“The point is, she knows you,” said Jean. “She thinks like you. She operates like you. You’re inside her head, Tracy, whether you want to be or not. You have to help me find her before Milton Buck does.”
“And if I refuse?” Tracy’s eyes flashed defiantly.
“I’ll expose you. I’ll tell your son the truth. I’m sorry, Tracy”—Jean sighed—“but I don’t have a choice.”
There were a few moments of silence. Then Tracy said, “Once we find her, do you swear you will leave me alone? You will never, ever try to contact me again?”
“You have my word.”
Jean offered her his hand. Tracy shook it. He had a firm handshake, and his palm was warm and dry against her own.
Tracy thought, I trust him.
God help me.
Jean signed the check and they walked outside. The crisp night air felt reviving to both of them as they walked to Jean’s car.
“So,” said Jean. “You’re Elizabeth Kennedy. You’ve spent the last six months planning to steal the Brookstein rubies only to have your archrival beat you to the punch at the very last moment. What’s your next move?”
Tracy thought for a moment.
“Regroup. When a job goes wrong, you need some time to recover. You analyze it, try to learn from your mistakes.”
“Okay. Where? If it were you, where would you go to do that?”
“If it were me?” Tracy paused, then smiled. “Home. If it were me, I’d go home.”
CHAPTER 15
LONDON
THREE MONTHS LATER . . .
EDWIN GREAVES WATCHED THE rain stream down his kitchen windowpane and wondered, What did I come in here for again? Edwin Greaves’s large, comfortable flat looked over Cadogan Gardens. The communal tennis courts were drenched and deserted, overhung by trees stripped bare of their leaves by the driving rain and bitter autumn winds.
I used to play tennis. Charlie could always beat me, though. Even as a little boy.
Where is Charlie?
Charlie Greaves, Edwin’s son, usually came on a Tuesday, to help Edwin with his mail and his grocery shopping at Harrods. Edwin Greaves always shopped at Harrods. One must maintain some standards after all, even in one’s nineties.
Why wasn’t Charlie here yet? Perhaps it wasn’t Tuesday? Although Edwin could have sworn it was.
“Can I help you with the tea, Mr. Greaves?”
A young woman’s voice drifted through from the drawing room.
Ah, that was it. Tea. I’m making tea for me and the nice young lady from Bonhams auction house.
“No, no, my dear. You make yourself comfortable. I’ll be through in a moment.”
The young woman smiled warmly when the old man finally shuffled back into the room. Setting down the tray with a rattle, he handed her a cup of tea in an antique Doulton china mug. It was stone cold.
“Thank you.” She sipped it anyway, pretending not to notice. “I’ve signed the paperwork here and attached the check. But perhaps we should wait for your son?”
“Why? It’s not his painting.”
“Well, no. But . . .”