“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.”

“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?”