One by one, they appeared on the screen.
Madrid: THEFT. $1m plus. Fine art. ANNTA Gallery.
Lima: THEFT. $2m plus. Fine art. Galería Municipal de Arte Pancho Fierro.
London: THEFT. $500,000 plus. Diamonds/other. Private residence (Reiss).
New York: THEFT. Fine art. Pissarro. Private residence (McMenemy).
Chicago: THEFT. $1m plus. Jewelry. Commercial (Neil Lane).
Buenos Aires, Hong Kong, Mumbai.
THEFT. THEFT. THEFT.
Jean Rizzo felt his heart start to race. He picked up the telephone.
“Benjamin?’
“Rizzo?” Benjamin Jamet, Interpol’s Paris Bureau chief, sounded distinctly groggy.
“I found something. Major thefts. Art, diamonds, almost all of them seven figures. One or two days before every single murder. Has anything splashy gone down in Paris in the last two days?”
“Putain de merde,” Benjamin Jamet growled. “Do you know what time it is?”
“This would have been big.” Jean ignored him. “Did anyone hit Cartier or an embassy or . . . I don’t know . . . the Louvre? Most likely art but could have been high-end jewels.”
There was a long pause on the end of the line.
“As a matter of fact, there was something. The German ambassador’s wife had a valuable collection of miniatures stolen from her safe.”
“How valuable?”
“Over a million euros.”
“When?”
“On Wednesday night.” Benjamin Jamet sighed. “But look, Jean, this has nothing to do with your dead hooker. We’re treating it as a domestic incident. All the embassy staff are being questioned. There were no signs of a break-in and . . . Jean? Jean, are you there?”
JEAN RIZZO STAGGERED INTO work at nine the next morning, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Ignoring colleagues’ greetings and jokes about his haggard appearance, he went straight into his office and closed the door.
After five minutes, his secretary, Marie, braved the lion’s den.
“Coffee?”
“Yes. Please. Lots.”
“Your ex-wife called. She says your daughter’s going home this afternoon.”
“Good,” said Jean. He didn’t look up.
He had a lead. His first lead since he’d taken on this miserable case. Nothing else mattered.
Eleven murders, all bearing the hallmarks of the same killer.
Eleven audacious thefts, in the same cities, two days before the girls died.
None of the crimes solved.
There was a link. There had to be. It was simply too much of a coincidence.
But the link wasn’t a simple one. On the surface, Jean could think of no plausible motive that connected the slayings of prostitutes with the pilfering of fine art. Moreover, in at least three of the robberies, the suspected perpetrator had been a woman. Although he didn’t yet have the DNA to prove it, Jean Rizzo would have staked his children’s lives on the fact that the Bible Killer was male. No woman could have inflicted those vile, sexual injuries on another woman.
The coffee arrived. Jean drank two strong cups. Without much hope of success, he ran an initial database trawl for suspected art and jewel thieves, operating internationally and at the very highest end of the market. The list ran to well over four hundred names.
Scrolling up to sort by gender, Jean checked the female box and hit search.
Five files appeared on his screen.
Five!
One was dead.
Three were in jail.
Jean Rizzo clicked open the fifth file. A young woman’s face appeared on his computer screen. She was so beautiful, with her porcelain skin and chestnut hair and intelligent, moss-green eyes, that Jean found it impossible to look away
“Tracy Whitney,” he murmured to himself. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
CHAPTER 9
TAKE A SEAT PLEASE, Mrs. Schmidt. Mrs. Carson.”
Principal Barry Jones of Steamboat Springs Elementary School looked at the two mothers seated opposite him and their respective sons. Tracy Schmidt was a knockout. With her slender figure, shining chestnut hair and exquisite green eyes, she looked far younger than her thirty-seven years. Everybody knew that Mrs. Schmidt was a widow, and wealthy, but that was about all they knew. Living way up on that ranch with old Blake Carter, the lady kept to herself and had done so ever since she moved to the town almost a decade ago now. Of course, given her beauty, there were always rumors. Some said Tracy and Blake were an item. Principal Jones found that hard to believe. Others suggested she might be gay, but from where Principal Jones was sitting, she came across a lot more Ellen Barkin than Ellen DeGeneres.
