Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(50)

“Jesus. Don’t look at me. I don’t know any hookers!”

“I wonder, sir, is this woman familiar to you?”

Jean took out Tracy Whitney’s picture.

“Is she the prostitute?” Sheila Brookstein was still looking daggers at her husband, who was studying the image closely.

“No,” said Jean. “But she may be connected to the case. Mr. Brookstein, do you recognize the woman in the picture?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’?” Sheila Brookstein’s shrill voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Either you know her or you don’t.”

“My God, Sheila, would you shut up for five seconds?” Alan Brookstein looked at the picture again. “Her hair’s different now. And she’s older than she is in this picture. But I think it might be the chick from the insurance company.”

“You met this woman?” Jean tried to conceal his elation.

“Yeah.”

“Recently?”

“She came to the house a week ago. Warned me about these pinhole cameras—turns out that’s exactly what the thieves used to get the code to my safe. I guess I should have taken her more seriously.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brookstein. Mrs. Brookstein. You’ve been a great help.”

“Did this woman have anything to do with the robbery? What about my necklace?” Sheila Brookstein demanded.

Jean Rizzo was already out the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, JEAN Rizzo was in the car at six o’clock. Back in her heyday, Tracy Whitney had stayed in nothing but the best hotels. Armed with her picture, Jean started downtown and headed west, hitting L.A.’s most luxurious establishments. By ten, he had drawn a blank at five of the seven hotels on his list: the Ritz-Carlton, the Four Seasons, the Peninsula, the Roosevelt and the SLS. He began to doubt himself. Maybe she rented a mansion? Maybe she stayed with a friend or a lover? Maybe she lost all her money somehow and is holed up in a motel? Maybe Alan Brookstein was mistaken and she was never here in L.A. at all? Jean Rizzo wouldn’t be the first person to end up chasing shadows where Tracy Whitney was concerned.

The manager at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica was polite but insistent.

“I recognize all our guests, Inspector. I am one hundred percent positive this young lady has not been staying with us.”

That left only the Hotel Bel-Air. More in hope than with any expectation of a positive response, Jean showed the manager Tracy’s picture.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Schmidt. Bungalow six. She checked out four days ago.”

“She did?” Jean was so delighted, he couldn’t quite take in the information. “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

“Um . . .” The manager typed something into his computer. “No. I’m afraid not. But I have a billing address for the credit card. Would you like that?”

Jean nodded enthusiastically.

“Lovely lady,” the manager said as he printed out the details. “If only all our guests were as kind and conscientious. She left a very generous tip and was politeness itself.”

“Mm-hmm.” Jean wasn’t listening.

“Her son was delightful too.”

The manager handed Jean the address.

“Her son?”

“Nicholas. Charming boy. Terribly good-looking too, although I suppose it’s hardly surprising with genes like that.” The manager smiled, then frowned suddenly as if something had just occurred to him. “She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“No no,” said Jean. “Nothing like that.”

Out in the car, he read the address the manager had given him.

Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

Jean Rizzo wasn’t sure how he’d pictured Tracy Whitney’s life, assuming that she was, indeed, still alive. But he found it hard to imagine the most successful con artist of all time living quietly as a small-town mom up in the mountains. He thought for a moment about calling Milton Buck and telling him what he’d discovered. It would be fun to wipe the smug smile off the arrogant FBI man’s face. But he soon thought better of it. Buck’s only interest was in solving the robbery cases and finding the missing jewelry and artworks. Jean Rizzo had a killer to catch. Besides, this was his information. The FBI isn’t scratching my back. Why should I scratch theirs?


His flight home to France would have to wait.

It was time to pay a visit to Mrs. Tracy Schmidt.





CHAPTER 14



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.