“Let’s talk about ground rules,” said Tracy.
“Do we have to?”
Jean couldn’t stop smiling. He still couldn’t quite believe she was here.
“I’m not going to help you catch Jeff Stevens.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what I say. You asked me last night if I was certain Jeff had nothing to do with these murders. Well, you know what? I am.”
“But, Tracy—”
“No ‘buts.’ Let me finish. I looked at the pictures you sent me. I agree that Jeff is mixed up in this somehow.”
“Thank you.”
“But he’s no killer, Jean. He just isn’t.”
Jean Rizzo paused for a moment. Then he said, “Okay. But somebody’s killing these girls.”
“Yes.”
“Every time Elizabeth Kennedy pulls off a big job.”
“Yes.”
“Which she’s about to do, with Jeff Stevens’s help.”
“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.”