Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (18 page)

Tracy called from Colorado. “Maybe she works without a partner. It’s perfectly possible, Jean.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe the murders only happen after bigger, more high-profile jobs? It could be an adrenaline thing. If so, this con on Mr. Greaves might have been too low-key.”

“Hmm.”

Tracy had been true to her word and had helped Jean immensely with the investigation. Her insights into the workings of the con artist’s mind had been invaluable. And yet Jean Rizzo couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, something crushingly obvious.

Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree entirely. Maybe Milton Buck was right after all. Maybe there is no link.
Jean had been able to trace Elizabeth Kennedy to some of the cities at the times of the murders, but not to all of them. Was he spinning something out of nothing? Had finding first Tracy and now Elizabeth made him complacent—a king admiring a fine, golden cloth that no one else could see? A cloth woven from the threads of his own desperation?

“This is Paddington Station. Paddington is the next station stop. Please alight here for trains to Oxford, Didcot, Birmingham New Street and Reading.”

The tinny-sounding announcement jolted him back to reality. He’d decided to pay a visit to Gunther Hartog, Tracy Whitney’s old mentor and partner in crime. Not really in the hope or expectation of a breakthrough, but because he couldn’t think of anything else to do. According to Tracy, Hartog’s country house was a treasure trove of fine art, albeit mostly stolen or at least dubiously sourced.

“It’s the eighth wonder of the world,” Tracy told Jean. “And Gunther’s unique. You can’t leave London without meeting him.”

GUNTHER HARTOG LAY SPRAWLED
out on a chaise longue, a cashmere blanket draped over his frail frame like a shroud. An oxygen tank hung next to him on an ugly metal frame that was utterly out of place in such a beautiful room. Tracy’s hyperbole on that score had turned out to be an understatement. From the second Jean Rizzo’s taxi pulled up outside the seventeenth-century manor house, he realized he was in for a treat. The gardens were as immaculately manicured as any park. If the exterior was a delight, the interior was a veritable Aladdin’s cave of treasures. Oak-paneled walls dripped with fine art the way that an old Vegas drag queen might drip with diamonds. Every rug was antique Persian, every glass Venetian, every cornice original, every stick of furniture plundered from one of Europe’s grand estates or Asia’s great palaces. Gunther Hartog was a man of both immense wealth and impeccable taste. In Jean Rizzo’s experience, the two very rarely went hand in hand.

Gunther Hartog was also dying. The gray patina of death hung over his sunken eyes and skeletal frame like an early morning mist. His limbs were like twigs and his skin was as dry and fragile as old parchment. He dismissed his nurse and invited Jean to sit beside him.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Jean.

“Not at all. I have a conflicted relationship with most members of your profession, Inspector, as I daresay you know. But when you mentioned dear Tracy’s name, well . . . curiosity got the better of me.” Gunther’s voice was faint, but his mind was as sharp as ever. The devilish twinkle in his eye was also undiminished. “Have you seen her?”

“I have.”

“Is she well?”

“She is,” Jean answered cautiously. “She sends you all her love.”

Gunther sighed. “I suppose you can’t tell me where she is or what she’s been doing all this time?”

Jean shook his head.

“Even though I’m dying and would take the secret to my grave?”

“Sorry,” said Jean.

“Oh, don’t apologize,” wheezed Gunther. “I daresay you and she came to some arrangement. And I daresay she has her reasons for staying away. I do miss her, though.”

His pale eyes misted over. Jean could see that he had slipped back into the past, back to the glory days when he, Tracy and Jeff used to outwit the authorities again and again, from one side of the globe to the other. They’d helped to make one another rich, but Jean could see that the bond between them ran far deeper than that.

“So Tracy is helping you with your inquiries, is she?” Gunther asked.

“She is.”

“And what dastardly deed is it that you’re investigating, Inspector?”

“Murder.”

The playful smile on Gunther’s lips disappeared.

“Twelve murders, to be more precise.”

Jean Rizzo filled Gunther Hartog in on the Bible Killer’s victims, and the link he’d discovered between the murders and the string of robberies. He explained how he’d tracked Tracy down, suspecting that she might be the missing link that would lead him to the killer. Tracy had helped him to find Elizabeth Kennedy, but that was where the trail had gone cold.

At the mention of Elizabeth’s name, the old man became quite animated.

