Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

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.

He never spoke about his work, although Veronica knew he was in town for a job. He came to New York about twice a year and always looked her up. Perhaps it seemed odd to say so, but Veronica considered Jeff a friend.

“Listen,” she said. “It’s Christmas in a few days. You probably have plans, but if you’re on your own, you’d be very welcome to join me. My sister’s coming over with her boyfriend. I make a mean pecan pie.”

“You’re so sweet to offer.” Jeff kissed her on the cheek. “But I have plans.”

He picked up his watch from the bedside table and fastened his cuff links while Veronica fixed her makeup in the bathroom. Remembering he’d left his tie on the countertop, Jeff walked in to find her snorting a freshly cut line of coke on the side of the bathtub. He froze, frowning.

Veronica looked up. Misinterpreting his expression, she said, “Sorry, sweetie, did you want some? I should have asked.”

Jeff shook his head. “I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you, okay?”

“Okay,” Veronica called after him. “And thank you so much for my present. I love it!”

OUTSIDE, THE CITY LOOKED like a fairy tale. Two feet of snow had fallen during the night, frosting Central Park like a wedding cake and casting a brilliant, white glow over every street and car and building. Christmas music was being piped out of every store, and the window displays shone and glittered with multicolored lights and toys and candies, making Jeff wish he was eight years old again.

Jeff buttoned his overcoat against the cold, and against his own anger.

Why would a beautiful girl like Veronica touch that stuff?

It didn’t bother him that she sold herself for sex. In Jeff’s world­view there was an honesty to prostitution, to the simple transaction between man and woman in the pursuit of pleasure. But drugs? That was something else. He had seen what drugs did to ­people. Seen how they reduced human beings to immoral beings, cringing slaves prepared to do anything and betray anyone for their master.

Disgusting.

Tracy had never done drugs. They were always around. The circles that she and Jeff used to move in were extremely decadent. But, like Jeff, Tracy had never been interested. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice now.

“Why would I need ecstasy, my darling, when I’ve got you?”

“Why indeed.”

Jeff always missed Tracy more at Christmastime.

Still, this was no time to be getting maudlin. Jeff loved visiting New York, especially when the trip combined business and pleasure. He was staying at the Gramercy Park under the name of Randall Bruckmeyer, an old-­school Texas oilman and one of Jeff’s favorite alter egos. Randy lived up to his name, and had helped Jeff out on a number of jobs that required the seducing of one or more women. In this case, the target was a gorgeous Russian socialite, Svetlana Drakhova, who was in New York to attend the famous Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden with her boyfriend. In addition to her busy career as a professional partier/slut, Svetlana also happened to be the latest, very young mistress of Oleg Grinski, a Russian oligarch with a penchant for anal sex, torture and Byzantine treasures, not necessarily in that order. Preposterously, Oleg had given the scheming Svetlana a priceless collection of coins minted during the reign of the Emperor Heraclius in 620 as a gift. Knowing Svetlana as he now did, Jeff, aka Randy Bruckmeyer, was convinced it was only a matter of time before she melted them down or turned them into a pair of novelty earrings. As much a stranger to taste as to basic human decency, Svetlana was as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside, and that was saying something. Jeff was not enjoying sleeping with her, hence today’s trip to Veronica’s place. He was, however, looking forward to robbing her, and to handing the coins over to the charming Spanish collector who’d commissioned him. They had agreed on a fee of $1 million, a fraction of what the coins were worth, but enough to make the job worth Jeff’s while. The main thing was that the coins would be in safe hands once again, cherished and appreciated as they should be. These days, Jeff Stevens felt a closer connection to ancient objects than he did to ­people. Unlike ­people, they never let you down.

Jumping into a cab to Lexington, Jeff got out a block before his hotel. Randall Bruckmeyer III always stayed at the Gramercy Park. The Ritz might have grander rooms, but this was the only place in town with access to its own, private park and with genuine Warhols and Basquiats hanging on the walls. You got what you paid for at the Gramercy: glamour, luxury and exclusivity.

Slipping into character was second nature to Jeff, like putting on an old familiar sweater.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He offered his arm to two overly made-­up women in ankle-­length minks as they approached the lobby doors. “Are y’all in town for the Winter Ball?”

“That’s right.” The first woman looked up coquettishly at the handsome Texan, almost blinding him with the diamonds that were swinging around her neck like golf balls. “How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. I’m invited myself, as it happens.”

