Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(51)

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.”