Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (19 page)

“No!” Jean was running like a madman, falling over himself as he careered toward the store exit.

“Watch it, asshole!”

Outside, the crisp December air hit him in the face like a punch. Christmas shoppers swarmed the sidewalks like ants. Along both sides of Madison Avenue, a line of yellow taxis stretched for block after block, like bricks on the road to Oz. Jean’s heart sank. One man had gone. Jean doubted he would have recognized the other, even if he saw him. He was about to head back to Elizabeth’s hotel, more in hope than expectation that the three might regroup there, when suddenly he saw her. She was on foot, headed toward the subway.

Jean Rizzo followed. Neither of the males was anywhere to be seen, but he was determined not to lose Elizabeth again. He followed her down into the tunnels and onto a train that was heading uptown. Keeping Elizabeth in sight, and staying close enough to the doors that he could follow her out at a second’s notice, Jean scrolled through the pictures on his phone. The tech guys at Interpol could work wonders with images, but even Jean knew that these looked unpromising. Two distant figures in a sea of people.
Damn it. How did I screw this up?

Elizabeth got off the train at Central Park West. She seemed in no hurry, back in tourist mode. Jean followed her through the park at a discreet distance. It was four o’clock. Light was fading and the earlier crowds had begun to thin. Snow began to fall again. Thick heavy flakes like goose down stuck to Jean’s hair and coat.
Where is she going?

Suddenly Elizabeth stopped. She looked around her briefly, perhaps to ascertain if she was being followed, then sat down on a bench, clearing off the newly fallen snow with a sweep of her arm. Jean kept walking. Once he reached the top of the hill, he slipped behind a small clump of trees. It was a perfect vantage point, close and completely hidden. Jean pulled out his phone and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A tall gentleman in a cowboy hat began walking purposefully toward the bench. There was no hint of subterfuge, no attempt at discretion. As the man drew near, Elizabeth stood up and smiled broadly, holding out her arms. Then the man took off his hat and gave Jean a clear view of his face. It was the first time Jean Rizzo had seen those handsome features in the flesh but he would have known them anywhere.

Well, I’ll be damned.

He lifted his phone and began taking pictures.
Click, click, click.

TRACY WAS AT THE
top of a ladder, fixing a dog-eared Christmas angel to the top of the tree when the phone rang.

“Would you get that, honey?” she called down to Nicholas.

They’d spent a lovely afternoon decorating the house together, with Blake Carter helping to put up the enormous Norwegian pine. Tracy loved Christmas. This house had been made for it, with its high ceilings, roaring open fires and log-cabin charm. Blake rolled his eyes every year at Tracy’s over-the-top decor, including tacky carol-singing dogs from CVS and a life-size plastic Santa with flashing boots and hat who said “Ho! Ho! Ho!” whenever you rubbed his belly. “It looks like an elf threw up in your living room.” But Tracy suspected Blake secretly loved the display as much as she did. Especially when he saw the delight in Nicholas’s eyes.

“Oh, hi, Jean.” Nicholas’s cheerful voice sent chills through Tracy’s body. “How are you? Did you want to talk to Mama?”

Tracy descended the ladder, a fixed smile on her face. Nicholas handed her the phone. “It’s your friend Jean,” he said, heading back to the tree and the big cardboard box of decorations.

Tracy walked into the kitchen, out of earshot.

“I thought we agreed. No calls to the landline,” she hissed. “Not until after he’s asleep.”

“This couldn’t wait. I just saw Jeff Stevens in Central Park.”

Tracy’s stomach lurched.

“He was meeting Elizabeth Kennedy. They looked close, Tracy.”

The elevator hit the ground. Tracy felt her knees start to give way. She leaned against the table for support.

“I sent you pictures. Check your phone. They talked for about half an hour and then went back to his hotel together. Elizabeth’s planning a hit on Bianca Berkeley. It looks like Jeff’s involved. Can you open the pictures?”

Silence.

“Tracy? Are you there?”

“Yes.” Tracy’s voice came out high-pitched and strangled. “I’m here. Go on.”

