“Because I haven’t stolen any ruby necklace.”
Now it was Jean’s turn to laugh. This woman was a piece of work.
“And by the way, my name is Tracy Schmidt.”
“Yeah? And mine’s Rip Van Winkle.”
“How unfortunate for you, Inspector Van Winkle.” Tracy’s green eyes danced.
“I blame my mother.” Jean played along.
“Why’s that? Surely it was your father’s name?”
“That’s true. But Mom didn’t have to go with ‘Rip.’ ”
Tracy grinned.
Jean said, “I tell you what. How about I call you ‘Tracy,’ and you can call me ‘Jean’?”
He extended his hand.
“Okay, Jean.” Tracy liked him instinctively, but she kept her wits about her. This man was a cop. He was not her friend. “How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating a series of murders.”
A look of surprise crossed her face. Jean gave her the details of the Bible Killer cases in broad brushstrokes. Tracy listened intently. She was horrified at the crimes Jean was describing, but she was also anxious to get him out of her house before Nicholas returned.
“The last girl was killed a week ago, in Hollywood. The day after you sto— The day after Sheila Brookstein’s rubies were stolen. The victim’s name was Sandra Whitmore. She had a son about the same age as yours.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tracy. “Truly I am. There are some sick bastards out there. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I know nothing about any Sandra Whitmore, or any of these women.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Jean. “I have a theory . . . I need to go through each of the cases with you one by one, in detail. It’s going to take time.”
Tracy stood up. Nicholas and Blake would be back any minute.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time. You need to leave now.”
“I’ll leave when you’ve answered my questions,” Jean said angrily.
He stood up and looked out of the window. A young boy was walking toward the house, arm in arm with an older man.
The manager of the Hotel Bel-Air was right. The boy was very good-looking. It suddenly struck Jean where he’d seen him before.
“That’s a handsome kid you got there.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that his father with him?”
Tracy stiffened. “No.”
She looked over Jean’s shoulder. Nicholas and Blake were getting closer. She felt the fear rising up within her. If this man said anything in front of them, in front of Nicky . . .
“Please. You have to leave.”
“Where is his father?”
“His father is dead.”
“Interesting,” Jean Rizzo said. “Because last I heard, Mr. Stevens was very much alive. According to the FBI, he has a very interesting sideline these days. In the historical-treasures business.”
Tracy gripped the countertop. The floor seemed to be giving way beneath her.
She turned to Jean, unable either to speak or to hide the turmoil of emotions churning inside her. How did he know about Jeff? She did not want to hear about Jeff. Not now, not ever. And certainly not from this strange, aggressive little man who somehow knew who she was and was here talking about murders, and rapes and crimes that had nothing to do with her.
“Help me solve these killings,” said Jean.
“I can’t. You must believe me. Your theory is wrong. I have nothing to do with this!”
“Help me or I’ll tell your boy the truth.”
The kitchen door swung open.
Nicholas looked up curiously at the strange man with his mother.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” Jean smiled.
“Who are you?”
The boy seemed surprised but in no way unnerved to see an unknown male in his kitchen. Unlike the rugged cowboy who’d walked in with him, who was glowering at Jean with obvious distrust. The guy looked like a throwback to an old Clint Eastwood movie. Boyfriend? wondered Jean.
Tracy seemed to have lost the power of speech. All her earlier confidence had evaporated. She felt as if she might faint. Eventually she stammered, “Th-This is, er . . . this is . . .”
“My name is Jean. I’m an old friend of your mother’s.”
“From Europe?” asked Nicholas. “Before I was born?”
Jean Rizzo glanced at Tracy. She nodded imperceptibly.
“That’s right. I was hoping your mother might be able to have dinner with me tonight. To catch up on old times. I’m staying down in town.”
“She can’t tonight. We have plans.”
Blake Carter’s voice rang out, as steady and solid and reassuring as the chiming of an old church bell.
“Right, Tracy?”
One look at Tracy had been enough to convince Blake that her “old friend” Jean was nothing of the sort. Blake thought, She’s frightened. Tracy’s never frightened.
