Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

“What about him?” Roberto Klimt gestured nervously toward Maldini.

“He can’t hurt you now, Mr. Klimt.” The policeman glanced smugly at the handcuffed man. “Although if you’d prefer to have one of my men wait with you . . .”

“No, no.” Roberto Klimt was too vain to admit to feeling threatened, especially in front of such a good-looking young cop. “That won’t be necessary. Just hurry up, would you? I’d like to get this over with.”

“Of course.”

The three policemen hurried into the building, locking the car behind them. Roberto Klimt heard the doors click. He looked uneasily at the man slumped beside him. A few hours ago, Antonio Maldini had planned to beat and rob him, leaving him for dead by the roadside. The big policeman’s words came back to him. He’s a con artist. Quite brilliant. A sadist too.

Roberto Klimt’s nerves returned. Antonio Maldini had already outwitted his security team. Was it really beyond him to get himself out of a pair of handcuffs? He might wake up and overpower me. He might take me hostage! He’s a desperate man after all.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

No sign of the policemen, or Chief Valaperti. It was getting hot in the car. Maldini was groaning, muttering about the bowl. Soon he would be fully awake.

This is ridiculous.

Roberto Klimt tried to open the door, only to find it was locked from the inside as well as the outside. He flipped the unlock button. Nothing happened.

Feeling his panic build, he attempted to scramble into the front seat. With his blond hair flapping and his tie askew, he knew he looked ridiculous with his backside wedged between the back and front of the car, but he didn’t care. Collapsing at last into the driver’s seat, he discovered that that door didn’t open either.

“Let me out!” He hammered on the windows, to the amused astonishment of passersby. “I’m trapped! For God’s sake, let me out!”

THE THREE POLICEMEN WALKED casually out of the side door of the headquarters building. They walked a few blocks together before shaking hands, parting ways and evaporating into the city.

All three of them were smiling.

CHIEF VALAPERTI WAS STILL in his car outside Roberto Klimt’s Via Veneto apartment when he got the call.

“He’s what ?” The color drained from Valaperti’s face. “I don’t understand. In one of our cars? That’s not possible.”

“It was definitely Klimt, sir. He was in there for more than an hour. Right outside headquarters, yes. Hundreds of people saw him, but they assumed he was some madman we’d picked up. By the time it was reported to us, he was delirious with heatstroke. He kept saying something about a bowl . . .”

GUNTHER HARTOG DABBED AWAY tears of laughter with a monogrammed linen handkerchief.

“So you just sauntered off into the street, with Nero’s bowl tucked under your arm? How marvelous.”

“Marco and Antonio were faultless on the day,” said Jeff. He was sitting on the red Knoll sofa at Gunther’s country house, enjoying a well-earned glass of claret.

“I told you they were good.”

“I felt bad for the poor driver, though. What a pro! He knew what was happening right away. Never slowed down for a second when we tried to pull him over. Even when we ran him off the road, he was trying to get Klimt to give him the bowl so he could get it to safety. But the old fool wouldn’t let go of it.”

“I do love that you left him outside the Polizia di Stato building. A wonderful theatrical flourish, if I may say so.”

“Thanks.” Jeff grinned. “I thought so. Tracy would have loved it.”

Her name had come to his lips unbidden. It hung in the air now like a ghost, sucking all the celebration and bonhomie out of the atmosphere in an instant.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”

Gunther Hartog shook his head sadly. For a few moments a heavy silence fell.

“Well,” Gunther said at last. “My client, the Hungarian collector, couldn’t be more delighted with his acquisition. I wired our Italian friends their cut last night. And here, my dear boy, is yours.”

He handed Jeff a check. It was from Coutts, the private investment bank, in his name, and it had an obscenely large number written on it.

“No thanks.” Jeff handed it back.

Gunther looked perplexed. “What do you mean ‘no thanks.’ It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”

“I don’t need it,” said Jeff.

“I’m not sure I see what ‘need’ has to do with it.”

“All right, then. I don’t want it.” Jeff sounded more angry than he’d intended to. “Sorry, Gunther. But money doesn’t help me. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”

Gunther gave a nod of understanding. “You must give it away, then,” he said. “If it can’t help you, I’m sure it can help someone else. But that’s your decision, Jeff. I can’t keep it.”

TWO WEEKS LATER, AN article appeared in Leggo ’s Rome edition under the headline TINY CHARITY RECEIVES REMARKABLE GIFT.

Roma Relief, an almost unknown nonprofit organization devoted to helping Gypsy families in some of Rome’s worst slums, received an anonymous donation of more than half a million euros.

The mystery donor asked that the money be used to set up a fund in memory of Nico and Fabio Trattini, two Roma brothers who died in an accidental fall from a condemned building two years ago.

“We’re incredibly grateful,” Nicola Gianotti, Roma Relief’s founder told us in an emotional interview. “Overwhelmed, really. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.”

CHAPTER 7

THREE MONTHS LATER

STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO

TRACY STOOD ON THE deck of her new home and gazed out at the mountains. She’d chosen the place for its privacy, set back off a private road in the hills above the quaint town of Steamboat Springs, and for the views, which were breathtaking. The snowcapped Rockies loomed like protective giants against a vast sky, cloudless and blue even on this cold October morning. Tracy could smell wood smoke and pine, and hear the distant whinnying of the horses in the fields.

It’s a far cry from my childhood in New Orleans, she thought, stroking her swollen belly protectively. Tracy’s father had been a mechanic and her mother a housewife, and although Tracy had been very happy, the Whitneys had never had much money. As a little girl growing up in the city, Tracy had always dreamed of wide-open spaces and ponies. Or somewhere just like Steamboat Springs. You’re a lucky girl, Amy. You’re going to grow up here and it’s going to be perfect.

It had not been an easy decision, returning to the States. Tracy hadn’t been back since the day she set sail on the QE2 from New York, to start a new life in Europe. Released from prison early, having spent years in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for a crime she didn’t commit, Tracy had tried hard to go straight. But she quickly learned that very few people were prepared to give an ex-con a second chance. Her old employer, the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, had laughed in her face when she attempted to get her old job back. Tracy was a brilliant computer expert with a first-class education. But she found even menial cleaning jobs hard to come by, and even harder to keep. As soon as anything was stolen or damaged, Tracy would get the blame and find herself fired. Without a means to support herself, she grew bitter and desperate. It was desperation that drove her to her first job as a jewel thief, robbing a thoroughly unpleasant woman by the name of Lois Bellamy.

That was the job during which she had first met Jeff Stevens. He conned her out of Lois Bellamy’s stolen jewels. Furious, Tracy had stolen them back. So began a rivalry that became an attraction that became love. The love of my life. Jeff Stevens had made Tracy Whitney’s life an adventure, a wild roller-coaster ride of adrenaline, excitement and fun.