Jean filled her in on the events of this afternoon. The two men at Barneys. His certainty that Bianca Berkeley was the target and that the heist would go down at the Winter Ball, just like Gunther Hartog predicted. And his growing suspicion of Jeff Stevens.

“She was in his hotel for an hour. She left first, then he did. I followed him.”

“Where did he go?” Tracy asked calmly.

“He went to the Meatpacking District and picked up a hooker.”

Tracy’s heart cracked. She felt as if she were having an out-of-body experience. She looked at her son, hanging glass reindeer figurines onto the Christmas tree. Carols were playing in the next room. Jean Rizzo’s voice didn’t belong in this picture. Nor did Jeff.

I came here to escape him, to escape that life.

Anger overwhelmed her. Wild, irrational anger.

How dare Jeff work with Elizabeth! How dare he sleep with prostitutes! How dare he still have the power to hurt me, after all these years!

And yet another part of her felt protective of Jeff and furious with Jean Rizzo.

Why was Jean telling her these things? Why did he keep pouring poison back into her life?

“What do you want, Jean?” Her voice was cold. “Why did you call me?”

“I want you to come to New York.”

Tracy laughed bitterly. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Christmas.”

“I need you. You know Jeff Stevens better than anyone.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

“Aren’t you listening to me?” Jean’s voice rose in frustration. “Something’s going down here, Tracy! The Winter Ball is happening in less than a week. Elizabeth and Jeff are planning something together, something big. There may be others involved, a gang, I don’t know. Jeff’s already seeing hookers. He’s getting excited, aroused. His adrenaline’s up . . . This time next week, if we don’t do something, another girl could be dead.”

“Hold on a minute.” Tracy dropped her voice to a whisper. “Am I hearing you right? You think
Jeff’s
the Bible Killer?”

“I think it’s a serious possibility.”

Tracy shook her head.
Is this a nightmare? Is this conversation even real, or am I going to wake up in a minute and laugh?

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Then come to New York and help me. Help Jeff. Prove me wrong.”

“Are you deaf? I’m not coming to New York. That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Tracy, you get on a plane!” Jean was yelling now. “Do you hear me? You get on a plane or I will tell your son the truth.”

Tracy hung up. She unplugged the phone from the wall. On the counter, her cell phone was flashing red
.

Jean’s photos.

Jeff and Elizabeth.

Together.

Tracy picked it up and turned it off. Her hands trembled as if she were disarming a bomb.

“Mom?” Nicholas’s voice drifted through from the living room. “Are you done? Come and help me.”

Tears stung the back of Tracy’s eyes. “I’m coming, honey.”

IT WAS MIDNIGHT, BUT
Jean Rizzo was too wired to sleep. He was wide-awake when his phone rang.

“Do you really believe Jeff’s involved in these killings?”

Tracy sounded as tired as he was.

“I don’t know. Do you really believe he isn’t?”

Tracy didn’t answer. The truth was she didn’t know what to believe anymore. She just wanted this nightmare to be over.

“There’s a flight leaving Denver tomorrow at noon. You can pick up your ticket at the American Airlines desk.”

“And you can kiss my ass. I already told you. I’m happy to help and advise you if I can. But I have a life here. I am not coming to New York.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Jean.

“It’s Christmas!”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“I mean it, Rizzo. I’m calling your bluff. I am not coming to New York.”

CHAPTER 17

W
ELCOME TO NEW YORK!”

Jean Rizzo met Tracy at JFK with a beaming smile.

“I’m so glad you decided to come.”

“I didn’t ‘decide to come.’ You blackmailed me.”

“Oh, now, now. Let’s not squabble.” Jean nudged her in the ribs jokingly. “It’ll do you good to get out of Steamboat. Small-town life can get so boring, don’t you think?”

“I guess you’d know all about boring. Being Canadian and all.” Tracy smiled sarcastically.

They ordered coffee at an airport café.

“Let’s talk about ground rules,” said Tracy.

“Do we have to?”

Jean couldn’t stop smiling. He still couldn’t quite believe she was here.

