“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.