“Was the man married?”
“He was, as it happens. Why do you ask?”
Tracy shrugged. “Serves him right, then, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ll tell you what I would say.” Jean Rizzo leaned across the table. “I would say that every one of these jobs has your name written all over it.”
“Except for the one tiny issue . . . that I wasn’t in New York or Chicago on the dates in question! As for Mumbai, I’ve never been to India in my life. And Hong Kong and Lima and . . . all of these . . .” She pushed the stack of files that Jean had placed on the table between them back in his direction. “I haven’t left the United States in nine years, Inspector. Ask any mother at Nicky’s school if you don’t believe me. I’ve been right here, in Steamboat Springs. The whole town’s my alibi.”
A waitress came over and removed the vongoles, untouched. Jean Rizzo ordered coffees and a plate of cantuccini. All that wine on an empty stomach was starting to go to his head.
Tracy said, “I’d like to help you, Inspector. I would. I think what happened to these women is horrific and I hope you get the guy who did it. But you came here looking for Tracy Whitney, and the truth is that Tracy Whitney is dead. She died nine years ago.”
“Hmm,” said Jean.
“Even if she were alive, she was never in the business of hurting people.”
“Hmm,” said Jean again.
“What? What does ‘hmm’ mean?”
“I was just thinking that for a dead chick, she pulled off a pretty neat job in L.A. ten days ago. Tracy Whitney must have been quite a lady.”
Tracy laughed. “I believe she was.”
“Those rubies must be worth, what? Two, three million? Maybe more to a private collector.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Tracy smiled sweetly. “Ah, lovely. The coffee’s arrived.”
Watching her sip the thick, black liquid, Jean Rizzo could see quite clearly why so many men had become obsessed with Tracy Whitney. She was beautiful, of course, but there was far more to it than that. She was clever and funny, and she clearly took delight in outwitting her adversaries on both sides of the law. He decided to change tack.
“So your son knows nothing. About your past, or about his father.”
Tracy put down her cup slowly and fixed Jean with a steely glare. There was no more banter now. Battle lines had been drawn.
“No, he doesn’t. And he never will.”
“Does Jeff Stevens even know he has a child?”
“Jeff Stevens doesn’t have a child!” Tracy shot back angrily. “At least, not with me. Nicky’s mine. Only mine. I raised him. I’m all he needs.”
Aware that she’d just raised her voice, Tracy shrank back into the shadows of the booth. Jean Rizzo thought about his own children and how desperately he missed them. He felt a stab of pity for Jeff Stevens.
Reading his mind, Tracy said, “You don’t understand, Inspector.”
“Jean.”
“Jean,” Tracy corrected herself. “You don’t know Jeff like I do.”
“I don’t hate him like you do, you mean.”
“Hate him?” Tracy looked genuinely shocked. “I don’t hate Jeff. I just love Nicky. That’s a very different thing. You’re going to have to trust me when I tell you that Jeff would have made a lousy father. Oh, he’s loving and charming and perfectly adorable. But you can’t rely on him. Jeff would have broken Nicky’s heart in the end. Just like he broke mine.”
“What happened between you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Did she mind? Jean Rizzo was a total stranger. Worse than that, he was a cop. But somehow, Tracy found herself pouring out the whole story. She told him about losing her first baby with Jeff. She told him about her struggles to adjust to married life and domesticity. She told him about walking in on Jeff and Rebecca Mortimer kissing in the bedroom in Eaton Square, about the terrible, searing pain of betrayal. Finally she told him about seeing Rebecca again out of the blue in L.A. last month, having dinner with Sheila Brookstein.
“I went to Los Angeles for a vacation with my son. That’s the truth. I had no intention of”—she searched around for the right word—“coming out of retirement. But as soon as I saw her, I knew she was after that necklace. I had a chance to pay her back in some small way for what she did to me, and I took it.”
“I understand,” said Jean.
Tracy’s eyes narrowed. “You do?”
