Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (24 page)

“My staff is always hypervigilant. Do you have any evidence of this supposed plot?”

The caller hesitated. “Nothing concrete.”

“Then I suggest you stop wasting my time, señor.”

For the second time in an hour, Jeff Stevens heard the click of a phone line going dead.

Damn it!

“IT’S HARDLY SURPRISING.”

Professor Domingo Muñoz sat opposite Jeff over dinner at the Alfonso.

“You don’t give your name, you call up with these wild accusations, and you offer no proof. Why
should
they listen to you?”

“Dmitri’s a buffoon,” grumbled Jeff. “The classic big fish in a little pond. I shouldn’t think he’s listened to anyone about anything since 1976. Arrogant prick.”

“Señora Prieto’s supposed to be very good. Thorough and tough. You have to be to make it to her position as a woman, especially in Spain.”

“Well, she’s not thorough enough. I don’t know about this other guy, but Cooper’s a machine. You don’t know what thorough is until you’ve seen him operate.”

“
You
outsmarted him, though, didn’t you? You and Tracy? For years. He can’t be
that
good.”

Jeff sat back in his chair. A contemplative look came over his face. Professor Domingo Muñoz could practically see his mind working.

“What?” he asked nervously. “What are you thinking, Jeff?”

“If the police and the museum authorities won’t save the Shroud from Daniel Cooper, then maybe we need a plan B. Like you say, I’ve outsmarted Cooper before.”

Domingo frowned. “You’re not going to try to steal it yourself?”

Jeff looked up at him and grinned.

“SEÑORA PRIETO. THANK GOD
you’re here. You need to see this.”

Magdalena Prieto had just arrived at work. Her half-drunk coffee was still in her hand and her dark hair was still wet from the light spring rain that had been falling all morning. The look on her deputy’s face told her at once that what she “needed to see” wasn’t good.

“What is it, Miguel?”

“The Sábana Santa. There’s been a security breach.”

Magdalena Prieto’s blood ran cold. She thought immediately of the mysterious phone call she’d received two days earlier.
“Someone is planning to steal the Sábana Santa.”

Why didn’t I take it seriously?

If anything had happened to the Shroud on Magdalena Prieto’s watch, her career would be over and her reputation shredded. Following her deputy at a run toward the central room where the Shroud was housed, the American caller’s voice drifted back to her, taunting her.

“I know your security systems . . .

“They’re good, but Daniel Cooper’s better.”

Magdalena felt physically sick. As she turned the corner, her knees practically gave way with relief.
It’s still there. Thank God!

The Shroud was housed in a case of reinforced, bulletproof glass, laid flat on an aluminum support stand, mimicking the conditions in which it had been kept in Turin. Infrared alarms protected it, both inside and outside the case, which could only be opened after entering an elaborate series of codes. Within the glass, the temperature was carefully controlled in order to protect the delicate and priceless fabric. Magdalena checked the dials on the control panel. Everything seemed normal. No alarm had been triggered. The temperature and humidity remained at the correct levels, as did the argon and oxygen levels (at 99.5 and 0.5 percent, respectively). If anyone had broken into the case, the readings would have gone haywire.

Magdalena Prieto turned to her deputy. “I don’t get it. What’s the problem?”

He pointed. There, at the base of the aluminum stand, propped up casually like a hand-delivered Christmas card, was a white envelope. It was addressed simply:
Señora Prieto.

Magdalena’s voice was a whisper. “Call the police.”

“THIS IS A DISASTER.”

Felipe Agosto, the mayor of Seville, paced the room melodramatically. “If Seville were to lose the Shroud, or allow it to be damaged in any way, it would bring shame on our entire city. On the whole of Spain!”

“Yes, but the Shroud hasn’t been lost, or damaged.” Magdalena Prieto spoke with a calmness she did not feel. Along with Mayor Agosto and Comisario Dmitri, she had gathered in Dmitri’s office to discuss the security breach at the Sábana Santa exhibition. “This letter was a warning. A friendly warning. I’m not saying we shouldn’t take it seriously but—”

“There’s nothing ‘friendly’ about breaking and entering and endangering a priceless relic, señora.” Comisario Dmitri interrupted her rudely. “Whoever did this is a criminal, pure and simple. He must be caught and punished severely.”

Dmitri talked tough to hide his own nerves. Señora Prieto had admitted receiving a warning phone call about the shroud two days earlier, but Dmitri had denied all knowledge of the mystery American.

“That’s odd,” Prieto commented. “He told me he’d already called the police, but no one had listened to him.”

