Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(65)

Jean couldn’t stop smiling. He still couldn’t quite believe she was here.

“I’m not going to help you catch Jeff Stevens.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say. You asked me last night if I was certain Jeff had nothing to do with these murders. Well, you know what? I am.”

“But, Tracy—”

“No ‘buts.’ Let me finish. I looked at the pictures you sent me. I agree that Jeff is mixed up in this somehow.”

“Thank you.”

“But he’s no killer, Jean. He just isn’t.”

Jean Rizzo paused for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. But somebody’s killing these girls.”

“Yes.”

“Every time Elizabeth Kennedy pulls off a big job.”

“Yes.”

“Which she’s about to do, with Jeff Stevens’s help.”

“Possibly.”

“Unless we catch them red-handed.”

“Catch her red-handed,” corrected Tracy. “I’ll help you nail Elizabeth. But I won’t help you get Jeff. That’s the deal, Jean, take it or leave it. It’s not negotiable. Jeff walks away from this.”


Jean Rizzo thought, Good God. She still loves him.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll focus on Elizabeth. Where do we start?”

“With the target.” Tracy drained her coffee cup and stood up. “I’m going to my hotel now to freshen up and to call my son. Send me everything you have on Bianca Berkeley and this Winter Ball.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we talked? We can go through the files together, bounce some ideas around. I’d like you to—”

“No,” Tracy said. “I work better alone. Meet me for dinner at Great Jones Café on Prince Street at eight. I’ll have a plan for you by then.”

JONES WAS A CHARMING, candlelit hole-in-the-wall tucked away between two more famous restaurants in the heart of SoHo. It served classic American fare, ribs and corn and mashed potatoes and cheeseburgers and turkey sandwiches. Everything was delicious.

Tracy had changed into a gray turtleneck sweater and woolen wide-leg pants. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and her green eyes shone like two shards of kryptonite. She was still angry at Jean, but in the few hours since he left her at the airport, something had clearly lifted her spirits. When she spoke she sounded energized. It wasn’t long before Jean realized why.

“I know what Elizabeth’s going to steal.”

“You do?”

Tracy nodded. “Bianca Berkeley’s not wearing any of her own jewels to the Botanical Garden. She’s borrowing an emerald choker from Tiffany’s. It’s worth two and a half million dollars but it’s insured for three.”

Jean’s eyes widened. “How on earth do you know that?”

“I walked into the store and asked. I think the clerk liked me.”

Jean thought, I’ll bet he did.

“The choker’s being delivered to the Berkeley residence at three P.M. on the day of the ball,” Tracy went on. “It will be transported in an armored van, with two guards and a driver. An employee of the insurance company will be at the house to have someone sign the paperwork. It’s due to be returned at ten o’clock the next morning. The same van will arrive to collect it.”

Jean nodded mutely.

“Between three P.M. and six P.M., when the Berkeleys’ driver will set off for Brooklyn, the chances are it will be mayhem in that house. There’ll be a PA there, a stylist, a makeup artist, a hairdresser. Also Bianca’s Scientology minders.”

“Her what?”

“Her minders. Butch is a big donor to the church. You didn’t know that?” Tracy frowned.

“It never came up,” said Jean.

“It should have. Believe me, everything I am telling you now, Elizabeth Kennedy already knows. Inside and out. ‘Martha Langbourne’s’ a Scientologist, by the way.”

Jean looked astonished.

“It’s on her passport, under religion.” Tracy answered his unspoken question. “Anyway, the point is that the choker will likely be moved from room to room and will change hands several times. That’s one clear window of opportunity. Especially if ‘Martha’ has worked the Scientology angle and has access to the property.”

“So you’re saying you think Elizabeth’s going to try to steal the emeralds from the Berkeley house, between three and six P.M.?”

“No.” Tracy waved down a waiter and ordered another glass of Cabernet. “I’m saying that’s one window. There are others.”

“Such as?”

“In the store. In transit. At the ball itself. The following morning. In transit again.”

Jean groaned. “Okay,” he said eventually. “How would you do it? If this were your job?”

“I’d take it in transit.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s simpler. Cleaner. Fewer witnesses, fewer prints. More anonymous. But you need inside help. A team of some sort.”

“She has that,” said Jean.

“Yes.” Tracy sipped her wine contemplatively.

“I’m sensing there’s a ‘but.’ ”