“I’m not going to help you catch Jeff Stevens.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say. You asked me last night if I was certain Jeff had nothing to do with these murders. Well, you know what? I am.”

“But, Tracy—”

“No ‘buts.’ Let me finish. I looked at the pictures you sent me. I agree that Jeff is mixed up in this somehow.”

“Thank you.”

“But he’s no killer, Jean. He just isn’t.”

Jean Rizzo paused for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. But somebody’s killing these girls.”

“Yes.”

“Every time Elizabeth Kennedy pulls off a big job.”

“Yes.”

“Which she’s about to do, with Jeff Stevens’s help.”

“Possibly.”

“Unless we catch them red-handed.”

“Catch
her
red-handed,” corrected Tracy. “I’ll help you nail Elizabeth. But I won’t help you get Jeff. That’s the deal, Jean, take it or leave it. It’s not negotiable. Jeff walks away from this.”

Jean Rizzo thought,
Good God. She still loves him.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll focus on Elizabeth. Where do we start?”

“With the target.” Tracy drained her coffee cup and stood up. “I’m going to my hotel now to freshen up and to call my son. Send me everything you have on Bianca Berkeley and this Winter Ball.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we talked? We can go through the files together, bounce some ideas around. I’d like you to—”

“No,” Tracy said. “I work better alone. Meet me for dinner at Great Jones Café on Prince Street at eight. I’ll have a plan for you by then.”

JONES WAS A CHARMING,
candlelit hole-in-the-wall tucked away between two more famous restaurants in the heart of SoHo. It served classic American fare, ribs and corn and mashed potatoes and cheeseburgers and turkey sandwiches. Everything was delicious.

Tracy had changed into a gray turtleneck sweater and woolen wide-leg pants. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and her green eyes shone like two shards of kryptonite. She was still angry at Jean, but in the few hours since he left her at the airport, something had clearly lifted her spirits. When she spoke she sounded energized. It wasn’t long before Jean realized why.

“I know what Elizabeth’s going to steal.”

“You do?”

Tracy nodded. “Bianca Berkeley’s not wearing any of her own jewels to the Botanical Garden. She’s borrowing an emerald choker from Tiffany’s. It’s worth two and a half million dollars but it’s insured for three.”

Jean’s eyes widened. “How on earth do you know that?”

“I walked into the store and asked. I think the clerk liked me.”

Jean thought,
I’ll bet he did.

“The choker’s being delivered to the Berkeley residence at three
P.M.
on the day of the ball,” Tracy went on. “It will be transported in an armored van, with two guards and a driver. An employee of the insurance company will be at the house to have someone sign the paperwork. It’s due to be returned at ten o’clock the next morning. The same van will arrive to collect it.”

Jean nodded mutely.

“Between three
P.M.
and six
P.M.
, when the Berkeleys’ driver will set off for Brooklyn, the chances are it will be mayhem in that house. There’ll be a PA there, a stylist, a makeup artist, a hairdresser. Also Bianca’s Scientology minders.”

“Her what?”

“Her minders. Butch is a big donor to the church. You didn’t know that?” Tracy frowned.

“It never came up,” said Jean.

“It should have. Believe me, everything I am telling you now, Elizabeth Kennedy already knows. Inside and out. ‘Martha Langbourne’s’ a Scientologist, by the way.”

Jean looked astonished.

“It’s on her passport, under religion.” Tracy answered his unspoken question. “Anyway, the point is that the choker will likely be moved from room to room and will change hands several times. That’s one clear window of opportunity. Especially if ‘Martha’ has worked the Scientology angle and has access to the property.”

“So you’re saying you think Elizabeth’s going to try to steal the emeralds from the Berkeley house, between three and six
P.M.
?”

“No.” Tracy waved down a waiter and ordered another glass of Cabernet. “I’m saying that’s one window. There are others.”

“Such as?”

“In the store. In transit. At the ball itself. The following morning. In transit again.”

Jean groaned. “Okay,” he said eventually. “How would you do it? If this were your job?”

“I’d take it in transit.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s simpler. Cleaner. Fewer witnesses, fewer prints. More anonymous. But you need inside help. A team of some sort.”

