“You haven’t even read the file.”
“I don’t need to. With respect, Mr. Rizzo—”
“Inspector Rizzo,” said Jean. Why was it that people always began the most insulting sentences by saying “with respect”?
“My team and I are investigating a string of sophisticated, high-end thefts involving jewelry and fine art worth multiple millions of dollars. What you have is a few dead crack whores.”
“Twelve. Twelve victims. If you’d read the files you’d—”
“I don’t need to read your files to understand that there is no possible connection between our respective cases.”
“You’re wrong.” Jean pulled a sheaf of photographs out of his briefcase and handed one to everyone in the room. “There is a connection. You’re looking at her. Her name is Tracy Whitney.”
“Tracy Whitney?” For the first time, Assistant Director John Marsden’s ears pricked up. Twenty years Milton Buck’s senior, Marsden was a far more impressive character in Jean Rizzo’s view. Measured. Thoughtful. Not a total dick. “Why do I know that name?”
Jean Rizzo opened his mouth to speak but Agent Buck cut him off.
“Cold case, sir. That’s cold as in permafrost. Or cold as in morgue. Whitney’s almost certainly dead. She served time in Louisiana for armed robbery.”
“She never committed that crime,” Jean interjected. “Later evidence showed—”
“She got early release,” Milton Buck talked over him. “After that, her name was linked with a number of international swindles and burglaries. Interpol made a big deal out of her for a while, but nothing was ever proved. Eight or nine years ago she dropped off the radar completely.”
“And you know this how?” Assistant Director Marsden asked.
“We looked into her after the McMenemy Pissarro theft in New York, and again after the Neil Lane diamond heist in Chicago. No connection whatsoever.” Buck looked pointedly at Jean Rizzo. “Tracy Whitney is old news.”
Susan Greene, a plain young woman who was part of Buck’s team, turned to Jean Rizzo.
“You obviously believe there’s a connection between Ms. Whitney and this young woman’s death. What was her name again?”
Agent Greene picked up the picture of the grotesquely mutilated corpse that Rizzo had shown them earlier.
“Her name was Sandra Whitmore.”
“The crack whore,” Milton Buck said nastily.
Jean gave him a look that could have melted stone.
“Sandra had been clean almost four months. She was a single mom with a day job at Costco.”
“And we all know what her night job was.” Buck sneered.
“She was murdered within forty-eight hours of Sheila Brookstein’s Iranian ruby necklace being stolen. By the same individual who killed all the other girls. In every single one of these cases, the homicide takes place immediately following a ‘sophisticated, high-end theft’ in the same city.” Rizzo emphasized each word, using Agent Buck’s own phrase against him. “In many of those thefts, local police have reason to believe that the key suspect is female. As I’m sure you’re all aware, there aren’t many viable female suspects on file with a track record of this sort of flashy, audacious crime.”
Assistant Director Marsden asked, “Was Tracy Whitney the one who conned the Prado? Didn’t she steal a Goya?”
Jean Rizzo smiled. “The Puerto. That’s right. You have an excellent memory.”
“She had a partner. A guy.”
“Jeff Stevens.” Rizzo nodded.
Milton Buck was irritated. “Look. Nothing was ever proved against Tracy Whitney. Or Stevens, for that matter. And the Puerto wasn’t stolen. The museum sold it in a private deal.”
“After Whitney convinced them it was a fake She made a fortune out of that scam.”
“The point is, whatever happened back then is ancient history. Tracy Whitney is not a suspect in the Brookstein job.”
“Do you have a suspect?” Jean Rizzo asked bluntly.
“As a matter of fact we do.”
“Is it a woman?”
Milton Buck hesitated. He badly wanted to tell the irritating Canadian from Interpol to stick his wild-goose chase theories where the monkey stuck his nuts, but for some reason the AD seemed to like the guy. Grudgingly, Buck sent one of his junior agents to fetch the Brookstein file.
A few minutes later he handed a photograph to Jean.
“Her name is Elizabeth Kennedy. That’s one of her names anyway. She also goes by Liza Cunningham, Rebecca Mortimer and a string of other aliases. She’s a con woman, a very good one. We have reason to believe she knew Sheila Brookstein. She’s also a suspect in the Chicago job.”
