Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

“And this related to Elizabeth Kennedy . . . how?”

“The question is not how I would do it. It’s how she would do it,” Tracy said. “Elizabeth’s smart. But if she’s behind all these other jobs you’ve told me about, the ones that took place before the murders, then I’d say her balls are at least as big as her brains.” She sat back in her chair, a triumphant look on her face. “I think she’s going to do it at the ball. I think she’s going to steal that choker on the night, in front of a thousand guests and God knows how many cops. And I think she’s going to walk right out of there.”

Her certainty was contagious.

Jean Rizzo asked the obvious question. “And just how, exactly, is she going to do that? Rip the thing off Bianca Berkeley’s neck?”

Tracy laughed. “Of course not. I pulled off a similar job once at the Prado in Madrid, before Jeff bait-and-switched me. It’s quite simple really.”

Jean raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Bianca’s going to give Elizabeth the choker.”

THE WINTER WONDERLAND BALL in New York’s famous Botanical Garden was considered the party of the year among Manhattan’s elite. Glamorous enough to tempt the city’s fashionistas and hedge-fund millionaires to travel all the way up to the Bronx, it also attracted an international crowd of superwealthy patrons. Those who would see and be seen flocked from around the globe to the iconic glass-and-steel building with its breathtaking palm dome, illuminated by thousands of simple white candles. Outside, the twin backdrops of pure white snow and a pitch-black winter sky, peppered with stars, provided the perfect setting for the dazzling couture gowns and decadent jewels of the female guests as they arrived.

Hollywood was out in force this year, both the old guard and the new. Sharon Stone wowed in a white Giambattista Valli and the Fanning sisters looked cute in matching Chanel minis with hot-pink ruffles. They mingled with Washington heavyweights—the vice president and his wife were here, as well as the new secretary of state and Harvey Golden, White House chief of staff. There were supermodels and designers, billionaires and generals, writers, artists and oil tycoons. The official purpose of the ball was to raise money for New York’s underprivileged children. In reality, of course, it was yet another opportunity for the city’s overprivileged children to gorge themselves on a cloying feast of excess. The air was scented with tropical blooms and expensive perfume, and the aroma of white truffles wafted in from the kitchen. But in the end, the one overpowering smell was money.

Jean Rizzo could hardly breathe. Weaving his way through the Vogue photographers and other press gathered outside, he grabbed a flute of champagne and slipped into the throng. Bianca Berkeley and her husband, Butch, were already here and surrounded by hangers-on. Butch Berkeley was having a loud conversation with Warren Gantz, a Wall Street titan, about the merits of various different private planes (Warren favored the Dassault Falcon 900, a bargain at $33 million, while Butch remained faithful to his Embraer Legacy 650). Jean Rizzo thought of the ancient Volvo 760 he’d driven since his twenties rusting outside his Lyon apartment and smiled. Guys like Gantz and Berkeley were so out of touch with reality.

Although perhaps Bianca Berkeley was even more so. Standing a few feet behind her husband, flanked by two Scientology staffers labeled as “publicist” and “assistant,” she had the glazed, not-there look of a rabbit with myxomatosis. There was the famous emerald choker, wrapped around Bianca’s elegant neck like a vise. It doesn’t suit her, thought Jean. Amazing how a piece of jewelry could look at once wildly expensive and breathtakingly ugly.

In any event, she was wearing it, which meant that whatever Elizabeth Kennedy had planned had yet to take place. Score one for Tracy’s theory.

Bianca’s dark hair was pulled up in a severe-looking bun, and she wore a simple black column dress, both no doubt intended to showcase the Tiffany emeralds to better effect. Instead they merely served to make a beautiful woman look as stiff and uncomfortable as a store mannequin.

As for Elizabeth, so far she was nowhere to be seen. Jean had done three complete circuits of the Botanical Garden conservatory, moving from one gaggle of rich partygoers to the next. But neither “Martha Langbourne” nor “Randall Bruckmeyer,” Jeff Stevens’s brash Texan alter ego, had yet arrived, despite being confirmed attendees as of this morning.

For the first time since his dinner with Tracy, Jean Rizzo began to have doubts. What if Bianca Berkeley’s emeralds weren’t the target after all, but a red herring set up deliberately to throw him off the scent? Arrogantly he had assumed that Elizabeth Kennedy remained unaware of his surveillance. But Elizabeth was a professional after all, at the top of her game. What if she knew that Jean had been onto her all along? That was just the sort of dance these people enjoyed. Elizabeth, Jeff Stevens, even Tracy. Tracy claimed to have put her life of capers and con tricks behind her for her son’s sake, but how well did Jean really know her? This was a woman who lied for a living, after all.

Unbidden, Jean’s boss’s words came back to him.

“Elizabeth’s not a lead,” Henri Marceau had told him. “She’s a hunch. You’re running around on a wild-goose chase based on the ‘advice’ of two former con artists! You’re wrong on this one, Jean. Come home.”

Jean finished his champagne and picked up another glass. His trained eye had already clocked a veritable army of undercover police, federal agents and private security men milling around among the invitees. Maybe Elizabeth had realized it was simply too risky to try something here and chickened out at the last moment? Perhaps the lady’s balls weren’t as big as Tracy imagined after all?

Jean Rizzo’s uneasiness grew.

Where the hell is she?

THE FBI AGENT ADJUSTED the strap on her shimmering silver gown. In other circumstances, she’d have let her hair down at a glamorous party like this one. But not tonight. She was here to work.

Bianca Berkeley was the target, or, more specifically, the cluster of garish green rocks she wore around her neck. Wedged between her church minders like the meat in a cult sandwich, Butch Berkeley’s actress wife had no idea what danger she was in. Did those goons actually make her feel safe? The FBI agent shook her head. Funny how easy it is to trust the wrong people.

The dark wig she was wearing was itchy and uncomfortable. She hadn’t wanted to wear it, but there was an outside chance that one of tonight’s guests might recognize her from another job. The world of the superrich and supercorrupt was smaller than one might think, a sort of vice village. She recognized a number of the other cops and agents milling about, trying to blend into the crowd. The funny little Canadian guy from Interpol had shown up too, the one nobody took seriously. The rumor was that even his own people back in France had cut ties with him.

She looked at her watch. Eight fifteen.

She had to make contact with Bianca soon or it would be too late.

SVETLANA DRAKHOVA THREW HER head back and laughed at one of Oleg Grinski’s jokes.

Stupid oaf. Svetlana sipped her vintage Burgundy. Fat, ugly pig. I’m not your wife. Go and bore someone else with your tedious stories.

Svetlana was in a bad mood. She’d wasted the last six months of her life with the repellent Grinski, with very little to show for it. It had been her twenty-second birthday last month, and what had the pig given her? Some stupid old coins! She’d hoped that this trip to New York at least might involve some jaunts to Graaf or Cartier. But the tightfisted son of a bitch had kept his wallet manacled shut. Apart from a watch and a few paltry Balenciaga bags, he’d bought her nothing. Nothing!