“Vile woman. So she’s still working, is she? I suppose I’m not surprised, although I’d rather hoped she might be rotting in a Peruvian jail by now.”

“You’re not a fan?”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Inspector. She’s a class act, very good at what she does. But she’s typical of the younger generation.”

“In what way?”

“She’s heartless and greedy. Utterly devoid of principles, never mind romance.”

“Romance?” Jean frowned.

“Oh yes!” Gunther cried. “There was terrific romance to our business in the old days, Inspector. Tracy and Jeff weren’t thieves, they were artists. Each job was a performance, a perfectly choreographed ballet, if you will.”

Jean thought,
It’s a game to him. To all of them. But no one told Sandra Whitmore or Alissa Armand or any of the other girls the rules. Somehow they got caught up in the dance and paid for it with their lives. There was no romance in their lives, or their deaths, God help them.

Gunther was still talking. “Tracy and Jeff only ever took from the undeserving. They weren’t in the business of mugging old ladies. Not like Miss Kennedy. Money’s the only thing that motivates her and she’ll stop at nothing to acquire it. She destroyed Jeff and Tracy’s marriage, you know. From what I could learn at the time, she was paid to do it. Someone with a grudge against one or both of them hired Elizabeth to wreck things. Can you imagine such a thing? In my day such behavior was considered beyond the pale.”

He slumped back on the chaise longue, exhausted by the effort of such a long diatribe.

Once Gunther had caught his breath, Jean asked, “Did you ever hear about Elizabeth working with a partner? A man?”

“Years ago, yes. But I haven’t exactly followed the young lady’s career. Why?”

Jean shrugged. “The Bible Killer’s male. I’m looking for a man connected to Elizabeth Kennedy or Tracy Whitney. Or both. Of course, there is one person who fits that description perfectly.”

Gunther frowned.

“You don’t mean Jeff?”

“Jeff Stevens was intimate with both women. He’s also still active, traveling all over the world looting antiquities.”

“Whatever else Jeff’s doing, it isn’t
looting,
” Gunther protested.

“The point is he’s out there, using a string of aliases. He could have been in any of the cities in question at the right time.”

Gunther shook his head. “Jeff had nothing to do with this. I’d bet my life on it.”

“According to his FBI file, he regularly uses prostitutes. Did you know that?”

“No,” Gunther said truthfully. “I didn’t. What I do know is that Jeff wouldn’t hurt a fly, still less a woman.”

“People change,” said Jean. “Maybe the split with Tracy pushed him over the edge. He could have had some sort of psychotic break. It happens.” He added, seeing Gunther’s skeptical expression, “When did you last see Jeff Stevens?”

“Some time ago,” Gunther said carefully. “I don’t remember exactly.”

“Months? Years?” Jean prompted.

“Years. Unfortunately.”

“Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“No,” said Gunther. “Although if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

He rang an old-fashioned brass bell to summon his nurse. His attitude toward Jean had clearly shifted for the worse.

“Is that why you came to see me, Inspector? To try to get me to betray one of my oldest friends?”

“Not at all. I came to see you because Tracy told me you’re the best-connected man in England. And that if there were any rumors flying around, about Elizabeth Kennedy or her partner or anything else that might help me solve this case, you would have heard them.”

“Hmm.” Gunther was flattered but not mollified. “Does Tracy know you suspect Jeff of these murders?”

“I don’t suspect him,” said Jean. “I don’t suspect anyone, yet. Mostly because I have no damn evidence. But I can’t rule Jeff Stevens out to spare Tracy’s feelings, or yours. He may know nothing about this or he may know something. I don’t know. What I do know is that I would like to speak to him. My only obligation is to the women who were killed, and to those who may still be in danger. I have to catch this man, Mr. Hartog. That’s all
I
care about.”

The nurse came back in. A diminutive Filipina with limited English, she made up for what she lacked in stature with a fiercely protective manner. Immediately sensing her patient’s hostility toward his visitor, she positioned herself between the two of them like a bulldog, folding her arms and glaring at Jean.

“Mister very tired now,” she announced. “You leaving.”

Jean looked at her, then at Gunther Hartog.

“If you know anything,
anything,
and you don’t tell me . . . and another girl dies . . . it’s on your head. This isn’t a game anymore, Mr. Hartog.”

He walked away. As he reached the door Gunther called out to him.

