Slipping her black silk balaclava over her face (it was terribly important to work in comfort; Elizabeth’s trusty mask was like a second skin), she was about to open the door when she suddenly froze.
The master-bedroom window popped open. Elizabeth heard the familiar, soft slither of a rope being thrown out. Seconds later a diminutive black-clad figure emerged, abseiling down the rear wall of the property with the silent grace of a spider gliding down a line of its own silk. It was quite beautiful to watch, like ballet. The figure stopped on a small flat roof about twelve feet off the ground. From there he paused, seemed to judge the distance, then made a catlike leap onto the boundary wall of the property, about thirty feet from where Elizabeth was parked.
Belatedly, she began to feel angry. The burglar’s exit had been such a virtuoso performance, Elizabeth had been momentarily blinded by admiration. But now she felt a different, more raw emotion.
I don’t believe it. After all that effort, someone beat me to it. That bastard’s got my necklace!
At that precise moment the figure on top of the wall turned and looked directly at Elizabeth’s car. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out the string of rubies and dangled them mockingly in Elizabeth’s direction.
What the . . .
Elizabeth turned on her headlights. Even from this distance she could see the red glow of the stones, taunting her. Then the black-clad figure removed his balaclava. A cascade of chestnut hair burst forth. A woman! A face Elizabeth Kennedy thought she would never see again smiled down at her, with a look of the purest triumph in her green eyes.
Climbing into her own car, Tracy Whitney blew her rival a kiss before speeding off into the night.
ELIZABETH KENNEDY SAT IN her car for a full five minutes before she made the call.
“Did you get it?”
Her partner’s voice was cold, curt, demanding. Elizabeth had come to hate it over the years.
“No.” She responded in kind, without apology. “I was too late.”
“What do you mean, ‘too late’? The gala’s only halfway through.”
“By the time I got here, someone else had stolen the necklace. I saw them leaving, just now.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
Elizabeth said, “You’ll never guess who it was.”
More silence. Elizabeth’s partner did not like guessing games. Or any games, for that matter.
“Tracy Whitney.”
When her partner spoke again, Elizabeth could have sworn she detected a trace of emotion.
“That’s impossible. Tracy Whitney’s not active anymore. She’s almost certainly dead. No one’s seen her for—”
“—almost ten years. I know. I was there, remember? But I’m telling you, it was Tracy Whitney. I recognized her immediately. And I’m pretty sure she recognized me.”
TRACY PAID THE BABYSITTER at the hotel and tipped her very generously.
“Wow, that’s so nice of you. Thanks. How was the movie?”
“Exciting. I loved every minute of it.”
The sitter left. Tracy walked into Nicholas’s room and watched him sleeping. She’d taken a huge risk tonight, letting that girl—Rebecca, as Tracy would always think of her—see her face. But it had been worth it.
I wanted her to know it was me who outsmarted her.
Tomorrow Tracy would bring the ruby necklace to her dealer contact and leave Los Angeles seven figures richer than when she’d arrived. But it wasn’t the money that was making the adrenaline course through her body or the pleasure chemicals flood her brain. It wasn’t even outsmarting her nemesis—or not entirely. It was the joy of a virtuoso pianist reunited with her instrument after years in exile. It was the delight of an expert surgeon regaining the use of his hands after an accident. It was coming back to life, when you hadn’t even realized you were dead.
Tracy Schmidt is who I am now, Tracy told herself firmly. Tonight was a one-shot deal.
She said it so many times, and with such conviction, that by the time she fell asleep she almost believed it.
BACK IN THE CENTURY City condo, Elizabeth Kennedy’s partner hung up the phone and sat down on the bed, shaking.
Tracy Whitney’s alive?
Was it really possible, after all these years?
