Jean ran into the street.
THE METRO-NORTH STATION WAS CLOSED.
Elizabeth asked the cop outside, “What’s going on?”
“Bomb threat. They think it’s a hoax but no more trains’ll be running tonight. You’d best get a cab.”
IT WAS PURE CHANCE that he saw her. A flash of silver caught his eye from fifty yards away. She was crossing the street in front of the train station, apparently looking for a cab.
No getaway driver. No partner coming to meet her. She just wanders out into the city without a care in the world.
Tracy was right. The lady had balls.
Putting his head down, Jean quickened his pace. Elizabeth was forty yards away now.
Thirty.
Ten.
A yellow cab pulled up. She leaned in to talk to the driver. Jean ran forward. At the exact same moment another male figure darted toward the cab from the opposite side of the street. The man wore an overcoat and turtleneck sweater and Jean recognized him from the way he ran as one of the guys from Barneys. A split second later, the second man emerged from the shadows—also from Barneys. Also running.
This time, Jean Rizzo knew where he’d seen them before.
Elizabeth opened the door to the cab and had one leg inside when Jean grabbed her wrist.
“What are you doing? Let go of me!”
At the same time the other door to the cab opened.
For a split second Interpol Inspector Jean Rizzo and FBI Agent Milton Buck glared at each other.
Then both said simultaneously: “You’re under arrest.”
CHAPTER 18
INTERVIEW RESUMED, DECEMBER TWENTY-FIRST, four fifteen A.M. Miss Kennedy, Mrs. Berkeley has made a statement that you posed to her as an FBI agent. Is that the case?”
Elizabeth Kennedy gave Milton Buck a look of withering disdain but said nothing. Just as she had said nothing to all of Buck’s questions for the last five hours.
“You told Mrs. Berkeley that the emeralds in the choker she was wearing had been irradiated. You further convinced her that her life was in danger from exposure to the irradiated gemstones, a deception you maintained with the use of a number of simple props, including these.”
Milton Buck placed an oval-shaped piece of plastic on the table. Not unlike one of those monitors people used to listen in on their sleeping babies, it was battery-powered and flashed red with a crackling sound when you pressed a button at the back.
Elizabeth smirked.
“Is that what happened, Ms. Kennedy?”
Silence.
“The device was found in your possession, along with the emerald choker. Can you suggest any other explanation for those items being found in your purse, Ms. Kennedy?”
Elizabeth yawned and looked away.
Milton Buck finally lost his temper, banging his fist down on the table.
“You seem not to understand what a phenomenal amount of trouble you are in, Ms. Kennedy. Tonight’s felony alone carries a jail sentence of over a decade. Did you know that?”
Silence.
“Then there’s entering the U.S. on a fake passport. Illegal use of credit cards. Identity theft. Impersonation of a federal agent. That’s twenty years, before we even begin to talk about the jobs you and your partner pulled in Chicago and Los Angeles and Atlanta.” Buck’s eyes bulged furiously. “You help me, Elizabeth, and I’ll help you. But keep this up and I will personally see to it that you rot in jail for the rest of your natural life. Do you understand?”
Elizabeth cast a critical eye over her French manicure. Milton Buck counted to ten.
“We know you were involved in at least three other high-profile robberies on U.S. soil. We also know you work with a partner.”
“You seem to know an awful lot, Agent Buck.”
They were the first words she had spoken. Milton Buck looked suitably surprised.
“How clever you are! I’m surprised you need to ask me any questions at all.”
Her tone was amused, mocking.
“I want the name of your partner, Ms. Kennedy.”
“What partner, Agent Buck?”
“Is it Jeff Stevens?”
Elizabeth threw back her head and burst into gales of laughter. Milton Buck felt his anger returning.
“Oh dear.” Elizabeth wiped away tears of mirth. “Is that the best you can do? I think I might re-exercise my right to remain silent. If it’s all the same to you.”
Milton Buck stood up, quivering with rage.
“Interview suspended.”
He stormed out.
OUT IN THE CORRIDOR, Milton took a few moments to compose himself.