“I’m hearing a lot of buzz about New York. Wonderful city for thieves, New York. Fine art, fine jewelry, fine museums and galleries to inspire one. Especially at Christmas.” He sighed. “Just thinking about it almost makes me feel young again.”

“New York?” said Jean.

“New York. The Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden is supposed to be particularly magical, I believe. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.

“You can see yourself out, Inspector.”

CHAPTER 16

S
HE OPENED THE BOX
slowly, savoring the smooth softness of the silk ribbon beneath her fingertips.

“I hope you like it.”

Jeff Stevens watched her expression shift from anticipation to surprise to deranged delight as she lifted the white-gold-and-diamond watch out of its case. With her high, Slavic cheekbones, full lips and perfect, alabaster complexion, Veronica had always looked more like a duchess than a hooker. But her practiced hauteur deserted her now. Flinging her arms around Jeff’s neck, she burst into tears of joy.

“Oh my God! Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD! I can’t believe you did this! It must have cost a fortune.”

“No more than you deserve.” Jeff smiled, happy to have pleased her. “Merry Christmas, V.”

They were in Veronica’s apartment in the West Village. Although not flashy, the space was luxurious and elegant, just like its owner. Veronica worked exclusively in the upper echelons of her profession, with a small and elite client list that she chose carefully and without the assistance of a pimp. Before hooking, she’d been a model and occasional actress, but both jobs had come to bore her in the end. The truth was she enjoyed what she did. She liked sex, and the men who paid to sleep with her were all interesting, successful, intelligent people. Few of them were as generous as Jeff Stevens. But then Jeff truly was one of a kind.

He never spoke about his work, although Veronica knew he was in town for a job. He came to New York about twice a year and always looked her up. Perhaps it seemed odd to say so, but Veronica considered Jeff a friend.

“Listen,” she said. “It’s Christmas in a few days. You probably have plans, but if you’re on your own, you’d be very welcome to join me. My sister’s coming over with her boyfriend. I make a mean pecan pie.”

“You’re so sweet to offer.” Jeff kissed her on the cheek. “But I have plans.”

He picked up his watch from the bedside table and fastened his cuff links while Veronica fixed her makeup in the bathroom. Remembering he’d left his tie on the countertop, Jeff walked in to find her snorting a freshly cut line of coke on the side of the bathtub. He froze, frowning.

Veronica looked up. Misinterpreting his expression, she said, “Sorry, sweetie, did you want some? I should have asked.”

Jeff shook his head. “I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay,” Veronica called after him. “And thank you so much for my present. I love it!”

OUTSIDE, THE CITY LOOKED
like a fairy tale. Two feet of snow had fallen during the night, frosting Central Park like a wedding cake and casting a brilliant, white glow over every street and car and building. Christmas music was being piped out of every store, and the window displays shone and glittered with multicolored lights and toys and candies, making Jeff wish he was eight years old again.

Jeff buttoned his overcoat against the cold, and against his own anger.

Why would a beautiful girl like Veronica touch that stuff?

It didn’t bother him that she sold herself for sex. In Jeff’s worldview there was an honesty to prostitution, to the simple transaction between man and woman in the pursuit of pleasure. But drugs? That was something else. He had seen what drugs did to people. Seen how they reduced human beings to immoral beings, cringing slaves prepared to do anything and betray anyone for their master.

Disgusting.

Tracy had never done drugs. They were always around. The circles that she and Jeff used to move in were extremely decadent. But, like Jeff, Tracy had never been interested. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice now.

“Why would I need ecstasy, my darling, when I’ve got you?”

“Why indeed.”

Jeff always missed Tracy more at Christmastime.

Still, this was no time to be getting maudlin. Jeff loved visiting New York, especially when the trip combined business and pleasure. He was staying at the Gramercy Park under the name of Randall Bruckmeyer, an old-school Texas oilman and one of Jeff’s favorite alter egos. Randy lived up to his name, and had helped Jeff out on a number of jobs that required the seducing of one or more women. In this case, the target was a gorgeous Russian socialite, Svetlana Drakhova, who was in New York to attend the famous Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden with her boyfriend. In addition to her busy career as a professional partier/slut, Svetlana also happened to be the latest, very young mistress of Oleg Grinski, a Russian oligarch with a penchant for anal sex, torture and Byzantine treasures, not necessarily in that order. Preposterously, Oleg had given the scheming Svetlana a priceless collection of coins minted during the reign of the Emperor Heraclius in 620 as a gift. Knowing Svetlana as he now did, Jeff, aka Randy Bruckmeyer, was convinced it was only a matter of time before she melted them down or turned them into a pair of novelty earrings. As much a stranger to taste as to basic human decency, Svetlana was as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside, and that was saying something. Jeff was not enjoying sleeping with her, hence today’s trip to Veronica’s place. He was, however, looking forward to robbing her, and to handing the coins over to the charming Spanish collector who’d commissioned him. They had agreed on a fee of $1 million, a fraction of what the coins were worth, but enough to make the job worth Jeff’s while. The main thing was that the coins would be in safe hands once again, cherished and appreciated as they should be. These days, Jeff Stevens felt a closer connection to ancient objects than he did to people. Unlike people, they never let you down.

