“Possibly.”
“Unless we catch them red-handed.”
“Catch her red-handed,” corrected Tracy. “I’ll help you nail Elizabeth. But I won’t help you get Jeff. That’s the deal, Jean, take it or leave it. It’s not negotiable. Jeff walks away from this.”
Jean Rizzo thought, Good God. She still loves him.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll focus on Elizabeth. Where do we start?”
“With the target.” Tracy drained her coffee cup and stood up. “I’m going to my hotel now to freshen up and to call my son. Send me everything you have on Bianca Berkeley and this Winter Ball.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if we talked? We can go through the files together, bounce some ideas around. I’d like you to—”
“No,” Tracy said. “I work better alone. Meet me for dinner at Great Jones Café on Prince Street at eight. I’ll have a plan for you by then.”
JONES WAS A CHARMING, candlelit hole-in-the-wall tucked away between two more famous restaurants in the heart of SoHo. It served classic American fare, ribs and corn and mashed potatoes and cheeseburgers and turkey sandwiches. Everything was delicious.
Tracy had changed into a gray turtleneck sweater and woolen wide-leg pants. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold and her green eyes shone like two shards of kryptonite. She was still angry at Jean, but in the few hours since he left her at the airport, something had clearly lifted her spirits. When she spoke she sounded energized. It wasn’t long before Jean realized why.
“I know what Elizabeth’s going to steal.”
“You do?”
Tracy nodded. “Bianca Berkeley’s not wearing any of her own jewels to the Botanical Garden. She’s borrowing an emerald choker from Tiffany’s. It’s worth two and a half million dollars but it’s insured for three.”
Jean’s eyes widened. “How on earth do you know that?”
“I walked into the store and asked. I think the clerk liked me.”
Jean thought, I’ll bet he did.
“The choker’s being delivered to the Berkeley residence at three P.M. on the day of the ball,” Tracy went on. “It will be transported in an armored van, with two guards and a driver. An employee of the insurance company will be at the house to have someone sign the paperwork. It’s due to be returned at ten o’clock the next morning. The same van will arrive to collect it.”
Jean nodded mutely.
“Between three P.M. and six P.M., when the Berkeleys’ driver will set off for Brooklyn, the chances are it will be mayhem in that house. There’ll be a PA there, a stylist, a makeup artist, a hairdresser. Also Bianca’s Scientology minders.”
“Her what?”
“Her minders. Butch is a big donor to the church. You didn’t know that?” Tracy frowned.
“It never came up,” said Jean.
“It should have. Believe me, everything I am telling you now, Elizabeth Kennedy already knows. Inside and out. ‘Martha Langbourne’s’ a Scientologist, by the way.”
Jean looked astonished.
“It’s on her passport, under religion.” Tracy answered his unspoken question. “Anyway, the point is that the choker will likely be moved from room to room and will change hands several times. That’s one clear window of opportunity. Especially if ‘Martha’ has worked the Scientology angle and has access to the property.”
“So you’re saying you think Elizabeth’s going to try to steal the emeralds from the Berkeley house, between three and six P.M.?”
“No.” Tracy waved down a waiter and ordered another glass of Cabernet. “I’m saying that’s one window. There are others.”
“Such as?”
“In the store. In transit. At the ball itself. The following morning. In transit again.”
Jean groaned. “Okay,” he said eventually. “How would you do it? If this were your job?”
“I’d take it in transit.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s simpler. Cleaner. Fewer witnesses, fewer prints. More anonymous. But you need inside help. A team of some sort.”
“She has that,” said Jean.
“Yes.” Tracy sipped her wine contemplatively.
“I’m sensing there’s a ‘but.’ ”
Tracy smiled.
She’s enjoying herself, thought Jean. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is. She’s enjoying the challenge.
“You need one of two things to be a successful thief. Brains or balls.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Tracy explained. “The biggest jewel theft of all time—all modern time, anyway—happened a few years ago at the Cannes Film Festival. Eighty million dollars’ worth of diamonds were taken in one night, by one man, at a crowded event full of celebrities and security.”
