Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

JEAN RIZZO PULLED HIS bag off the carousel and looked around wearily for a cab.

He ought to be feeling elated, or at least excited. The call from Magdalena Prieto at the Antiquarium museum in Seville was the first break he’d had in his search for Daniel Cooper in months. Elizabeth Kennedy’s arrest in New York had felt like a coup at the time. But Elizabeth had promised much and delivered little. Like everyone else who’d worked with Daniel Cooper, she knew shockingly little about the man. Cooper’s motivations, impulses and private life were all closed books. After Lori Hansen’s murder in New York, the trail had gone completely cold. Not even Tracy Whitney could help Jean Rizzo now.

It had been a tough few months for Jean Rizzo in other ways too. His ex-­wife, Sylvie, whom he still loved deeply, had met someone. Evidently it was serious.

“Claude’s a good man, Jean.”

“I’m sure he is.”

They were going for a walk in the park en famille the week after Christmas. Jean had missed the day itself, unable to tear himself away from New York in the wake of Lori Hansen’s murder, and was trying to make up for it now. Clémence and Luc had forgiven him on sight, as young children do. For Sylvie, it was harder. Making excuses for Jean’s broken promises had been bad enough when they were married, but was even more of an imposition now.

“He’s a teacher,” Sylvie went on. “He’s thoughtful and reliable.”

Jean frowned. Was this last word a dig at him?

“The kids adore him.”

“That’s great.” Jean tried to be gracious and hide the fact that every word Sylvie said felt like a thorn in his eyeball. “I hope I get to meet him someday.”

“How about Thursday? I thought we could all have dinner.”

Dinner was even worse than Jean imagined. Claude, the bastard, turned out to be one of the nicest ­people he had ever met: cultured, unassuming, kind and obviously besotted with Sylvie. As well he might be.

And I opened the door, Jean thought miserably. I let him in. If I hadn’t neglected her, if I hadn’t been so obsessed with work, we’d still be together.

Perhaps if he had something to show for his work obsession, he’d have felt better. If Lori Hansen were still alive. Or Alissa Armand, or Sandra Whitmore, or any of Daniel Cooper’s victims. But they weren’t. And Cooper was still out there. Jean was failing at his job, just like he’d failed at his marriage.

He longed to unburden himself to Tracy Whitney. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt Tracy Whitney would have understood. She too had made sacrifices in the name of her profession. She had lost in love, seen her family disintegrate around her not once but twice. But unlike Jean, Tracy kept moving, kept looking forward, not back.

Unfortunately, Tracy had stopped returning his calls the day she left New York. Her silence wasn’t hostile but its message was clear: I’ve done all I can, told you all I know. I kept my side of the bargain. Now keep yours and leave me be.

As much as it frustrated him, Jean admired Tracy for returning to her new life in the mountains, and for clinging to her new identity as Tracy Schmidt, philanthropist and mother, quiet private citizen. Was she bored? Probably, sometimes. But boredom was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jean walked out of the airport and hopped into a cab.

“Avenida Emilio Lemos, por favor.”

“¿Comisaría?”

“Sí.”

Jean didn’t even have time to go to his hotel and change before today’s meeting, but that was okay. If he wound up finding Daniel Cooper here—­if Señora Prieto was right—­it would all have been worth it.

“YOU WILL NOT FIND Daniel Cooper in Seville, Inspector.”

Comisario Alessandro Dmitri was angry. Jean Rizzo recognized the expression on the Spanish policeman’s face all too well. It was a combination of anger, resentment and arrogance. Interpol agents got it a lot, especially from disgruntled regional police chiefs.

“Señora Prieto seemed convinced that—­”

“Señora Prieto is misinformed. She had no business contacting your agency directly. I’m afraid she has brought you here on a . . . what is the English expression? You are chasing wild geese.”

Jean Rizzo walked over to the window. Seville’s new police headquarters boasted spectacular views of the city, but today everything was dreary and gray. Traffic crawled sluggishly around the roundabout immediately below them. Like me, thought Jean. Going in circles.

