“What happened between you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Did she mind? Jean Rizzo was a total stranger. Worse than that, he was a cop. But somehow, Tracy found herself pouring out the whole story. She told him about losing her first baby with Jeff. She told him about her struggles to adjust to married life and domesticity. She told him about walking in on Jeff and Rebecca Mortimer kissing in the bedroom in Eaton Square, about the terrible, searing pain of betrayal. Finally she told him about seeing Rebecca again out of the blue in L.A. last month, having dinner with Sheila Brookstein.
“I went to Los Angeles for a vacation with my son. That’s the truth. I had no intention of”—she searched around for the right word—“coming out of retirement. But as soon as I saw her, I knew she was after that necklace. I had a chance to pay her back in some small way for what she did to me, and I took it.”
“I understand,” said Jean.
Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”
“Of course. You’ll be pleased to know that your friend ‘Rebecca’ is the FBI’s prime suspect in the Brookstein job. Her real name is Elizabeth Kennedy, by the way.” Jean retrieved the picture Milton Buck had given him from his briefcase and handed it over.
Tracy stared at it intently.
Elizabeth.
It was too nice a name, too innocuous. It didn’t feel right.
Tracy was silent for a long time, lost in thought. Eventually Jean Rizzo said, “They want her for the other two U.S. jobs as well. The Pissarro theft in New York and the Chicago diamonds.”
Tracy took this in.
“What about the other robberies?” she asked. “The ones in Europe and Asia, where the girls were murdered afterward?”
“The feds don’t believe there’s a connection between any of the robberies and the Bible Killer murders,” Jean said bitterly. “Besides, you know how it works. The Bureau doesn’t give a crap about things that happen outside their jurisdiction. They could pass the intel on to us, but they don’t. They don’t even share with the CIA. It’s political and pathetic, and meanwhile these girls are out there getting butchered.” He filled her in on his abortive meeting with Agent Milton Buck in Los Angeles.
“Okay. But now you know about ‘Elizabeth,’ ” said Tracy. The name still felt odd to her. “Surely you can get the word out through Interpol? You don’t need the FBI.”
“Hmm,” Jean said again.
Tracy waited patiently for his vocabulary to catch up with his brain. She was used to policemen who shot their mouths off first and thought later. Arrogant, impulsive, sloppy policemen had helped Tracy make her fortune. Jean Rizzo was different.
I like him, she thought. I’ll have to watch that.
When Jean finally spoke, it was slowly, as if he were thinking aloud, piecing things together as he went along.
“The problem is, I didn’t believe it was Elizabeth. I thought it was you.”
“You thought I ran around the world killing prostitutes?”
“No no no. Of course not. Our killer’s a man.”
“Okay, good. Glad we got that straightened out.”
“But I thought you were the link between the robberies and the murders.”
“Because of the nine-year thing?”
“Because of the nine years. Because of London. Because you’re a woman. Because these robberies were so close to your old MO—clever but simple, well planned, geographically spread out, always at a worthwhile price point.”
Tracy smiled. “You’re making me feel quite nostalgic.”
“Because you did do the Brookstein job,” he continued, counting the reasons off on his fingers. “Because I don’t believe in coincidences. At least, not twelve in a row. And because there wasn’t another viable suspect.”
“Until now,” said Tracy.
Jean nodded. “Until now. I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess? Now you have Elizabeth Kennedy. Right?”
“Hmm.”
“Really? We’re back to ‘hmm’?”
Jean looked up at her. “I still think you’re the link.”
Tracy put her head in her hands.
“Think about it,” said Jean. “These jobs are exactly like yours.”
“There are some similarities, on the surface,” Tracy conceded. “But I wasn’t there, Jean.”
“It’s more than similarities. If you didn’t do the robberies yourself—”
“No ‘if.’ I didn’t. I can prove it.”
“Then whoever did them is mimicking your techniques. That means they know you. Intimately. They know how you worked.”
