“A phony,” David Swift surmised.
“Right. Her real name is Tracy Whitney.”
They were all staring at him. “How the hell do you know that?” Schiffer demanded.
“She gave a false name and address, but she had to sign a rental agreement. I took the original down to One Police Plaza and had them run it through for fingerprints. They matched the prints of Tracy Whitney. She served time at the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women. If you remember, I talked to her about a year ago about a stolen Renoir.”
“I remember,” Reynolds nodded. “You said then that she was innocent.”
“She was—then. She’s not innocent anymore. She pulled the Bellamy job.”
The little bastard had done it again! And he had made it seem so simple. Reynolds tried not to sound grudging. “That’s—that’s fine work, Cooper. Really fine work. Let’s nail her. We’ll have the police pick her up and—”
“On what charge?” Cooper asked mildly. “Renting a car? The police can’t identify her, and there’s not a shred of evidence against her.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Schiffer asked. “Let her walk away scot-free?”
“This time, yes,” Cooper said. “But I know who she is now. She’ll try something again. And when she does, I’ll catch her.”
The meeting was finally over. Cooper desperately wanted a shower. He took out a little black book and wrote in it very carefully: TRACY WHITNEY.
20
It’s time to begin my new life, Tracy decided. But what kind of life? I’ve gone from an innocent, naive victim to a…what? A thief—that’s what. She thought of Joe Romano and Anthony Orsatti and Perry Pope and Judge Lawrence. No. An avenger. That’s what I’ve become. And an adventuress, perhaps. She had outwitted the police, two professional con artists, and a double-crossing jeweler. She thought of Ernestine and Amy and felt a pang. On an impulse, Tracy went to F.A.O. Schwarz and bought a puppet theater, complete with half a dozen characters, and had it mailed to Amy. The card read: SOME NEW FRIENDS FOR YOU. MISS YOU. LOVE TRACY.
Next she visited a furrier on Madison Avenue and bought a blue fox boa for Ernestine and mailed it with a money order for two hundred dollars. The card simply read: THANKS, ER-NIE. TRACY.
All my debts are paid now, Tracy thought. It was a good feeling. She was free to go anywhere she liked, do anything she pleased.
She celebrated her independence by checking into a Tower Suite in The Helmsley Palace Hotel. From her forty-seventh-floor living room, she could look down at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and see the George Washington Bridge in the distance. Only a few miles in another direction was the dreary place she had recently lived in. Never again, Tracy swore.
She opened the bottle of champagne that the management had sent up and sat sipping it, watching the sun set over the skyscrapers of Manhattan. By the time the moon had risen, Tracy had made up her mind. She was going to London. She was ready for all the wonderful things life had to offer. I’ve paid my dues, Tracy thought. I deserve some happiness.
She lay in bed and turned on the late television news. Two men were being interviewed. Boris Melnikov was a short, stocky Russian, dressed in an ill-fitting brown suit, and Pietr Negulesco was his opposite, tall and thin and elegant-looking. Tracy wondered what the two men could possibly have in common.
“Where is the chess match going to be held?” the news anchorman asked.
“At Sochi, on the beautiful Black Sea,” Melnikov replied.
“You are both international grand masters, and this match has created quite a stir, gentlemen. In your previous matches you have taken the title from each other, and your last one was a draw. Mr. Negulesco, Mr. Melnikov currently holds the title. Do you think you will be able to take it away from him again?”
“Absolutely,” the Romanian replied.
“He has no chance,” the Russian retorted.
Tracy knew nothing about chess, but there was an arrogance about both men that she found distasteful. She pressed the remote-control button that turned off the television set and went to sleep.