Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

“Whatever did I do before I met you, Liza?

“You’re like a sister to me.

“Isn’t it incredible how we have so much in common? Like we’re both such incredible listeners . Alan never listens to me. He thinks I’m stupid. I swear to God, that bastard . . .”

Never again, Elizabeth thought, speeding toward the Century City condo for the rendezvous with her partner, the priceless ruby necklace tucked safely in her purse. This time tomorrow I’ll be on a yacht in the Caribbean.

Good-bye, Sheila! Good-bye, Liza Cunningham!

And good riddance.

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT. YOU’VE been duped.”

Elizabeth Kennedy felt the color rise in her cheeks. Not out of embarrassment. Out of anger. How dare her partner berate her like this? After the months she’d spent getting close to the Brooksteins! The endless, mind-numbing hours in Sheila’s company. Flirting with the repellent Alan.

“My job was to swap out the necklaces. That’s what I did. What the hell was your contribution?”

“Your job was to acquire the Iranian rubies. These are not the Iranian rubies.” Elizabeth’s partner looked up from the magnifying loupe. “You swapped a fake for a fake.”

Elizabeth’s mind began whirring. It was impossible that Sheila had deliberately deceived her. For one thing, she had no reason to. For another, she wasn’t smart enough. Alan Brookstein must have switched the necklaces and laid out the fake tonight without telling his wife. But why would he . . . ?

An unpleasant thought suddenly occurred to her.

“What if he never bought the real rubies in the first place? What if he was duped?”

“Don’t be stupid,” her partner said rudely.

“It’s possible.”

“No, it isn’t. Don’t you think I checked that out months ago? Unlike you, when I do a job I do it thoroughly. And accurately. Brookstein has the necklace. It must still be in the safe. You’ll have to go back and get it.”

Elizabeth hesitated. She longed to tell her partner to stick it. That she wasn’t in the business of taking orders. But then she thought about all the time and effort she’d put into this job. And the Brooksteins’ empty house . . .

“Give me the damn code.”

ELIZABETH THOUGHT QUICKLY, HER agile mind skipping through all the possible risks and strategies. The gala itself would go on for another few hours at least, probably longer, so there was little danger of either of the Brooksteins returning home. Conchita, their housekeeper, would also have gone home by now, so the house would be empty but alarmed. That was no problem. Elizabeth had a key and had memorized the code.

More problematic were the two security guards, Eduardo and Nico, who patrolled the property at night. Both of them knew “Liza” by sight, which gave her the option of brazening it out, walking in through the front door and explaining that she’d forgotten some personal item. The downside to that was that it would definitively pin down Liza Cunningham as the guilty party once the theft was discovered, which might be as soon as later that same night. That meant cops and FBI out looking for her, E-FIT pictures, and all sorts of irritations and complications that Elizabeth would rather do without.

On balance, she decided it would be easier simply to burgle the house—cover her face and slip in through a window. She would have forty seconds to disable the alarm, more than enough time. And Eduardo and Nico were hardly the CIA. She’d simply wait until they were distracted, talking to each other on one side of the property, and quietly make her entrance somewhere else.

By the time Elizabeth pulled up in the alley behind the estate and switched off her engine and lights, her heart rate was barely elevated. Coming away with the wrong necklace had been an annoyance. But it was easily rectified, and would be well worth the effort.

Slipping her black silk balaclava over her face (it was terribly important to work in comfort; Elizabeth’s trusty mask was like a second skin), she was about to open the door when she suddenly froze.

The master-bedroom window popped open. Elizabeth heard the familiar, soft slither of a rope being thrown out. Seconds later a diminutive black-clad figure emerged, abseiling down the rear wall of the property with the silent grace of a spider gliding down a line of its own silk. It was quite beautiful to watch, like ballet. The figure stopped on a small flat roof about twelve feet off the ground. From there he paused, seemed to judge the distance, then made a catlike leap onto the boundary wall of the property, about thirty feet from where Elizabeth was parked.

Belatedly, she began to feel angry. The burglar’s exit had been such a virtuoso performance, Elizabeth had been momentarily blinded by admiration. But now she felt a different, more raw emotion.

I don’t believe it. After all that effort, someone beat me to it. That bastard’s got my necklace!

At that precise moment the figure on top of the wall turned and looked directly at Elizabeth’s car. Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out the string of rubies and dangled them mockingly in Elizabeth’s direction.

What the . . .

Elizabeth turned on her headlights. Even from this distance she could see the red glow of the stones, taunting her. Then the black-clad figure removed his balaclava. A cascade of chestnut hair burst forth. A woman! A face Elizabeth Kennedy thought she would never see again smiled down at her, with a look of the purest triumph in her green eyes.

Climbing into her own car, Tracy Whitney blew her rival a kiss before speeding off into the night.

ELIZABETH KENNEDY SAT IN her car for a full five minutes before she made the call.

“Did you get it?”

Her partner’s voice was cold, curt, demanding. Elizabeth had come to hate it over the years.

“No.” She responded in kind, without apology. “I was too late.”

“What do you mean, ‘too late’? The gala’s only halfway through.”

“By the time I got here, someone else had stolen the necklace. I saw them leaving, just now.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

Elizabeth said, “You’ll never guess who it was.”

More silence. Elizabeth’s partner did not like guessing games. Or any games, for that matter.

“Tracy Whitney.”

When her partner spoke again, Elizabeth could have sworn she detected a trace of emotion.

“That’s impossible. Tracy Whitney’s not active anymore. She’s almost certainly dead. No one’s seen her for—”

“—almost ten years. I know. I was there, remember? But I’m telling you, it was Tracy Whitney. I recognized her immediately. And I’m pretty sure she recognized me.”

TRACY PAID THE BABYSITTER at the hotel and tipped her very generously.

“Wow, that’s so nice of you. Thanks. How was the movie?”

“Exciting. I loved every minute of it.”

The sitter left. Tracy walked into Nicholas’s room and watched him sleeping. She’d taken a huge risk tonight, letting that girl—Rebecca, as Tracy would always think of her—see her face. But it had been worth it.

I wanted her to know it was me who outsmarted her.

Tomorrow Tracy would bring the ruby necklace to her dealer contact and leave Los Angeles seven figures richer than when she’d arrived. But it wasn’t the money that was making the adrenaline course through her body or the pleasure chemicals flood her brain. It wasn’t even outsmarting her nemesis—or not entirely. It was the joy of a virtuoso pianist reunited with her instrument after years in exile. It was the delight of an expert surgeon regaining the use of his hands after an accident. It was coming back to life, when you hadn’t even realized you were dead.