No one knows how I worked, Tracy thought. No one except Jeff. And Gunther. But I hardly think Gunther’s running around the world pulling off jewel heists.
Aloud, she asked Jean, “Do you think someone’s trying to frame me?”
“It’s a possibility. Do you have any enemies that you know of?”
Tracy laughed loudly. “Hundreds!”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I! Let me think. There’s a man named Maximilian Pierpont who probably doesn’t have me at the top of his Christmas-card list. Then there’s Lois Bellamy, Gregory Halston, Alberto Fornati . . .” She listed some of her more prominent former victims. “Quite a number of people at the Prado museum in Madrid . . . Luckily most of them think I’m dead. Just like your friends at the FBI. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Of course, we may not be looking for an enemy at all,” said Jean. “There may be other motives in play. Possibly this person admired your work and wants to follow in your footsteps.”
“Like a fan, you mean? Or a tribute band?” Tracy asked mockingly.
“Is that so unlikely?”
“Unlikely? From where I’m sitting, it’s completely ridiculous. Look. Your only viable suspect for these robberies is Elizabeth Kennedy. She’s a woman, she’s active, and she operates at this level. I know for a fact that she’d been working Sheila Brookstein for months. But I can assure you that that woman is no fan of mine. She seduced my husband, Inspector. She destroyed my life. And not for money. For fun.” Tracy’s voice hardened. “I hate her. And I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.”
“Yes, but don’t you see?” said Jean. “That still makes you the link. Elizabeth Kennedy emerges as a new suspect, totally unknown to Interpol until now . . . and even she’s connected to you.”
“Meaning?”
Jean groaned. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means.”
He’d lost the thread, if he ever even had one in the first place. He was hungry and exhausted. Trying to hold on to a thought felt like swimming through molasses.
“Forget me for the moment,” said Tracy. “Let’s assume there is a link between the robberies and the murders. Let’s also assume that Elizabeth was involved in all the robberies. Given that we know I wasn’t.”
Jean nodded. “Okay.”
“Shouldn’t your next move be to find Elizabeth? Whatever your doubts, Jean, the way I see it, she’s all you’ve got.”
“You could be right. But finding Elizabeth Kennedy may be easier said than done. The young lady’s a pro. She’s given the FBI the slip on at least three occasions that I know of. She evaporated out of L.A. after the Brookstein job even faster than you did.”
“And more successfully, evidently,” Tracy added ruefully. “So what do you know about her?”
“Not much.” Jean gave her the bare bones of Elizabeth’s history as provided by the FBI. Her upbringing in England, her juvenile record, the string of crimes in which she’d been identified as a “person of interest” and some of her known aliases. “The feds are convinced she works with a partner. A man. Just like you did with Jeff Stevens.”
“I doubt that.”
Jean looked surprised. “W
hy?”
“Why split the money if you don’t have to? Jeff and I were different. A one-shot deal, if you like. Only a man would assume that a woman like Elizabeth needs a man behind her, pulling the strings.”
Jean signaled for the check.
“Thanks for coming out tonight, Tracy.”
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” she said.
“Look. I like you,” said Jean. “I do. I can see you’ve built a good life here. I don’t want to cause trouble for you and your son.”
“Then don’t.” Despite herself, Tracy’s eyes began to well up. “I’ve told you as much as I know. Truly. Please leave us alone now.”
“I can’t,” said Jean. “Not yet.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? Of course you can!”
Jean shook his head. “I have a job to do, Tracy. I have to catch this bastard before he kills again. If the FBI catches up with Elizabeth Kennedy before I do, they’ll charge her with the thefts and send her to jail and we’ll lose our only link to this psycho, whoever he is. What you said just now was right. We need to find Elizabeth.”
“I didn’t say ‘we.’ I said ‘you,’ ” Tracy shot back angrily. “You need to find her, Jean.”
“We need to find her and follow her until we find him.”
