“Color, make, license plate?”
“It was red, an older two-door VW of some kind—a Rabbit, I think. I don’t know cars that well. And I didn’t think to get the license plate when he sped past me. I was just so relieved he was gone.”
“Understood.” He walked to the end of the driveway and peered through the gates up and down the street. “He’s gone now. Do you want me to call the police?”
“No! Good heavens, Chet, the guy probably wasn’t following me at all. I’m just jumpy after this weekend.”
He turned and grunted at her. “These robberies are getting to you.”
“There was another one today, at least potentially.”
Before he let her explain, he insisted on getting her upstairs and a glass of heavily sweetened iced coffee into her hand. Then he listened to her tale of Lucy Baldwin at the luncheon. “You know,” she added, “I’ve been present at every event that’s been held up. Every one. I don’t know if anyone else has—”
“The thief,” Chet said.
“Yes. That’s right.” She nodded dully. “I wonder if anyone else—the police, whoever—will start thinking of me as…I don’t know, a suspect. I mean, am I on someone’s list?”
“Jeremiah Tabak’s,” Chet said. “Guys like that always have an agenda. You’re his. He’s onto this common denominator thing. Mark my words.”
“I’m just rattled,” Mollie said carefully. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Chet sat at the breakfast bar and spoke to her in crisp, straightforward terms. “Here’s what you do. You work the problem. You don’t get sidetracked. You don’t feel sorry for yourself. You focus on what you need to do, and you do it. Fears and speculation are just distractions.”
Mollie drank some of her iced coffee. She’d be perked up in no time. Not only was it strong, it was thick. Chet must have added a half cup of sugar. “You’re right, Chet. Thanks.” She smiled. “I guess I should be glad you’re not getting all protective and telling me to hide under your bed.”
“Hiding doesn’t solve the problem.”
“If there is a problem,” she put in.
“Well,” Chet said gruffly, “it’s my bet this thief didn’t follow you home in a rusted, banged-up red VW that sticks out like a sore thumb in this neck of the woods.”
Mollie considered his point. “You’re probably right. Whoever it was is long gone by now, and you didn’t come here to discuss my problems. Shall we get to work?”
Chet beamed at her. “That’s the spirit.”
11
Jeremiah fetched a cup of coffee and a hot dog from the cafeteria and ate in his truck on his way home after two minutes at his desk to check messages. There was one from Frank, his cop friend up in Palm Beach, demanding to know what he’d been doing at the luncheon today. Damned cops. Spies everywhere. Jeremiah deleted the message. First he’d lived through the long, miserable night, then he’d lived through the long, miserable day. He’d lost all perspective and objectivity. He was becoming a damned loose cannon.
He’d borrowed a friend’s BMW for the day and trekked up to the Gold Coast just because his instincts had sounded the alarm and he didn’t like leaving Mollie up there on her own. The BMW wasn’t his stupidest idea of the past twenty-four hours, but close. He wanted to be inconspicuous, and he didn’t want Mollie jumping in the front seat with him, pissed, distracting, thinking she had a right to every synapse that fired off in his brain.
He headed back to South Beach, where he growled at the old guys on the porch, who ignored him, and changed for a run on the beach. He’d torture himself with exercise instead of thoughts of Mollie and her troubles and his role in them. He’d seen the police arrive at the mansion. He’d called the paper and got the skinny. Old lady loses watch. Maybe the work of the Gold Coast cat burglar. Maybe just an old lady losing a watch.
In the thick of things again, Miss Mollie was.
He walked over to the water and ran on the hard-packed sand on the edge of the outgoing tide, pounding hard, pushing himself. But the thoughts persisted, surging up every time he managed to bank them down. Had he brought this trouble down on Mollie himself? It was convoluted thinking, but he remembered Croc’s comment that up in Palm Beach, convoluted was the norm.
When he finally couldn’t run another step, his lungs burning, his legs aching, Jeremiah forced out another half-mile, then splashed into the ocean. He dove deep, feeling the sweat and the fatigue and the tension slide out of him.