Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (8 page)

“TOMORROW’S THE DAY.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Police chief Luigi Valaperti tapped his desk nervously. His source had better be right. Roberto Klimt was not a man Chief Valaperti wished to disappoint, under any circumstances. His predecessor had retired three years ago to a palatial apartment in Venice, bought and paid for by the art dealer. Chief Valaperti already had his eye on a villa outside Pisa. Or more accurately, his wife did. He and his mistress preferred the two-bedroom love nest overlooking the Colosseum, a deal at under two million euros.
Klimt probably has bigger dry-cleaning bills.
But Luigi Valaperti wasn’t greedy.

“His henchmen are doing the legwork,” the source went on. “You can catch them in the act, make yourself a hero, then pick up Stevens at the airport later. He’ll be trying to board the eight
P.M.
BA flight to London.”

“Without the bowl?”

“He’ll have the bowl. Or what he thinks is the bowl. We know the drop-off location, so you can plant a decoy.”

Chief Valaperti frowned. “And exactly
how
did you come by this information? How do I know we can trust . . .”

The line went dead.

ROBERTO KLIMT GAZED OUT
of the tinted window of his armored town car as they left the city behind. The hills around Rome, dotted with poplar trees and firs and ancient villas whose terra-cotta-tiled roofs balanced precariously atop crumbling stone walls, had barely changed since the Emperor Nero’s day. Cupping the gold bowl lovingly in his hands, Klimt imagined that legendary, insane, all-powerful man making this very same journey, leaving the stresses of Rome behind for the peace and pleasures of the countryside. Roberto Klimt felt a sublime kinship with Nero in this moment. The priceless gold artifact in his lap belonged to him for a reason. It was
meant
to be his. The pleasure and pride that that one bowl brought him was immense.

He wondered when, exactly, “Anthony Duval” and his accomplices would make their move on his apartment. Roberto Klimt imagined the scene. The alarms ringing out across the Via Veneto, the metal grilles slamming shut, the police, already waiting in force in the surrounding streets and alleyways, moving in for the kill. He smiled.

Chief Valaperti was a stupid man, but he knew on which side his bread was buttered. He had wisely diverted considerable resources to catching these vicious thieves, even though he knew that the bowl itself was safe. Roberto Klimt was looking forward to meeting the audacious Mr. Jeff Stevens in person. Perhaps at his trial? Or later, in the privacy of Jeff’s prison cell. Apparently Stevens had outwitted some of the finest galleries, jewelers and museums in the world during his long criminal career, along with a prestigious smattering of private collectors.

He met his match with me,
Roberto Klimt thought smugly.

“Not long to go now, sir.” The driver’s voice rang out through the intercom. Irritatingly. Klimt’s usual driver, Angelo, would never have been so impertinent as to interrupt his master’s thoughts with an unsolicited comment. Roberto Klimt wondered where his security chief had dug up this specimen. “We’ve been lucky with the traffic.”

At exactly that moment, two police cars, their sirens wailing, drew up behind them.

“What on earth . . . ?”

Klimt gripped the car door for dear life as his driver accelerated, so suddenly that the bowl almost flew onto the floor.

“Are you out of your mind?” he roared. “Pull over! It’s the police.”

Ignoring him, the driver weaved insanely across two lanes of traffic, setting off a cacophony of beeping.

“I said pull over, you imbecile!”

Klimt caught the panicked expression on the driver’s face as he turned sharply right off the autoroute. They were going so fast that for one awful moment Roberto Klimt thought that the car was about to flip over, killing them both. Instead, one of the police cars shot past them and pulled directly in front, forcing the driver to brake. They skidded to a halt on the side of the road.

“The bowl!” yelled the driver. He’d opened the partition to the backseat and was leaning through it menacingly. “Give me the bowl.”

“Never!” Klimt cowered on the backseat, covering the bowl with his body like Gollum protecting his precious ring.

“For heaven’s sake. Give it to me! We don’t have much time.”

A huge policeman yanked open the driver’s door. After a brief struggle, the driver was knocked out by a sharp blow to the back of the head. Roberto Klimt let out a frightened squeal as the unconscious man slumped down on top of him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Klimt?”

Two other policemen had appeared at the window. There were three of them in all.

Klimt nodded.

“Sorry to panic you like that,” said the giant. “But we learned at the last minute that Jeff Stevens had changed his plan. Your driver’s real name is Antonio Maldini. He’s a con artist, quite brilliant. Interpol has been after him for a decade.”

“But my security people are the best in Italy . . .” Klimt spluttered. “This man was thoroughly vetted.”

The policeman shrugged. “Like I say, Maldini’s a pro. Faking a background check’s nothing for this dude. Nor is hard-core violence. Antonio Maldini’s a known sadist. He’d have beaten you to a pulp and left you for dead before he took that bowl.”

Roberto Klimt shivered.

“We picked up his accomplice, Marco Rizzolio at dawn this morning,” said the giant policeman.

“And Jeff Stevens?”

The big man glanced at his partners and frowned.

“We don’t have him yet, sir. We raided his hotel this morning, but it appears he was one step ahead of us.”