“I vaguely remember reading about that,” said Jean. “How did he do it again?”
“I’ll tell you how.” Tracy grinned. “This criminal mastermind climbed through an open window in broad daylight, stuffed as many gems as he could carry into a sports bag while waving a toy gun around, hopped back out of the window and escaped on foot. He dropped about twenty million dollars’ worth as he ran. But eighty million dollars of diamonds were never recovered. Balls.”
“And this related to Elizabeth Kennedy . . . how?”
“The question is not how I would do it. It’s how she would do it,” Tracy said. “Elizabeth’s smart. But if she’s behind all these other jobs you’ve told me about, the ones that took place before the murders, then I’d say her balls are at least as big as her brains.” She sat back in her chair, a triumphant look on her face. “I think she’s going to do it at the ball. I think she’s going to steal that choker on the night, in front of a thousand guests and God knows how many cops. And I think she’s going to walk right out of there.”
Her certainty was contagious.
Jean Rizzo asked the obvious question. “And just how, exactly, is she going to do that? Rip the thing off Bianca Berkeley’s neck?”
Tracy laughed. “Of course not. I pulled off a similar job once at the Prado in Madrid, before Jeff bait-and-switched me. It’s quite simple really.”
Jean raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Bianca’s going to give Elizabeth the choker.”
THE WINTER WONDERLAND BALL in New York’s famous Botanical Garden was considered the party of the year among Manhattan’s elite. Glamorous enough to tempt the city’s fashionistas and hedge-fund millionaires to travel all the way up to the Bronx, it also attracted an international crowd of superwealthy patrons. Those who would see and be seen flocked from around the globe to the iconic glass-and-steel building with its breathtaking palm dome, illuminated by thousands of simple white candles. Outside, the twin backdrops of pure white snow and a pitch-black winter sky, peppered with stars, provided the perfect setting for the dazzling couture gowns and decadent jewels of the female guests as they arrived.
Hollywood was out in force this year, both the old guard and the new. Sharon Stone wowed in a white Giambattista Valli and the Fanning sisters looked cute in matching Chanel minis with hot-pink ruffles. They mingled with Washington heavyweights—the vice president and his wife were here, as well as the new secretary of state and Harvey Golden, White House chief of staff. There were supermodels and designers, billionaires and generals, writers, artists and oil tycoons. The official purpose of the ball was to raise money for New York’s underprivileged children. In reality, of course, it was yet another opportunity for the city’s overprivileged children to gorge themselves on a cloying feast of excess. The air was scented with tropical blooms and expensive perfume, and the aroma of white truffles wafted in from the kitchen. But in the end, the one overpowering smell was money.
Jean Rizzo could hardly breathe. Weaving his way through the Vogue photographers and other press gathered outside, he grabbed a flute of champagne and slipped into the throng. Bianca Berkeley and her husband, Butch, were already here and surrounded by hangers-on. Butch Berkeley was having a loud conversation with Warren Gantz, a Wall Street titan, about the merits of various different private planes (Warren favored the Dassault Falcon 900, a bargain at $33 million, while Butch remained faithful to his Embraer Legacy 650). Jean Rizzo thought of the ancient Volvo 760 he’d driven since his twenties rusting outside his Lyon apartment and smiled. Guys like Gantz and Berkeley were so out of touch with reality.
Although perhaps Bianca Berkeley was even more so. Standing a few feet behind her husband, flanked by two Scientology staffers labeled as “publicist” and “assistant,” she had the glazed, not-there look of a rabbit with myxomatosis. There was the famous emerald choker, wrapped around Bianca’s elegant neck like a vise. It doesn’t suit her, thought Jean. Amazing how a piece of jewelry could look at once wildly expensive and breathtakingly ugly.
In any event, she was wearing it, which meant that whatever Elizabeth Kennedy had planned had yet to take place. Score one for Tracy’s theory.
Bianca’s dark hair was pulled up in a severe-looking bun, and she wore a simple black column dress, both no doubt intended to showcase the Tiffany emeralds to better effect. Instead they merely served to make a beautiful woman look as stiff and uncomfortable as a store mannequin.