Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

CHECK.”

“What? How is that check?” Tracy looked at the board, then at Nicholas. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you move my queen while I was putting the pizza in the oven?”

“You’re so suspicious, Mom! Why is that?”

“Did you?”

Nicholas put on his best, wide-­eyed innocent expression.

“You know the first rule of chess is never take your eyes off the board. You shouldn’t have to ask me that question.”

“Have you ever thought of going into politics?” Tracy asked, amused. “You’d be great at it.”

“Thanks.” Nicholas grinned. “Your move.”

Tracy moved her last remaining bishop, which Nicholas promptly took with his pawn. Four moves later it was checkmate.

I really must call him on the cheating, she thought, after Nicholas disappeared outside to find Blake Carter. Blake would have hit the roof if he’d witnessed that little maneuver with the queen. But Nicky was so charming, at least in his mother’s eyes, that Tracy didn’t have the heart to play bad cop. Since their return from L.A., she’d felt even more protective of her son than usual. Stealing that necklace and showing her face to her rival had been a crazy risk to take. The guilt had hit Tracy belatedly, but it hit hard.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts just as she was pulling the pizza out of the oven. Blake Carter’s ability to smell a thin-­crust pepperoni from more than three fields away was quite unrivaled. Smiling, Tracy opened the door to find herself face-­to-­face with a good-­looking stranger.

“Can I help you?”

Dark and stocky with gray eyes and a kind, oddly off-­kilter face, the man was staring at her with a strange intensity. Then he said three words that felt like lead being poured into Tracy’s heart.

“Hello, Ms. Whitney.”

IT TOOK TRACY A few seconds to regain her breath, never mind her composure. Jean Rizzo watched the blood drain from her face, then rush back to her cheeks. She was prettier in the flesh than he’d expected. More youthful-­ and natural-­looking.

“I’m sorry. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”

Tracy started to close the door. Jean stuck out a hand to stop her. He briefly flashed his Interpol ID.

“I tell you what. Let’s make a deal. You don’t waste my time and I won’t waste yours. I know you took the Brookstein rubies.”

“Really, I have no idea what—­”

“I couldn’t care less about the necklace.”

Tracy paused for a split second, then said, “What necklace?”

Jean Rizzo sighed.

“I don’t want to arrest you, Ms. Whitney. But I will if I have to. I’m here because I need your help. Can I come in?”

Tracy’s quick mind began working overtime. Her first thought was Nicholas. He was out at the stables with Blake, but he was sure to return soon.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” she told Jean curtly.

He followed her into a large, country-­style kitchen. It was warm and homey rather than grand. Chess pieces and kids’ magazines littered the farmhouse table and childish artwork had been framed and hung everywhere, along with countless photographs of a cute, dark-­haired boy in various stages of development. The boy looked vaguely familiar.

“Your son?”

“What do you want, Inspector Rizzo?” Tracy’s tone was far from welcoming.

Jean responded in kind. “You can lose the attitude, Ms. Whitney. Like I said, I know you stole Sheila Brookstein’s ruby necklace in Los Angeles last week. I could arrest you right now and we could do this interview down at the local police station if you prefer.”

“Go ahead.” Tracy held out her arms mockingly. “Arrest me.”

When Jean hesitated, she laughed loudly. “You have no proof of anything, Inspector. If you could arrest me, you would. So I suggest you lose the attitude, or get the hell out of my house.”

Jean took off his coat and sat down at the table. “You’re very sure of yourself, Ms. Whitney. How do you know I have no proof?”

Tracy looked at him levelly. In this game of chess she had no intention of taking her eye off the board, not for a second.

“Because I haven’t stolen any ruby necklace.”

Now it was Jean’s turn to laugh. This woman was a piece of work.

“And by the way, my name is Tracy Schmidt.”

“Yeah? And mine’s Rip Van Winkle.”

“How unfortunate for you, Inspector Van Winkle.” Tracy’s green eyes danced.

“I blame my mother.” Jean played along.

“Why’s that? Surely it was your father’s name?”

“That’s true. But Mom didn’t have to go with ‘Rip.’ ”

Tracy grinned.

Jean said, “I tell you what. How about I call you ‘Tracy,’ and you can call me ‘Jean’?”

He extended his hand.

“Okay, Jean.” Tracy liked him instinctively, but she kept her wits about her. This man was a cop. He was not her friend. “How can I help you?”

“I’m investigating a series of murders.”

A look of surprise crossed her face. Jean gave her the details of the Bible Killer cases in broad brushstrokes. Tracy listened intently. She was horrified at the crimes Jean was describing, but she was also anxious to get him out of her house before Nicholas returned.

“The last girl was killed a week ago, in Hollywood. The day after you sto— The day after Sheila Brookstein’s rubies were stolen. The victim’s name was Sandra Whitmore. She had a son about the same age as yours.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tracy. “Truly I am. There are some sick bastards out there. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I know nothing about any Sandra Whitmore, or any of these women.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Jean. “I have a theory . . . I need to go through each of the cases with you one by one, in detail. It’s going to take time.”

