Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(56)

“And if I refuse?” Tracy’s eyes flashed defiantly.

“I’ll expose you. I’ll tell your son the truth. I’m sorry, Tracy”—Jean sighed—“but I don’t have a choice.”

There were a few moments of silence. Then Tracy said, “Once we find her, do you swear you will leave me alone? You will never, ever try to contact me again?”

“You have my word.”

Jean offered her his hand. Tracy shook it. He had a firm handshake, and his palm was warm and dry against her own.

Tracy thought, I trust him.

God help me.

Jean signed the check and they walked outside. The crisp night air felt reviving to both of them as they walked to Jean’s car.

“So,” said Jean. “You’re Elizabeth Kennedy. You’ve spent the last six months planning to steal the Brookstein rubies only to have your archrival beat you to the punch at the very last moment. What’s your next move?”

Tracy thought for a moment.

“Regroup. When a job goes wrong, you need some time to recover. You analyze it, try to learn from your mistakes.”


“Okay. Where? If it were you, where would you go to do that?”

“If it were me?” Tracy paused, then smiled. “Home. If it were me, I’d go home.”





CHAPTER 15



LONDON

THREE MONTHS LATER . . .



EDWIN GREAVES WATCHED THE rain stream down his kitchen windowpane and wondered, What did I come in here for again? Edwin Greaves’s large, comfortable flat looked over Cadogan Gardens. The communal tennis courts were drenched and deserted, overhung by trees stripped bare of their leaves by the driving rain and bitter autumn winds.

I used to play tennis. Charlie could always beat me, though. Even as a little boy.

Where is Charlie?

Charlie Greaves, Edwin’s son, usually came on a Tuesday, to help Edwin with his mail and his grocery shopping at Harrods. Edwin Greaves always shopped at Harrods. One must maintain some standards after all, even in one’s nineties.

Why wasn’t Charlie here yet? Perhaps it wasn’t Tuesday? Although Edwin could have sworn it was.

“Can I help you with the tea, Mr. Greaves?”

A young woman’s voice drifted through from the drawing room.

Ah, that was it. Tea. I’m making tea for me and the nice young lady from Bonhams auction house.

“No, no, my dear. You make yourself comfortable. I’ll be through in a moment.”

The young woman smiled warmly when the old man finally shuffled back into the room. Setting down the tray with a rattle, he handed her a cup of tea in an antique Doulton china mug. It was stone cold.

“Thank you.” She sipped it anyway, pretending not to notice. “I’ve signed the paperwork here and attached the check. But perhaps we should wait for your son?”

“Why? It’s not his painting.”

“Well, no. But . . .”

“I’m not dead yet, you know.” Edwin Greaves laughed. His lungs made a ghastly, wheezing sound, like a broken accordion. “Although to hear Charlie’s wife talk, you’d think everything I owned was already theirs. Bloody vultures.” The old man’s face darkened suddenly. The young woman dealt with a lot of rich, elderly people. She knew well how their moods could shift at the drop of a hat, like clouds in a stormy sky.

“Besides,” Edwin went on, “it’s not as if it’s a genuine Turner. Everyone knows it’s a fake.”

“That’s true,” the young woman said amiably. “But it’s still valuable. Gresham Knight was one of the most brilliant forgers of his generation. That’s why my client is prepared to make such a generous offer.”

“May I?” Edwin Greaves’s gnarled fingers reached for the check. He held it up close to his face, scanning and rescanning the number with his rheumy old eyes. “Fifty thousand pounds?” He looked at the woman from Bonhams in astonishment. “That’s far too much money! Good gracious, my dear, I can’t possibly accept that.”

She laughed. “Like I say, it’s not a Turner, but that doesn’t mean it’s worthless. My advice is that you make the sale. But of course, if you prefer to wait for your son . . .”

“No, no, no,” Edwin Greaves said tetchily. “Charlie’s coming on Tuesday. It’s not his painting anyway. We’re going to go through my mail.”

The young woman passed him a pen. Edwin Greaves signed the papers.

“We were going to play tennis, but then this beastly rain set in.”

“That’s a shame. May I take the painting now?”

“Charlie comes on Tuesdays.”

She slipped the painting into the padded canvas bag she’d brought along for the purpose.

“There’s the check, Mr. Greaves, on the coffee table. Would you like me to put it somewhere safe for you?”

“This dratted tea’s gone cold.” Edwin Greaves frowned down at his cup in confusion. “He’s terribly good at tennis, Charlie. He always beats me.”

The old man was still muttering as the young woman took her leave, closing the front door of the flat behind her.

ELIZABETH KENNEDY LAUGHED TO herself as the black cab splashed along the Embankment toward the City.