“There’s nothing odd about criminals lying, señora.”

Mayor Agosto said, “Let me see that note again.”

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of white paper, folded twice. It read simply:
If I can do it, so can Daniel Cooper.

“Do we think this Daniel Cooper even exists?”

“Probably not.” Dmitri was dismissive. “I’m more concerned about an actual break-in than an imaginary superthief supposedly hiding out in the city. This man probably made him up to throw us off the scent.”

Magdalena Prieto said, “I doubt it. The other man he mentioned, the man posing as a cop, was definitely seen by my staff. We should at least check out this Cooper guy. Have you contacted Interpol,
comisario
?”

Alessandro Dmitri looked at the museum director with withering contempt. The last thing he wanted were a bunch of international busybodies on his turf.
Bloody woman. How did she land the directorship of the Antiquarium anyway? She should be at home making soup, not stirring up trouble
,
telling professional men like me how to do our jobs.

“I have no need of Interpol’s help, señora. If Mr. Cooper exists, and if he is in Seville, my men and I will find him. Have
you
contacted the authorities in Turin, to let them know what happened at your museum, on your watch?”

Magdalena blanched. “No. As I said, nothing’s been damaged or stolen. There’s nothing to tell.”

“Well, I expect both of you to keep it that way.” The mayor jabbed a finger accusingly at the police chief and museum director in turn. “For now, this stays within these four walls. But I want the police presence doubled at the museum and surrounding areas and I want staff on duty at the exhibition
around the clock.
Are we clear?”

“Clear,” said Magdalena Prieto.

“Clear,” said Comisario Dmitri. “Just as long as city hall’s prepared to pay for it.”

DAYS PASSED. NOTHING HAPPENED.

Jeff Stevens began to grow anxious.

Perhaps Daniel Cooper wasn’t in Seville after all? None of Jeff’s contacts had managed to track him down, and neither, it seemed, had the police. Perhaps the Roman-looking fellow posing as a cop wasn’t Cooper’s accomplice but was acting alone, on behalf of the shady Iranian sheikh? Since Jeff’s little stunt with the letter (a simple matter of tripping the main fuse had disabled all the alarms, while leaving the temperature controls intact), police had been crawling over the Plaza de la Encarnación like flies on shit. Maybe the Roman had thought better of it and left town? Jeff hoped so, but he wasn’t convinced.

It was too dangerous to go back to the exhibition himself. He might be recognized as the electrician who’d arrived to do some “maintenance” the day of the security breach. He really ought to leave Seville, but until he was certain that the Shroud was safe, he couldn’t tear himself away. Instead he hunkered down in his luxury suite at the Alfonso, sightseeing and shopping and trying—without success—to relax.

It was a full six days after Jeff’s letter stunt that he received a letter himself. It was delivered to him by a waiter over at breakfast at the Alfonso. Opening it, he almost choked on his croissant.

“Where did you get this? Who gave this to you?”

The elderly waiter was shocked by the panic in Jeff’s voice. “A gentleman left it at reception, sir.”

“When?”

“A few minutes ago. He didn’t give any indication that it was urgent, although . . .”

Jeff was already running. Erupting out of the hotel’s grand front door, he sprinted down the steps and out of the cobbled driveway into the Calle San Fernando. The streets were relatively empty, but there was no sign of Daniel Cooper.

Five minutes later, Jeff was back at his breakfast table, out of breath, his heart pounding as he read the letter again.

Dear Mr. Stevens,

I was impressed by your efforts at the Antiquarium last week. I see that you are aware of some of my plans regarding a certain object, although I fear you have been gravely misinformed as to my intentions. It would be my pleasure to enlighten you, and possibly even to work with you in this endeavor. The money involved in a successful acquisition of this object would be substantial. I would be prepared to split any fee equally, should you do me the honor of becoming my partner.

Jeff thought,
So he thinks I’m greedy. He thinks I’d steal the Shroud for money. I guess he isn’t such a shrewd judge of character after all.

But it was the final paragraph of the letter that really aroused Jeff’s excitement.

I suggest we meet. There’s a little church across the river, San Buenaventura. I trust you not to alert the police but to meet me privately and hear me out. You will not regret it. I will be there on Wednesday night at eleven
P.M
. Naturally, if you do attempt to contact the authorities, I will not be at the rendezvous and you will not hear from me again.

Respectfully, D.C.

