CHAPTER 13
A CONFERENCE WAS UNDER WAY at 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 1700, the FBI’s Los Angeles headquarters. It was taking place in the office of Assistant Director John Marsden, but the man in charge was Agent Milton Buck. Agent Buck was in his early thirties and boyishly handsome. He would have been attractive had it not been for the twin handicaps of his pushy, arrogant personality and his height. At five foot seven, Milton Buck was easily the shortest man in the room.
The other people present were Assistant Director Marsden, FBI agents Susan Greene and Thomas Barton and Inspector Jean Rizzo of Interpol.
Agent Buck said, “There’s no connection. I’m sorry, but there just isn’t.”
Jean Rizzo bit back his irritation. He’d met hundreds of Milton Bucks at Interpol, ambitious, cocky little megalomaniacs with no thought in their empty heads beyond furthering their own careers. Depressingly, they always seemed to rise to the top. Like scum.
“You haven’t even read the file.”
“I don’t need to. With respect, Mr. Rizzo—”
“Inspector Rizzo,” said Jean. Why was it that people always began the most insulting sentences by saying “with respect”?
“My team and I are investigating a string of sophisticated, high-end thefts involving jewelry and fine art worth multiple millions of dollars. What you have is a few dead crack whores.”
“Twelve. Twelve victims. If you’d read the files you’d—”
“I don’t need to read your files to understand that there is no possible connection between our respective cases.”
“You’re wrong.” Jean pulled a sheaf of photographs out of his briefcase and handed one to everyone in the room. “There is a connection. You’re looking at her. Her name is Tracy Whitney.”
“Tracy Whitney?” For the first time, Assistant Director John Marsden’s ears pricked up. Twenty years Milton Buck’s senior, Marsden was a far more impressive character in Jean Rizzo’s view. Measured. Thoughtful. Not a total dick. “Why do I know that name?”
Jean Rizzo opened his mouth to speak but Agent Buck cut him off.
“Cold case, sir. That’s cold as in permafrost. Or cold as in morgue. Whitney’s almost certainly dead. She served time in Louisiana for armed robbery.”
“She never committed that crime,” Jean interjected. “Later evidence showed—”
“She got early release,” Milton Buck talked over him. “After that, her name was linked with a number of international swindles and burglaries. Interpol made a big deal out of her for a while, but nothing was ever proved. Eight or nine years ago she dropped off the radar completely.”
“And you know this how?” Assistant Director Marsden asked.
“We looked into her after the McMenemy Pissarro theft in New York, and again after the Neil Lane diamond heist in Chicago. No connection whatsoever.” Buck looked pointedly at Jean Rizzo. “Tracy Whitney is old news.”
Susan Greene, a plain young woman who was part of Buck’s team, turned to Jean Rizzo.
“You obviously believe there’s a connection between Ms. Whitney and this young woman’s death. What was her name again?”
Agent Greene picked up the picture of the grotesquely mutilated corpse that Rizzo had shown them earlier.
“Her name was Sandra Whitmore.”
“The crack whore,” Milton Buck said nastily.
Jean gave him a look that could have melted stone.
“Sandra had been clean almost four months. She was a single mom with a day job at Costco.”
“And we all know what her night job was.” Buck sneered.
“She was murdered within forty-eight hours of Sheila Brookstein’s Iranian ruby necklace being stolen. By the same individual who killed all the other girls. In every single one of these cases, the homicide takes place immediately following a ‘sophisticated, high-end theft’ in the same city.” Rizzo emphasized each word, using Agent Buck’s own phrase against him. “In many of those thefts, local police have reason to believe that the key suspect is female. As I’m sure you’re all aware, there aren’t many viable female suspects on file with a track record of this sort of flashy, audacious crime.”
Assistant Director Marsden asked, “Was Tracy Whitney the one who conned the Prado? Didn’t she steal a Goya?”
Jean Rizzo smiled. “The Puerto. That’s right. You have an excellent memory.”