Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)

A CONFERENCE WAS UNDER WAY at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 1700, the FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters. It was taking place in the office of Assistant Director John Marsden, but the man in charge was Agent Milton Buck. Agent Buck was in his early thirties and boyishly handsome. He would have been attractive had it not been for the twin handicaps of his pushy, arrogant personality and his height. At five foot seven, Milton Buck was easily the shortest man in the room.

The other ­people present were Assistant Director Marsden, FBI agents Susan Greene and Thomas Barton and Inspector Jean Rizzo of Interpol.

Agent Buck said, “There’s no connection. I’m sorry, but there just isn’t.”

Jean Rizzo bit back his irritation. He’d met hundreds of Milton Bucks at Interpol, ambitious, cocky little megalomaniacs with no thought in their empty heads beyond furthering their own careers. Depressingly, they always seemed to rise to the top. Like scum.

“You haven’t even read the file.”

“I don’t need to. With respect, Mr. Rizzo—­”

“Inspector Rizzo,” said Jean. Why was it that ­people always began the most insulting sentences by saying “with respect”?

“My team and I are investigating a string of sophisticated, high-­end thefts involving jewelry and fine art worth multiple millions of dollars. What you have is a few dead crack whores.”

“Twelve. Twelve victims. If you’d read the files you’d—­”

“I don’t need to read your files to understand that there is no possible connection between our respective cases.”

“You’re wrong.” Jean pulled a sheaf of photographs out of his briefcase and handed one to everyone in the room. “There is a connection. You’re looking at her. Her name is Tracy Whitney.”

“Tracy Whitney?” For the first time, Assistant Director John Marsden’s ears pricked up. Twenty years Milton Buck’s senior, Marsden was a far more impressive character in Jean Rizzo’s view. Measured. Thoughtful. Not a total dick. “Why do I know that name?”

Jean Rizzo opened his mouth to speak but Agent Buck cut him off.

“Cold case, sir. That’s cold as in permafrost. Or cold as in morgue. Whitney’s almost certainly dead. She served time in Louisiana for armed robbery.”

“She never committed that crime,” Jean interjected. “Later evidence showed—­”

“She got early release,” Milton Buck talked over him. “After that, her name was linked with a number of international swindles and burglaries. Interpol made a big deal out of her for a while, but nothing was ever proved. Eight or nine years ago she dropped off the radar completely.”

“And you know this how?” Assistant Director Marsden asked.

“We looked into her after the McMenemy Pissarro theft in New York, and again after the Neil Lane diamond heist in Chicago. No connection whatsoever.” Buck looked pointedly at Jean Rizzo. “Tracy Whitney is old news.”

Susan Greene, a plain young woman who was part of Buck’s team, turned to Jean Rizzo.

“You obviously believe there’s a connection between Ms. Whitney and this young woman’s death. What was her name again?”

Agent Greene picked up the picture of the grotesquely mutilated corpse that Rizzo had shown them earlier.

“Her name was Sandra Whitmore.”

“The crack whore,” Milton Buck said nastily.

Jean gave him a look that could have melted stone.

“Sandra had been clean almost four months. She was a single mom with a day job at Costco.”

“And we all know what her night job was.” Buck sneered.

“She was murdered within forty-­eight hours of Sheila Brookstein’s Iranian ruby necklace being stolen. By the same individual who killed all the other girls. In every single one of these cases, the homicide takes place immediately following a ‘sophisticated, high-­end theft’ in the same city.” Rizzo emphasized each word, using Agent Buck’s own phrase against him. “In many of those thefts, local police have reason to believe that the key suspect is female. As I’m sure you’re all aware, there aren’t many viable female suspects on file with a track record of this sort of flashy, audacious crime.”

Assistant Director Marsden asked, “Was Tracy Whitney the one who conned the Prado? Didn’t she steal a Goya?”

Jean Rizzo smiled. “The Puerto. That’s right. You have an excellent memory.”

“She had a partner. A guy.”

“Jeff Stevens.” Rizzo nodded.

Milton Buck was irritated. “Look. Nothing was ever proved against Tracy Whitney. Or Stevens, for that matter. And the Puerto wasn’t stolen. The museum sold it in a private deal.”

“After Whitney convinced them it was a fake She made a fortune out of that scam.”

“The point is, whatever happened back then is ancient history. Tracy Whitney is not a suspect in the Brookstein job.”

“Do you have a suspect?” Jean Rizzo asked bluntly.

“As a matter of fact we do.”

