Chasing Tomorrow

Sylvie, Jean’s ex, was equally unimpressed.

“It’s Christmas. You’ve been gone a month. What about the children?”

“I’ll bring them back something amazing from FAO Schwarz.”

“Something amazing? Really. Like what? A father who keeps his promises?”

Jean felt terrible about Clémence and Luc. But he couldn’t go home, not until he’d made progress. If another girl got killed in New York and he’d done nothing to stop it, he’d never forgive himself.

Finally, yesterday, his tenacity had paid off. Elizabeth Kennedy still hadn’t met up with her elusive partner. But she had begun tailing Bianca Berkeley.

TV actress, Scientologist and wife of the billionaire real estate mogul Butch Berkeley, Bianca Berkeley was beautiful, rich and weird. Gossip columnists loved her for her Howard Hughes–esque fits of hypochondria. Bianca had variously been reported as sleeping in an “oxygen helmet,” drinking her own urine daily and employing an astrologer to determine her diet, all in hopes of strengthening her immunity to any number of imagined diseases. Butch stuck with her because she was beautiful and famous and because she didn’t care if he slept with his assistant or his trainer as long as he kept her in jewels and jets.

The Berkeleys were confirmed attendees at this year’s Winter Ball. Yesterday “Martha Langbourne” had left her hotel after an early breakfast and followed Bianca Berkeley, first to her Pilates class, then to her psychic’s office and finally to Tiffany’s, where Bianca had spent an hour locked in conference with the store’s manager, Lucio Trivoli. Today Mrs. B was at Barneys buying Louboutin boots and “trinkets” for her staff, including (so far) a Patek Philippe watch with a seven-figure price tag and a crystal bracelet that claimed to “neutralize the ions” in the body.

Martha was right behind her. It was beyond question now. Bianca Berkeley was Elizabeth Kennedy’s latest target.

Jean watched as the two women moved through furs and accessories, then back into haberdashery. Mrs. Berkeley bought nothing else, although “Martha Langbourne” treated herself to some three-hundred-dollar cashmere-lined gloves with a silk gold trim, paid for with an unlimited AmEx in the same name, just like her hotel room. Jean Rizzo had checked the statements a week ago. ML was obviously an identity Elizabeth had used before while in the United States, although the cards hadn’t been used in more than a year. The abortive Los Angeles jaunt had been paid for with other monies. Ms. Kennedy and her partner were nothing if not careful.

Jean watched as Bianca Berkeley left the store by the main exit on Madison Avenue. He was about to follow when some sixth sense made him hold back. As expected, Elizabeth Kennedy followed her quarry. But this time Jean clocked the two young men walking behind her. They were dressed in jeans and sweaters. One carried a woolen overcoat over his arm. Jean couldn’t see their faces, but something about the way they moved, the slight inclination of their heads toward each other, told him at once that they were working together.

Could Elizabeth have more than one accomplice? Did she work as part of a gang?

Unhurriedly, Jean raised his cell phone and began taking pictures, making sure to look as if he were focusing on Barneys’ spectacular Christmas display and not on the two men. To his dismay, moments later a crowd of shoppers surged forward, sweeping the two men out of the store and onto Madison Avenue just yards behind Elizabeth.

Jean didn’t know if he’d caught their faces or not. His mind raced. There’s too many people. By the time I make it onto the street, they could all be gone. This might be the contact he’d been waiting for and he was seconds away from missing it!

Pushing rudely past a fat woman and her fatter son, he rushed to the nearest ground-floor window, behind a relatively sedate display selling Smythson diaries and notebooks. Pressing his face to the glass, he saw Bianca Berkeley step into her waiting town car and speed away. He couldn’t see Elizabeth or the two men.

“Damn it!” he said aloud, earning himself more than one bemused glance from nearby shoppers. Just as he was about to make a belated run for the doors, one of the two men appeared in front of the window, literally inches from where Jean was standing. Instinctively, Jean shrank back. The man had his coat on now. He was short with dark hair, but he still had his back turned. Turn around, damn you. At one point he leaned back so that his woolen coat actually touched the glass. Then he edged forward, apparently waving to someone across the street. Jean couldn’t see who it was. Seconds later the man’s hand shot out. A yellow cab pulled up.

“No!” Jean was running like a madman, falling over himself as he careered toward the store exit.

“Watch it, asshole!”

Outside, the crisp December air hit him in the face like a punch. Christmas shoppers swarmed the sidewalks like ants. Along both sides of Madison Avenue, a line of yellow taxis stretched for block after block, like bricks on the road to Oz. Jean’s heart sank. One man had gone. Jean doubted he would have recognized the other, even if he saw him. He was about to head back to Elizabeth’s hotel, more in hope than expectation that the three might regroup there, when suddenly he saw her. She was on foot, headed toward the subway.

Jean Rizzo followed. Neither of the males was anywhere to be seen, but he was determined not to lose Elizabeth again. He followed her down into the tunnels and onto a train that was heading uptown. Keeping Elizabeth in sight, and staying close enough to the doors that he could follow her out at a second’s notice, Jean scrolled through the pictures on his phone. The tech guys at Interpol could work wonders with images, but even Jean knew that these looked unpromising. Two distant figures in a sea of people. Damn it. How did I screw this up?

Elizabeth got off the train at Central Park West. She seemed in no hurry, back in tourist mode. Jean followed her through the park at a discreet distance. It was four o’clock. Light was fading and the earlier crowds had begun to thin. Snow began to fall again. Thick heavy flakes like goose down stuck to Jean’s hair and coat. Where is she going?

Suddenly Elizabeth stopped. She looked around her briefly, perhaps to ascertain if she was being followed, then sat down on a bench, clearing off the newly fallen snow with a sweep of her arm. Jean kept walking. Once he reached the top of the hill, he slipped behind a small clump of trees. It was a perfect vantage point, close and completely hidden. Jean pulled out his phone and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A tall gentleman in a cowboy hat began walking purposefully toward the bench. There was no hint of subterfuge, no attempt at discretion. As the man drew near, Elizabeth stood up and smiled broadly, holding out her arms. Then the man took off his hat and gave Jean a clear view of his face. It was the first time Jean Rizzo had seen those handsome features in the flesh but he would have known them anywhere.

Well, I’ll be damned.

He

lifted his phone and began taking pictures. Click, click, click.

TRACY WAS AT THE top of a ladder, fixing a dog-eared Christmas angel to the top of the tree when the phone rang.

“Would you get that, honey?” she called down to Nicholas.

They’d spent a lovely afternoon decorating the house together, with Blake Carter helping to put up the enormous Norwegian pine. Tracy loved Christmas. This house had been made for it, with its high ceilings, roaring open fires and log-cabin charm. Blake rolled his eyes every year at Tracy’s over-the-top decor, including tacky carol-singing dogs from CVS and a life-size plastic Santa with flashing boots and hat who said “Ho! Ho! Ho!” whenever you rubbed his belly. “It looks like an elf threw up in your living room.” But Tracy suspected Blake secretly loved the display as much as she did. Especially when he saw the delight in Nicholas’s eyes.

“Oh, hi, Jean.” Nicholas’s cheerful voice sent chills through Tracy’s body. “How are you? Did you want to talk to Mama?”