Randall Bruckmeyer was invited to the annual Botanical Garden event, but he wouldn’t be going. He had a rather more pressing engagement arranged for that evening. Svetlana Drakhova would be attending, along with her repulsive sugar daddy, Oleg, hopefully for long enough to allow Jeff to do what he needed to do. The ball provided the perfect cover, not least because every cop, fed and private security firm was going to be all over the event like bees around a honey pot. After last year’s spectacular thefts—­not one, but two multimillion-­dollar jewel heists had gone down, one of them involving a very high-­profile Hollywood actress and a sapphire bracelet that used to belong to Grace Kelly—­no one was taking any chances. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, rumors abounded that another big job was being planned. Every con artist in the Western world worth their salt was in Manhattan right now, wondering whether to try their hand.

Except me, thought Jeff. He tightened his grip around the fur-­clad ladies’ waists as they swept into the Gramercy’s grand, high-­ceilinged Rose Bar.

“Name’s Randy,” he drawled. “Randy Bruckmeyer. Can I buy y’all a drink?”

JEAN RIZZO IDLY PERUSED the belts in the Ermenegildo Zegna concession in Barneys. He was just wondering who would pay almost a thousand dollars for a simple strip of leather, when he realized his target was on the move. Time to go.

Jean was tailing Elizabeth Kennedy. Using the pseudonym Martha Langbourne, Elizabeth had flown to New York from London three weeks ago and checked in to Morgans Hotel in Midtown. Jean Rizzo followed. After his meeting with Gunther Hartog, Jean had half expected to find Jeff Stevens in Manhattan too. He’d put some feelers out, but so far had found no sign of Tracy Whitney’s elusive ex.

If that was disappointing, Elizabeth Kennedy was proving to be even more so. For the last twenty days, “Martha” had done a good impression of being a wealthy tourist like any other. Jean had patiently followed her to two Broadway plays, numerous dinners in expensive restaurants (always solo) and a string of deathly dull visits to museums, galleries and every conceivable tourist attraction, from the Rockefeller Center ice rink to the Empire State Building.

Back in Lyon, Jean’s boss was not amused.

“We’re not the CIA,” Henri Marceau said grumpily. “We don’t have the budget for this crap.”

“Elizabeth Kennedy’s my only live lead.”

“She’s not a lead. She’s a hunch. You have nothing on her, Jean. Not as far as the Bible killings go.”

“That’s why I need to stay here. At least until next weekend. She’s planning something for the Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden, I’m sure of it. Sooner or later she’ll have to make contact with her partner. He’s our guy, Henri. He’s our guy.”

Henri Marceau had known Jean Rizzo a long time. He was a good detective with sharp instincts, but his heart was ruling his head on this one. Running all over the world, chasing shadows on the spurious advice of Gunther Hartog, a dying con artist with an ax to grind. And for what? A string of dead hookers. There were live cases, human-­trafficking operations and drug rings and pedophile networks that desperately needed resources.

“I can’t justify it, Jean. I’m sorry. As of tomorrow, you’re there on your own dime.”

Sylvie, Jean’s ex, was equally unimpressed.

“It’s Christmas. You’ve been gone a month. What about the children?”

“I’ll bring them back something amazing from FAO Schwarz.”

“Something amazing? Really. Like what? A father who keeps his promises?”

Jean felt terrible about Clémence and Luc. But he couldn’t go home, not until he’d made progress. If another girl got killed in New York and he’d done nothing to stop it, he’d never forgive himself.

Finally, yesterday, his tenacity had paid off. Elizabeth Kennedy still hadn’t met up with her elusive partner. But she had begun tailing Bianca Berkeley.

TV actress, Scientologist and wife of the billionaire real estate mogul Butch Berkeley, Bianca Berkeley was beautiful, rich and weird. Gossip columnists loved her for her Howard Hughes–esque fits of hypochondria. Bianca had variously been reported as sleeping in an “oxygen helmet,” drinking her own urine daily and employing an astrologer to determine her diet, all in hopes of strengthening her immunity to any number of imagined diseases. Butch stuck with her because she was beautiful and famous and because she didn’t care if he slept with his assistant or his trainer as long as he kept her in jewels and jets.

The Berkeleys were confirmed attendees at this year’s Winter Ball. Yesterday “Martha Langbourne” had left her hotel after an early breakfast and followed Bianca Berkeley, first to her Pilates class, then to her psychic’s office and finally to Tiffany’s, where Bianca had spent an hour locked in conference with the store’s manager, Lucio Trivoli. Today Mrs. B was at Barneys buying Louboutin boots and “trinkets” for her staff, including (so far) a Patek Philippe watch with a seven-­figure price tag and a crystal bracelet that claimed to “neutralize the ions” in the body.

Martha was right behind her. It was beyond question now. Bianca Berkeley was Elizabeth Kennedy’s latest target.

Jean watched as the two women moved through furs and accessories, then back into haberdashery. Mrs. Berkeley bought nothing else, although “Martha Langbourne” treated herself to some three-­hundred-­dollar cashmere-­lined gloves with a silk gold trim, paid for with an unlimited AmEx in the same name, just like her hotel room. Jean Rizzo had checked the statements a week ago. ML was obviously an identity Elizabeth had used before while in the United States, although the cards hadn’t been used in more than a year. The abortive Los Angeles jaunt had been paid for with other monies. Ms. Kennedy and her partner were nothing if not careful.