Jeff’s mind raced. He was intrigued by Cooper’s claim that he had misunderstood his intentions. Was the Iranian not involved? Was Cooper double-crossing him perhaps, or in competition with him somehow? Either way, it was hard to imagine any good reason someone might have for wanting to steal the Shroud of Turin. Stealing it for money was better than burning it, but it was still outrageous and flat-out wrong.

Talking to the police was out of the question. Jeff had no doubt that Cooper would find out if he tried anything. He knew him too well to imagine otherwise. Besides which, involving the moronic Dmitri, or the smart but complacent Señora Prieto, had done him precious little good so far.

Perhaps if I meet Cooper, I can talk him out of it? Or string him along, pretend to be interested in the money for long enough to sabotage his plan in some way?

To go or not to go.

That was the only real choice Jeff had to make.

CHAPTER 22

J
EAN RIZZO PULLED HIS
bag off the carousel and looked around wearily for a cab.

He ought to be feeling elated, or at least excited. The call from Magdalena Prieto at the Antiquarium museum in Seville was the first break he’d had in his search for Daniel Cooper in months. Elizabeth Kennedy’s arrest in New York had felt like a coup at the time. But Elizabeth had promised much and delivered little. Like everyone else who’d worked with Daniel Cooper, she knew shockingly little about the man. Cooper’s motivations, impulses and private life were all closed books. After Lori Hansen’s murder in New York, the trail had gone completely cold. Not even Tracy Whitney could help Jean Rizzo now.

It had been a tough few months for Jean Rizzo in other ways too. His ex-wife, Sylvie, whom he still loved deeply, had met someone. Evidently it was serious.

“Claude’s a good man, Jean.”

“I’m sure he is.”

They were going for a walk in the park
en famille
the week after Christmas. Jean had missed the day itself, unable to tear himself away from New York in the wake of Lori Hansen’s murder, and was trying to make up for it now. Clémence and Luc had forgiven him on sight, as young children do. For Sylvie, it was harder. Making excuses for Jean’s broken promises had been bad enough when they were married, but was even more of an imposition now.

“He’s a teacher,” Sylvie went on. “He’s thoughtful and reliable.”

Jean frowned. Was this last word a dig at him?

“The kids adore him.”

“That’s great.” Jean tried to be gracious and hide the fact that every word Sylvie said felt like a thorn in his eyeball. “I hope I get to meet him someday.”

“How about Thursday? I thought we could all have dinner.”

Dinner was even worse than Jean imagined. Claude, the bastard, turned out to be one of the nicest people he had ever met: cultured, unassuming, kind and obviously besotted with Sylvie. As well he might be.

And I opened the door,
Jean thought miserably.
I let him in. If I hadn’t neglected her, if I hadn’t been so obsessed with work, we’d still be together.

Perhaps if he had something to show for his work obsession, he’d have felt better. If Lori Hansen were still alive. Or Alissa Armand, or Sandra Whitmore, or any of Daniel Cooper’s victims. But they weren’t. And Cooper was still out there. Jean was failing at his job, just like he’d failed at his marriage.

He longed to unburden himself to Tracy Whitney. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt Tracy Whitney would have understood. She too had made sacrifices in the name of her profession. She had lost in love, seen her family disintegrate around her not once but twice. But unlike Jean, Tracy kept moving, kept looking forward, not back.

Unfortunately, Tracy had stopped returning his calls the day she left New York. Her silence wasn’t hostile but its message was clear:
I’ve done all I can, told you all I know. I kept my side of the bargain. Now keep yours and leave me be.

As much as it frustrated him, Jean admired Tracy for returning to her new life in the mountains, and for clinging to her new identity as Tracy Schmidt, philanthropist and mother, quiet private citizen. Was she bored? Probably, sometimes. But boredom was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jean walked out of the airport and hopped into a cab.

“Avenida Emilio Lemos, por favor.”

“¿Comisaría?”

“Sí.”

Jean didn’t even have time to go to his hotel and change before today’s meeting, but that was okay. If he wound up finding Daniel Cooper here—if Señora Prieto was right—it would all have been worth it.

“YOU WILL NOT FIND
Daniel Cooper in Seville, Inspector.”

Comisario Alessandro Dmitri was angry. Jean Rizzo recognized the expression on the Spanish policeman’s face all too well. It was a combination of anger, resentment and arrogance. Interpol agents got it a lot, especially from disgruntled regional police chiefs.

“Señora Prieto seemed convinced that—”

“Señora Prieto is misinformed. She had no business contacting your agency directly. I’m afraid she has brought you here on a . . . what is the English expression? You are chasing wild geese.”

