Chasing Tomorrow

He picked up the phone.

SET BACK FROM THE Pacific Coast Highway, with spectacular views over the ocean, Nobu Malibu is a favorite Friday-night dinner venue for Hollywood’s elite. Even a player like Alan Brookstein had had to call in a favor to get the coveted table nineteen out on the terrace. Wedged between Will and Jada Smith on one side and a billionaire Internet entrepreneur on the other, Alan Brookstein had hoped tonight’s dinner might help break Sheila out of her funk. So far, no dice. Ever since her rubies had been stolen, Sheila had been about as much fun as root-canal surgery without anesthetic.

Looking at her now, scowling down at her sushi, her small, mean mouth pursed like a cat’s anus, Alan Brookstein thought, I don’t love you. I don’t even like you. I wish I’d never bought you that damned necklace in the first place.

“Excuse me, Mr. Brookstein, Mrs. Brookstein? Do you mind if I sit down?”

The question was apparently rhetorical. The stocky little man with the Canadian accent had already pulled up a chair and positioned himself between the director and his wife.

“This won’t take long. I’m investigating a homicide here in Los Angeles. A young woman was murdered in Hollywood last Sunday night, the evening after the robbery at your property.” Jean Rizzo pulled out his Interpol ID card and laid it on the table.

“Murdered? How awful!” Sheila Brookstein said gleefully. The policeman was very handsome. A murder investigation would at least give her something to gossip about with her girlfriends. “Do we know the young woman?”

“I doubt it,” said Jean. “She worked as a prostitute.”

The gleeful look vanished from Sheila’s face, replaced by an accusatory glare directed toward her husband.

“Jesus. Don’t look at me. I don’t know any hookers!”

“I wonder, sir, is this woman familiar to you?”

Jean took out Tracy Whitney’s picture.

“Is she the prostitute?” Sheila Brookstein was still looking daggers at her husband, who was studying the image closely.

“No,” said Jean. “But she may be connected to the case. Mr. Brookstein, do you recognize the woman in the picture?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’?” Sheila Brookstein’s shrill voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Either you know her or you don’t.”

“My God, Sheila, would you shut up for five seconds?” Alan Brookstein looked at the picture again. “Her hair’s different now. And she’s older than she is in this picture. But I think it might be the chick from the insurance company.”

“You met this woman?” Jean tried to conceal his elation.

“Yeah.”

“Recently?”

“She came to the house a week ago. Warned me about these pinhole cameras—turns out that’s exactly what the thieves used to get the code to my safe. I guess I should have taken her more seriously.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brookstein. Mrs. Brookstein. You’ve been a great help.”

“Did this woman have anything to do with the robbery? What about my necklace?” Sheila Brookstein demanded.

Jean Rizzo was already out the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, JEAN Rizzo was in the car at six o’clock. Back in her heyday, Tracy Whitney had stayed in nothing but the best hotels. Armed with her picture, Jean started downtown and headed west, hitting L.A.’s most luxurious establishments. By ten, he had drawn a blank at five of the seven hotels on his list: the Ritz-Carlton, the Four Seasons, the Peninsula, the Roosevelt and the SLS. He began to doubt himself. Maybe she rented a mansion? Maybe she stayed with a friend or a lover? Maybe she lost all her money somehow and is holed up in a motel? Maybe Alan Brookstein wa

s mistaken and she was never here in L.A. at all? Jean Rizzo wouldn’t be the first person to end up chasing shadows where Tracy Whitney was concerned.

The manager at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica was polite but insistent.

“I recognize all our guests, Inspector. I am one hundred percent positive this young lady has not been staying with us.”

That left only the Hotel Bel-Air. More in hope than with any expectation of a positive response, Jean showed the manager Tracy’s picture.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Schmidt. Bungalow six. She checked out four days ago.”