Elizabeth seemed quite sure. For all her sloppiness, she was unlikely to make an error about something as important as that. Besides, logic dictated that Elizabeth’s conclusions were correct. Unlike fickle human emotions, logic could be relied upon. Logic was never wrong. It was Tracy who’d stolen the necklace. Tracy who’d outsmarted them somehow, not the dim-witted Brooksteins. Tracy Whitney was brilliant, a virtuoso at her craft. In terms of pulling off the perfect con, she had taught Elizabeth Kennedy’s partner everything he knew. He wouldn’t even be in this business if it weren’t for Tracy. How ironic life could be sometimes!
Elizabeth’s partner no longer cared about the necklace. The necklace didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore except for that one, simple, incredible, intoxicating fact:
Tracy Whitney was back.
CHAPTER 12
SANDRA WHITMORE STOOD ON the corner of Western and Florence in Hollywood, hitching up her skirt and looking hopefully at the traffic.
Things were slow tonight, which was good and bad. Mostly bad. Still, at least she wasn’t desperate for a hit. Not like Monique.
Sandra felt bad for Monique. It was crack that had driven both of them onto the streets. Them and all the other girls who walked these blocks. But while Sandra had kicked the habit, clean for sixteen weeks now, Monique was still deep in her addiction. Sandra looked at her friend’s sunken eyes and protruding bones with a mixture of pity and shame. The shame was for her own past, for what she’d put her son Tyler through.
Not for much longer though.
Sandra was working tonight to pay off the last of her drug debts. Soon she’d be off the streets for good. She felt bad for Monique and the others, but she knew she would never look back.
A beat-up Mitsubishi Shogun slowed as it approached them.
“Can I take this one?” Monique hopped from foot to foot like a toddler needing to pee and ran her tongue back and forth over her gums when she spoke. Her jaw was thrust permanently forward so that her teeth looked bared, like a dog’s. Her whole body vibrated with desperation. “I know it’s your turn . . .”
“Sure. No problem.”
Sandra watched her friend climb up into the car. The man inside was heavyset and rough. He looked mean. Sandra noticed that he didn’t help Monique when she struggled to close the passenger door. Her arms were so frail, she needed both just to move it. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for the guy to reach over and do it for her. But he just sat there as if she were invisible. As if she were nothing.
A shiver of fear ran through Sandra’s body as she watched the car drive off.
I hope she’ll be okay.
A few minutes later, a silver Lincoln sedan drew up.
“Looking for a ride?”
He was clean, attractive even, and wore a suit and a smile. When Sandra nodded he leaned over and opened the door for her. The car smelled of leather and air freshener. This was more like it. Sandra moved a book off her seat so she could sit down. She read the spine. New Interpretations of the Gospel.
“You’re a Christian?”
“Sometimes.” He put a manicured hand on her leg. “I’m working on it.”
Sandra thought, If more johns were like this, I might not retire after all.
She pictured poor Monique, in the truck with the fat asshole, and felt a second stab of guilt. But she pushed it aside.
Maybe there was a reason that girls like Monique always got the short end of the stick?
Good things come to you when you start putting good things out there, Sandra. It starts here, in this fancy car. But it’s gonna end somewhere much, much better.
Sandra Whitmore and her son were headed to a better life.
CHAPTER 13
A CONFERENCE WAS UNDER WAY at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 1700, the FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters. It was taking place in the office of Assistant Director John Marsden, but the man in charge was Agent Milton Buck. Agent Buck was in his early thirties and boyishly handsome. He would have been attractive had it not been for the twin handicaps of his pushy, arrogant personality and his height. At five foot seven, Milton Buck was easily the shortest man in the room.
The other people present were Assistant Director Marsden, FBI agents Susan Greene and Thomas Barton and Inspector Jean Rizzo of Interpol.
Agent Buck said, “There’s no connection. I’m sorry, but there just isn’t.”
Jean Rizzo bit back his irritation. He’d met hundreds of Milton Bucks at Interpol, ambitious, cocky little megalomaniacs with no thought in their empty heads beyond furthering their own careers. Depressingly, they always seemed to rise to the top. Like scum.