Tracy stood up. Nicholas and Blake would be back any minute.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have time. You need to leave now.”

“I’ll leave when you’ve answered my questions,” Jean said angrily.

He stood up and looked out of the window. A young boy was walking toward the house, arm in arm with an older man.

The manager of the Hotel Bel-­Air was right. The boy was very good-­looking. It suddenly struck Jean where he’d seen him before.

“That’s a handsome kid you got there.”

“Thank you.”

“Is that his father with him?”

Tracy stiffened. “No.”

She looked over Jean’s shoulder. Nicholas and Blake were getting closer. She felt the fear rising up within her. If this man said anything in front of them, in front of Nicky . . .

“Please. You have to leave.”

“Where is his father?”

“His father is dead.”

“Interesting,” Jean Rizzo said. “Because last I heard, Mr. Stevens was very much alive. According to the FBI, he has a very interesting sideline these days. In the historical-­treasures business.”

Tracy gripped the countertop. The floor seemed to be giving way beneath her.

She turned to Jean, unable either to speak or to hide the turmoil of emotions churning inside her. How did he know about Jeff? She did not want to hear about Jeff. Not now, not ever. And certainly not from this strange, aggressive little man who somehow knew who she was and was here talking about murders, and rapes and crimes that had nothing to do with her.

“Help me solve these killings,” said Jean.

“I can’t. You must believe me. Your theory is wrong. I have nothing to do with this!”

“Help me or I’ll tell your boy the truth.”

The kitchen door swung open.

Nicholas looked up curiously at the strange man with his mother.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” Jean smiled.

“Who are you?”

The boy seemed surprised but in no way unnerved to see an unknown male in his kitchen. Unlike the rugged cowboy who’d walked in with him, who was glowering at Jean with obvious distrust. The guy looked like a throwback to an old Clint Eastwood movie. Boyfriend? wondered Jean.

Tracy seemed to have lost the power of speech. All her earlier confidence had evaporated. She felt as if she might faint. Eventually she stammered, “Th-This is, er . . . this is . . .”

“My name is Jean. I’m an old friend of your mother’s.”

“From Europe?” asked Nicholas. “Before I was born?”

Jean Rizzo glanced at Tracy. She nodded imperceptibly.

“That’s right. I was hoping your mother might be able to have dinner with me tonight. To catch up on old times. I’m staying down in town.”

“She can’t tonight. We have plans.”

Blake Carter’s voice rang out, as steady and solid and reassuring as the chiming of an old church bell.

“Right, Tracy?”

One look at Tracy had been enough to convince Blake that her “old friend” Jean was nothing of the sort. Blake thought, She’s frightened. Tracy’s never frightened.

“Tomorrow, then?” asked Jean.

The old cowboy had wrapped a protective arm around Tracy’s shoulder in a gesture that could have been paternal or romantic. Jean found himself wondering about their relationship, and what, if anything, the older man knew of Tracy’s past. Or her present, come to think of it.

“Okay,” said Tracy, to Blake Carter’s evident distress. “Tomorrow.”

She never wanted to see Jean Rizzo’s face again. But what choice did she have?

The game of chess was on and it was Tracy’s move.

GIANNI’S, A COZY ITALIAN in the mountain village area, right at the foot of the ski slopes, was popular with locals and tourists alike. The staff all knew Tracy by sight, although Mrs. Schmidt rarely ate out. Everyone wondered who the handsome man was, dining with Steamboat’s wealthiest widow in the corner booth. But nobody asked.

Jean got straight to business. He handed Tracy a sheaf of pictures, mostly family snapshots of the twelve victims. Izia Moreno at her high school graduation in Madrid. Alissa Armand laughing with her sister at a campsite outside Paris. Sandra Whitmore cradling her baby son in her arms.

“The women were all prostitutes. They were killed over a nine-­year period, in different cities all over the world.”

“But you think it’s the same killer?”

“It is the same killer. There aren’t many certainties in this investigation but that’s one of them.”

Jean told her about the murderer’s obsession with neatness and the Bible verses. “He’s familiar with police procedures, or at least with the ways in which DNA evidence is collected. He cleans up the crime scenes to protect himself, but it goes beyond that. He’s staging the bodies. It’s like theater.”

Tracy listened but said nothing. She ordered linguine vongole for both of them, a specialty of the house, but barely touched her plate when it arrived.

“I still don’t see where I come in.”

“Each murder took place between twenty-­four and forty-­eight hours after a major heist of some kind in the same city. None of those robberies were solved. All of them were complicated, meticulously planned and executed. More than half involved a woman. There aren’t many women in your business, as you know.”

“What business is that, Inspector?”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Come on now, Miss Whitney.”

“Let’s stick with ‘Tracy.’ And lower your voice.”

