“But no secret lives, nothing we can latch onto to explain why a twenty-two-year-old kid had the shit beaten out of him the night before last?”
“If you want that explained,” Helen said, peering at him with a gravity he seldom witnessed in her, “you’re probably going to have to look at his world, not his parents’ world. Their world provided the victims, Jeremiah. Marcie Amerson, Lucy Baldwin, even Mollie Lavender. His world, I suspect, provided the goons.”
Jeremiah frowned at her. “You see why you’re a society columnist, Helen? You deal in gossip and supposition. If you deal in facts, you’ll see that I have to look wherever I’ll find the answers. His world, their world, the goddamned moon. Right now, it makes no difference to me.”
He was halfway to the door before she’d blown enough air out of her lungs to answer his insult. “Kiss my ass, Tabak,” she yelled. “I hope they seal off the building before you slither out of here.”
He winked at her, which further incensed her, and was down the corridor and out to the parking garage before his bosses could grab him by the short hairs and ask him what in hell he thought he was doing, up to his ears in a big story and not one word of it on the pages of the Miami Tribune.
Spies everywhere, indeed. After she cooled off, Jeremiah would tell Helen he appreciated her warning.
There was something to be said for driving a vehicle not his own at such times. He waved to the guard at the garage, who recognized him too late, leaped out of his little cubicle of a building, and chased after him, on the alert for an errant reporter.
But by then, Leonardo Pascarelli’s little black Jaguar was well on its way to the on-ramp of 95 North.
16
Mollie chose a dressy suit from her own closet and joined Deegan, Griffen, and Griffen’s small part-time staff on the terrace. Leonardo’s house and grounds were immaculate, designed for parties, and Griffen, with enviable calm, had whisked in food and drink, tossing brightly colored cloths over folding tables to make instant hors d’oeuvres tables and wine bars. She’d rearranged Leonardo’s pots, added more of her own, did up strings of dried flowers, and somehow, with very little apparent effort, made the terrace look festive.
George Marcotte’s security guard had posted himself at the gates, which he’d agreed to leave open for arriving guests. Mollie was unaccustomed to having security guards lurking. The guard was big and beefy and intimidating enough that if Mollie were a thief, she’d stay away from Leonardo Pascarelli’s house tonight.
The weather was perfect, warm and calm under a cloudless sky. A night for spontaneity and friends, she thought, feeling optimistic.
Jeremiah had called from the hospital. Croc was being released, still no charges filed against him. His parents had compromised, agreeing to let him stay in their guest house until he recuperated. Mollie wondered if Bobbi Tiernay really felt she knew her son after more than two years. She couldn’t imagine becoming that alienated from her own family. Why hadn’t Croc just stewed awhile, then gone home? Was that ever an option?
She found herself articulating her thoughts to Griffen, who was, she said, enjoying the lull before the storm. Guests hadn’t yet started to arrive. Griffen was uncorking wine bottles. “I’ve known kids like Kermit Tiernay my whole life,” she said, looking tired but not unduly so. “The poor little rich kid who’d practically commit murder to get his parents to acknowledge his existence. Or her. I don’t know if it’s worse with girls or not. People feel sympathy for poor kids with neglectful parents, but not rich kids, because they’ve got all the trimmings. The camps, the private schools, the lessons. But they still want the nights home watching TV or playing cards with their mums and dads. That’s only normal.”
“You’re not describing yourself, are you?” Mollie couldn’t contain her shock at the depth of Griffen’s emotion; she seemed personally outraged. “Is that what your upbringing was like?”
“Mine? No, no. I’ve got a great relationship with my parents.” She seemed a bit irritated, even offended, at Mollie’s misinterpretation. “Not all us rich kids are fucked up, you know.”
“Deegan doesn’t seem to have suffered his brother’s fate.”
“No.” She uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, calmer. “Some people are just naturally more resilient, I think. But imagine, Mollie. You’re the child of rich, selfish parents who think they adore you. I mean, they really believe they adore you. They believe you can do no wrong. That you’re perfect.”