This was not going according to plan. What should have been a night of celebration, the greatest triumph of his career so far, was turning into a fiasco.
Milton Buck blamed Jean Rizzo.
The irritating, sanctimonious little Canadian had been a thorn in Milton’s side ever since he showed up in L.A. this past summer, spewing out his preposterous theories about prostitutes and homicides and Tracy friggin’ Whitney. Now, after months of work tracking Elizabeth Kennedy, Rizzo had popped up like the proverbial bad penny, making a mockery of Elizabeth’s arrest and point-blank refusing to accept his lack of jurisdiction, or Milton Buck’s authority. Embarrassingly, the two men had argued about it in the cab, in front of the suspect, with Rizzo insisting he had a right to interview Elizabeth and refusing to relinquish custody unless Buck allowed him access.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Milton Buck snapped as Jean helped himself to a coffee from the machine at the FBI’s field office on the twenty-third floor of 26 Federal Plaza. “You can talk to her when I’m done. Not a minute before.”
“And how long will that be?”
“As long as it takes. Days probably. You may as well go home and get some sleep.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Jean Rizzo had been as good as his word. Milton Buck peered through the glass into the waiting room and saw Jean sharing a Domino’s pizza with a bunch of older agents. No one ordered pizza unless they were there for the duration.
“How’s it going, Buck? You don’t look too happy.”
The head of the field office, Special Agent Barry Soltan materialized at Milton’s side. Soltan was only a few years older than Milton Buck. Milton resented his superior rank intensely.
“She’s not talking, sir.”
“I see the fellow from Interpol’s still here.”
“Rizzo. Yes, sir. I’ve asked him to leave but—”
“Let’s get the two of you into my office.”
“There’s really no need for that, sir. Interpol has no jurisdiction here. At no time have we invited them to—”
“Agent Buck,” Barry Soltan interrupted. “You just told me your witness isn’t talking. Now, I’d like to get some sleep tonight, even if you wouldn’t. Let’s hear what Inspector Rizzo has to say.”
JEAN RIZZO HAD A lot to say, to Agent Buck’s great irritation. Special Agent Barry Soltan listened, then allowed him twenty minutes to try to break Elizabeth.
“If I understand it correctly, you both want the same thing. For the young lady to give up the name of her accomplice. Right?”
Agent Buck nodded grudgingly.
“In which case, I don’t see what harm it does to let Inspector Rizzo have a crack at her.”
Jean Rizzo said, “If she doesn’t talk, there’s every chance another young woman will end up being butchered by this maniac. He always kills within two days after Elizabeth completes a job.”
“Except she didn’t complete this job,” Special Agent Soltan reminded him. “She got caught.”
“For all we know, that may make him even more desperate.”
“For all we know, there may be no connection between the two cases whatsoever!” Agent Buck failed to conceal his exasperation. “With respect, sir, Inspector Rizzo’s wasting our time.”
“Enough, Agent Buck.” Special Agent Soltan raised a weary hand. “He’s going in.”
MILTON BUCK NEEDN’T HAVE WORRIED.
Jean Rizzo was no more successful in getting Elizabeth Kennedy to speak than he had been. After half an hour, Special Agent Soltan asked a few senior agents to join Buck, Rizzo and him in conference.
“I have an idea.” Jean Rizzo addressed himself to the group. “Let’s get Tracy Whitney in there. She may be able to get Elizabeth to open up.”
Milton Buck threw his hands in the air in frustration. “My God. Tracy Whitney? Are you still on that?”
“Last time we spoke, Agent Buck, if you remember, you assured me Miss Whitney was either dead or untraceable. Well, guess what? Not only was she very much alive, but I found her within forty-eight hours of our conversation.”
Milton Buck grunted gracelessly. “So? She’s still not relevant to this case.”
Jean longed to tell the arrogant Buck that it was Tracy who’d stolen the Brookstein rubies. Not only was she relevant to his case, she was his case. But he bit his tongue, for Tracy’s sake as well as his own. Let Buck keep chasing his own tail.
Special Agent Soltan raised a hand.
“Hold up a second. We aren’t talking about the Tracy Whitney? The lady who took down Joe Romano?”