“This won’t take long. I’m investigating a homicide here in Los Angeles. A young woman was murdered in Hollywood last Sunday night, the evening after the robbery at your property.” Jean Rizzo pulled out his Interpol ID card and laid it on the table.
“Murdered? How awful!” Sheila Brookstein said gleefully. The policeman was very handsome. A murder investigation would at least give her something to gossip about with her girlfriends. “Do we know the young woman?”
“I doubt it,” said Jean. “She worked as a prostitute.”
The gleeful look vanished from Sheila’s face, replaced by an accusatory glare directed toward her husband.
“Jesus. Don’t look at me. I don’t know any hookers!”
“I wonder, sir, is this woman familiar to you?”
Jean took out Tracy Whitney’s picture.
“Is she the prostitute?” Sheila Brookstein was still looking daggers at her husband, who was studying the image closely.
“No,” said Jean. “But she may be connected to the case. Mr. Brookstein, do you recognize the woman in the picture?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What do you mean ‘maybe’?” Sheila Brookstein’s shrill voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Either you know her or you don’t.”
“My God, Sheila, would you shut up for five seconds?” Alan Brookstein looked at the picture again. “Her hair’s different now. And she’s older than she is in this picture. But I think it might be the chick from the insurance company.”
“You met this woman?” Jean tried to conceal his elation.
“Yeah.”
“Recently?”
“She came to the house a week ago. Warned me about these pinhole cameras—turns out that’s exactly what the thieves used to get the code to my safe. I guess I should have taken her more seriously.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brookstein. Mrs. Brookstein. You’ve been a great help.”
“Did this woman have anything to do with the robbery? What about my necklace?” Sheila Brookstein demanded.
Jean Rizzo was already out the door.
THE NEXT MORNING, JEAN Rizzo was in the car at six o’clock. Back in her heyday, Tracy Whitney had stayed in nothing but the best hotels. Armed with her picture, Jean started downtown and headed west, hitting L.A.’s most luxurious establishments. By ten, he had drawn a blank at five of the seven hotels on his list: the Ritz-Carlton, the Four Seasons, the Peninsula, the Roosevelt and the SLS. He began to doubt himself. Maybe she rented a mansion? Maybe she stayed with a friend or a lover? Maybe she lost all her money somehow and is holed up in a motel? Maybe Alan Brookstein was mistaken and she was never here in L.A. at all? Jean Rizzo wouldn’t be the first person to end up chasing shadows where Tracy Whitney was concerned.
The manager at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica was polite but insistent.
“I recognize all our guests, Inspector. I am one hundred percent positive this young lady has not been staying with us.”
That left only the Hotel Bel-Air. More in hope than with any expectation of a positive response, Jean showed the manager Tracy’s picture.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Schmidt. Bungalow six. She checked out four days ago.”
“She did?” Jean was so delighted, he couldn’t quite take in the information. “Did she leave a forwarding address?”
“Um . . .” The manager typed something into his computer. “No. I’m afraid not. But I have a billing address for the credit card. Would you like that?”
Jean nodded enthusiastically.
“Lovely lady,” the manager said as he printed out the details. “If only all our guests were as kind and conscientious. She left a very generous tip and was politeness itself.”
“Mm-hmm.” Jean wasn’t listening.
“Her son was delightful too.”
The manager handed Jean the address.
“Her son?”
“Nicholas. Charming boy. Terribly good-looking too, although I suppose it’s hardly surprising with genes like that.” The manager smiled, then frowned suddenly as if something had just occurred to him. “She’s not in any trouble, is she?”
“No no,” said Jean. “Nothing like that.”
Out in the car, he read the address the manager had given him.
Steamboat Springs, Colorado.
