The woman was with her husband, a squat, toad of a man with bulging eyes whom Tracy was sure she recognized but couldn’t quite place. Another, younger woman completed the group. From behind, Tracy could see that this second woman was tall, slender and elegant. Then she turned around.
Tracy choked, scalding jets of coffee burning the back of her throat and making her eyes water.
“Are you okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine, honey.” Tracy dabbed her eyes with the napkin, simultaneously using it to hide her face. “Finish your dessert.”
It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
Rebecca Mortimer! The girl from the British Museum. The girl Tracy had caught in her bedroom with Jeff, all those years ago. The girl who’d singlehandedly destroyed Tracy’s married life was here, not only in Los Angeles but in this very restaurant, sitting less than ten feet away from her!
Of course, she looked different. It had been almost a decade, after all. Her long red hair was now platinum blond and short, almost boyish. But there was nothing remotely masculine about her figure, especially when it was shrink-wrapped in an Hervé Léger minidress as it was today. Or in the coquettish toss of her head as she laughed at the fat man’s jokes.
I know who he is now, Tracy thought. Of course. That’s Alan Brookstein, the director. Which means those must be the famous Iranian rubies.
She couldn’t remember the whole story. But it involved a mistress of the former shah of Iran being tortured and strangled for her necklace, or something equally awful. Vanity Fair did a piece on it, and nobody came out well. Liz Taylor had tried and failed to buy the necklace before her death, after which it went underground again. Brookstein had bought it for his wife last year in a secret, possibly illegal deal, for an undisclosed sum. And here it was in the flesh, swinging around the woman’s neck at a casual lunch, like a mayoral chain!
Tracy summoned the maître d’.
“That’s Alan Brookstein and his wife, isn’t it?” she asked discreetly.
“Yes, ma’am. They’re regulars here.”
“I wonder, do you know the young woman dining with them?”
The maître d’ didn’t usually stoop to gossip with patrons. But the very beautiful Mrs. Schmidt was clearly far from one’s average tourist. She positively radiated class.
“I believe her name is Liza Cunningham. I’ve seen her in here before with Sheila . . . Mrs. Brookstein. She’s British. An actress.”
That’s about right, thought Tracy bitterly. A damn good actress.
Tracy watched the way “Liza” divided her attention between the director and his wife, expertly flattering them both. In her prior incarnation as “Rebecca,” an innocent archaeology student, she’d played the doe-eyed, butter-wouldn’t-melt role equally well.
That’s when it hit Tracy like a thunderbolt between the eyes.
She’s not an actress, or a student. She’s a con artist, like Jeff and me!
She’s one of us.
It was so obvious now, Tracy couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t realized it before. Back in London. Back when it mattered.
She’s a con artist and she’s here to steal that ruby necklace.
“Mom? You look weird. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, honey.” Tracy had almost forgotten Nicholas was there. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glazed and her heart rate had started to rise, beating to a familiar but long-neglected beat.
I’m going to play her at her own game.
And this time I’m going to win.
By the time Tracy paid the check, the decision had already been made.
Tracy was going to steal Sheila Brookstein’s rubies.
IT WAS HARD TO say who enjoyed the next week more—Tracy or Nicholas. In between playing mommy and taking her son to all the L.A. sights, Tracy prepared for the job. Stealing the most famous ruby necklace in the world from a powerful Hollywood director’s wife was not exactly “easing oneself back in gently.” Long days running around town with her son were followed by equally long nights researching everything there was to know about Alan and Sheila Brookstein and the fabled Iranian rubies.
In two days she had a plan.
It was difficult, audacious and wildly risky. Worse, she had only ten days to pull it together.
TRACY AND NICHOLAS WERE at the Hollywood sign. Tracy’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“So it really is you!” The man on the other end of the line gave a raspy chuckle. “I’ll be damned. I thought you were dead.”
“Thanks, Billy. Good to know.” Tracy grinned. “Are you still in the jewelry business?”
“Are priests still screwing little boys? Whaddaya got for me, sweetheart?”
“Nothing, yet. Can you meet me at the Bel-Air later?”
