Jeremiah checked a hiss of impatience. “You think she ripped the necklace off her own neck?”

“Why not?”

“The question is why?”

“How the hell should I know? Okay, here’s one. Insurance.”

“It’s Pascarelli’s necklace. The money would go to him.”

Croc was unchagrined. “Then she wanted to inspire fear in potential victims-make them nervous so they won’t put up a fight next time she gets light fingers.”

“That doesn’t wash, either. If there’s a threat of violence, people will leave the real stuff in the vault. It’d dry up business.”

Croc frowned. “Okay. I’ll give that one some thought.” A foot started going, then a hand, fingers drumming. “She could also want the thrills, the attention. High-profile party, daring thief. Makes good drama, Tabak.” He paused, a half-second halt in his fidgeting as he eyed Jeremiah. “So what’s the story between you two?”

“Between Mollie and me?”

“No, between Diantha Atwood and you. Come on, Tabak. Don’t bullshit. You’re no good at it.”

Jeremiah balled his hands into fists. Tension. Irritation. Frustration. He felt them all. Sitting there and trying to appear calm required every scrap of self-control he had. “Mollie and I had a brief relationship about a million years ago. It ended badly.”

“How brief?”

“A week.”

“When?”

“Ten years ago. She was a music student on spring break.”

Croc was silent a moment. Then he sighed. “Now you tell me.”

“It has no bearing on your jewel thief.”

“Bullshit. It explains why you’re not seeing this thing with your normal cold, clear, cynical eye. Jeez, I can’t believe I missed this one. You and our Miss Mollie. I tell you, Tabak, she’s involved. You mark my words. I’m checking into her clients-and that caterer friend and her boy-toy, Miss Mollie’s intern. Look like a couple of nitwits to me.”

Jeremiah gave him a steady look. “Croc, if you’re not careful and keep landing yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, people are going to start suspecting you.”

He went still, a rarity for him. “Do you? Come on, seriously. Do you suspect me?”

“Not yet,” Jeremiah said.

He couldn’t tell if Croc was insulted or not. “I guess that’ll have to do.”

“Maybe if you quit holding back-”

But Croc hurtled to his feet, suddenly looking as if he wanted to jump out of his skin. “Listen, I need to get out of here. Atmosphere’s getting to me. I might be barking up the wrong tree with this Mollie Lavender character, but I don’t think so. I think she’s right up there on a high branch, laughing at the rest of us while we scurry around in the muck.”

“Your instincts about people aren’t reliable, Croc.”

“Maybe not, but you put Miss Mollie up on a bulletin board, and all roads lead to her.”

Croc wasn’t known for his felicitous metaphors, but Jeremiah got his point. Mollie as common denominator. Mollie screaming. Mollie bleeding. Mollie up there with the police and hotel security even as he and Croc sat there discussing her.

What did Jeremiah know about her anymore?

But it was nuts. She was the goddaughter of a world-famous tenor, the daughter of flaky musicians, a publicist for flaky clients. Considering her as their jewel thief was just silliness. A diversion. A way of not thinking about her in other terms, such as in danger, in despair…or, Jeremiah thought grimly, in his bed, which maybe was scariest of all.

“Hey, Tabak, you’re lucky I’m on your side.” Croc grinned, somehow looking even bonier, out of place yet not the least bit awkward in the elegant surroundings. “I’m the one here who’s clear-eyed and without prejudice.”

“There’s nothing between Mollie and me.”

Croc just laughed, and Jeremiah watched him saunter over to the revolving doors and walk out of the hotel without anyone giving him so much as a second glance.

Mollie stumbled onto the escalator with the hotel manager hovering behind her. She felt unsteady and vaguely embarrassed, but the nausea had abated. Her neck stung. It was like a nasty rope burn, one of those short, intense bursts of pain that would subside quickly, the worst probably over by morning. Or so she kept telling herself as she clung to the escalator rail.

The police were still up with hotel security, searching for clues. She didn’t expect they’d find anything useful. The thief had been quick, deft, clever, and daring. He wouldn’t leave a trail. She knew nothing about crime and criminals-mercifully, she thought-but what she knew about this crime and this criminal told her the police weren’t going to find him. Not tonight.

She gave an involuntary shudder. “Are you all right?” the manager asked, worried. His concern seemed genuine, not simply strategic.

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” She smiled, trying to encourage herself as much as him.

He held out a hand, ready to catch her if she passed out as the escalator came to the lobby and she slid off. She must look even worse than she felt. Neck bloody, face pale, dress askew. And she couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Her eyelids were heavy, and even as she shivered and shook, she felt as if she could drop off to sleep. The aftermath of her ordeal, she knew. The excess of adrenaline, the drop in blood sugar, plain old nerves. Her entire system was out of whack.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride home?” the manager asked. “I can have someone drive your own car back at the same time.”

Her own car. It wasn’t hers any more than the necklace or the dress. Or her “home.”

He’d made the same offer twice on the mezzanine. Mollie understood. He thought she was being needlessly, even recklessly, stubborn about driving herself back to Leonardo’s. Certainly she needed to reassert normalcy into her life, but she could do it tomorrow, after she’d had a chance to rest from her ordeal. But she wanted to do it now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jeremiah making his way across the lobby. If possible, he looked even more devastating, more darkly unpredictable than he had upstairs. It was the combination of elegance and irreverence, she decided, feeling giddy from champagne and adrenaline. He moved with such ease no matter where he was-or with whom. He wasn’t fazed by the Atwood and Tiernay crowd, and he’d seemed right in his element with a crime committed, a woman crumpled at his feet, police and security people swarming.

“I’m a friend,” he told the manager with unsurpassed gall. “I’ll drive Mollie home.”

The manager looked relieved. “Wonderful. Ms. Lavender, if there’s anything else I can do, please don’t hesitate. You can reach me anytime, night or day.”

She mumbled her thanks, and he retreated back up the escalator, leaving her alone with Jeremiah. “The hotel can send your car,” he said, taking charge.

“I’m fine. There’s no need for you to drive me home-”

“Mollie, you’re not getting behind a wheel.”

“I look worse than I feel.” She knew she was white-faced, her eyes sunken, her mascara smudged. With her low-cut dress, there was no hiding the marks on her neck. Why couldn’t the thief have stolen her handbag? She could feel rage roaring to the surface, but banked it back down.

“This isn’t about you, it’s about me and everyone else who doesn’t want you on the road right now. Indulge us.”

“You just want to grill me about the thief,” she said, not willing to give in no matter how much she knew he and the manager both made sense.

“Believe whatever you need to believe. It just doesn’t make sense to drive, not when there’s an alternative.”

“I know,” she said reluctantly. “But I’ll be back up to snuff in the morning.”

“Of course you will.”

She shot him a look, but immediately saw he wasn’t being patronizing, just simply stating his belief. She’d be okay in the morning. She could drive, she could make her own decisions without the influence of adrenaline, a touch of alcohol, not enough food. To her surprise, Jeremiah’s quiet confidence helped ease some of the tension that still had her in its grip.