“According to his FBI file, he regularly uses prostitutes. Did you know that?”
“No,” Gunther said truthfully. “I didn’t. What I do know is that Jeff wouldn’t hurt a fly, still less a woman.”
“People change,” said Jean. “Maybe the split with Tracy pushed him over the edge. He could have had some sort of psychotic break. It happens.” He added, seeing Gunther’s skeptical expression, “When did you last see Jeff Stevens?”
“Some time ago,” Gunther said carefully. “I don’t remember exactly.”
“Months? Years?” Jean prompted.
“Years. Unfortunately.”
“Do you have any idea where he is now?”
“No,” said Gunther. “Although if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
He rang an old-fashioned brass bell to summon his nurse. His attitude toward Jean had clearly shifted for the worse.
“Is that why you came to see me, Inspector? To try to get me to betray one of my oldest friends?”
“Not at all. I came to see you because Tracy told me you’re the best-connected man in England. And that if there were any rumors flying around, about Elizabeth Kennedy or her partner or anything else that might help me solve this case, you would have heard them.”
“Hmm.” Gunther was flattered but not mollified. “Does Tracy know you suspect Jeff of these murders?”
“I don’t suspect him,” said Jean. “I don’t suspect anyone, yet. Mostly because I have no damn evidence. But I can’t rule Jeff Stevens out to spare Tracy’s feelings, or yours. He may know nothing about this or he may know something. I don’t know. What I do know is that I would like to speak to him. My only obligation is to the women who were killed, and to those who may still be in danger. I have to catch this man, Mr. Hartog. That’s all I care about.”
The nurse came back in. A diminutive Filipina with limited English, she made up for what she lacked in stature with a fiercely protective manner. Immediately sensing her patient’s hostility toward his visitor, she positioned herself between the two of them like a bulldog, folding her arms and glaring at Jean.
“Mister very tired now,” she announced. “You leaving.”
Jean looked at her, then at Gunther Hartog.
“If you know anything, anything, and you don’t tell me . . . and another girl dies . . . it’s on your head. This isn’t a game anymore, Mr. Hartog.”
He walked away. As he reached the door Gunther called out to him.
“I’m hearing a lot of buzz about New York. Wonderful city for thieves, New York. Fine art, fine jewelry, fine museums and galleries to inspire one. Especially at Christmas.” He sighed. “Just thinking about it almost makes me feel young again.”
“New York?” said Jean.
“New York. The Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden is supposed to be particularly magical, I believe. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.
“You can see yourself out, Inspector.”
CHAPTER 16
SHE OPENED THE BOX slowly, savoring the smooth softness of the silk ribbon beneath her fingertips.
“I hope you like it.”
Jeff Stevens watched her expression shift from anticipation to surprise to deranged delight as she lifted the white-gold-and-diamond watch out of its case. With her high, Slavic cheekbones, full lips and perfect, alabaster complexion, Veronica had always looked more like a duchess than a hooker. But her practiced hauteur deserted her now. Flinging her arms around Jeff’s neck, she burst into tears of joy.
“Oh my God! Oh my God oh my God oh my GOD! I can’t believe you did this! It must have cost a fortune.”
“No more than you deserve.” Jeff smiled, happy to have pleased her. “Merry Christmas, V.”
They were in Veronica’s apartment in the West Village. Although not flashy, the space was luxurious and elegant, just like its owner. Veronica worked exclusively in the upper echelons of her profession, with a small and elite client list that she chose carefully and without the assistance of a pimp. Before hooking, she’d been a model and occasional actress, but both jobs had come to bore her in the end. The truth was she enjoyed what she did. She liked sex, and the men who paid to sleep with her were all interesting, successful, intelligent people. Few of them were as generous as Jeff Stevens. But then Jeff truly was one of a kind.
He never spoke about his work, although Veronica knew he was in town for a job. He came to New York about twice a year and always looked her up. Perhaps it seemed odd to say so, but Veronica considered Jeff a friend.
“Listen,” she said. “It’s Christmas in a few days. You probably have plans, but if you’re on your own, you’d be very welcome to join me. My sister’s coming over with her boyfriend. I make a mean pecan pie.”
“You’re so sweet to offer.” Jeff kissed her on the cheek. “But I have plans.”
He picked up his watch from the bedside table and fastened his cuff links while Veronica fixed her makeup in the bathroom. Remembering he’d left his tie on the countertop, Jeff walked in to find her snorting a freshly cut line of coke on the side of the bathtub. He froze, frowning.
Veronica looked up. Misinterpreting his expression, she said, “Sorry, sweetie, did you want some? I should have asked.”
Jeff shook his head. “I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay,” Veronica called after him. “And thank you so much for my present. I love it!”
OUTSIDE, THE CITY LOOKED like a fairy tale. Two feet of snow had fallen during the night, frosting Central Park like a wedding cake and casting a brilliant, white glow over every street and car and building. Christmas music was being piped out of every store, and the window displays shone and glittered with multicolored lights and toys and candies, making Jeff wish he was eight years old again.
Jeff buttoned his overcoat against the cold, and against his own anger.
Why would a beautiful girl like Veronica touch that stuff?
It didn’t bother him that she sold herself for sex. In Jeff’s worldview there was an honesty to prostitution, to the simple transaction between man and woman in the pursuit of pleasure. But drugs? That was something else. He had seen what drugs did to people. Seen how they reduced human beings to immoral beings, cringing slaves prepared to do anything and betray anyone for their master.
Disgusting.
Tracy had never done drugs. They were always around. The circles that she and Jeff used to move in were extremely decadent. But, like Jeff, Tracy had never been interested. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice now.
“Why would I need ecstasy, my darling, when I’ve got you?”
“Why indeed.”
Jeff always missed Tracy more at Christmastime.
Still, this was no time to be getting maudlin. Jeff loved visiting New York, especially when the trip combined business and pleasure. He was staying at the Gramercy Park under the name of Randall Bruckmeyer, an old-school Texas oilman and one of Jeff’s favorite alter egos. Randy lived up to his name, and had helped Jeff out on a number of jobs that required the seducing of one or more women. In this case, the target was a gorgeous Russian socialite, Svetlana Drakhova, who was in New York to attend the famous Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden with her boyfriend. In addition to her busy career as a professional partier/slut, Svetlana also happened to be the latest, very young mistress of Oleg Grinski, a Russian oligarch with a penchant for anal sex, torture and Byzantine treasures, not necessarily in that order. Preposterously, Oleg had given the scheming Svetlana a priceless collection of coins minted during the reign of the Emperor Heraclius in 620 as a gift. Knowing Svetlana as he now did, Jeff, aka Randy Bruckmeyer, was convinced it was only a matter of time before she melted them down or turned them into a pair of novelty earrings. As much a stranger to taste as to basic human decency, Svetlana was as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside, and that was saying something. Jeff was not enjoying sleeping with her, hence today’s trip to Veronica’s place. He was, however, looking forward to robbing her, and to handing the coins over to the charming Spanish collector who’d commissioned him. They had agreed on a fee of $1 million, a fraction of what the coins were worth, but enough to make the job worth Jeff’s while. The main thing was that the coins would be in safe hands once again, cherished and appreciated as they should be. These days, Jeff Stevens felt a closer connection to ancient objects than he did to people. Unlike people, they never let you down.
Jumping into a cab to Lexington, Jeff got out a block before his hotel. Randall Bruckmeyer III always stayed at the Gramercy Park. The Ritz might have grander rooms, but this was the only place in town with access to its own, private park and with genuine Warhols and Basquiats hanging on the walls. You got what you paid for at the Gramercy: glamour, luxury and exclusivity.