Jean watched as Bianca Berkeley left the store by the main exit on Madison Avenue. He was about to follow when some sixth sense made him hold back. As expected, Elizabeth Kennedy followed her quarry. But this time Jean clocked the two young men walking behind her. They were dressed in jeans and sweaters. One carried a woolen overcoat over his arm. Jean couldn’t see their faces, but something about the way they moved, the slight inclination of their heads toward each other, told him at once that they were working together.

Could Elizabeth have more than one accomplice? Did she work as part of a gang?

Unhurriedly, Jean raised his cell phone and began taking pictures, making sure to look as if he were focusing on Barneys’ spectacular Christmas display and not on the two men. To his dismay, moments later a crowd of shoppers surged forward, sweeping the two men out of the store and onto Madison Avenue just yards behind Elizabeth.

Jean didn’t know if he’d caught their faces or not. His mind raced. There’s too many ­people. By the time I make it onto the street, they could all be gone. This might be the contact he’d been waiting for and he was seconds away from missing it!

Pushing rudely past a fat woman and her fatter son, he rushed to the nearest ground-­floor window, behind a relatively sedate display selling Smythson diaries and notebooks. Pressing his face to the glass, he saw Bianca Berkeley step into her waiting town car and speed away. He couldn’t see Elizabeth or the two men.

“Damn it!” he said aloud, earning himself more than one bemused glance from nearby shoppers. Just as he was about to make a belated run for the doors, one of the two men appeared in front of the window, literally inches from where Jean was standing. Instinctively, Jean shrank back. The man had his coat on now. He was short with dark hair, but he still had his back turned. Turn around, damn you. At one point he leaned back so that his woolen coat actually touched the glass. Then he edged forward, apparently waving to someone across the street. Jean couldn’t see who it was. Seconds later the man’s hand shot out. A yellow cab pulled up.

“No!” Jean was running like a madman, falling over himself as he careered toward the store exit.

“Watch it, asshole!”

Outside, the crisp December air hit him in the face like a punch. Christmas shoppers swarmed the sidewalks like ants. Along both sides of Madison Avenue, a line of yellow taxis stretched for block after block, like bricks on the road to Oz. Jean’s heart sank. One man had gone. Jean doubted he would have recognized the other, even if he saw him. He was about to head back to Elizabeth’s hotel, more in hope than expectation that the three might regroup there, when suddenly he saw her. She was on foot, headed toward the subway.

Jean Rizzo followed. Neither of the males was anywhere to be seen, but he was determined not to lose Elizabeth again. He followed her down into the tunnels and onto a train that was heading uptown. Keeping Elizabeth in sight, and staying close enough to the doors that he could follow her out at a second’s notice, Jean scrolled through the pictures on his phone. The tech guys at Interpol could work wonders with images, but even Jean knew that these looked unpromising. Two distant figures in a sea of ­people. Damn it. How did I screw this up?

Elizabeth got off the train at Central Park West. She seemed in no hurry, back in tourist mode. Jean followed her through the park at a discreet distance. It was four o’clock. Light was fading and the earlier crowds had begun to thin. Snow began to fall again. Thick heavy flakes like goose down stuck to Jean’s hair and coat. Where is she going?

Suddenly Elizabeth stopped. She looked around her briefly, perhaps to ascertain if she was being followed, then sat down on a bench, clearing off the newly fallen snow with a sweep of her arm. Jean kept walking. Once he reached the top of the hill, he slipped behind a small clump of trees. It was a perfect vantage point, close and completely hidden. Jean pulled out his phone and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A tall gentleman in a cowboy hat began walking purposefully toward the bench. There was no hint of subterfuge, no attempt at discretion. As the man drew near, Elizabeth stood up and smiled broadly, holding out her arms. Then the man took off his hat and gave Jean a clear view of his face. It was the first time Jean Rizzo had seen those handsome features in the flesh but he would have known them anywhere.

Well, I’ll be damned.

He lifted his phone and began taking pictures. Click, click, click.

TRACY WAS AT THE top of a ladder, fixing a dog-­eared Christmas angel to the top of the tree when the phone rang.

“Would you get that, honey?” she called down to Nicholas.

They’d spent a lovely afternoon decorating the house together, with Blake Carter helping to put up the enormous Norwegian pine. Tracy loved Christmas. This house had been made for it, with its high ceilings, roaring open fires and log-­cabin charm. Blake rolled his eyes every year at Tracy’s over-­the-­top decor, including tacky carol-­singing dogs from CVS and a life-­size plastic Santa with flashing boots and hat who said “Ho! Ho! Ho!” whenever you rubbed his belly. “It looks like an elf threw up in your living room.” But Tracy suspected Blake secretly loved the display as much as she did. Especially when he saw the delight in Nicholas’s eyes.

