Sidney Sheldon - Chasing Tomorrow

Tracy wasn’t here to sightsee. It had taken her a long time, too long, to figure out the first line of Daniel Cooper’s riddle. By the time she arrived at the Britannia Hotel, she was hot, exhausted and nauseous with stress . . . What if this was all a sick joke? What if Jeff wasn’t here after all, but already dead, and Cooper had lured her here so he could kill her too? What if Blake Carter was right and she was making a terrible, deadly mistake? . . . Her “twenty nights” were almost up.

She had to meet Cooper tonight. Tracy knew from bitter experience that Daniel Cooper would not tolerate lateness, or extend a deadline once set, not even for her. The problem was she still wasn’t certain which open-air theater he was referring to in his “beneath the stars” line. The Antichen Teatar, built by the Emperor Trajan in the second century was the most famous. It was also situated between two of Plovdiv’s six hills, making it an obvious choice. But the Ancient Stadium, built a hundred years later by the Emperor Hadrian had as much claim to be a “stage of history,” as well as the advantage of being closed to the public for restoration work.

With nothing else to go on, Tracy decided that Cooper would choose the abandoned theater for their rendezvous. He’ll want to meet me alone. Dropping her suitcase on the bed, she showered, changed and walked across the street to a tiny café where she forced herself to eat a Pritnsessi sandwich, a traditional Bulgarian snack of feta cheese and egg, and drink a cup of strong coffee. Felling slightly better, physically at least, she checked her watch.

Six P.M.

Three hours to go, assuming she was right about “three times three” meaning nine P.M. From the tourist map she’d picked up at the reception desk, Tracy knew that the stadium was situated in the north of the city, no more than a twenty-minute cab ride away. She decided to get there early. When going into battle, it always made sense to check out the terrain first. Especially when the battlefield had been handpicked by the enemy. Daniel Cooper had chosen this spot for a reason.

I should find out what it is.

Reaching into her purse for her wallet, Tracy fingered first her cell phone and then the gun she’d brought with her, a tiny, custom-made Kahr PM9 micro 9mm that could be disassembled into pieces that looked like lipstick tubes and other “permissible items” when passing through airport scanners. Jeff would have laughed and called it a “woman’s gun.” But its bullets could kill, just like any others.

In all her years as a con artist, Tracy had never gone armed to a job. Not since that fateful night at Joe Romano’s house in New Orleans, the night that had seen her wind up in jail and that had changed her life utterly and forever. Tracy didn’t like guns. She wasn’t in the business of hurting people. But this was different.

Daniel Cooper was a psychotic killer.

And he had Jeff.

Tracy paid her bill and walked out into the street.

THE MAIN BUS STATION in Sofia is right next to the railway station. Jean Rizzo arrived just as the bus to Plovdiv was leaving and was told he would have to wait another half an hour for the next one.

“Goddamn it!” Jean shouted aloud.

It was already five o’clock. As ridiculous as it sounded, numerous people had told Jean that the fastest and most reliable way to get to Plovdiv from Sofia was by bus. Taxi drivers invariably took unnecessary detours to jack up their prices, the trains were frequently canceled, and renting a car was complicated and involved navigation, never Jean’s strong suit. In other circumstances he’d have asked the local police to drive him the ninety miles, but by the time he’d explained about Daniel Cooper and Tracy Whitney and the Bible killings and deciphering riddles, more valuable hours would have been lost.

At last, another bus arrived and Jean climbed onboard, paying the eleven levs fare. It was crowded and almost unbearably humid, and the suspension of the vehicle was atrocious, as was the cell-phone reception. Not that it mattered much. After three barely audible, then dropped calls to his office, Jean learned that they still knew precisely nothing about where Tracy might be staying. Nor had there been any sightings or leads on either Cooper or Jeff Stevens. Local police had been dispatched to the chess championships—“where masters meet”—as well as to a variety of possible open-air meeting places. Tonight’s tense match between the Russian Alexandr Makarov and his Ukranian rival Leonid Savchuk at the Plovdiv Royal Hotel was a highlight of the competition. There was at least a chance that Cooper might choose to meet Tracy there, or leave some further clue to his whereabouts, thinking himself safe in the anonymity of the crowd.

As for Jeff Stevens, Jean Rizzo privately believed that he was probably already dead. Holding a hostage for long periods is a complicated business, fraught with risk. Transporting one across international borders is even more dangerous. In Jean’s experience, killers like Daniel Cooper tended to stick to what they knew. Thirteen murdered women bore witness to the success of the Bible Killer’s MO. Although if anyone could push Cooper to step outside his comfort zone, it would be Tracy Whitney.

Jeff Stevens was right about Daniel Cooper. He’s in love with Tracy. In his own, sick mind, he always has been.

The bus rattled on.

JEFF STEVENS WAS CALLING for his mother again.

Daniel Cooper had heard many others do the same. It was a very common thing to do at the point of death. That primitive bond to the womb that bore us existed in all cultures. It was the love that endured to the end.

I loved my mother too. But she betrayed me.

Blood. That was what Daniel remembered from his mother’s death. Blood pouring from her wrists and neck, blood filling the bathtub and spilling onto the floor, staining the linoleum livid red.

Jeff had bled profusely too, especially when Daniel nailed his hands to the wood.

Infuriatingly, blood had spattered onto Daniel’s clean white shirt. He wanted to look his best when Tracy finally came to him. Tonight was the last night. He could feel her presence already. Her closeness. Like the scent of jasmine on the air.

Tonight.

JEAN RIZZO STEPPED OFF the bus in Plovdiv outside the Intercontinental Hotel.

His watch said five after seven.

Less than two hours. If Tracy’s here, I have less than two hours to find her. Luckily, the team is already in Europe.

He stood in the pretty cobblestone square still busy with tourists, wondering where to go next. Before he’d made a decision, his phone rang.

“Where are you?”

Milton Buck’s voice was as demanding and charmless as ever. It had been months since Jean Rizzo heard from the FBI. They sure knew how to pick their moments.

“I don’t have time for this now,” Jean said brusquely.

“I know you’re in Bulgaria. Have you already reached Plovdiv?”

This gave Jean pause. How the hell does Buck know where I am?

“As a matter of fact, I have. Not that it—”

“Do not interrogate Cooper without me. Do you understand? My team and I will be in the city by nightfall.”

“By nightfall it’ll be too late,” Jean said bluntly.

“Now you listen to me, Rizzo.” Milton Buck’s voice took on a threatening edge. “We’ve been tracking Cooper for months. We now have concrete physical evidence implicating him in the New York and Chicago jobs. It is imperative that you do not alert him to your presence, or scare him off before we have a chance to interrogate him. Is that clear?”

“Kiss my ass, Buck,” said Jean, and hung up.

He called his own team next. “Any news?”