“Is it a woman?”

Milton Buck hesitated. He badly wanted to tell the irritating Canadian from Interpol to stick his wild-­goose chase theories where the monkey stuck his nuts, but for some reason the AD seemed to like the guy. Grudgingly, Buck sent one of his junior agents to fetch the Brookstein file.

A few minutes later he handed a photograph to Jean.

“Her name is Elizabeth Kennedy. That’s one of her names anyway. She also goes by Liza Cunningham, Rebecca Mortimer and a string of other aliases. She’s a con woman, a very good one. We have reason to believe she knew Sheila Brookstein. She’s also a suspect in the Chicago job.”

Jean looked closely at the beautiful young woman with the white-­blond hair, wide sensual mouth and high cheekbones, like a doll’s. It was hard to imagine what possible connection she might have to Sandra Whitmore, or any of the other murdered and ­mutilated girls. On the other hand, the same was true of Tracy Whitney.

The advantage Ms. Kennedy had over Ms. Whitney was that she was definitively alive. As a rule, Jean preferred live suspects to dead ones. Even so, he wasn’t prepared to let go of the Whitney connection just yet.

“Do you know where she is? This Kennedy woman.”

For the first time, Buck looked uncomfortable. “Not at present, no. We’re working on it. As I said, she uses a number of aliases.”

“May I keep this picture?”

Milton Buck sighed heavily. “If you want to. But it’s not going to help you. Look, Rizzo, you know as well as I do: hookers get killed in major cities all over the world, every day. There is no connection between your dead girl and the Brookstein rubies. You’re clutching at straws, man. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

BACK IN HIS HOTEL room at the Standard in Hollywood, Jean tried to switch off. It was still only lunchtime, but the abortive meeting with the FBI had exhausted him, physically and emotionally. He hated L.A. More than any other city in the world, it made him feel homesick. There was something so lonely and desolate beneath its glitz and glamour. Everybody was trying too hard. The smell of burned hopes lingering in the air made it hard to breathe.

Jean telephoned his children in France, desperate suddenly to hear their voices. Clémence was out at a sleepover. Luc was watching Winnie l’ourson and refused to be torn away from the TV.

“Don’t take it personally,” Sylvie said kindly. “He’s tired, that’s all.”

“I know. I miss him. I miss all of you.”

There was a pause. “Let’s not do this, Jean. I’m tired too.”

Divorce sucked.

Hanging up, Jean took out the pictures of Sandra Whitmore’s wrecked corpse and spread them out on the bed. Work was the best cure for heartbreak that Jean knew and he turned to it now, as he’d done so many times before.

The room Sandra was slaughtered in had been scrupulously cleaned, just like all the others. The Bible was there, with the highlighted text. Sandra’s nails had been cut and her hair brushed. She’d been posed with her legs splayed wide. Jean closed his eyes and pictured the killer staging the scene, “fixing” his victim’s body as if she were some sort of store mannequin. He felt a wave of hatred so strong it made him want to vomit.

Why wouldn’t the FBI help him?

Why wouldn’t Milton Buck even consider the possibility that either Tracy Whitney or his girl, Elizabeth Kennedy, might be involved? That there might be a connection between the con women and the prostitutes? Assistant Director Marsden had mentioned Whitney’s partner in crime today, Jeff Stevens. Jean didn’t know much about Stevens, beyond his name. Perhaps now was the time to do some more digging?

One step at a time. Let’s check out Tracy Whitney first.

Jean had three days left in L.A. before he was due to fly home to Lyon. The LAPD was understaffed and the FBI clearly had no intention of helping him. Whatever investigative work he wanted to do, he would have to do on his own.

He picked up the phone.

SET BACK FROM THE Pacific Coast Highway, with spectacular views over the ocean, Nobu Malibu is a favorite Friday-­night dinner venue for Hollywood’s elite. Even a player like Alan Brookstein had had to call in a favor to get the coveted table nineteen out on the terrace. Wedged between Will and Jada Smith on one side and a billionaire Internet entrepreneur on the other, Alan Brookstein had hoped tonight’s dinner might help break Sheila out of her funk. So far, no dice. Ever since her rubies had been stolen, Sheila had been about as much fun as root-­canal surgery without anesthetic.

Looking at her now, scowling down at her sushi, her small, mean mouth pursed like a cat’s anus, Alan Brookstein thought, I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. I wish I’d never bought you that damned necklace in the first place.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brookstein, Mrs. Brookstein? Do you mind if I sit down?”

