Slipping into character was second nature to Jeff, like putting on an old familiar sweater.
“Afternoon, ladies.” He offered his arm to two overly made-up women in ankle-length minks as they approached the lobby doors. “Are y’all in town for the Winter Ball?”
“That’s right.” The first woman looked up coquettishly at the handsome Texan, almost blinding him with the diamonds that were swinging around her neck like golf balls. “How did you know?”
“Just a lucky guess. I’m invited myself, as it happens.”
Randall Bruckmeyer was invited to the annual Botanical Garden event, but he wouldn’t be going. He had a rather more pressing engagement arranged for that evening. Svetlana Drakhova would be attending, along with her repulsive sugar daddy, Oleg, hopefully for long enough to allow Jeff to do what he needed to do. The ball provided the perfect cover, not least because every cop, fed and private security firm was going to be all over the event like bees around a honey pot. After last year’s spectacular thefts—not one, but two multimillion-dollar jewel heists had gone down, one of them involving a very high-profile Hollywood actress and a sapphire bracelet that used to belong to Grace Kelly—no one was taking any chances. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, rumors abounded that another big job was being planned. Every con artist in the Western world worth their salt was in Manhattan right now, wondering whether to try their hand.
Except me, thought Jeff. He tightened his grip around the fur-clad ladies’ waists as they swept into the Gramercy’s grand, high-ceilinged Rose Bar.
“Name’s Randy,” he drawled. “Randy Bruckmeyer. Can I buy y’all a drink?”
JEAN RIZZO IDLY PERUSED the belts in the Ermenegildo Zegna concession in Barneys. He was just wondering who would pay almost a thousand dollars for a simple strip of leather, when he realized his target was on the move. Time to go.
Jean was tailing Elizabeth Kennedy. Using the pseudonym Martha Langbourne, Elizabeth had flown to New York from London three weeks ago and checked in to Morgans Hotel in Midtown. Jean Rizzo followed. After his meeting with Gunther Hartog, Jean had half expected to find Jeff Stevens in Manhattan too. He’d put some feelers out, but so far had found no sign of Tracy Whitney’s elusive ex.
If that was disappointing, Elizabeth Kennedy was proving to be even more so. For the last twenty days, “Martha” had done a good impression of being a wealthy tourist like any other. Jean had patiently followed her to two Broadway plays, numerous dinners in expensive restaurants (always solo) and a string of deathly dull visits to museums, galleries and every conceivable tourist attraction, from the Rockefeller Center ice rink to the Empire State Building.
Back in Lyon, Jean’s boss was not amused.
“We’re not the CIA,” Henri Marceau said grumpily. “We don’t have the budget for this crap.”
“Elizabeth Kennedy’s my only live lead.”
“She’s not a lead. She’s a hunch. You have nothing on her, Jean. Not as far as the Bible killings go.”
“That’s why I need to stay here. At least until next weekend. She’s planning something for the Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden, I’m sure of it. Sooner or later she’ll have to make contact with her partner. He’s our guy, Henri. He’s our guy.”
Henri Marceau had known Jean Rizzo a long time. He was a good detective with sharp instincts, but his heart was ruling his head on this one. Running all over the world, chasing shadows on the spurious advice of Gunther Hartog, a dying con artist with an ax to grind. And for what? A string of dead hookers. There were live cases, human-trafficking operations and drug rings and pedophile networks that desperately needed resources.
“I can’t justify it, Jean. I’m sorry. As of tomorrow, you’re there on your own dime.”
Sylvie, Jean’s ex, was equally unimpressed.
“It’s Christmas. You’ve been gone a month. What about the children?”
“I’ll bring them back something amazing from FAO Schwarz.”
“Something amazing? Really. Like what? A father who keeps his promises?”
Jean felt terrible about Clémence and Luc. But he couldn’t go home, not until he’d made progress. If another girl got killed in New York and he’d done nothing to stop it, he’d never forgive himself.
Finally, yesterday, his tenacity had paid off. Elizabeth Kennedy still hadn’t met up with her elusive partner. But she had begun tailing Bianca Berkeley.
