Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(49)

A few minutes later he handed a photograph to Jean.

“Her name is Elizabeth Kennedy. That’s one of her names anyway. She also goes by Liza Cunningham, Rebecca Mortimer and a string of other aliases. She’s a con woman, a very good one. We have reason to believe she knew Sheila Brookstein. She’s also a suspect in the Chicago job.”


Jean looked closely at the beautiful young woman with the white-blond hair, wide sensual mouth and high cheekbones, like a doll’s. It was hard to imagine what possible connection she might have to Sandra Whitmore, or any of the other murdered and mutilated girls. On the other hand, the same was true of Tracy Whitney.

The advantage Ms. Kennedy had over Ms. Whitney was that she was definitively alive. As a rule, Jean preferred live suspects to dead ones. Even so, he wasn’t prepared to let go of the Whitney connection just yet.

“Do you know where she is? This Kennedy woman.”

For the first time, Buck looked uncomfortable. “Not at present, no. We’re working on it. As I said, she uses a number of aliases.”

“May I keep this picture?”

Milton Buck sighed heavily. “If you want to. But it’s not going to help you. Look, Rizzo, you know as well as I do: hookers get killed in major cities all over the world, every day. There is no connection between your dead girl and the Brookstein rubies. You’re clutching at straws, man. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

BACK IN HIS HOTEL room at the Standard in Hollywood, Jean tried to switch off. It was still only lunchtime, but the abortive meeting with the FBI had exhausted him, physically and emotionally. He hated L.A. More than any other city in the world, it made him feel homesick. There was something so lonely and desolate beneath its glitz and glamour. Everybody was trying too hard. The smell of burned hopes lingering in the air made it hard to breathe.

Jean telephoned his children in France, desperate suddenly to hear their voices. Clémence was out at a sleepover. Luc was watching Winnie l’ourson and refused to be torn away from the TV.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sylvie said kindly. “He’s tired, that’s all.”

“I know. I miss him. I miss all of you.”

There was a pause. “Let’s not do this, Jean. I’m tired too.”

Divorce sucked.

Hanging up, Jean took out the pictures of Sandra Whitmore’s wrecked corpse and spread them out on the bed. Work was the best cure for heartbreak that Jean knew and he turned to it now, as he’d done so many times before.

The room Sandra was slaughtered in had been scrupulously cleaned, just like all the others. The Bible was there, with the highlighted text. Sandra’s nails had been cut and her hair brushed. She’d been posed with her legs splayed wide. Jean closed his eyes and pictured the killer staging the scene, “fixing” his victim’s body as if she were some sort of store mannequin. He felt a wave of hatred so strong it made him want to vomit.

Why wouldn’t the FBI help him?

Why wouldn’t Milton Buck even consider the possibility that either Tracy Whitney or his girl, Elizabeth Kennedy, might be involved? That there might be a connection between the con women and the prostitutes? Assistant Director Marsden had mentioned Whitney’s partner in crime today, Jeff Stevens. Jean didn’t know much about Stevens, beyond his name. Perhaps now was the time to do some more digging?

One step at a time. Let’s check out Tracy Whitney first.

Jean had three days left in L.A. before he was due to fly home to Lyon. The LAPD was understaffed and the FBI clearly had no intention of helping him. Whatever investigative work he wanted to do, he would have to do on his own.

He picked up the phone.

SET BACK FROM THE Pacific Coast Highway, with spectacular views over the ocean, Nobu Malibu is a favorite Friday-night dinner venue for Hollywood’s elite. Even a player like Alan Brookstein had had to call in a favor to get the coveted table nineteen out on the terrace. Wedged between Will and Jada Smith on one side and a billionaire Internet entrepreneur on the other, Alan Brookstein had hoped tonight’s dinner might help break Sheila out of her funk. So far, no dice. Ever since her rubies had been stolen, Sheila had been about as much fun as root-canal surgery without anesthetic.

Looking at her now, scowling down at her sushi, her small, mean mouth pursed like a cat’s anus, Alan Brookstein thought, I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. I wish I’d never bought you that damned necklace in the first place.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brookstein, Mrs. Brookstein? Do you mind if I sit down?”

The question was apparently rhetorical. The stocky little man with the Canadian accent had already pulled up a chair and positioned himself between the director and his wife.

“This won’t take long. I’m investigating a homicide here in Los Angeles. A young woman was murdered in Hollywood last Sunday night, the evening after the robbery at your property.” Jean Rizzo pulled out his Interpol ID card and laid it on the table.


“Murdered? How awful!” Sheila Brookstein said gleefully. The policeman was very handsome. A murder investigation would at least give her something to gossip about with her girlfriends. “Do we know the young woman?”

“I doubt it,” said Jean. “She worked as a prostitute.”

The gleeful look vanished from Sheila’s face, replaced by an accusatory glare directed toward her husband.