“If there is a him.”
“I need your help, Tracy.”
“For God’s sake, I don’t know Elizabeth,” Tracy pleaded. “How can I possibly help you? I told you, I ran into her in L.A. by chance. Before that I hadn’t seen her in years. Almost a decade! I didn’t even know her real name till tonight.”
“The point is, she knows you,” said Jean. “She thinks like you. She operates like you. You’re inside her head, Tracy, whether you want to be or not. You have to help me find her before Milton Buck does.”
“And if I refuse?” Tracy’s eyes flashed defiantly.
“I’ll expose you. I’ll tell your son the truth. I’m sorry, Tracy”—Jean sighed—“but I don’t have a choice.”
There were a few moments of silence. Then Tracy said, “Once we find her, do you swear you will leave me alone? You will never, ever try to contact me again?”
“You have my word.”
Jean offered her his hand. Tracy shook it. He had a firm handshake, and his palm was warm and dry against her own.
Tracy thought, I trust him.
God help me.
Jean signed the check and they walked outside. The crisp night air felt reviving to both of them as they walked to Jean’s car.
“So,” said Jean. “You’re Elizabeth Kennedy. You’ve spent the last six months planning to steal the Brookstein rubies only to have your archrival beat you to the punch at the very last moment. What’s your next move?”
Tracy thought for a moment.
“Regroup. When a job goes wrong, you need some time to recover. You analyze it, try to learn from your mistakes.”
“Okay. Where? If it were you, where would you go to do that?”
“If it were me?” Tracy paused, then smiled. “Home. If it were me, I’d go home.”
CHAPTER 15
LONDON
THREE MONTHS LATER . . .
EDWIN GREAVES WATCHED THE rain stream down his kitchen windowpane and wondered, What did I come in here for again? Edwin Greaves’s large, comfortable flat looked over Cadogan Gardens. The communal tennis courts were drenched and deserted, overhung by trees stripped bare of their leaves by the driving rain and bitter autumn winds.
I used to play tennis. Charlie could always beat me, though. Even as a little boy.
Where is Charlie?
Charlie Greaves, Edwin’s son, usually came on a Tuesday, to help Edwin with his mail and his grocery shopping at Harrods. Edwin Greaves always shopped at Harrods. One must maintain some standards after all, even in one’s nineties.
Why wasn’t Charlie here yet? Perhaps it wasn’t Tuesday? Although Edwin could have sworn it was.
“Can I help you with the tea, Mr. Greaves?”
A young woman’s voice drifted through from the drawing room.
Ah, that was it. Tea. I’m making tea for me and the nice young lady from Bonhams auction house.
“No, no, my dear. You make yourself comfortable. I’ll be through in a moment.”
The young woman smiled warmly when the old man finally shuffled back into the room. Setting down the tray with a rattle, he handed her a cup of tea in an antique Doulton china mug. It was stone cold.
“Thank you.” She sipped it anyway, pretending not to notice. “I’ve signed the paperwork here and attached the check. But perhaps we should wait for your son?”
“Why? It’s not his painting.”
“Well, no. But . . .”
“I’m not dead yet, you know.” Edwin Greaves laughed. His lungs made a ghastly, wheezing sound, like a broken accordion. “Although to hear Charlie’s wife talk, you’d think everything I owned was already theirs. Bloody vultures.” The old man’s face darkened suddenly. The young woman dealt with a lot of rich, elderly people. She knew well how their moods could shift at the drop of a hat, like clouds in a stormy sky.
“Besides,” Edwin went on, “it’s not as if it’s a genuine Turner. Everyone knows it’s a fake.”
“That’s true,” the young woman said amiably. “But it’s still valuable. Gresham Knight was one of the most brilliant forgers of his generation. That’s why my client is prepared to make such a generous offer.”