TV actress, Scientologist and wife of the billionaire real estate mogul Butch Berkeley, Bianca Berkeley was beautiful, rich and weird. Gossip columnists loved her for her Howard Hughes–esque fits of hypochondria. Bianca had variously been reported as sleeping in an “oxygen helmet,” drinking her own urine daily and employing an astrologer to determine her diet, all in hopes of strengthening her immunity to any number of imagined diseases. Butch stuck with her because she was beautiful and famous and because she didn’t care if he slept with his assistant or his trainer as long as he kept her in jewels and jets.
The Berkeleys were confirmed attendees at this year’s Winter Ball. Yesterday “Martha Langbourne” had left her hotel after an early breakfast and followed Bianca Berkeley, first to her Pilates class, then to her psychic’s office and finally to Tiffany’s, where Bianca had spent an hour locked in conference with the store’s manager, Lucio Trivoli. Today Mrs. B was at Barneys buying Louboutin boots and “trinkets” for her staff, including (so far) a Patek Philippe watch with a seven-figure price tag and a crystal bracelet that claimed to “neutralize the ions” in the body.
Martha was right behind her. It was beyond question now. Bianca Berkeley was Elizabeth Kennedy’s latest target.
Jean watched as the two women moved through furs and accessories, then back into haberdashery. Mrs. Berkeley bought nothing else, although “Martha Langbourne” treated herself to some three-hundred-dollar cashmere-lined gloves with a silk gold trim, paid for with an unlimited AmEx in the same name, just like her hotel room. Jean Rizzo had checked the statements a week ago. ML was obviously an identity Elizabeth had used before while in the United States, although the cards hadn’t been used in more than a year. The abortive Los Angeles jaunt had been paid for with other monies. Ms. Kennedy and her partner were nothing if not careful.
Jean watched as Bianca Berkeley left the store by the main exit on Madison Avenue. He was about to follow when some sixth sense made him hold back. As expected, Elizabeth Kennedy followed her quarry. But this time Jean clocked the two young men walking behind her. They were dressed in jeans and sweaters. One carried a woolen overcoat over his arm. Jean couldn’t see their faces, but something about the way they moved, the slight inclination of their heads toward each other, told him at once that they were working together.
Could Elizabeth have more than one accomplice? Did she work as part of a gang?
Unhurriedly, Jean raised his cell phone and began taking pictures, making sure to look as if he were focusing on Barneys’ spectacular Christmas display and not on the two men. To his dismay, moments later a crowd of shoppers surged forward, sweeping the two men out of the store and onto Madison Avenue just yards behind Elizabeth.
Jean didn’t know if he’d caught their faces or not. His mind raced. There’s too many people. By the time I make it onto the street, they could all be gone. This might be the contact he’d been waiting for and he was seconds away from missing it!
Pushing rudely past a fat woman and her fatter son, he rushed to the nearest ground-floor window, behind a relatively sedate display selling Smythson diaries and notebooks. Pressing his face to the glass, he saw Bianca Berkeley step into her waiting town car and speed away. He couldn’t see Elizabeth or the two men.
“Damn it!” he said aloud, earning himself more than one bemused glance from nearby shoppers. Just as he was about to make a belated run for the doors, one of the two men appeared in front of the window, literally inches from where Jean was standing. Instinctively, Jean shrank back. The man had his coat on now. He was short with dark hair, but he still had his back turned. Turn around, damn you. At one point he leaned back so that his woolen coat actually touched the glass. Then he edged forward, apparently waving to someone across the street. Jean couldn’t see who it was. Seconds later the man’s hand shot out. A yellow cab pulled up.
“No!” Jean was running like a madman, falling over himself as he careered toward the store exit.
“Watch it, asshole!”
Outside, the crisp December air hit him in the face like a punch. Christmas shoppers swarmed the sidewalks like ants. Along both sides of Madison Avenue, a line of yellow taxis stretched for block after block, like bricks on the road to Oz. Jean’s heart sank. One man had gone. Jean doubted he would have recognized the other, even if he saw him. He was about to head back to Elizabeth’s hotel, more in hope than expectation that the three might regroup there, when suddenly he saw her. She was on foot, headed toward the subway.