White Hot by Carla Neggers

rail. He pried his fingers loose and took the escalator two steps at a time down to the lobby. He’d probably have jumped over the rail except he didn’t want to draw the cops’ attention.
    “Yo, Tabak,” Croc said when Jeremiah dropped onto the loveseat next to him. “Cozy, huh? Nice place, although I’m not crazy about the flower arrangement over by the fountain. Too New England. You know? This is Palm Beach. People want glitter and ostentation.”
    Ostentation? “Croc, what the hell are you doing here?”
    “Watching the festivities.” He folded his hands on his middle; he had not one ounce of fat to spare. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black sneakers, and his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but clean. If he had a diamond-and-ruby necklace on him, it would have to cause a noticeable bulge somewhere. “You should have seen them shuffling to get the cops in here without a lot of fanfare. Very discreet. I was impressed.”
    “Then you know about the attack on Mollie Lavender?”
    “Yep.”
    “You’re the cops haven’t hauled you in as a suspect.”
    “That’s not luck, Tabak, that’s skill. How’s she doing?”
    Jeremiah glanced up at the mezzanine. All he needed was an enterprising police officer to take a peek down into the lobby and see a Miami Tribune reporter talking to an obvious informant. The cops would pounce. “She’s shaken up, but not seriously hurt. You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
    Croc shrugged. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business, hearing what I hear.”
    “You arrive before or after Mollie was attacked?”
    “Ah.” His clear gaze settled on Jeremiah. “You’re making sure I didn’t swipe the necklace. Well, I didn’t. Too much effort involved.”
    “You still haven’t answered my question,” Jeremiah pointed out.
    “True.”
    Stonewalled. Croc didn’t like to divulge his tactics. Jeremiah gave up for the moment. “I suppose now you can eliminate Mollie Lavender as a suspect.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “Because she’s up there bleeding, Croc—”
    “Yeah, so? Why did she wear an expensive necklace? Why didn’t anyone see anything? Why no trail? You got no clues, no suspects, no witnesses, no evidence. You can’t eliminate her or anyone else yet.”
    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