Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(54)

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.”