“Señora Prieto mentioned the letter she found inside the case protecting the Holy Shroud. You knew about that?”

Dmitri bristled. “Of course.”

“She said she received a phone call two days prior—­”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dmitri interrupted rudely, waving Jean away like a pesky fly. “I got a call myself, as it happens, from the same man. American, spouting all sorts of wild theories about the Santa Sábana being stolen.”

“You never reported this call?”

“Reported it to whom?” Dmitri grew even angrier. “I am the chief of police in Seville. I dismissed the call as nonsense and I was proven right. No attempt has been made to steal the Shroud. I’m afraid Señora Prieto has rather a feminine sensibility, prone to drama and conspiracy theories. I prefer to stick to facts.”

“So do I,” said Jean. “Let me tell you a few facts about Daniel Cooper.”

He filled Dmitri in on the bare bones. Cooper’s history as an insurance investigator, his obsession with the con artists Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens and his subsequent involvement in a string of art and jewelry thefts worldwide. Finally Jean told Dmitri about the Bible Killer murders. “Daniel Cooper is our prime suspect. At this point he’s our only suspect. I can’t stress strongly enough how important it is that we find him. Cooper is brilliant, deeply disturbed and dangerous.”

Comisario Dmitri yawned. “I daresay, Inspector, and I wish you luck. However, the fact remains, he is not in Seville.”

“How do you know?”

Dmitri smiled smugly. “Because if he were here, my men would have found him.”

JEAN’S MEETING AT THE Antiquarium was more productive. He found Magdalena Prieto to be reasonable, intelligent and polite, a welcome change from the obnoxious Dmitri.

“Is he always that much of a jerk?” Jean asked. He was seated in Magdalena’s office, sipping a much-­needed double espresso that her secretary had kindly brought him.

“Always.” Magdalena Prieto sighed. “He’s furious with me for calling Interpol. Thinks it undermines his authority, which I suppose it does in a way. But I felt it was my duty to do everything I could to protect the Shroud. I can’t tell you how shaken I was, finding that letter.”

“I’m sure.”

“Whoever was in that case could have damaged the Sábana, or even destroyed it. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“But they didn’t,” Jean observed.

“No.”

“They didn’t try to steal it either. Or to extort money.”

“Exactly. I truly believe that the person who left the letter and telephoned me was trying to warn me. I think he was sincere. More than that, he was well informed. My staff confirmed that they’d seen the other man he told me about, the one posing as a policeman. You’ve seen the CCTV footage?”

Jean nodded. The hunched, dark-­haired man in the parka was not familiar to him. If this was Daniel Cooper’s new accomplice, he was certainly very far removed from Elizabeth Kennedy, his former partner in crime.

“The way this guy broke in . . .” Señora Prieto continued admiringly. “It wasn’t just that he bypassed our alarms and cameras. That glass is bulletproof and the key codes supposedly impenetrable. He knew exactly what he was doing. He even ensured that the atmospheric balance of argon and oxygen was left intact. Who does that?”

“So he understood about the need to preserve the Shroud?”

“Yes. And how to preserve it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he must be a curator himself. Or an archaeologist.”

Jean Rizzo smiled. An American expert on antiquities who can crack codes and bypass alarms, with a flair for the dramatic . . .

Magdalena Prieto looked at him curiously. “Am I missing something?”

“The man who left you that note is called Jeff Stevens. And no, Ms. Prieto, you’re not missing something. Although I think I might be. And Comisario Dmitri certainly is.”

Magdalena waited for him to elaborate.

“If Jeff Stevens thinks Daniel Cooper’s in Seville to steal the Shroud, then Daniel Cooper is in Seville to steal the Shroud. Under no circumstances should you reduce your security.”

Magdalena blanched. “All right. We won’t.”

“And e-­mail me the footage of the second man.”

“I’ll do it this afternoon. Do you think you’ll find him, Inspector? Because in all honesty, I don’t think Comisario Dmitri’s even trying.”

“I’ll find him,” Jean Rizzo said grimly. “I have to. Your Sábana Santa’s not the only thing at stake.”

