White Hot

“He says it’s Blake Wilder. I don’t know if it is or isn’t. I don’t even know where he lives.”


Mollie started on her food, which was hot, spicy, and perfect for her mood. She felt that Jeremiah’s relationship with his young source was more complicated than he was willing to admit. She wanted to press him, but when Jeremiah commented on the food, she took the hint and let the subject shift to innocuous things. Favorite restaurants, the weather, movies they’d recently seen, books they’d recently read. Mollie found him insightful, thoughtful, less black-and-white in his outlook than she would have expected. A man of many different facets was Jeremiah Tabak. She’d had such a straightforward, uncomplicated view of him for so long that getting used to him as a complex, real, live, breathing man wasn’t easy.

He paid for dinner. He insisted, because if they hadn’t had to leave on short notice he’d have cooked for her. Mollie didn’t remind him that she’d never expected to stay for dinner at all.

She relished the warm evening air on the walk back to his apartment, enjoyed the bustle of the crowded streets, imagined how different a late February night in Boston would be. A year ago, she’d have worked late, maybe gone out for dinner with friends, or to a concert with her parents or sister. There had been no steady man in her life. Jeremiah Tabak was a distant, if still very real, memory.

There wasn’t a steady man now, she reminded herself, glancing at Jeremiah as he strode beside her, preoccupied with his own thoughts. She had no illusions. He was driven and utterly focused on one thing: investigating the Gold Coast thefts. Just because he couldn’t do the story didn’t mean it didn’t absorb him. The physical part of their relationship was just an extension of that focus and drive. If it became a distraction, something apart from the story, it would end. The story determined everything. And when it ended, so would his interest in her. As much as he might want to believe she was his reason for being on the jewel thief story, she wasn’t. He was the reason. His need to know things, his need to unravel and solve and figure out and just know.

When they arrived back at his building, the guys were all still outside, Bennie smoking a fat, putrid-smelling cigar. “Old habit,” he said. “My wife never let me smoke inside.”

Jeremiah turned to Mollie, his eyes flat now, lost in the shadows, his voice low. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

She shook her head. “There’s no need. It’s right there.” She pointed across and down the street. She smiled. “Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed myself.” She drew in a breath, so aware of him standing close, silent. “Of course, it was business.”

“ ’Course. I’ll deduct dinner from my taxes.” He winked, smiling. “You can sit out here with the guys for a while, if you want. Good night, Mollie.”

She felt three pairs of old-man eyes on her. “Good night, Jeremiah.”

He headed inside, and Mollie frowned, wondering what had possessed her to drive to South Beach in the first place. Sal, the ex-priest, settled back in his rickety chair and said thoughtfully, “He’s afraid to want something he doesn’t have because he might lose it.”

“Nah,” Albert said, “he’s just got to be jerked up by the balls and forced to pay attention to what’s important. Reporters, you know?”

Bennie shook his head. “Jeremiah’s an honorable man. He wants to do what’s right. He’s not going to press himself on a woman if he doesn’t think it’s right.”

“Jesus,” Sal said, “you’re making the lady blush.”

Albert grinned at Mollie. “It’s not like we have this conversation every week with a woman.”

“He hasn’t been right lately,” Bennie said. “You can tell by his whittling. You see that?” He picked up a carved piece of something that looked vaguely like a palm tree. “He can whittle better than that. He was just hacking. His mind was somewhere else.”

Meaning, presumably, Mollie thought, on her. But she expected it was more likely on the jewel thief story and her potential role in it, Croc’s behavior, his own next move. Jeremiah would love a story he could chew on, that would occupy him fully.

“Go on upstairs.” Albert gave her an encouraging nod. “We have coffee and bagels down here at eight every morning. You can come sit with us and tell us how things worked out.”

“You’re a dirty old man, Albert,” Bennie told him, his putrid cigar tucked between thumb and forefinger.

Sal shrugged off both their comments and turned to Mollie. “Jeremiah needs more for company than reptiles and us old men. That much we know. I’m just not sure he knows it—or is willing to take the risk of hurting himself, and you, to admit it.”

He seemed so sincere, so certain. Finally, Mollie nodded and without a word went back inside and upstairs to Jeremiah’s apartment. What happened next, she thought, happened. But she wasn’t ready to climb back into Leonardo’s car and drive north.





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