He swallowed, cutting his eyes around at Griffen, who was listening to every word even though her ear was stuck to a telephone. He said, “He doesn’t think this is the time to worry about boundaries. First, get him well, then find out what happened to him, then, if necessary, kick him back out into the streets.”
“What about his Atwood trust fund?” Jeremiah asked. “Doesn’t he have money of his own?”
The blue eyes leveled on Jeremiah, steady, just a tad surly. “I wouldn’t know. And if you’re wondering, I want my brother home, too.”
Jeremiah grinned at him. “I was.”
“But my father’s concerned with appearances—how this will affect his reputation—and I’m not.”
Griffen hung up the phone before he could clear out. “That was George Marcotte,” she said with a twinge of amazement. “Granny Atwood and Momma Tiernay have hired him for us for tonight. Under the circumstances, they think we should have a private security guard or two, and Marcotte’s firm will provide them or he’ll be here himself.”
“Then they don’t believe the police have their man?” Jeremiah asked sharply.
“Beats me.” She lifted her thin shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, her dark curls framing her face, lessening the tugs of tension at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “I just figure they’re worried about Mollie’s bad luck and their boy Deegan.”
“Well, it can’t hurt to take extra precautions.”
She smiled, rallying. “Guess not.”
“Then Gran and Mother are coming tonight?” Deegan asked.
“They say they are. But I would think it will depend on your brother and his condition, if the police learn any more today. He’ll probably be able to talk to the police today.”
Deegan grinned at her. “Griffen, Griffen, it’ll depend on what else is on their calendar and whether making a show of support of me is in their best interests. They’ll want to be seen in public and still the wagging tongues.” He shrugged. “That’s reality, not criticism. They have their survival techniques, just as a kid on the streets does.”
“Come on,” she said, “it’s not as if you’re in any danger of following in big brother’s footsteps. I don’t know how you can stand to be so cynical.”
“Okay, I’m wrong. They don’t care about their reputation and the gossip. They’ll show tonight because they want to see Leonardo Pascarelli’s house.”
Griffen laughed in mock horror. “Deegan.”
Mollie entered the room, her presence enough to end the conversation. Griffen started dialing a number, and Deegan sat at the computer. Jeremiah, thinking that he wouldn’t like to be a fly on the wall when these two were alone, blew Mollie a clandestine kiss, just to see her fume and blush at the same time, and departed.
Croc was being visited by Frank Sunderland, a lawyer, and his father when Jeremiah arrived at the hospital. He didn’t hang around. He headed back to Miami in the sleek black Jaguar, appreciating its maneuvering ability on the road even if it didn’t intimidate people as much as his truck did. In a beat-up, rusted old truck, you found that drivers in fancy cars gave way. Not so in a Jaguar.
He checked in with Helen Samuel, back at her desk, cigarette smoking on her ashtray, another smoking on her lower lip. “Christ,” she croaked. “I’m in the goddamned boiling pot with you. The brass told me to get them on the horn the minute I saw you. They’re probably getting a million calls right now. Half the building’s on the lookout. Spies everywhere, Tabak.”
He was unconcerned. “Anything more on the Tiernays?”
She eyed him through half-closed eyes. “About once or twice every five years or so I regret not having kids. This isn’t one of those times. I’d have no doubts I’d have screwed mine up as badly as the Tiernays have screwed up theirs. Kermit, at least. The younger one—Deegan—seems okay, except he’s got a girlfriend ten years older than he is and he’s interning for your blonde instead of for his father.”
“That’s not in the same league as what Croc’s alleged to have done.”
“Alleged? I love you hard-news types.”
“Helen…”
“Well, it’s not as if it’s easy to get anyone to talk about the Tiernays, parents or kids. Most think Kermit needed his ass kicked, if not tossed into the gutter. After two years on the streets, they figure, yeah, he could go the cat burglar route, have a little fun, stick it to his old pals up on the Gold Coast.”
“Not to mention his parents.”
“Yeah. Not to mention. The grandmother—Diantha Atwood—always had a soft spot for Kerm, but she’s not saying a word, not interfering. Momma’s a cold-fish socialite, but that could be style, not substance. And Dad’s a respected, hard-nosed businessman who spent a lot of time on the road and in the office when his kids were little. There are,” she said, blowing smoke out her mouth and nose, “no innocents here.”