Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(66)
Tracy smiled.
She’s enjoying herself, thought Jean. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is. She’s enjoying the challenge.
“You need one of two things to be a successful thief. Brains or balls.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Tracy explained. “The biggest jewel theft of all time—all modern time, anyway—happened a few years ago at the Cannes Film Festival. Eighty million dollars’ worth of diamonds were taken in one night, by one man, at a crowded event full of celebrities and security.”
“I vaguely remember reading about that,” said Jean. “How did he do it again?”
“I’ll tell you how.” Tracy grinned. “This criminal mastermind climbed through an open window in broad daylight, stuffed as many gems as he could carry into a sports bag while waving a toy gun around, hopped back out of the window and escaped on foot. He dropped about twenty million dollars’ worth as he ran. But eighty million dollars of diamonds were never recovered. Balls.”
“And this related to Elizabeth Kennedy . . . how?”
“The question is not how I would do it. It’s how she would do it,” Tracy said. “Elizabeth’s smart. But if she’s behind all these other jobs you’ve told me about, the ones that took place before the murders, then I’d say her balls are at least as big as her brains.” She sat back in her chair, a triumphant look on her face. “I think she’s going to do it at the ball. I think she’s going to steal that choker on the night, in front of a thousand guests and God knows how many cops. And I think she’s going to walk right out of there.”
Her certainty was contagious.
Jean Rizzo asked the obvious question. “And just how, exactly, is she going to do that? Rip the thing off Bianca Berkeley’s neck?”
Tracy laughed. “Of course not. I pulled off a similar job once at the Prado in Madrid, before Jeff bait-and-switched me. It’s quite simple really.”
Jean raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Bianca’s going to give Elizabeth the choker.”
THE WINTER WONDERLAND BALL in New York’s famous Botanical Garden was considered the party of the year among Manhattan’s elite. Glamorous enough to tempt the city’s fashionistas and hedge-fund millionaires to travel all the way up to the Bronx, it also attracted an international crowd of superwealthy patrons. Those who would see and be seen flocked from around the globe to the iconic glass-and-steel building with its breathtaking palm dome, illuminated by thousands of simple white candles. Outside, the twin backdrops of pure white snow and a pitch-black winter sky, peppered with stars, provided the perfect setting for the dazzling couture gowns and decadent jewels of the female guests as they arrived.
Hollywood was out in force this year, both the old guard and the new. Sharon Stone wowed in a white Giambattista Valli and the Fanning sisters looked cute in matching Chanel minis with hot-pink ruffles. They mingled with Washington heavyweights—the vice president and his wife were here, as well as the new secretary of state and Harvey Golden, White House chief of staff. There were supermodels and designers, billionaires and generals, writers, artists and oil tycoons. The official purpose of the ball was to raise money for New York’s underprivileged children. In reality, of course, it was yet another opportunity for the city’s overprivileged children to gorge themselves on a cloying feast of excess. The air was scented with tropical blooms and expensive perfume, and the aroma of white truffles wafted in from the kitchen. But in the end, the one overpowering smell was money.
Jean Rizzo could hardly breathe. Weaving his way through the Vogue photographers and other press gathered outside, he grabbed a flute of champagne and slipped into the throng. Bianca Berkeley and her husband, Butch, were already here and surrounded by hangers-on. Butch Berkeley was having a loud conversation with Warren Gantz, a Wall Street titan, about the merits of various different private planes (Warren favored the Dassault Falcon 900, a bargain at $33 million, while Butch remained faithful to his Embraer Legacy 650). Jean Rizzo thought of the ancient Volvo 760 he’d driven since his twenties rusting outside his Lyon apartment and smiled. Guys like Gantz and Berkeley were so out of touch with reality.
Although perhaps Bianca Berkeley was even more so. Standing a few feet behind her husband, flanked by two Scientology staffers labeled as “publicist” and “assistant,” she had the glazed, not-there look of a rabbit with myxomatosis. There was the famous emerald choker, wrapped around Bianca’s elegant neck like a vise. It doesn’t suit her, thought Jean. Amazing how a piece of jewelry could look at once wildly expensive and breathtakingly ugly.
In any event, she was wearing it, which meant that whatever Elizabeth Kennedy had planned had yet to take place. Score one for Tracy’s theory.
Bianca’s dark hair was pulled up in a severe-looking bun, and she wore a simple black column dress, both no doubt intended to showcase the Tiffany emeralds to better effect. Instead they merely served to make a beautiful woman look as stiff and uncomfortable as a store mannequin.
As for Elizabeth, so far she was nowhere to be seen. Jean had done three complete circuits of the Botanical Garden conservatory, moving from one gaggle of rich partygoers to the next. But neither “Martha Langbourne” nor “Randall Bruckmeyer,” Jeff Stevens’s brash Texan alter ego, had yet arrived, despite being confirmed attendees as of this morning.