JEAN RIZZO WALKED BACK to his hotel through Maria Luisa Park. The shrubbery glowed lush and green after the rain. Vivid pink laurel blossoms dazzled in the spring sunshine, in contrast to Jean’s gray, dour mood.

He thought about Jeff Stevens. About the showmanship and panache of his latest stunt, followed by the letter to Magdalena Prieto. A man would have to have serious glamour and charisma to attract a woman like Tracy Whitney, and clearly Jeff Stevens had it in spades. Equally clearly, behind the one-­liners and the suave, James Bond exterior lurked an almost palpable loneliness. Like Jean, Jeff had loved deeply once and had lost the only woman he’d ever truly loved. Jeff blocked out the pain with hookers. Jean had never had it in him to do that. In a way, he wished he did. But both men had thrown themselves into work, into their respective passions, as a way to survive loss.

Jean wondered if the strategy was working better for Jeff Stevens than it was for him. At least I have my children. Without Clémence and Luc, Jean truly didn’t know how he would survive. Stevens has a son, a beautiful son, and he doesn’t even know it. The thought made Jean Rizzo profoundly sad.

After his meeting with Magdalena Prieto, he’d gone to see the Shroud for himself, listening to the same audio guide to the tour that Daniel Cooper’s mysterious accomplice had apparently taken some four times. It was fascinating, but gruesome. The idea that someone would torture to death an innocent man in order to fake Jesus’ burial cloth . . . that someone would go out and find an individual, abduct, beat and crucify him . . . it beggared the imagination. Even by medieval standards, that was some serious depravity. The fact that it had likely been done for money only made it worse.

Jean Rizzo thought, Am I wasting my time? Let’s say Daniel Cooper really is the Bible Killer, and I find him and stop him and punish him. Does it really matter in the long run? Won’t there be another serial killer after him, and another, and another? Isn’t mankind intrinsically, irredeemably cruel?

But then he answered his own question.

No. The world is full of goodness. It’s the freaks, the anomalies like Cooper, who go out there raping and slaughtering women. The fact that there were freaks back in the Dark Ages who liked to torture and kill to mimic some scene from the Bible doesn’t mean . . .

He stopped walking. A thought, a theory, something began to form in his head.

Daniel Cooper.

Torture and murder.

The Bible.

The Shroud of Turin wasn’t just a holy relic. It was evidence of a crime. Of a murder. A murder surrounded in mystery.

Jean Rizzo ran back to his hotel. Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he opened his laptop, tapping his feet impatiently until his in-­box appeared.

Come on. Be there. Be there be there be there.

And it was. His most recent e-­mail. Magdalena Prieto must have sent it as soon as he left the museum. Jean clicked open the attachment, zooming in closely on the image of the man’s face. The prominent forehead. The hooked Roman nose. The dark, springy curls of hair erupting out of the scalp like springs bursting out of an old mattress.

He zoomed in again.

And again.

Only on the third time were the seams of the wig visible. Or the tiny bumps in the latex where the prosthetic nose had been molded to the cheeks. Even with a trained eye and a state-­of-­the-­art computer, Jean had to look so closely he felt like his eyes might cross. But once he saw, he knew.

That’s no accomplice.

THE MAN IN THE green jacket was back at his hotel. The Casas de la Judería was a strange mishmash of rooms and courtyards linked by subterranean tunnels in the old Jewish quarter of Seville. Wedged between two churches and set back from a pretty but dark cobblestone street lined with cafés and precariously leaning medieval houses, it was a throwback to an old, largely lost Spain. The interiors were gloomy and musty, with a preponderance of dark brown fabric, permanently drawn curtains and heavy mahogany furniture. A smell of beeswax polish mingled with wood smoke and incense from the church next door. The decor was simple, the rooms small. There were no televisions or other signs of the modern world beyond the beautifully carved, heavy wooden gates at the hotel’s entrance. In the courtyards, old men smoked pipes and sipped coffee and read novels by Ignacio Aldecoa. A widow in a black-­fringed head scarf, frozen in time, said the rosary by an unlit fire in the salon.

