower lip. “You’re not on the freaking story. This is personal, between you and Mollie Lavender. Well, keep in mind it could cost you your credibility. And that’s your stock in trade, my boy.”
“Thanks for the lecture.”
“You’re welcome.” She dragged out a lighter and fired it up, her moves almost ritualistic as she lit her cigarette, inhaled, and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You didn’t risk coming down here and getting tongues wagging just to hear me lecture you on maintaining your reputation. What’s up?”
“You’ve followed this jewel thief probably even more closely than I have.”
“Right from the beginning. I’m not a Johnny Come Lately.”
“Okay. Last night’s attack—” Jeremiah paused, past knowing if he was making any sense. He studied Helen, the cursor blinking obnoxiously on her monitor, her old cigarette burned out, her new one angled rakishly between her middle finger and forefinger. “It’s either our thief getting violent and even more daring—”
“Or it’s someone else. A copycat of sorts.”
“What are your sources telling you?”
She tilted her head back, eyeing him through lowered, blackened eyelashes, debating whether she needed to tell him, a colleague who for eighteen years had hardly given her the time of day, anything. Finally, she said, “Nothing. Not one damn thing. And I’m only telling you because you’re not doing this story. Silence,” she added, raising her cigarette to her lips, “can be very intriguing.”
“Helen—”
“I’ve got a deadline, Tabak, and an empty paragraph to fill where I should be telling my readers that you and Leonardo Pascarelli’s goddaughter are the talk of the town.”
Jeremiah glared at her. “We’re not.”