“May I?” Edwin Greaves’s gnarled fingers reached for the check. He held it up close to his face, scanning and rescanning the number with his rheumy old eyes. “Fifty thousand pounds?” He looked at the woman from Bonhams in astonishment. “That’s far too much money! Good gracious, my dear, I can’t possibly accept that.”
She laughed. “Like I say, it’s not a Turner, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. My advice is that you make the sale. But of course, if you prefer to wait for your son . . .”
“No, no, no,” Edwin Greaves said tetchily. “Charlie’s coming on Tuesday. It’s not his painting anyway. We’re going to go through my mail.”
The young woman passed him a pen. Edwin Greaves signed the papers.
“We were going to play tennis, but then this beastly rain set in.”
“That’s a shame. May I take the painting now?”
“Charlie comes on Tuesdays.”
She slipped the painting into the padded canvas bag she’d brought along for the purpose.
“There’s the check, Mr. Greaves, on the coffee table. Would you like me to put it somewhere safe for you?”
“This dratted tea’s gone cold.” Edwin Greaves frowned down at his cup in confusion. “He’s terribly good at tennis, Charlie. He always beats me.”
The old man was still muttering as the young woman took her leave, closing the front door of the flat behind her.
ELIZABETH KENNEDY LAUGHED TO herself as the black cab splashed along the Embankment toward the City.
Stupid old fool.
Unzipping the canvas bag, Elizabeth looked lovingly at the painting, an exquisitely executed oil of a classic, Turneresque pastoral scene. Everything she’d told Edwin Greaves was true. The painting wasn’t a Turner. It was a forgery, one of Gresham Knight’s best. And it was valuable. At least ten times more valuable than the £50,000 Elizabeth had just paid for it. The check she’d given Edwin was real enough, although the account was untraceable to her. Greaves would get something for his stupidity, which was more than he deserved. Perhaps he could buy his grasping, inheritance-hungry son a new tennis racket?
London looked gray and dreary in the rain. The Thames snaked beside the road, swollen and sluggish. Commuters scurried into the tube stations like rats down a drain, stooped and shivering beneath their umbrellas and mackintosh raincoats. But Elizabeth was pleased to be h
ome. Warm and safe in the back of the cab, with her latest acquisition nestled triumphantly in her lap, she felt her confidence slowly returning.
L.A. had been a disaster. Months of work “grooming” the Brooksteins had ended in failure and humiliation at the hands of none other than Tracy bloody Whitney. Elizabeth loathed Tracy. Partly because people in the business still spoke of her in hushed tones, as if she were some sort of goddess whose record as a con artist could never be broken. By Elizabeth’s count, she had already outperformed Tracy Whitney on every measurable scale. She’d pulled off more jobs, for more money than Whitney had ever earned, even in her heyday. But the root of Elizabeth’s dislike was not professional envy, but sexual jealousy.
Jeff Stevens loved Tracy Whitney.
Elizabeth could not forgive Tracy for that.
Nor could she understand it.
I’m better looking than that bitch, and I’m infinitely better in bed. Why would Jeff choose her when he could have had me?
Elizabeth hadn’t intended to fall for Jeff. Indeed, of all her countless scores of male conquests, Jeff Stevens was the only man with whom she’d ever felt something more than a straightforward desire to have sex. Perhaps it was the fact that she’d never had him sexually, apart from that one kiss. And yet there had been intimacy there, emotionally. Jeff brought out something deeper in Elizabeth, something no other man had, before or since.
He’s like my mirror. My twin. He’s part of me.
Over the years, Elizabeth had researched Jeff’s life and background extensively. The more she discovered, the more similarities she found between his life and her own. They had both been abandoned by their parents when young, both effectively “adopted.” They’d learned to live by their wits from their midteens, and to use their good looks and street smarts to outwit the greedy and make their way in the world. They both did what they did for the thrill as much as for the money. And because they were the best at it. The best of the best. Add to that their powerful sexual chemistry and it was clear to Elizabeth that she and Jeff Stevens were destined to be together.
Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) Page 17