“Sorry. The point is there are very few females operating at this level. We’re talking seven-­figure jobs here. Highly sophisticated.”

Tracy nodded. “Go on.”

“I started researching the robberies and looking for female suspects. Your name popped up on the Interpol database. The first thing I noticed was that no one had seen hide nor hair of you in nine years, when you disappeared from London.”

“So?”

“So the first victim, Karen Harle, was killed nine years ago. In London. Same time. Same city. You disappeared, and these murders began.”

Jean sipped his wine and looked at Tracy expectantly.

Tracy stared back at him. If this man weren’t threatening to expose her identity and destroy her and Nicholas’s life, she might almost have laughed.

“That’s it? That’s your connection? The nine-­year London thing?”

Jean bristled. “It’s a link.”

“It’s nothing of the sort! It’s a coincidence! And I didn’t disappear. I left. I needed a new start and I got one.”

“A coincidence?” said Jean. “Really? Let’s fast-­forward, shall we? New York City, three years later. A Pissarro is stolen from a private residence on Fifth Avenue in broad daylight by a woman posing as an employee of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Does that not sound like one of your jobs to you?”

“It sounds audacious,” Tracy conceded. “I like the broad-­daylight part. But I was nowhere near New York at that time.”

Jean went on.

“Okay. Chicago A diamond bracelet and two pairs of matching earrings are stolen from a Neil Lane store. Not only were cameras and alarms disabled and then reset, but it was three weeks before anybody discovered that the gems were even missing. The fakes used to replace them were such expert reproductions.”

“Again, impressive attention to detail.”

“But not ringing any bells?”

Tracy sipped her wine. “None whatsoever.”

“Mumbai, two years ago. An unscrupulous property developer is conned into buying a nonexistent title to a piece of land the size of a handkerchief by a beautiful young American woman whom he believes to be romantically interested in him.”

“Was the man married?”

“He was, as it happens. Why do you ask?”

Tracy shrugged. “Serves him right, then, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’ll tell you what I would say.” Jean Rizzo leaned across the table. “I would say that every one of these jobs has your name written all over it.”

“Except for the one tiny issue . . . that I wasn’t in New York or Chicago on the dates in question! As for Mumbai, I’ve never been to India in my life. And Hong Kong and Lima and . . . all of these . . .” She pushed the stack of files that Jean had placed on the table between them back in his direction. “I haven’t left the United States in nine years, Inspector. Ask any mother at Nicky’s school if you don’t believe me. I’ve been right here, in Steamboat Springs. The whole town’s my alibi.”

A waitress came over and removed the vongoles, untouched. Jean Rizzo ordered coffees and a plate of cantuccini. All that wine on an empty stomach was starting to go to his head.

Tracy said, “I’d like to help you, Inspector. I would. I think what happened to these women is horrific and I hope you get the guy who did it. But you came here looking for Tracy Whitney, and the truth is that Tracy Whitney is dead. She died nine years ago.”

“Hmm,” said Jean.

“Even if she were alive, she was never in the business of hurting ­people.”

“Hmm,” said Jean again.

“What? What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“I was just thinking that for a dead chick, she pulled off a pretty neat job in L.A. ten days ago. Tracy Whitney must have been quite a lady.”

Tracy laughed. “I believe she was.”

“Those rubies must be worth, what? Two, three million? Maybe more to a private collector.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Tracy smiled sweetly. “Ah, lovely. The coffee’s arrived.”

Watching her sip the thick, black liquid, Jean Rizzo could see quite clearly why so many men had become obsessed with Tracy Whitney. She was beautiful, of course, but there was far more to it than that. She was clever and funny, and she clearly took delight in outwitting her adversaries on both sides of the law. He decided to change tack.

“So your son knows nothing. About your past, or about his father.”

Tracy put down her cup slowly and fixed Jean with a steely glare. There was no more banter now. Battle lines had been drawn.

“No, he doesn’t. And he never will.”

“Does Jeff Stevens even know he has a child?”

“Jeff Stevens doesn’t have a child!” Tracy shot back angrily. “At least, not with me. Nicky’s mine. Only mine. I raised him. I’m all he needs.”

Aware that she’d just raised her voice, Tracy shrank back into the shadows of the booth. Jean Rizzo thought about his own children and how desperately he missed them. He felt a stab of pity for Jeff Stevens.

Reading his mind, Tracy said, “You don’t understand, Inspector.”

“Jean.”

“Jean,” Tracy corrected herself. “You don’t know Jeff like I do.”

“I don’t hate him like you do, you mean.”

“Hate him?” Tracy looked genuinely shocked. “I don’t hate Jeff. I just love Nicky. That’s a very different thing. You’re going to have to trust me when I tell you that Jeff would have made a lousy father. Oh, he’s loving and charming and perfectly adorable. But you can’t rely on him. Jeff would have broken Nicky’s heart in the end. Just like he broke mine.”

“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. “Why?”

“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.”