Jean looked closely at the beautiful young woman with the white-blond hair, wide sensual mouth and high cheekbones, like a doll’s. It was hard to imagine what possible connection she might have to Sandra Whitmore, or any of the other murdered and mutilated girls. On the other hand, the same was true of Tracy Whitney.
The advantage Ms. Kennedy had over Ms. Whitney was that she was definitively alive. As a rule, Jean preferred live suspects to dead ones. Even so, he wasn’t prepared to let go of the Whitney connection just yet.
“Do you know where she is? This Kennedy woman.”
For the first time, Buck looked uncomfortable. “Not at present, no. We’re working on it. As I said, she uses a number of aliases.”
“May I keep this picture?”
Milton Buck sighed heavily. “If you want to. But it’s not going to help you. Look, Rizzo, you know as well as I do: hookers get killed in major cities all over the world, every day. There is no connection between your dead girl and the Brookstein rubies. You’re clutching at straws, man. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”
BACK IN HIS HOTEL room at the Standard in Hollywood, Jean tried to switch off. It was still only lunchtime, but the abortive meeting with the FBI had exhausted him, physically and emotionally. He hated L.A. More than any other city in the world, it made him feel homesick. There was something so lonely and desolate beneath its glitz and glamour. Everybody was trying too hard. The smell of burned hopes lingering in the air made it hard to breathe.
Jean telephoned his children in France, desperate suddenly to hear their voices. Clémence was out at a sleepover. Luc was watching Winnie l’ourson and refused to be torn away from the TV.
“Don’t take it personally,” Sylvie said kindly. “He’s tired, that’s all.”
“I know. I miss him. I miss all of you.”
There was a pause. “Let’s not do this, Jean. I’m tired too.”
Divorce sucked.
Hanging up, Jean took out the pictures of Sandra Whitmore’s wrecked corpse and spread them out on the bed. Work was the best cure for heartbreak that Jean knew and he turned to it now, as he’d done so many times before.
The room Sandra was slaughtered in had been scrupulously cleaned, just like all the others. The Bible was there, with the highlighted text. Sandra’s nails had been cut and her hair brushed. She’d been posed with her legs splayed wide. Jean closed his eyes and pictured the killer staging the scene, “fixing” his victim’s body as if she were some sort of store mannequin. He felt a wave of hatred so strong it made him want to vomit.
Why wouldn’t the FBI help him?
Why wouldn’t Milton Buck even consider the possibility that either Tracy Whitney or his girl, Elizabeth Kennedy, might be involved? That there might be a connection between the con women and the prostitutes? Assistant Director Marsden had mentioned Whitney’s partner in crime today, Jeff Stevens. Jean didn’t know much about Stevens, beyond his name. Perhaps now was the time to do some more digging?
One step at a time. Let’s check out Tracy Whitney first.
Jean had three days left in L.A. before he was due to fly home to Lyon. The LAPD was understaffed and the FBI clearly had no intention of helping him. Whatever investigative work he wanted to do, he would have to do on his own.
He picked up the phone.
SET BACK FROM THE Pacific Coast Highway, with spectacular views over the ocean, Nobu Malibu is a favorite Friday-night dinner venue for Hollywood’s elite. Even a player like Alan Brookstein had had to call in a favor to get the coveted table nineteen out on the terrace. Wedged between Will and Jada Smith on one side and a billionaire Internet entrepreneur on the other, Alan Brookstein had hoped tonight’s dinner might help break Sheila out of her funk. So far, no dice. Ever since her rubies had been stolen, Sheila had been about as much fun as root-canal surgery without anesthetic.
Looking at her now, scowling down at her sushi, her small, mean mouth pursed like a cat’s anus, Alan Brookstein thought, I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. I wish I’d never bought you that damned necklace in the first place.
“Excuse me, Mr. Brookstein, Mrs. Brookstein? Do you mind if I sit down?”
The question was apparently rhetorical. The stocky little man with the Canadian accent had already pulled up a chair and positioned himself between the director and his wife.