“Okay, Jean.” Tracy liked him instinctively, but she kept her wits about her. This man was a cop. He was not her friend. “How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating a series of murders.”
A look of surprise crossed her face. Jean gave her the details of the Bible Killer cases in broad brushstrokes. Tracy listened intently. She was horrified at the crimes Jean was describing, but she was also anxious to get him out of her house before Nicholas returned.
“The last girl was killed a week ago, in Hollywood. The day after you sto— The day after Sheila Brookstein’s rubies were stolen. The victim’s name was Sandra Whitmore. She had a son about the same age as yours.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tracy. “Truly I am. There are some sick bastards out there. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I know nothing about any Sandra Whitmore, or any of these women.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” said Jean. “I have a theory . . . I need to go through each of the cases with you one by one, in detail. It’s going to take time.”
Tracy stood up. Nicholas and Blake would be back any minute.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have time. You need to leave now.”
“I’ll leave when you’ve answered my questions,” Jean said angrily.
He stood up and looked out of the window. A young boy was walking toward the house, arm in arm with an older man.
The manager of the Hotel Bel-Air was right. The boy was very good-looking. It suddenly struck Jean where he’d seen him before.
“That’s a handsome kid you got there.”
“Thank you.”
“Is that his father with him?”
Tracy stiffened. “No.”
She looked over Jean’s shoulder. Nicholas and Blake were getting closer. She felt the fear rising up within her. If this man said anything in front of them, in front of Nicky . . .
“Please. You have to leave.”
“Where is his father?”
“His father is dead.”
“Interesting,” Jean Rizzo said. “Because last I heard, Mr. Stevens was very much alive. According to the FBI, he has a very interesting s
ideline these days. In the historical-treasures business.”
Tracy gripped the countertop. The floor seemed to be giving way beneath her.
She turned to Jean, unable either to speak or to hide the turmoil of emotions churning inside her. How did he know about Jeff? She did not want to hear about Jeff. Not now, not ever. And certainly not from this strange, aggressive little man who somehow knew who she was and was here talking about murders, and rapes and crimes that had nothing to do with her.
“Help me solve these killings,” said Jean.
“I can’t. You must believe me. Your theory is wrong. I have nothing to do with this!”
“Help me or I’ll tell your boy the truth.”
The kitchen door swung open.
Nicholas looked up curiously at the strange man with his mother.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” Jean smiled.