Returning to his room, the man in the green parka locked the door. Then he removed his coat, socks and shoes and sat down on the end of the bed. He tried not to think about the countless generations of Jews who had slept in this room before him. The man did not like Jews. It was the Jews who had crucified Our Lord.

He had chosen this hotel because it was central and private and reasonably priced. But the irony of sleeping in a former Jewish ghetto did not escape him. Feeling dirty and full of sin, he stripped fully and ran himself a boiling-­hot bath. Removing his false nose and the latex that made his forehead more prominent was time-­consuming and painful, but he carried out the process without complaint. He deserved the pain. Relished it, even.

He stepped into the cramped bathtub. The water burned his skin, scalding his scrotum as he sat down, immersing his legs fully.

Daniel Cooper sighed with pleasure.

DANIEL JAMES COOPER HAD committed his first murder at the age of twelve.

The victim was his own mother.

Daniel had stabbed Eleanor Cooper to death in a fit of rage over her affair with a neighbor, Fred Zimmer. Zimmer was convicted of the crime and ultimately executed, largely thanks to young Daniel’s poignant testimony, which reduced more than one juror to tears. Daniel was placed in the care of an aunt, who often heard the boy scream himself to sleep at night. Daniel Cooper had loved his mother.

But Daniel Cooper’s mother was a whore.

Daniel believed in hell. He knew that his only hope of salvation was to atone for his past sins, for his mother’s death and Zimmer’s. Atonement was what he had spent most of his adult life trying to achieve, in one way or another.

Now, here in Seville, at last everything was falling into place.

Tracy would come to him now. With Jeff Stevens as bait, she’d be drawn like a moth to a flame. Inspired by the Holy Shroud, as so many pilgrims had been before him, Daniel Cooper would finally be able to complete his life’s work, the penance that the Lord had prescribed for him. With this one, final sacrifice, he would atone for his mother’s death. Then he would save Tracy Whitney’s soul, and his own, through the sanctity of marriage.

Daniel Cooper’s beloved mother had died in a bathtub.

Reaching under the water, Daniel started to masturbate.

Soon it would be time to go.

EL IGLESIA DE SAN Buenaventura was a hidden treasure. Tucked away in an obscure alleyway, Calle Carlos Cañal, its simple, understated wooden doors belied the utterly sumptuous splendor within.

It was late at night and both the church and the alley were deserted, but a dim light burned constantly above the altar, a gleaming slab of gold that would not have been out of place in a Roman emperor’s palace. Jeff Stevens gasped. There must be millions of dollars’ worth of art in this tiny church alone, one of scores scattered throughout the city. Ornate carvings in ivory and marble competed with burnished gold statuary and stunning medieval frescoes to capture worshippers’ attention—­although their true purpose was, of course, to glorify God.

Jeff thought, I could be a believer in a place like this. Inhaling the lingering scents of incense, candle wax and wood polish, he remembered the dour, Presbyterian chapels of his upbringing in Marion, Ohio, all whitewashed walls and simple crosses and foul, orange 1970s carpeting. No wonder I’m an atheist.

“Hello?”

His voice echoed around the empty church. The air was so cold he could see his breath.

“Cooper?” he called again. “I’m alone.”

No answer. Jeff checked his watch. It was a few minutes after eleven. The Daniel Cooper Jeff remembered was a stickler for punctuality. He wouldn’t have left already, would he? No. That made no sense. It was Cooper who’d requested the meeting. Cooper who felt he had something to say, who wanted to make some sort of deal.

Jeff knelt down in one of the back pews and gazed up at the ceiling, drinking in the beauty and majesty of the place. He’d been nervous on his way over, apprehensive about seeing Daniel Cooper face-­to-­face after all these years. But now that he was here, alone, he felt a profound sense of peace.

He was turning to admire a statue of Saint Peter when the blow came. It was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, Jeff didn’t even register it as pain. The cold metal smashed into the back of his skull with an audible crack, like a breaking egg. Jeff slumped forward, momentarily aware of something warm and sticky running down his neck.

And then there was nothing.

