Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(60)

He slumped back on the chaise longue, exhausted by the effort of such a long diatribe.

Once Gunther had caught his breath, Jean asked, “Did you ever hear about Elizabeth working with a partner? A man?”

“Years ago, yes. But I haven’t exactly followed the young lady’s career. Why?”

Jean shrugged. “The Bible Killer’s male. I’m looking for a man connected to Elizabeth Kennedy or Tracy Whitney. Or both. Of course, there is one person who fits that description perfectly.”

Gunther frowned.

“You don’t mean Jeff?”

“Jeff Stevens was intimate with both women. He’s also still active, traveling all over the world looting antiquities.”

“Whatever else Jeff’s doing, it isn’t looting,” Gunther protested.

“The point is he’s out there, using a string of aliases. He could have been in any of the cities in question at the right time.”

Gunther shook his head. “Jeff had nothing to do with this. I’d bet my life on it.”

“According to his FBI file, he regularly uses prostitutes. Did you know that?”

“No,” Gunther said truthfully. “I didn’t. What I do know is that Jeff wouldn’t hurt a fly, still less a woman.”

“People change,” said Jean. “Maybe the split with Tracy pushed him over the edge. He could have had some sort of psychotic break. It happens.” He added, seeing Gunther’s skeptical expression, “When did you last see Jeff Stevens?”

“Some time ago,” Gunther said carefully. “I don’t remember exactly.”

“Months? Years?” Jean prompted.

“Years. Unfortunately.”

“Do you have any idea where he is now?”

“No,” said Gunther. “Although if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

He rang an old-fashioned brass bell to summon his nurse. His attitude toward Jean had clearly shifted for the worse.

“Is that why you came to see me, Inspector? To try to get me to betray one of my oldest friends?”

“Not at all. I came to see you because Tracy told me you’re the best-connected man in England. And that if there were any rumors flying around, about Elizabeth Kennedy or her partner or anything else that might help me solve this case, you would have heard them.”

“Hmm.” Gunther was flattered but not mollified. “Does Tracy know you suspect Jeff of these murders?”

“I don’t suspect him,” said Jean. “I don’t suspect anyone, yet. Mostly because I have no damn evidence. But I can’t rule Jeff Stevens out to spare Tracy’s feelings, or yours. He may know nothing about this or he may know something. I don’t know. What I do know is that I would like to speak to him. My only obligation is to the women who were killed, and to those who may still be in danger. I have to catch this man, Mr. Hartog. That’s all I care about.”

The nurse came back in. A diminutive Filipina with limited English, she made up for what she lacked in stature with a fiercely protective manner. Immediately sensing her patient’s hostility toward his visitor, she positioned herself between the two of them like a bulldog, folding her arms and glaring at Jean.


“Mister very tired now,” she announced. “You leaving.”

Jean looked at her, then at Gunther Hartog.

“If you know anything, anything, and you don’t tell me . . . and another girl dies . . . it’s on your head. This isn’t a game anymore, Mr. Hartog.”

He walked away. As he reached the door Gunther called out to him.

“I’m hearing a lot of buzz about New York. Wonderful city for thieves, New York. Fine art, fine jewelry, fine museums and galleries to inspire one. Especially at Christmas.” He sighed. “Just thinking about it almost makes me feel young again.”

“New York?” said Jean.

“New York. The Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden is supposed to be particularly magical, I believe. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.

“You can see yourself out, Inspector.”





CHAPTER 16



SHE OPENED THE BOX slowly, savoring the smooth softness of the silk ribbon beneath her fingertips.

“I hope you like it.”

Jeff Stevens watched her expression shift from anticipation to surprise to deranged delight as she lifted the white-gold-and-diamond watch out of its case. With her high, Slavic cheekbones, full lips and perfect, alabaster complexion, Veronica had always looked more like a duchess than a hooker. But her practiced hauteur deserted her now. Flinging her arms around Jeff’s neck, she burst into tears of joy.

“Oh my God! Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD! I can’t believe you did this! It must have cost a fortune.”

“No more than you deserve.” Jeff smiled, happy to have pleased her. “Merry Christmas, V.”

They were in Veronica’s apartment in the West Village. Although not flashy, the space was luxurious and elegant, just like its owner. Veronica worked exclusively in the upper echelons of her profession, with a small and elite client list that she chose carefully and without the assistance of a pimp. Before hooking, she’d been a model and occasional actress, but both jobs had come to bore her in the end. The truth was she enjoyed what she did. She liked sex, and the men who paid to sleep with her were all interesting, successful, intelligent people. Few of them were as generous as Jeff Stevens. But then Jeff truly was one of a kind.