Jumping into a cab to Lexington, Jeff got out a block before his hotel. Randall Bruckmeyer III always stayed at the Gramercy Park. The Ritz might have grander rooms, but this was the only place in town with access to its own, private park and with genuine Warhols and Basquiats hanging on the walls. You got what you paid for at the Gramercy: glamour, luxury and exclusivity.

Slipping into character was second nature to Jeff, like putting on an old familiar sweater.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He offered his arm to two overly made-up women in ankle-length minks as they approached the lobby doors. “Are y’all in town for the Winter Ball?”

“That’s right.” The first woman looked up coquettishly at the handsome Texan, almost blinding him with the diamonds that were swinging around her neck like golf balls. “How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. I’m invited myself, as it happens.”

Randall Bruckmeyer
was
invited to the annual Botanical Garden event, but he wouldn’t be going. He had a rather more pressing engagement arranged for that evening. Svetlana Drakhova
would
be attending, along with her repulsive sugar daddy, Oleg, hopefully for long enough to allow Jeff to do what he needed to do. The ball provided the perfect cover, not least because every cop, fed and private security firm was going to be all over the event like bees around a honey pot. After last year’s spectacular thefts—not one, but two multimillion-dollar jewel heists had gone down, one of them involving a very high-profile Hollywood actress and a sapphire bracelet that used to belong to Grace Kelly—no one was taking any chances. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, rumors abounded that another big job was being planned. Every con artist in the Western world worth their salt was in Manhattan right now, wondering whether to try their hand.

Except me,
thought Jeff. He tightened his grip around the fur-clad ladies’ waists as they swept into the Gramercy’s grand, high-ceilinged Rose Bar.

“Name’s Randy,” he drawled. “Randy Bruckmeyer. Can I buy y’all a drink?”

JEAN RIZZO IDLY PERUSED
the belts in the Ermenegildo Zegna concession in Barneys. He was just wondering who would pay almost a thousand dollars for a simple strip of leather, when he realized his target was on the move. Time to go.

Jean was tailing Elizabeth Kennedy. Using the pseudonym Martha Langbourne, Elizabeth had flown to New York from London three weeks ago and checked in to Morgans Hotel in Midtown. Jean Rizzo followed. After his meeting with Gunther Hartog, Jean had half expected to find Jeff Stevens in Manhattan too. He’d put some feelers out, but so far had found no sign of Tracy Whitney’s elusive ex.

If that was disappointing, Elizabeth Kennedy was proving to be even more so. For the last twenty days, “Martha” had done a good impression of being a wealthy tourist like any other. Jean had patiently followed her to two Broadway plays, numerous dinners in expensive restaurants (always solo) and a string of deathly dull visits to museums, galleries and every conceivable tourist attraction, from the Rockefeller Center ice rink to the Empire State Building.

Back in Lyon, Jean’s boss was not amused.

“We’re not the CIA,” Henri Marceau said grumpily. “We don’t have the budget for this crap.”

“Elizabeth Kennedy’s my only live lead.”

“She’s not a lead. She’s a hunch. You have nothing on her, Jean. Not as far as the Bible killings go.”

“That’s why I need to stay here. At least until next weekend. She’s planning something for the Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden, I’m sure of it. Sooner or later she’ll have to make contact with her partner. He’s our guy, Henri. He’s our guy.”

Henri Marceau had known Jean Rizzo a long time. He was a good detective with sharp instincts, but his heart was ruling his head on this one. Running all over the world, chasing shadows on the spurious advice of Gunther Hartog, a dying con artist with an ax to grind. And for what? A string of dead hookers. There were live cases, human-trafficking operations and drug rings and pedophile networks that desperately needed resources.

