Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

WELCOME TO NEW YORK!”

Jean Rizzo met Tracy at JFK with a beaming smile.

“I’m so glad you decided to come.”

“I didn’t ‘decide to come.’ You blackmailed me.”

“Oh, now, now. Let’s not squabble.” Jean nudged her in the ribs jokingly. “It’ll do you good to get out of Steamboat. Small-­town life can get so boring, don’t you think?”

“I guess you’d know all about boring. Being Canadian and all.” Tracy smiled sarcastically.

They ordered coffee at an airport café.

“Let’s talk about ground rules,” said Tracy.

“Do we have to?”

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.’ ”

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.

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.

She followed the woman into one of the powder rooms and locked the door.

JEAN RIZZO RAN OUT onto the fire stairs.

No sign.

His heart rate began to quicken. It was happening, now, somewhere in this building, and he was going to miss it. Somehow, Kennedy and Stevens had outsmarted him. But they weren’t even here! It made no sense.

Back in the conservatory, he grabbed a waiter. “I’m looking for Bianca Berkeley. Do you know who that is?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“She’s wearing a long black dress with her hair up.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There are a lot of black dresses.”

“She has a huge emerald necklace on.”

“Oh! Yes.” The man’s face lit up. “I do know the lady. She came through here a few moments ago with her friend.”

Jean’s heart tightened.

“I think they were headed to the powder room. It’s right over . . .”

Jean was already running.

“YOU UNDERSTAND, MISS BERKELEY?”

Bianca nodded, her eyes wide with fright. The excitement had all gone now. This was no made-­for-­TV drama. This was real.

“The ambulance is on its way? You’re sure.”

“My colleagues already called. You’ll be fine, ma’am. You have time.”

“Oh God!” Bianca started sobbing. “I can feel it already. My skin! It’s burning!”

The FBI agent took her hand and squeezed it. “Help is on the way. Try to stay calm. You understand I need to leave now?”

“Of course. Go. GO!”

JEAN RIZZO HAMMERED ON the locked door.

“Mrs. Berkeley! Mrs. Berkeley, are you in there?”

A strangled voice came from inside. “Are they here yet?”

“Are who here yet?”

“The ambulance.”

“Ma’am, this is the police. Please open the door.”

“I can’t! I have radiation sickness. You might be contaminated!”

Jean took a deep breath. He knew Bianca Berkeley was a kook but this took the cake. “Open the door, ma’am.”

Slowly, the door opened. Bianca Berkeley flung herself into Jean’s arms, crying hysterically. “Where are they?” she screamed. “She said they’d be here! I don’t have much time left.”

She was clutching her neck.

The emerald choker was gone.

ELIZABETH KENNEDY WALKED SLOWLY but purposefully out of the building. The dark wig still itched, but she no longer cared. Swinging her evening bag, she felt the weight of the Tiffany choker inside and grinned.

Jeff said it couldn’t be done. But I did it.

Now he’ll have to admit I’m the best.

She could see the Metro-­North station, just a few yards away.

BIANCA BERKELEY WAS SO hysterical, it took Jean Rizzo some minutes to get the description he needed. Silver dress, dark hair. A large green evening purse.

“That’s where she kept the device. The radiation scanner. It’s Russian intelligence, you see. They’ve used this technique before, because it’s untraceable.”

Jean ran into the street.

THE METRO-­NORTH STATION WAS CLOSED.

Elizabeth asked the cop outside, “What’s going on?”

“Bomb threat. They think it’s a hoax but no more trains’ll be running tonight. You’d best get a cab.”

IT WAS PURE CHANCE that he saw her. A flash of silver caught his eye from fifty yards away. She was crossing the street in front of the train station, apparently looking for a cab.

No getaway driver. No partner coming to meet her. She just wanders out into the city without a care in the world.

Tracy was right. The lady had balls.

Putting his head down, Jean quickened his pace. Elizabeth was forty yards away now.

Thirty.

Ten.

A yellow cab pulled up. She leaned in to talk to the driver. Jean ran forward. At the exact same moment another male figure darted toward the cab from the opposite side of the street. The man wore an overcoat and turtleneck sweater and Jean recognized him from the way he ran as one of the guys from Barneys. A split second later, the second man emerged from the shadows—­also from Barneys. Also running.

This time, Jean Rizzo knew where he’d seen them before.

Elizabeth opened the door to the cab and had one leg inside when Jean grabbed her wrist.

“What are you doing? Let go of me!”

At the same time the other door to the cab opened.

For a split second Interpol Inspector Jean Rizzo and FBI Agent Milton Buck glared at each other.

Then both said simultaneously: “You’re under arrest.”