Chasing Tomorrow

“Okay,” Veronica called after him. “And thank you so much for my present. I love it!”

OUTSIDE, THE CITY LOOKED like a fairy tale. Two feet of snow had fallen during the night, frosting Central Park like a wedding cake and casting a brilliant, white glow over every street and car and building. Christmas music was being piped out of every store, and the window displays shone and glittered with multicolored lights and toys and candies, making Jeff wish he was eight years old again.

Jeff buttoned his overcoat against the cold, and against his own anger.

Why would a beautiful girl like Veronica touch that stuff?

It didn’t bother him that she sold herself for sex. In Jeff’s worldview there was an honesty to prostitution, to the simple transaction between man and woman in the pursuit of pleasure. But drugs? That was something else. He had seen what drugs did to people. Seen how they reduced human beings to immoral beings, cringing slaves prepared to do anything and betray anyone for their master.

Disgusting.

Tracy had never done drugs. They were always around. The circles that she and Jeff used to move in were extremely decadent. But, like Jeff, Tracy had never been interested. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice now.

“Why would I need ecstasy, my darling, when I’ve got you?”

“Why indeed.”

Jeff always missed Tracy more at Christmastime.

Still, this was no time to be getting maudlin. Jeff loved visiting New York, especially when the trip combined business and pleasure. He was staying at the Gramercy Park under the name of Randall Bruckmeyer, an old-school Texas oilman and one of Jeff’s favorite alter egos. Randy lived up to his name, and had helped Jeff out on a number of jobs that required the seducing of one or more women. In this case, the target was a gorgeous Russian socialite, Svetlana Drakhova, who was in New York to attend the famous Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden with her boyfriend. In addition to her busy career as a professional partier/slut, Svetlana also happened to be the latest, very young mistress of Oleg Grinski, a Russian oligarch with a penchant for anal sex, torture and Byzantine treasures, not necessarily in that order. Preposterously, Oleg had given the scheming Svetlana a priceless collection of coins minted during the reign of the Emperor Heraclius in 620 as a gift. Knowing Svetlana as he now did, Jeff, aka Randy Bruckmeyer, was convinced it was only a matter of time before she melted them down or turned them into a pair of novelty earrings. As much a stranger to taste as to basic human decency, Svetlana was as ugly inside as she was beautiful outside, and that was saying something. Jeff was not enjoying sleeping with her, hence today’s trip to Veronica’s place. He was, however, looking forward to robbing her, and to handing the coins over to the charming Spanish collector who’d commissioned him. They had agreed on a fee of $1 million, a fraction of what the coins were worth, but enough to make the job worth Jeff’s while. The main thing was that the coins would be in safe hands once again, cherished and appreciated as they should be. These days, Jeff Stevens felt a closer connection to ancient objects than he did to people. Unlike people, they never let you down.

Jumping into a cab to Lexington, Jeff got out a block before his hotel. Randall Bruckmeyer III always stayed at the Gramercy Park. The Ritz might have grander rooms, but this was the only place in town with access to its own, private park and with genuine Warhols and Basquiats hanging on the walls. You got what you paid for at the Gramercy: glamour, luxury and exclusivity.

Slipping into character was second nature to Jeff, like putting on an old familiar sweater.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He offered his arm to two overly made-up women in ankle-length minks as they approached the lobby doors. “Are y’all in town for the Winter Ball?”

“That’s right.” The first woman looked up coquettishly at the handsome Texan, almost blinding him with the diamonds that were swinging around her neck like golf balls. “How did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess. I’m invited myself, as it happens.”

Randall Bruckmeyer was invited to the annual Botanical Garden event, but he wouldn’t be going. He had a rather more pressing engagement arranged for that evening. Svetlana Drakhova would be attending, along with her repulsive sugar daddy, Oleg, hopefully for long enough to allow Jeff to do what he needed to do. The ball provided the perfect cover, not least because every cop, fed and private security firm was going to be all over the event like bees around a honey pot. After last year’s spectacular thefts—not one, but two multimillion-dollar jewel heists had gone down, one of them involving a very high-profile Hollywood actress and a sapphire bracelet that used to belong to Grace Kelly—no one was taking any chances. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, rumors abounded that another big job was being planned. Every con artist in the Western world worth their salt was in Manhattan right now, wondering whether to try their hand.

Except me, thought Jeff. He tightened his grip around the fur-clad ladies’ waists as they swept into the Gramercy’s grand, high-ceilinged Rose Bar.

“Name’s Randy,” he drawled. “Randy Bruckmeyer. Can I buy y’all a drink?”

JEAN RIZZO IDLY PERUSED the belts in the Ermenegildo Zegna concession in Barneys. He was just wondering who would pay almost a thousand dollars for a simple strip of leather, when he realized his target was on the move. Time to go.

Jean was tailing Elizabeth Kennedy. Using the pseudonym Martha Langbourne, Elizabeth had flown to New York from London three weeks ago and checked in to Morgans Hotel in Midtown. Jean Rizzo followed. After his meeting with Gunther Hartog, Jean had half expected to find Jeff Stevens in Manhattan too. He’d put some feelers out, but so far had found no sign of Tracy Whitney’s elusive ex.

If that was disappointing, Elizabeth Kennedy was proving to be even more so. For the last twenty days, “Martha” had done a good impression of being a wealthy tourist like any other. Jean had patiently followed her to two Broadway plays, numerous dinners in expensive restaurants (always solo) and a string of deathly dull visits to museums, galleries and every conceivable tourist attraction, from the Rockefeller Center ice rink to the Empire Stat

e Building.

Back in Lyon, Jean’s boss was not amused.

“We’re not the CIA,” Henri Marceau said grumpily. “We don’t have the budget for this crap.”

“Elizabeth Kennedy’s my only live lead.”

“She’s not a lead. She’s a hunch. You have nothing on her, Jean. Not as far as the Bible killings go.”

“That’s why I need to stay here. At least until next weekend. She’s planning something for the Winter Ball at the Botanical Garden, I’m sure of it. Sooner or later she’ll have to make contact with her partner. He’s our guy, Henri. He’s our guy.”

Henri Marceau had known Jean Rizzo a long time. He was a good detective with sharp instincts, but his heart was ruling his head on this one. Running all over the world, chasing shadows on the spurious advice of Gunther Hartog, a dying con artist with an ax to grind. And for what? A string of dead hookers. There were live cases, human-trafficking operations and drug rings and pedophile networks that desperately needed resources.

“I can’t justify it, Jean. I’m sorry. As of tomorrow, you’re there on your own dime.”