WHEN JEAN RIZZO WAS trying to track down Tracy Whitney, back in L.A. after the Brookstein job, he’d physically gone from hotel to hotel. There was no time for that now. Instead, the moment Jean recognized the man in the museum’s photographs as Daniel Cooper, he began e-­mailing and faxing Cooper’s disguised image all over Seville.

There were over a hundred hotels in the city and countless guesthouses and B&Bs. Jean knew from Elizabeth Kennedy that Cooper was both practical and cheap. That meant he’d probably chosen to stay somewhere close to the museum, but nowhere too expensive or flashy. The Alfonso was out, as were the real dives on the outskirts of the city. Using Google and the tourist map of the city center that his own hotel had provided, Jean narrowed his “hit list” to ten establishments.

I’ll try them first. Then I’ll move farther out, street by street, mile by mile.

I’ll find him.

I have to.

Not even Jean expected to hit the jackpot so soon, however. On only his third follow-­up call, to a small hotel in the Jewish quarter, the girl at the desk answered obligingly, “Oh, yes! Of course I recognize him. That’s Señor Hernández. He’s been with us for almost a month now.”

A month!

“Is he still checked in?”

“I believe so. Let me check the computer.”

The wait was agonizing. Jean Rizzo could hardly stand the tension.

At last the girl came back on the line. “Yes, he’s still here. Would you like me to check his room, see if he’s in the hotel at the moment?”

“NO!” Jean almost shouted. “I mean no, thank you, there’s no need for that.”

The Casas de la Judería was only a short walk away, back across the park.

“It’s rather a delicate matter. I’ll come over myself. I can be there in five minutes.”

WALKING BRISKLY THROUGH THE underground passage that led to room 66, Jean Rizzo felt an eerie sense of calm. The comforting solidity of his gun pressing against his rib cage beneath his blue windbreaker was certainly a factor. As was the fact that, win or lose, live or die, this saga was about to be over.

Thirteen women.

Eleven cities.

Nine years.

And it ended here, tonight.

The occupant of room 66—­Juan Hernández, aka Detective Luís Colomar, aka Daniel Cooper—­had nowhere to run. In a few short moments, he would either be captured or killed. Rizzo had called Comisario Dmitri as he arrived at the Casas de la Judería, announcing his imminent strike on Cooper and then hanging up. If Cooper somehow managed to shoot Jean and escape, Dmitri and his men would be waiting. It would be irritating to have to let the obnoxious Spanish policeman take the credit for apprehending the Bible Killer, Jean thought as he drew nearer to room 66, traversing a courtyard enclosed by high stone walls. On the plus side, though, for that scenario to happen Jean would have to be dead, and ergo oblivious. Every cloud had a silver lining.

At the far side of the courtyard four stone steps led to another passageway that stopped almost as soon as it had begun. Jean found himself at a dead end, the wooden door of room 66 directly in front of him.

Drawing his gun, he knocked twice, hard.

“Señor Hernández?”

No answer.

“Señor Hernández, are you in there? I have an important message for you.”

Nothing.

Taking out the key that the girl at the reception desk had given him, Jean started to push it into the lock. The door creaked open by itself. Jean stormed into the room, gun drawn.

“Daniel Cooper, this is Interpol. You’re under arrest!”

Damn it.

The bed was made. There were no suitcases. Everything was spotless, clean and sparkling to within an inch of its life. By the side of the bed, a Bible lay open to John, chapter 19, verse 1.

The highlighted quote read, “They took Jesus, therefore, to the place of the skull. And there they crucified him.”

Jean Rizzo felt his stomach lurch. So he’d been right! Daniel Cooper was the Bible Killer. There could be no doubt now. Room 66 was like all the other crime scenes, with one crucial exception.

There was no body.

Yet.

Only then did Jean Rizzo notice the envelope, crisp and white like the one Señora Prieto had found at the foot of the Shroud. It was propped up against the pillows, and addressed in a clear, cursive hand:

To Tracy Whitney, c/o Inspector Jean Rizzo.

Ripping it open, Jean started to read . . .