Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(33)

London: THEFT. $500,000 plus. Diamonds/other. Private residence (Reiss).



New York: THEFT. Fine art. Pissarro. Private residence (McMenemy).



Chicago: THEFT. $1m plus. Jewelry. Commercial (Neil Lane).



Buenos Aires, Hong Kong, Mumbai.





THEFT. THEFT. THEFT.

Jean Rizzo felt his heart start to race. He picked up the telephone.

“Benjamin?’

“Rizzo?” Benjamin Jamet, Interpol’s Paris Bureau chief, sounded distinctly groggy.

“I found something. Major thefts. Art, diamonds, almost all of them seven figures. One or two days before every single murder. Has anything splashy gone down in Paris in the last two days?”

“Putain de merde,” Benjamin Jamet growled. “Do you know what time it is?”

“This would have been big.” Jean ignored him. “Did anyone hit Cartier or an embassy or . . . I don’t know . . . the Louvre? Most likely art but could have been high-end jewels.”

There was a long pause on the end of the line.

“As a matter of fact, there was something. The German ambassador’s wife had a valuable collection of miniatures stolen from her safe.”

“How valuable?”

“Over a million euros.”

“When?”

“On Wednesday night.” Benjamin Jamet sighed. “But look, Jean, this has nothing to do with your dead hooker. We’re treating it as a domestic incident. All the embassy staff are being questioned. There were no signs of a break-in and . . . Jean? Jean, are you there?”

JEAN RIZZO STAGGERED INTO work at nine the next morning, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Ignoring colleagues’ greetings and jokes about his haggard appearance, he went straight into his office and closed the door.

After five minutes, his secretary, Marie, braved the lion’s den.

“Coffee?”

“Yes. Please. Lots.”

“Your ex-wife called. She says your daughter’s going home this afternoon.”

“Good,” said Jean. He didn’t look up.

He had a lead. His first lead since he’d taken on this miserable case. Nothing else mattered.

Eleven murders, all bearing the hallmarks of the same killer.

Eleven audacious thefts, in the same cities, two days before the girls died.

None of the crimes solved.

There was a link. There had to be. It was simply too much of a coincidence.

But the link wasn’t a simple one. On the surface, Jean could think of no plausible motive that connected the slayings of prostitutes with the pilfering of fine art. Moreover, in at least three of the robberies, the suspected perpetrator had been a woman. Although he didn’t yet have the DNA to prove it, Jean Rizzo would have staked his children’s lives on the fact that the Bible Killer was male. No woman could have inflicted those vile, sexual injuries on another woman.

The coffee arrived. Jean drank two strong cups. Without much hope of success, he ran an initial database trawl for suspected art and jewel thieves, operating internationally and at the very highest end of the market. The list ran to well over four hundred names.

Scrolling up to sort by gender, Jean checked the female box and hit search.

Five files appeared on his screen.

Five!

One was dead.

Three were in jail.

Jean Rizzo clicked open the fifth file. A young woman’s face appeared on his computer screen. She was so beautiful, with her porcelain skin and chestnut hair and intelligent, moss-green eyes, that Jean found it impossible to look away

“Tracy Whitney,” he murmured to himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”





CHAPTER 9



TAKE A SEAT PLEASE, Mrs. Schmidt. Mrs. Carson.”

Principal Barry Jones of Steamboat Springs Elementary School looked at the two mothers seated opposite him and their respective sons. Tracy Schmidt was a knockout. With her slender figure, shining chestnut hair and exquisite green eyes, she looked far younger than her thirty-seven years. Everybody knew that Mrs. Schmidt was a widow, and wealthy, but that was about all they knew. Living way up on that ranch with old Blake Carter, the lady kept to herself and had done so ever since she moved to the town almost a decade ago now. Of course, given her beauty, there were always rumors. Some said Tracy and Blake were an item. Principal Jones found that hard to believe. Others suggested she might be gay, but from where Principal Jones was sitting, she came across a lot more Ellen Barkin than Ellen DeGeneres.


Tracy’s son, Nicholas, sat beside her. He had slightly darker coloring but was equally good looking. Unfortunately he was also the scourge of third grade, in and out of hot water more often than a reusable tea bag.

On the other side of the principal’s desk, their fat arms folded like giant, white sausages, sat Emmeline Carson and her boy, Ryan. Ryan Carson was a promising ice hockey player, popular in class, and a bully. He had a square head and close-set eyes that made him look dumber than he actually was. No mean feat. Ryan’s nickname was “Rock” and it suited him on any number of levels. He also took after his mother. Emmeline Carson had one of those faces that looked oddly flattened, although her forehead bulged unappealingly above it. As if a steamroller had begun the job of running over her head, then thought better of it and reversed.