TRACY HATED ROLLER COASTERS. Somehow Nicholas had badgered her into taking the Apocalypse Ride at Six Flags Magic Mountain. They had just strapped themselves in and Tracy was focusing on keeping her lunch down when an e-mail popped up on her iPhone.
Is this who I think it is?
Tracy typed back, Absolutely not.
Shame. The person I was thinking of used to have amazing breasts. I wonder if she still does?
I need a contact at a Beverly Hills insurance agency. Do you have one?
Possibly. Do you have a recent photograph of your breasts you can send me?
Tracy laughed loudly.
“See?” Nicholas grinned over his shoulder as they lurched forward. “I told you. The Apocalypse is fun.”
ALAN AND SHEILA BROOKSTEIN lived in a very large, very ugly home set behind very large, very ugly gates, just north of Sunset Boulevard in Beverly Hills. The mock-Tudor manor was surrounded by garish flowers in a variety of clashing colors, and the driveway was lined with hundreds of truly hideous ceramic gnomes.
“You liked the gnomes, huh? My wife collects them. Has ’em shipped in from all over the world. Japan, France, Russia, even Iraq. You’d never guess the Iraqis were into garden statuary, would you? But I tell you, Miss Lane—”
“Please, call me Theresa.”
“Theresa.” Alan Brookstein smiled broadly. “It’s a funny old world we live in.”
The gorgeous young insurance agent smiled and nodded in agreement. Alan Brookstein rarely took meetings like this in person. “Home Insurance” fell squarely under the job description of his PA, Helen. But he’d happened to run into the beautiful Miss Theresa Lane yesterday, the first time she’d come around. One look at that slim figure, topped by the pretty, intelligent face and the cascade of chestnut hair, offset by those exquisite, dancing green eyes, and Alan Brookstein’s schedule opened up faster than a Kardashian’s legs in an NBA player’s hotel room.
“Your wife has great taste. That necklace is the most stunning piece I’ve ever seen.”
“Ah, well, that was my taste,” Alan Brookstein boasted. “I’m the one who picked it for her. You wanna see the safe?”
Tracy smiled warmly. “That’s why I’m here.”
Nicholas was in surf camp for the day out in Malibu. Tracy didn’t have to pick him up for hours, but she was still eager to get this done and get out of here sooner rather than later. She had nightmares of a genuine agent from Christie’s bespoke insurers telephoning or stopping by out of the blue and spectacularly blowing her cover. It’s not going to happen, Tracy told herself firmly. But her adrenal glands didn’t seem to be listening. The stakes were very high.
“This way, Theresa. Watch your step, now.”
Alan Brookstein led her through a baffling series of hallways, each one smothered in thick, beige carpet like marzipan frosting. Saccharine impressionist paintings in a riot of pinks and blues and greens hung on walls papered with busy floral prints that would have made Liberace wince. Two maids in full uniform flattened themselves against the wall as Tracy and the director passed. Tracy clocked the fear in their faces. Evidently the rumors she’d heard of both the Brooksteins’ bullying and unpleasantness toward their staff were true.
The safe—or rather safes—were in the master suite, behind a panel in Sheila’s dressing room.
“You have three?”
“Four.” Alan Brookstein’s chest puffed out with pride, making him look more like a toad than ever. “These three are all decoys. I put a few, less valuable pieces in each one, just enough to make a thief think he’s hit pay dirt. The third one has a perfect replica of the Iran piece. Real rubies, artificially produced. You can’t tell the difference with the naked eye. Wanna see?”
Unlocking the safe, he pulled out the necklace Tracy had seen at Cecconi’s and draped it over her hands. The stones were heavy and glowed like coal embers between her fingers.
“This is a fake?”
“That’s a fake.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you, Theresa.” Alan Brookstein’s eyes seemed to have developed a magnetic attraction to Tracy’s nipples.
“Does your wife wear this out?”
“Sometimes.” Brookstein replaced the necklace. “She wears both. The fake and the real one. If it’s something really big, like the gala at LACMA on Saturday night, she’ll wear the real deal. I’m being honored with a Lifetime Achievement Award,” he couldn’t resist adding.