Tracy’s son, Nicholas, sat beside her. He had slightly darker coloring but was equally good looking. Unfortunately he was also the scourge of third grade, in and out of hot water more often than a reusable tea bag.
On the other side of the principal’s desk, their fat arms folded like giant, white sausages, sat Emmeline Carson and her boy, Ryan. Ryan Carson was a promising ice hockey player, popular in class, and a bully. He had a square head and close-set eyes that made him look dumber than he actually was. No mean feat. Ryan’s nickname was “Rock” and it suited him on any number of levels. He also took after his mother. Emmeline Carson had one of those faces that looked oddly flattened, although her forehead bulged unappealingly above it. As if a steamroller had begun the job of running over her head, then thought better of it and reversed.
How Principal Jones wished he were here to reprimand Rock Carson and not Nicholas Schmidt! He certainly knew which mother he’d rather be pleasing.
“Are you gonna kick him out this time?” Mrs. Carson started things off with her usual charm. “My Ryan knows what he saw. The boy’s a cheat.”
“It’s not true, Mom.” Nicholas looked up at Tracy guilelessly. “I’m sure Rock—Ryan—genuinely thought he saw me do it. But he must be mistaken.”
He’s so handsome, Tracy thought adoringly. And such a good liar.
She turned her sweetest smile on Principal Jones. “Perhaps you’d tell me what happened?”
“I’m afraid a number of children witnessed the incident. Ryan was the one to come forward, but it happened during recess. Nicholas was caught at Mrs. Waklowski’s desk, photographing the answers to tomorrow’s math test on his cell. Apparently he was offering to sell the information to classmates, including Ryan here.”
“That’s right,” Ryan piped up. “He wanted ten bucks. Like I’m gonna give him ten bucks for some stupid math answers!”
“I mean, why would you need them?” said Nicholas. “You’re so smart, Rock, you’d have aced the test anyway. Right?”
“Right.” The bully’s eyes narrowed. He suspected he was being mocked, but didn’t fully understand how. “Anyway, the point is, he’s a cheat.”
“As I say, Mrs. Schmidt, it isn’t a case of one kid’s word against another’s. Half the third grade has corroborated Ryan’s story.”
Tracy nodded understandingly. She looked at her son, not sure how, exactly, she was supposed to help him, when she saw a light go on in Nicholas’s eyes.
“Check my phone.”
“Excuse me?” said Principal Jones.
Nicholas reached into his pocket. A few moments later, he slid the offending cell phone across the principal’s desk. “Check it. See if the pictures are on there.”
“That seems sensible to me,” said Tracy.
“Very well.”
The principal switched on the device and fiddled about with it awkwardly. “How, er . . . where would I find pictures on here?”
“I’ll show you,” Nicholas said brightly.
“No. I’ll show you.” Mrs. Carson’s huge white arm shot out across the desk and grabbed the phone. “He’ll probably try and delete ’em.”
Watching her fat fingers slide over the screen was like watching Lennie from Of Mice and Men stroke a mouse.
“Here ya go.” She opened up the media files triumphantly, but her expression of smug satisfaction quickly faded. “Hey, what is this?”
“May I see the pictures?” Tracy asked sweetly. “Well, now, as far as I can see, there’s nothing that looks like a math paper here.” She handed the phone back to Principal Jones.
“He’s deleted ’em already. He’s a liar!” Mrs. Carson was shouting. “Half the class saw those pictures.”
“Any files deleted within the last hour would still be in the deleted items folder. I’m sure Mr. Farley would be happy to check that for you,” Nicholas offered helpfully. Alisdair Farley was the head of the school’s IT department. “But he won’t find any pictures because I never took any. That’s the truth. I was playing Angry Birds. I guess because I was near the teacher’s desk, Rock kinda assumed . . .”
Look at those eyelashes fluttering! thought Tracy, rising from her chair.
“Is that all, Mr. Jones?”
Look at that figure! thought Principal Jones.
“I guess that’s all, Mrs. Schmidt. It must have been a misunderstanding. Thanks for coming in.”
OUTSIDE IN THE CORRIDOR, Nicholas kissed his mother good-bye.
“I’ll see you after school. Glad we got that nonsense straightened out.”
“Uh-huh,” said Tracy. “See you after school. Oh, Nicky?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to bring that other chip in your backpack.”