Jean Rizzo wasn’t sure how he’d pictured Tracy Whitney’s life, assuming that she was, indeed, still alive. But he found it hard to imagine the most successful con artist of all time living quietly as a small-town mom up in the mountains. He thought for a moment about calling Milton Buck and telling him what he’d discovered. It would be fun to wipe the smug smile off the arrogant FBI man’s face. But he soon thought better of it. Buck’s only interest was in solving the robbery cases and finding the missing jewelry and artworks. Jean Rizzo had a killer to catch. Besides, this was his information. The FBI isn’t scratching my back. Why should I scratch theirs?
His flight home to France would have to wait.
It was time to pay a visit to Mrs. Tracy Schmidt.
CHAPTER 14
CHECK.”
“What? How is that check?” Tracy looked at the board, then at Nicholas. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you move my queen while I was putting the pizza in the oven?”
“You’re so suspicious, Mom! Why is that?”
“Did you?”
Nicholas put on his best, wide-eyed innocent expression.
“You know the first rule of chess is never take your eyes off the board. You shouldn’t have to ask me that question.”
“Have you ever thought of going into politics?” Tracy asked, amused. “You’d be great at it.”
“Thanks.” Nicholas grinned. “Your move.”
Tracy moved her last remaining bishop, which Nicholas promptly took with his pawn. Four moves later it was checkmate.
I really must call him on the cheating, she thought, after Nicholas disappeared outside to find Blake Carter. Blake would have hit the roof if he’d witnessed that little maneuver with the queen. But Nicky was so charming, at least in his mother’s eyes, that Tracy didn’t have the heart to play bad cop. Since their return from L.A., she’d felt even more protective of her son than usual. Stealing that necklace and showing her face to her rival had been a crazy risk to take. The guilt had hit Tracy belatedly, but it hit hard.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts just as she was pulling the pizza out of the oven. Blake Carter’s ability to smell a thin-crust pepperoni from more than three fields away was quite unrivaled. Smiling, Tracy opened the door to find herself face-to-face with a good-looking stranger.
“Can I help you?”
Dark and stocky with gray eyes and a kind, oddly off-kilter face, the man was staring at her with a strange intensity. Then he said three words that felt like lead being poured into Tracy’s heart.
“Hello, Ms. Whitney.”
IT TOOK TRACY A few seconds to regain her breath, never mind her composure. Jean Rizzo watched the blood drain from her face, then rush back to her cheeks. She was prettier in the flesh than he’d expected. More youthful- and natural-looking.
“I’m sorry. You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
Tracy started to close the door. Jean stuck out a hand to stop her. He briefly flashed his Interpol ID.
“I tell you what. Let’s make a deal. You don’t waste my time and I won’t waste yours. I know you took the Brookstein rubies.”
“Really, I have no idea what—”
“I couldn’t care less about the necklace.”
Tracy paused for a split second, then said, “What necklace?”
Jean Rizzo sighed.
“I don’t want to arrest you, Ms. Whitney. But I will if I have to. I’m here because I need your help. Can I come in?”
Tracy’s quick mind began working overtime. Her first thought was Nicholas. He was out at the stables with Blake, but he was sure to return soon.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” she told Jean curtly.
He followed her into a large, country-style kitchen. It was warm and homey rather than grand. Chess pieces and kids’ magazines littered the farmhouse table and childish artwork had been framed and hung everywhere, along with countless photographs of a cute, dark-haired boy in various stages of development. The boy looked vaguely familiar.
“Your son?”
“What do you want, Inspector Rizzo?” Tracy’s tone was far from welcoming.
Jean responded in kind. “You can lose the attitude, Ms. Whitney. Like I said, I know you stole Sheila Brookstein’s ruby necklace in Los Angeles last week. I could arrest you right now and we could do this interview down at the local police station if you prefer.”
“Go ahead.” Tracy held out her arms mockingly. “Arrest me.”
When Jean hesitated, she laughed loudly. “You have no proof of anything, Inspector. If you could arrest me, you would. So I suggest you lose the attitude, or get the hell out of my house.”
Jean took off his coat and sat down at the table. “You’re very sure of yourself, Ms. Whitney. How do you know I have no proof?”
Tracy looked at him levelly. In this game of chess she had no intention of taking her eye off the board, not for a second.