“Oh, hi, Jean.” Nicholas’s cheerful voice sent chills through Tracy’s body. “How are you? Did you want to talk to Mama?”

Tracy descended the ladder, a fixed smile on her face. Nicholas handed her the phone. “It’s your friend Jean,” he said, heading back to the tree and the big cardboard box of decorations.

Tracy walked into the kitchen, out of earshot.

“I thought we agreed. No calls to the landline,” she hissed. “Not until after he’s asleep.”

“This couldn’t wait. I just saw Jeff Stevens in Central Park.”

Tracy’s stomach lurched.

“He was meeting Elizabeth Kennedy. They looked close, Tracy.”

The elevator hit the ground. Tracy felt her knees start to give way. She leaned against the table for support.

“I sent you pictures. Check your phone. They talked for about half an hour and then went back to his hotel together. Elizabeth’s planning a hit on Bianca Berkeley. It looks like Jeff’s involved. Can you open the pictures?”

Silence.

“Tracy? Are you there?”

“Yes.” Tracy’s voice came out high-­pitched and strangled. “I’m here. Go on.”

Jean filled her in on the events of this afternoon. The two men at Barneys. His certainty that Bianca Berkeley was the target and that the heist would go down at the Winter Ball, just like Gunther Hartog predicted. And his growing suspicion of Jeff Stevens.

“She was in his hotel for an hour. She left first, then he did. I followed him.”

“Where did he go?” Tracy asked calmly.

“He went to the Meatpacking District and picked up a hooker.”

Tracy’s heart cracked. She felt as if she were having an out-­of-­body experience. She looked at her son, hanging glass reindeer figurines onto the Christmas tree. Carols were playing in the next room. Jean Rizzo’s voice didn’t belong in this picture. Nor did Jeff.

I came here to escape him, to escape that life.

Anger overwhelmed her. Wild, irrational anger.

How dare Jeff work with Elizabeth! How dare he sleep with prostitutes! How dare he still have the power to hurt me, after all these years!

And yet another part of her felt protective of Jeff and furious with Jean Rizzo.

Why was Jean telling her these things? Why did he keep pouring poison back into her life?

“What do you want, Jean?” Her voice was cold. “Why did you call me?”

“I want you to come to New York.”

Tracy laughed bitterly. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Christmas.”

“I need you. You know Jeff Stevens better than anyone.”

“Not anymore I don’t.”

“Aren’t you listening to me?” Jean’s voice rose in frustration. “Something’s going down here, Tracy! The Winter Ball is happening in less than a week. Elizabeth and Jeff are planning something together, something big. There may be others involved, a gang, I don’t know. Jeff’s already seeing hookers. He’s getting excited, aroused. His adrenaline’s up . . . This time next week, if we don’t do something, another girl could be dead.”

“Hold on a minute.” Tracy dropped her voice to a whisper. “Am I hearing you right? You think Jeff’s the Bible Killer?”

“I think it’s a serious possibility.”

Tracy shook her head. Is this a nightmare? Is this conversation even real, or am I going to wake up in a minute and laugh?

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Then come to New York and help me. Help Jeff. Prove me wrong.”

“Are you deaf? I’m not coming to New York. That wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Tracy, you get on a plane!” Jean was yelling now. “Do you hear me? You get on a plane or I will tell your son the truth.”

Tracy hung up. She unplugged the phone from the wall. On the counter, her cell phone was flashing red.

Jean’s photos.

Jeff and Elizabeth.

Together.

Tracy picked it up and turned it off. Her hands trembled as if she were disarming a bomb.

“Mom?” Nicholas’s voice drifted through from the living room. “Are you done? Come and help me.”

Tears stung the back of Tracy’s eyes. “I’m coming, honey.”

IT WAS MIDNIGHT, BUT Jean Rizzo was too wired to sleep. He was wide-­awake when his phone rang.

“Do you really believe Jeff’s involved in these killings?”

Tracy sounded as tired as he was.

“I don’t know. Do you really believe he isn’t?”

Tracy didn’t answer. The truth was she didn’t know what to believe anymore. She just wanted this nightmare to be over.

“There’s a flight leaving Denver tomorrow at noon. You can pick up your ticket at the American Airlines desk.”

“And you can kiss my ass. I already told you. I’m happy to help and advise you if I can. But I have a life here. I am not coming to New York.”

“Mmm-­hmm,” said Jean.

“It’s Christmas!”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

“I mean it, Rizzo. I’m calling your bluff. I am not coming to New York.”