Jean Rizzo walked over to the window. Seville’s new police headquarters boasted spectacular views of the city, but today everything was dreary and gray. Traffic crawled sluggishly around the roundabout immediately below them.
Like me,
thought Jean.
Going in circles.

“Señora Prieto mentioned the letter she found inside the case protecting the Holy Shroud. You knew about that?”

Dmitri bristled. “Of course.”

“She said she received a phone call two days prior—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dmitri interrupted rudely, waving Jean away like a pesky fly. “I got a call myself, as it happens, from the same man. American, spouting all sorts of wild theories about the Santa Sábana being stolen.”

“You never reported this call?”

“Reported it to whom?” Dmitri grew even angrier. “
I
am the chief of police in Seville. I dismissed the call as nonsense and I was proven right. No attempt has been made to steal the Shroud. I’m afraid Señora Prieto has rather a feminine sensibility, prone to drama and conspiracy theories. I prefer to stick to facts.”

“So do I,” said Jean. “Let me tell you a few facts about Daniel Cooper.”

He filled Dmitri in on the bare bones. Cooper’s history as an insurance investigator, his obsession with the con artists Tracy Whitney and Jeff Stevens and his subsequent involvement in a string of art and jewelry thefts worldwide. Finally Jean told Dmitri about the Bible Killer murders. “Daniel Cooper is our prime suspect. At this point he’s our only suspect. I can’t stress strongly enough how important it is that we find him. Cooper is brilliant, deeply disturbed and dangerous.”

Comisario Dmitri yawned. “I daresay, Inspector, and I wish you luck. However, the fact remains, he is not in Seville.”

“How do you know?”

Dmitri smiled smugly. “Because if he were here, my men would have found him.”

JEAN’S MEETING AT THE
Antiquarium was more productive. He found Magdalena Prieto to be reasonable, intelligent and polite, a welcome change from the obnoxious Dmitri.

“Is he always that much of a jerk?” Jean asked. He was seated in Magdalena’s office, sipping a much-needed double espresso that her secretary had kindly brought him.

“Always.” Magdalena Prieto sighed. “He’s furious with me for calling Interpol. Thinks it undermines his authority, which I suppose it does in a way. But I felt it was my duty to do everything I could to protect the Shroud. I can’t tell you how shaken I was, finding that letter.”

“I’m sure.”

“Whoever was in that case could have damaged the Sábana, or even destroyed it. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“But they didn’t,” Jean observed.

“No.”

“They didn’t try to steal it either. Or to extort money.”

“Exactly. I truly believe that the person who left the letter and telephoned me was trying to warn me. I think he was sincere. More than that, he was well informed. My staff confirmed that they’d seen the other man he told me about, the one posing as a policeman. You’ve seen the CCTV footage?”

Jean nodded. The hunched, dark-haired man in the parka was not familiar to him. If this was Daniel Cooper’s new accomplice, he was certainly very far removed from Elizabeth Kennedy, his former partner in crime.

“The way this guy broke in . . .” Señora Prieto continued admiringly. “It wasn’t just that he bypassed our alarms and cameras. That glass is bulletproof and the key codes supposedly impenetrable. He knew
exactly
what he was doing. He even ensured that the atmospheric balance of argon and oxygen was left intact. Who does that?”

“So he understood about the need to preserve the Shroud?”

“Yes. And
how
to preserve it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he must be a curator himself. Or an archaeologist.”

Jean Rizzo smiled.
An American expert on antiquities who can crack codes and bypass alarms, with a flair for the dramatic . . .

Magdalena Prieto looked at him curiously. “Am I missing something?”

“The man who left you that note is called Jeff Stevens. And no, Ms. Prieto, you’re not missing something. Although I think I might be. And Comisario Dmitri certainly is.”

Magdalena waited for him to elaborate.

“If Jeff Stevens thinks Daniel Cooper’s in Seville to steal the Shroud, then Daniel Cooper is in Seville to steal the Shroud. Under no circumstances should you reduce your security.”

Magdalena blanched. “All right. We won’t.”

“And e-mail me the footage of the second man.”

“I’ll do it this afternoon. Do you think you’ll find him, Inspector? Because in all honesty, I don’t think Comisario Dmitri’s even trying.”

“I’ll find him,” Jean Rizzo said grimly. “I have to. Your Sábana Santa’s not the only thing at stake.”

JEAN RIZZO WALKED BACK
to his hotel through Maria Luisa Park. The shrubbery glowed lush and green after the rain. Vivid pink laurel blossoms dazzled in the spring sunshine, in contrast to Jean’s gray, dour mood.