“Of course. You’ll be pleased to know that your friend ‘Rebecca’ is the FBI’s prime suspect in the Brookstein job. Her real name is Elizabeth Kennedy, by the way.” Jean retrieved the picture Milton Buck had given him from his briefcase and handed it over.
Tracy stared at it intently.
Elizabeth.
It was too nice a name, too innocuous. It didn’t feel right.
Tracy was silent for a long time, lost in thought. Eventually Jean Rizzo said, “They want her for the other two U.S. jobs as well. The Pissarro theft in New York and the Chicago diamonds.”
Tracy took this in.
“What about the other robberies?” she asked. “The ones in Europe and Asia, where the girls were murdered afterward?”
“The feds don’t believe there’s a connection between any of the robberies and the Bible Killer murders,” Jean said bitterly. “Besides, you know how it works. The Bureau doesn’t give a crap about things that happen outside their jurisdiction. They could pass the intel on to us, but they don’t. They don’t even share with the CIA. It’s political and pathetic, and meanwhile these girls are out there getting butchered.” He filled her in on his abortive meeting with Agent Milton Buck in Los Angeles.
“Okay. But now you know about ‘Elizabeth,’ ” said Tracy. The name still felt odd to her. “Surely you can get the word out through Interpol? You don’t need the FBI.”
“Hmm,” Jean said again.
Tracy waited patiently for his vocabulary to catch up with his brain. She was used to policemen who shot their mouths off first and thought later. Arrogant, impulsive, sloppy policemen had helped Tracy make her fortune. Jean Rizzo was different.
I like him, she thought. I’ll have to watch that.
When Jean finally spoke, it was slowly, as if he were thinking aloud, piecing things together as he went along.
“The problem is, I didn’t believe it was Elizabeth. I thought it was you.”
“You thought I ran around the world killing prostitutes?”
“No no no. Of course not. Our killer’s a man.”
“Okay, good. Glad we got that straightened out.”
“But I thought you were the link between the robberies and the murders.”
“Because of the nine-year thing?”
“Because of the nine years. Because of London. Because you’re a woman. Because these robberies were so close to your old MO—clever but simple, well planned, geographically spread out, always at a worthwhile price point.”
Tracy smiled. “You’re making me feel quite nostalgic.”
“Because you did do the Brookstein job,” he continued, counting the reasons off on his fingers. “Because I don’t believe in coincidences. At least, not twelve in a row. And because there wasn’t another viable suspect.”
“Until now,” said Tracy.
Jean nodded. “Until now. I guess.”
“What do you mean, you guess? Now you have Elizabeth Kennedy. Right?”
“Hmm.”
“Really? We’re back to ‘hmm’?”
Jean looked up at her. “I still think you’re the link.”
Tracy put her head in her hands.
“Think about it,” said Jean. “These jobs are exactly like yours.”
“There are some similarities, on the surface,” Tracy conceded. “But I wasn’t there, Jean.”
“It’s more than similarities. If you didn’t do the robberies yourself—”
“No ‘if.’ I didn’t. I can prove it.”
“Then whoever did them is mimicking your techniques. That means they know you. Intimately. They know how you worked.”
No one knows how I worked, Tracy thought. No one except Jeff. And Gunther. But I hardly think Gunther’s running around the world pulling off jewel heists.
Aloud, she asked Jean, “Do you think someone’s trying to frame me?”
“It’s a possibility. Do you have any enemies that you know of?”
Tracy laughed loudly. “Hundreds!”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I! Let me think. There’s a man named Maximilian Pierpont who probably doesn’t have me at the top of his Christmas-card list. Then there’s Lois Bellamy, Gregory Halston, Alberto Fornati . . .” She listed some of her more prominent former victims. “Quite a number of people at the Prado museum in Madrid . . . Luckily most of them think I’m dead. Just like your friends at the FBI. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like it to stay that way.”
“Of course, we may not be looking for an enemy at all,” said Jean. “There may be other motives in play. Possibly this person admired your work and wants to follow in your footsteps.”