“She has that,” said Jean.

“Yes.” Tracy sipped her wine contemplatively.

“I’m sensing there’s a ‘but.’ ”

Tracy smiled.

She’s enjoying herself,
thought Jean.
She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is. She’s enjoying the challenge.

“You need one of two things to be a successful thief. Brains or balls.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Tracy explained. “The biggest jewel theft of all time—all modern time, anyway—happened a few years ago at the Cannes Film Festival. Eighty million dollars’ worth of diamonds were taken in one night, by one man, at a crowded event full of celebrities and security.”

“I vaguely remember reading about that,” said Jean. “How did he do it again?”

“I’ll tell you how.” Tracy grinned. “This criminal mastermind climbed through an open window in broad daylight, stuffed as many gems as he could carry into a sports bag while waving a toy gun around, hopped back out of the window and escaped on foot. He dropped about twenty million dollars’ worth as he ran. But eighty
million
dollars of diamonds were never recovered. Balls.”

“And this related to Elizabeth Kennedy . . . how?”

“The question is not how
I
would do it. It’s how
she
would do it,” Tracy said. “Elizabeth’s smart. But if she’s behind all these other jobs you’ve told me about, the ones that took place before the murders, then I’d say her balls are at least as big as her brains.” She sat back in her chair, a triumphant look on her face. “I think she’s going to do it at the ball. I think she’s going to steal that choker on the night, in front of a thousand guests and God knows how many cops. And I think she’s going to walk right out of there.”

Her certainty was contagious.

Jean Rizzo asked the obvious question. “And just how, exactly, is she going to do that? Rip the thing off Bianca Berkeley’s neck?”

Tracy laughed. “Of course not. I pulled off a similar job once at the Prado in Madrid, before Jeff bait-and-switched me. It’s quite simple really.”

Jean raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Bianca’s going to give Elizabeth the choker.”

THE WINTER WONDERLAND BALL
in New York’s famous Botanical Garden was considered
the
party of the year among Manhattan’s elite. Glamorous enough to tempt the city’s fashionistas and hedge-fund millionaires to travel all the way up to the Bronx, it also attracted an international crowd of superwealthy patrons. Those who would see and be seen flocked from around the globe to the iconic glass-and-steel building with its breathtaking palm dome, illuminated by thousands of simple white candles. Outside, the twin backdrops of pure white snow and a pitch-black winter sky, peppered with stars, provided the perfect setting for the dazzling couture gowns and decadent jewels of the female guests as they arrived.

Hollywood was out in force this year, both the old guard and the new. Sharon Stone wowed in a white Giambattista Valli and the Fanning sisters looked cute in matching Chanel minis with hot-pink ruffles. They mingled with Washington heavyweights—the vice president and his wife were here, as well as the new secretary of state and Harvey Golden, White House chief of staff. There were supermodels and designers, billionaires and generals, writers, artists and oil tycoons. The official purpose of the ball was to raise money for New York’s underprivileged children. In reality, of course, it was yet another opportunity for the city’s overprivileged children to gorge themselves on a cloying feast of excess. The air was scented with tropical blooms and expensive perfume, and the aroma of white truffles wafted in from the kitchen. But in the end, the one overpowering smell was money.

Jean Rizzo could hardly breathe. Weaving his way through the
Vogue
photographers and other press gathered outside, he grabbed a flute of champagne and slipped into the throng. Bianca Berkeley and her husband, Butch, were already here and surrounded by hangers-on. Butch Berkeley was having a loud conversation with Warren Gantz, a Wall Street titan, about the merits of various different private planes (Warren favored the Dassault Falcon 900, a bargain at $33 million, while Butch remained faithful to his Embraer Legacy 650). Jean Rizzo thought of the ancient Volvo 760 he’d driven since his twenties rusting outside his Lyon apartment and smiled. Guys like Gantz and Berkeley were so out of touch with reality.