“I can’t justify it, Jean. I’m sorry. As of tomorrow, you’re there on your own dime.”

Sylvie, Jean’s ex, was equally unimpressed.

“It’s Christmas. You’ve been gone a month. What about the children?”

“I’ll bring them back something amazing from FAO Schwarz.”

“Something amazing? Really. Like what? A father who keeps his promises?”

Jean felt terrible about Clémence and Luc. But he couldn’t go home, not until he’d made progress. If another girl got killed in New York and he’d done nothing to stop it, he’d never forgive himself.

Finally, yesterday, his tenacity had paid off. Elizabeth Kennedy still hadn’t met up with her elusive partner. But she
had
begun tailing Bianca Berkeley.

TV actress, Scientologist and wife of the billionaire real estate mogul Butch Berkeley, Bianca Berkeley was beautiful, rich and
weird
. Gossip columnists loved her for her Howard Hughes–esque fits of hypochondria. Bianca had variously been reported as sleeping in an “oxygen helmet,” drinking her own urine daily and employing an astrologer to determine her diet, all in hopes of strengthening her immunity to any number of imagined diseases. Butch stuck with her because she was beautiful and famous and because she didn’t care if he slept with his assistant or his trainer as long as he kept her in jewels and jets.

The Berkeleys were confirmed attendees at this year’s Winter Ball. Yesterday “Martha Langbourne” had left her hotel after an early breakfast and followed Bianca Berkeley, first to her Pilates class, then to her psychic’s office and finally to Tiffany’s, where Bianca had spent an hour locked in conference with the store’s manager, Lucio Trivoli. Today Mrs. B was at Barneys buying Louboutin boots and “trinkets” for her staff, including (so far) a Patek Philippe watch with a seven-figure price tag and a crystal bracelet that claimed to “neutralize the ions” in the body.

Martha was right behind her. It was beyond question now. Bianca Berkeley was Elizabeth Kennedy’s latest target.

Jean watched as the two women moved through furs and accessories, then back into haberdashery. Mrs. Berkeley bought nothing else, although “Martha Langbourne” treated herself to some three-hundred-dollar cashmere-lined gloves with a silk gold trim, paid for with an unlimited AmEx in the same name, just like her hotel room. Jean Rizzo had checked the statements a week ago. ML was obviously an identity Elizabeth had used before while in the United States, although the cards hadn’t been used in more than a year. The abortive Los Angeles jaunt had been paid for with other monies. Ms. Kennedy and her partner were nothing if not careful.

Jean watched as Bianca Berkeley left the store by the main exit on Madison Avenue. He was about to follow when some sixth sense made him hold back. As expected, Elizabeth Kennedy followed her quarry. But this time Jean clocked the two young men walking behind her. They were dressed in jeans and sweaters. One carried a woolen overcoat over his arm. Jean couldn’t see their faces, but something about the way they moved, the slight inclination of their heads toward each other, told him at once that they were working together.

Could Elizabeth have more than one accomplice? Did she work as part of a gang?

Unhurriedly, Jean raised his cell phone and began taking pictures, making sure to look as if he were focusing on Barneys’ spectacular Christmas display and not on the two men. To his dismay, moments later a crowd of shoppers surged forward, sweeping the two men out of the store and onto Madison Avenue just yards behind Elizabeth.

Jean didn’t know if he’d caught their faces or not. His mind raced.
There’s too many people. By the time I make it onto the street, they could all be gone.
This might be the contact he’d been waiting for and he was seconds away from missing it!

Pushing rudely past a fat woman and her fatter son, he rushed to the nearest ground-floor window, behind a relatively sedate display selling Smythson diaries and notebooks. Pressing his face to the glass, he saw Bianca Berkeley step into her waiting town car and speed away. He couldn’t see Elizabeth or the two men.

“Damn it!” he said aloud, earning himself more than one bemused glance from nearby shoppers. Just as he was about to make a belated run for the doors, one of the two men appeared in front of the window, literally inches from where Jean was standing. Instinctively, Jean shrank back. The man had his coat on now. He was short with dark hair, but he still had his back turned.
Turn around, damn you.
At one point he leaned back so that his woolen coat actually touched the glass. Then he edged forward, apparently waving to someone across the street. Jean couldn’t see who it was. Seconds later the man’s hand shot out. A yellow cab pulled up.