The question was apparently rhetorical. The stocky little man with the Canadian accent had already pulled up a chair and positioned himself between the director and his wife.

“This won’t take long. I’m investigating a homicide here in Los Angeles. A young woman was murdered in Hollywood last Sunday night, the evening after the robbery at your property.” Jean Rizzo pulled out his Interpol ID card and laid it on the table.

“Murdered? How awful!” Sheila Brookstein said gleefully. The policeman was very handsome. A murder investigation would at least give her something to gossip about with her girlfriends. “Do we know the young woman?”

“I doubt it,” said Jean. “She worked as a prostitute.”

The gleeful look vanished from Sheila’s face, replaced by an accusatory glare directed toward her husband.

“Jesus. Don’t look at me. I don’t know any hookers!”

“I wonder, sir, is this woman familiar to you?”

Jean took out Tracy Whitney’s picture.

“Is she the prostitute?” Sheila Brookstein was still looking daggers at her husband, who was studying the image closely.

“No,” said Jean. “But she may be connected to the case. Mr. Brookstein, do you recognize the woman in the picture?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’?” Sheila Brookstein’s shrill voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Either you know her or you don’t.”

“My God, Sheila, would you shut up for five seconds?” Alan Brookstein looked at the picture again. “Her hair’s different now. And she’s older than she is in this picture. But I think it might be the chick from the insurance company.”

“You met this woman?” Jean tried to conceal his elation.

“Yeah.”

“Recently?”

“She came to the house a week ago. Warned me about these pinhole cameras—­turns out that’s exactly what the thieves used to get the code to my safe. I guess I should have taken her more seriously.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brookstein. Mrs. Brookstein. You’ve been a great help.”

“Did this woman have anything to do with the robbery? What about my necklace?” Sheila Brookstein demanded.

Jean Rizzo was already out the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, JEAN Rizzo was in the car at six o’clock. Back in her heyday, Tracy Whitney had stayed in nothing but the best hotels. Armed with her picture, Jean started downtown and headed west, hitting L.A.’s most luxurious establishments. By ten, he had drawn a blank at five of the seven hotels on his list: the Ritz-­Carlton, the Four Seasons, the Peninsula, the Roosevelt and the SLS. He began to doubt himself. Maybe she rented a mansion? Maybe she stayed with a friend or a lover? Maybe she lost all her money somehow and is holed up in a motel? Maybe Alan Brookstein was mistaken and she was never here in L.A. at all? Jean Rizzo wouldn’t be the first person to end up chasing shadows where Tracy Whitney was concerned.

The manager at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica was polite but insistent.

“I recognize all our guests, Inspector. I am one hundred percent positive this young lady has not been staying with us.”

That left only the Hotel Bel-­Air. More in hope than with any expectation of a positive response, Jean showed the manager Tracy’s picture.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Schmidt. Bungalow six. She checked out four days ago.”

“She did?” Jean was so delighted, he couldn’t quite take in the information. “Did she leave a forwarding address?”

“Um . . .” The manager typed something into his computer. “No. I’m afraid not. But I have a billing address for the credit card. Would you like that?”

Jean nodded enthusiastically.

“Lovely lady,” the manager said as he printed out the details. “If only all our guests were as kind and conscientious. She left a very generous tip and was politeness itself.”

“Mm-­hmm.” Jean wasn’t listening.

“Her son was delightful too.”

The manager handed Jean the address.

“Her son?”

“Nicholas. Charming boy. Terribly good-­looking too, although I suppose it’s hardly surprising with genes like that.” The manager smiled, then frowned suddenly as if something had just occurred to him. “She’s not in any trouble, is she?”

“No no,” said Jean. “Nothing like that.”

Out in the car, he read the address the manager had given him.

Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

Jean Rizzo wasn’t sure how he’d pictured Tracy Whitney’s life, assuming that she was, indeed, still alive. But he found it hard to imagine the most successful con artist of all time living quietly as a small-­town mom up in the mountains. He thought for a moment about calling Milton Buck and telling him what he’d discovered. It would be fun to wipe the smug smile off the ­arrogant FBI man’s face. But he soon thought better of it. Buck’s only interest was in solving the robbery cases and finding the missing jewelry and artworks. Jean Rizzo had a killer to catch. Besides, this was his information. The FBI isn’t scratching my back. Why should I scratch theirs?

His flight home to France would have to wait.

It was time to pay a visit to Mrs. Tracy Schmidt.