Although perhaps Bianca Berkeley was even more so. Standing a few feet behind her husband, flanked by two Scientology staffers labeled as “publicist” and “assistant,” she had the glazed, not-there look of a rabbit with myxomatosis. There was the famous emerald choker, wrapped around Bianca’s elegant neck like a vise.
It doesn’t suit her,
thought Jean. Amazing how a piece of jewelry could look at once wildly expensive and breathtakingly ugly.

In any event, she was wearing it, which meant that whatever Elizabeth Kennedy had planned had yet to take place. Score one for Tracy’s theory.

Bianca’s dark hair was pulled up in a severe-looking bun, and she wore a simple black column dress, both no doubt intended to showcase the Tiffany emeralds to better effect. Instead they merely served to make a beautiful woman look as stiff and uncomfortable as a store mannequin.

As for Elizabeth, so far she was nowhere to be seen. Jean had done three complete circuits of the Botanical Garden conservatory, moving from one gaggle of rich partygoers to the next. But neither “Martha Langbourne” nor “Randall Bruckmeyer,” Jeff Stevens’s brash Texan alter ego, had yet arrived, despite being confirmed attendees as of this morning.

For the first time since his dinner with Tracy, Jean Rizzo began to have doubts. What if Bianca Berkeley’s emeralds
weren’t
the target after all, but a red herring set up deliberately to throw him off the scent? Arrogantly he had assumed that Elizabeth Kennedy remained unaware of his surveillance. But Elizabeth was a professional after all, at the top of her game. What if she knew that Jean had been onto her all along? That was just the sort of dance these people enjoyed. Elizabeth, Jeff Stevens, even Tracy. Tracy claimed to have put her life of capers and con tricks behind her for her son’s sake, but how well did Jean really know her? This was a woman who lied for a living, after all.

Unbidden, Jean’s boss’s words came back to him.

“Elizabeth’s not a lead,”
Henri Marceau had told him.
“She’s a hunch. You’re running around on a wild-goose chase based on the ‘advice’ of two former con artists! You’re wrong on this one, Jean. Come home.”

Jean finished his champagne and picked up another glass. His trained eye had already clocked a veritable army of undercover police, federal agents and private security men milling around among the invitees. Maybe Elizabeth had realized it was simply too risky to try something here and chickened out at the last moment? Perhaps the lady’s balls weren’t as big as Tracy imagined after all?

Jean Rizzo’s uneasiness grew.

Where the hell is she?

THE FBI AGENT ADJUSTED
the strap on her shimmering silver gown. In other circumstances, she’d have let her hair down at a glamorous party like this one. But not tonight. She was here to work.

Bianca Berkeley was the target, or, more specifically, the cluster of garish green rocks she wore around her neck. Wedged between her church minders like the meat in a cult sandwich, Butch Berkeley’s actress wife had no idea what danger she was in. Did those goons actually make her feel safe? The FBI agent shook her head.
Funny how easy it is to trust the wrong people.

The dark wig she was wearing was itchy and uncomfortable. She hadn’t wanted to wear it, but there was an outside chance that one of tonight’s guests might recognize her from another job. The world of the superrich and supercorrupt was smaller than one might think, a sort of vice village. She recognized a number of the other cops and agents milling about, trying to blend into the crowd. The funny little Canadian guy from Interpol had shown up too, the one nobody took seriously. The rumor was that even his own people back in France had cut ties with him.

She looked at her watch. Eight fifteen.

She had to make contact with Bianca soon or it would be too late.

SVETLANA DRAKHOVA THREW HER
head back and laughed at one of Oleg Grinski’s jokes.

Stupid oaf.
Svetlana sipped her vintage Burgundy.
Fat, ugly pig. I’m not your wife. Go and bore someone else with your tedious stories.

Svetlana was in a bad mood. She’d wasted the last six months of her life with the repellent Grinski, with very little to show for it. It had been her twenty-second birthday last month, and what had the pig given her? Some stupid old coins! She’d hoped that this trip to New York at least might involve some jaunts to Graaf or Cartier. But the tightfisted son of a bitch had kept his wallet manacled shut. Apart from a watch and a few paltry Balenciaga bags, he’d bought her nothing. Nothing!