He thought about Jeff Stevens. About the showmanship and panache of his latest stunt, followed by the letter to Magdalena Prieto. A man would have to have serious glamour and charisma to attract a woman like Tracy Whitney, and clearly Jeff Stevens had it in spades. Equally clearly, behind the one-liners and the suave, James Bond exterior lurked an almost palpable loneliness. Like Jean, Jeff had loved deeply once and had lost the only woman he’d ever truly loved. Jeff blocked out the pain with hookers. Jean had never had it in him to do that. In a way, he wished he did. But both men had thrown themselves into work, into their respective passions, as a way to survive loss.

Jean wondered if the strategy was working better for Jeff Stevens than it was for him.
At least I have my children.
Without Clémence and Luc, Jean truly didn’t know how he would survive.
Stevens has a son, a beautiful son, and he doesn’t even know it.
The thought made Jean Rizzo profoundly sad.

After his meeting with Magdalena Prieto, he’d gone to see the Shroud for himself, listening to the same audio guide to the tour that Daniel Cooper’s mysterious accomplice had apparently taken some four times. It was fascinating, but gruesome. The idea that someone would torture to death an innocent man in order to fake Jesus’ burial cloth . . . that someone would go out and find an individual, abduct, beat and crucify him . . . it beggared the imagination. Even by medieval standards, that was some serious depravity. The fact that it had likely been done for money only made it worse.

Jean Rizzo thought,
Am I wasting my time? Let’s say Daniel Cooper really is the Bible Killer, and I find him and stop him and punish him. Does it really matter in the long run? Won’t there be another serial killer after him, and another, and another? Isn’t mankind intrinsically, irredeemably cruel?

But then he answered his own question.

No. The world is full of goodness. It’s the freaks, the anomalies like Cooper, who go out there raping and slaughtering women. The fact that there were freaks back in the Dark Ages who liked to torture and kill to mimic some scene from the Bible doesn’t mean . . .

He stopped walking. A thought, a theory, something began to form in his head.

Daniel Cooper.

Torture and murder.

The Bible.

The Shroud of Turin wasn’t just a holy relic. It was evidence of a crime. Of a murder. A murder surrounded in mystery.

Jean Rizzo ran back to his hotel. Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he opened his laptop, tapping his feet impatiently until his in-box appeared.

Come on. Be there. Be there be there be there.

And it was. His most recent e-mail. Magdalena Prieto must have sent it as soon as he left the museum. Jean clicked open the attachment, zooming in closely on the image of the man’s face. The prominent forehead. The hooked Roman nose. The dark, springy curls of hair erupting out of the scalp like springs bursting out of an old mattress.

He zoomed in again.

And again.

Only on the third time were the seams of the wig visible. Or the tiny bumps in the latex where the prosthetic nose had been molded to the cheeks. Even with a trained eye and a state-of-the-art computer, Jean had to look so closely he felt like his eyes might cross. But once he saw, he knew.

That’s no accomplice.

THE MAN IN THE
green jacket was back at his hotel. The Casas de la Judería was a strange mishmash of rooms and courtyards linked by subterranean tunnels in the old Jewish quarter of Seville. Wedged between two churches and set back from a pretty but dark cobblestone street lined with cafés and precariously leaning medieval houses, it was a throwback to an old, largely lost Spain. The interiors were gloomy and musty, with a preponderance of dark brown fabric, permanently drawn curtains and heavy mahogany furniture. A smell of beeswax polish mingled with wood smoke and incense from the church next door. The decor was simple, the rooms small. There were no televisions or other signs of the modern world beyond the beautifully carved, heavy wooden gates at the hotel’s entrance. In the courtyards, old men smoked pipes and sipped coffee and read novels by Ignacio Aldecoa. A widow in a black-fringed head scarf, frozen in time, said the rosary by an unlit fire in the salon
.

Returning to his room, the man in the green parka locked the door. Then he removed his coat, socks and shoes and sat down on the end of the bed. He tried not to think about the countless generations of Jews who had slept in this room before him. The man did not like Jews. It was the Jews who had crucified Our Lord.

He had chosen this hotel because it was central and private and reasonably priced. But the irony of sleeping in a former Jewish ghetto did not escape him. Feeling dirty and full of sin, he stripped fully and ran himself a boiling-hot bath. Removing his false nose and the latex that made his forehead more prominent was time-consuming and painful, but he carried out the process without complaint. He deserved the pain. Relished it, even.