Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(67)
For the first time since his dinner with Tracy, Jean Rizzo began to have doubts. What if Bianca Berkeley’s emeralds weren’t the target after all, but a red herring set up deliberately to throw him off the scent? Arrogantly he had assumed that Elizabeth Kennedy remained unaware of his surveillance. But Elizabeth was a professional after all, at the top of her game. What if she knew that Jean had been onto her all along? That was just the sort of dance these people enjoyed. Elizabeth, Jeff Stevens, even Tracy. Tracy claimed to have put her life of capers and con tricks behind her for her son’s sake, but how well did Jean really know her? This was a woman who lied for a living, after all.
Unbidden, Jean’s boss’s words came back to him.
“Elizabeth’s not a lead,” Henri Marceau had told him. “She’s a hunch. You’re running around on a wild-goose chase based on the ‘advice’ of two former con artists! You’re wrong on this one, Jean. Come home.”
Jean finished his champagne and picked up another glass. His trained eye had already clocked a veritable army of undercover police, federal agents and private security men milling around among the invitees. Maybe Elizabeth had realized it was simply too risky to try something here and chickened out at the last moment? Perhaps the lady’s balls weren’t as big as Tracy imagined after all?
Jean Rizzo’s uneasiness grew.
Where the hell is she?
THE FBI AGENT ADJUSTED the strap on her shimmering silver gown. In other circumstances, she’d have let her hair down at a glamorous party like this one. But not tonight. She was here to work.
Bianca Berkeley was the target, or, more specifically, the cluster of garish green rocks she wore around her neck. Wedged between her church minders like the meat in a cult sandwich, Butch Berkeley’s actress wife had no idea what danger she was in. Did those goons actually make her feel safe? The FBI agent shook her head. Funny how easy it is to trust the wrong people.
The dark wig she was wearing was itchy and uncomfortable. She hadn’t wanted to wear it, but there was an outside chance that one of tonight’s guests might recognize her from another job. The world of the superrich and supercorrupt was smaller than one might think, a sort of vice village. She recognized a number of the other cops and agents milling about, trying to blend into the crowd. The funny little Canadian guy from Interpol had shown up too, the one nobody took seriously. The rumor was that even his own people back in France had cut ties with him.
She looked at her watch. Eight fifteen.
She had to make contact with Bianca soon or it would be too late.
SVETLANA DRAKHOVA THREW HER head back and laughed at one of Oleg Grinski’s jokes.
Stupid oaf. Svetlana sipped her vintage Burgundy. Fat, ugly pig. I’m not your wife. Go and bore someone else with your tedious stories.
Svetlana was in a bad mood. She’d wasted the last six months of her life with the repellent Grinski, with very little to show for it. It had been her twenty-second birthday last month, and what had the pig given her? Some stupid old coins! She’d hoped that this trip to New York at least might involve some jaunts to Graaf or Cartier. But the tightfisted son of a bitch had kept his wallet manacled shut. Apart from a watch and a few paltry Balenciaga bags, he’d bought her nothing. Nothing!
The only silver lining to the entire trip had been hooking up with Randy. Randall Bruckmeyer was everything that Oleg Grinski wasn’t. Handsome, good in bed and generous. Admittedly his net worth was a fraction of Grinski’s. But Randall had already promised Svetlana the pair of diamond earrings she’d been hankering after from Neil Lane. Her only quandary now was how to jump ship without Oleg getting vengeful. The last mistress to jettison Grinski had wound up with a glass of acid thrown in her face.
Randy was supposed to be here tonight. Svetlana had worn her sexiest evening dress for his benefit, a skintight red Cavalli that left nothing to the imagination. But so far he hadn’t shown up, further souring her mood.
“Oh my God! Watch what you’re doing!”
A clumsy dark-haired woman bumped into Svetlana from behind, so hard she almost went flying. Her glass flew out of her hand, dousing the man in front of her in red wine.
The dark-haired woman moved forward. Pulling a handkerchief out of her purse, Svetlana began dabbing ineffectually at the huge purple stain on the man’s dress shirt.
He brushed her away, irritated. “It’s fine. I’ll go clean up in the bathroom.”
“What happened?” Bianca Berkeley turned around. The man with the stained shirt was her publicist.
He gestured toward Svetlana. “This chick just dumped a glass of red all over me!”
“How rude! It wasn’t my fault.”
Voices began to get raised. Butch Berkeley joined the discussion, quizzing the second Scientology minder while the first argued loudly with Svetlana. Jean Rizzo’s antenna shot up. This is it! Something’s going down. He walked toward the group, but Oleg Grinski stepped in front of him, wrapping an arm around his mistress and temporarily obstructing Jean’s view.
By the time Jean got past the Russian, Bianca Berkeley was nowhere to be seen.
IT HAD HAPPENED SO quickly, at first Bianca thought she’d misheard. But the dark-haired woman repeated herself, leaning in close to Bianca’s ear.
“FBI. You’re in grave danger, Miss Berkeley. Please come with me.”
A frisson of fear, tinged with excitement, ran through Bianca’s body. Butch mocked her, called her a conspiracy theorist. But she’d always known there were dark forces out there, trying to harm her. Here, at last, was the proof.