“Tomorrow, then?” asked Jean.
The old cowboy had wrapped a protective arm around Tracy’s shoulder in a gesture that could have been paternal or romantic. Jean found himself wondering about their relationship, and what, if anything, the older man knew of Tracy’s past. Or her present, come to think of it.
“Okay,” said Tracy, to Blake Carter’s evident distress. “Tomorrow.”
She never wanted to see Jean Rizzo’s face again. But what choice did she have?
The game of chess was on and it was Tracy’s move.
GIANNI’S, A COZY ITALIAN in the mountain village area, right at the foot of the ski slopes, was popular with locals and tourists alike. The staff all knew Tracy by sight, although Mrs. Schmidt rarely ate out. Everyone wondered who the handsome man was, dining with Steamboat’s wealthiest widow in the corner booth. But nobody asked.
Jean got straight to business. He handed Tracy a sheaf of pictures, mostly family snapshots of the twelve victims. Izia Moreno at her high school graduation in Madrid. Alissa Armand laughing with her sister at a campsite outside Paris. Sandra Whitmore cradling her baby son in her arms.
“The women were all prostitutes. They were killed over a nine-year period, in different cities all over the world.”
“But you think it’s the same killer?”
“It is the same killer. There aren’t many certainties in this investigation but that’s one of them.”
Jean told her about the murderer’s obsession with neatness and the Bible verses. “He’s familiar with police procedures, or at least with the ways in which DNA evidence is collected. He cleans up the crime scenes to protect himself, but it goes beyond that. He’s staging the bodies. It’s like theater.”
Tracy listened but said nothing. She ordered linguine vongole for both of them, a specialty of the house, but barely touched her plate when it arrived.
“I still don’t see where I come in.”
“Each murder took place between twenty-four and forty-eight hours after a major heist of some kind in the same city. None of those robberies were solved. All of them were complicated, meticulously planned and executed. More than half involved a woman. There aren’t many women in your business, as you know.”
“What business is that, Inspector?”
Jean raised an eyebrow. “Come on now, Miss Whitney.”
“Let’s stick with ‘Tracy.’ And lower your voice.”
“Sorry. The point is there are very few females operating at this level. We’re talking seven-figure jobs here. Highly sophisticated.”
Tracy nodded. “Go on.”
“I started researching the robberies and looking for female suspects. Your name popped up on the Interpol database. The first thing I noticed was that no one had seen hide nor hair of you in nine years, when you disappeared from London.”
“So?”
“So the first victim, Karen Harle, was killed nine years ago. In London. Same time. Same city. You disappeared, and these murders began.”
Jean sipped his wine and looked at Tracy expectantly.
Tracy stared back at him. If this man weren’t threatening to expose her identity and destroy her and Nicholas’s life, she might almost have laughed.
“That’s it? That’s your connection? The nine-year London thing?”
Jean bristled. “It’s a link.”
“It’s nothing of the sort! It’s a coincidence! And I didn’t disappear. I left. I needed a new start and I got one.”
“A coincidence?” said Jean. “Really? Let’s fast-forward, shall we? New York City, three years later. A Pissarro is stolen from a private residence on Fifth Avenue in broad daylight by a woman posing as an employee of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Does that not sound like one of your jobs to you?”
“It sounds audacious,” Tracy conceded. “I like the broad-daylight part. But I was nowhere near New York at that time.”
Jean went on.
“Okay. Chicago A diamond bracelet and two pairs of matching earrings are stolen from a Neil Lane store. Not only were cameras and alarms disabled and then reset, but it was three weeks before anybody discovered that the gems were even missing. The fakes used to replace them were such expert reproductions.”
“Again, impressive attention to detail.”
“But not ringing any bells?”
Tracy sipped her wine. “None whatsoever.”
“Mumbai, two years ago. An unscrupulous property developer is conned into buying a nonexistent title to a piece of land the size of a handkerchief by a beautiful young American woman whom he believes to be romantically interested in him.”