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?”