“He won’t get far, Mr. Klimt,” one of the other cops added, watching the art dealer’s expression darken. “Chief Valaperti has set up roadblocks around the city. We have an alert out at the airport.”

Antonio Maldini made a low, groaning sound. He was clearly beginning to come around. One of the cops handcuffed him and, with his colleagues’ help, bundled him into the back of one of the police cars.

“Chief Valaperti’s asked us to escort you back to the city,” said the giant. “We’ll need you to make a statement. And I’m afraid the artifact the gang was after will have to be impounded as evidence.”

“I don’t care about that,” muttered Klimt. “Just catch that bastard Stevens.”

“Oh, we will, sir. Don’t worry. His entire plan’s just blown up in his face, Mr. Klimt. He won’t get away now.”

THE DRIVE BACK TO
Rome took less than forty minutes. Antonio Maldini, still handcuffed to the door, slipped in and out of consciousness beside Roberto Klimt as they pulled up in convoy outside the police headquarters building on the Piazza di Spagna.

“Wait here please, sir.” One of the policemen carefully took the gold bowl with a gloved hand, slipping it into a clear plastic evidence bag. “Chief Valaperti would like to escort you inside himself. He’s arranged a private interview room.”

“What about him?” Roberto Klimt gestured nervously toward Maldini.

“He can’t hurt you now, Mr. Klimt.” The policeman glanced smugly at the handcuffed man. “Although if you’d prefer to have one of my men wait with you . . .”

“No, no.” Roberto Klimt was too vain to admit to feeling threatened, especially in front of such a good-looking young cop. “That won’t be necessary. Just hurry up, would you? I’d like to get this over with.”

“Of course.”

The three policemen hurried into the building, locking the car behind them. Roberto Klimt heard the doors click. He looked uneasily at the man slumped beside him. A few hours ago, Antonio Maldini had planned to beat and rob him, leaving him for dead by the roadside. The big policeman’s words came back to him.
He’s a con artist. Quite brilliant. A sadist too.

Roberto Klimt’s nerves returned. Antonio Maldini had already outwitted his security team. Was it really beyond him to get himself out of a pair of handcuffs?
He might wake up and overpower me. He might take me hostage! He’s a desperate man after all.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

No sign of the policemen, or Chief Valaperti. It was getting hot in the car. Maldini was groaning, muttering about the bowl. Soon he would be fully awake.

This is ridiculous.

Roberto Klimt tried to open the door, only to find it was locked from the inside as well as the outside. He flipped the unlock button. Nothing happened.

Feeling his panic build, he attempted to scramble into the front seat. With his blond hair flapping and his tie askew, he knew he looked ridiculous with his backside wedged between the back and front of the car, but he didn’t care. Collapsing at last into the driver’s seat, he discovered that that door didn’t open either.

“Let me out!” He hammered on the windows, to the amused astonishment of passersby. “I’m trapped! For God’s sake, let me out!”

THE THREE POLICEMEN WALKED
casually out of the side door of the headquarters building. They walked a few blocks together before shaking hands, parting ways and evaporating into the city.

All three of them were smiling.

CHIEF VALAPERTI WAS STILL
in his car outside Roberto Klimt’s Via Veneto apartment when he got the call.

“He’s
what
?” The color drained from Valaperti’s face. “I don’t understand. In one of
our
cars? That’s not possible.”

“It was definitely Klimt, sir. He was in there for more than an hour. Right outside headquarters, yes. Hundreds of people saw him, but they assumed he was some madman we’d picked up. By the time it was reported to us, he was delirious with heatstroke. He kept saying something about a bowl . . .”

GUNTHER HARTOG DABBED AWAY
tears of laughter with a monogrammed linen handkerchief.

“So you just sauntered off into the street, with Nero’s bowl tucked under your arm? How marvelous.”

“Marco and Antonio were faultless on the day,” said Jeff. He was sitting on the red Knoll sofa at Gunther’s country house, enjoying a well-earned glass of claret.

“I told you they were good.”

“I felt bad for the poor driver, though. What a pro! He knew what was happening right away. Never slowed down for a second when we tried to pull him over. Even when we ran him off the road, he was trying to get Klimt to give him the bowl so he could get it to safety. But the old fool wouldn’t let go of it.”

“I do love that you left him outside the Polizia di Stato building. A wonderful theatrical flourish, if I may say so.”

“Thanks.” Jeff grinned. “I thought so. Tracy would have loved it.”

Her name had come to his lips unbidden. It hung in the air now like a ghost, sucking all the celebration and bonhomie out of the atmosphere in an instant.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”

Gunther Hartog shook his head sadly. For a few moments a heavy silence fell.

“Well,” Gunther said at last. “My client, the Hungarian collector, couldn’t be more delighted with his acquisition. I wired our Italian friends their cut last night. And here, my dear boy, is yours.”

He handed Jeff a check. It was from Coutts, the private investment bank, in his name, and it had an obscenely large number written on it.

“No thanks.” Jeff handed it back.

Gunther looked perplexed. “What do you mean ‘no thanks.’ It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”

“I don’t need it,” said Jeff.

“I’m not sure I see what ‘need’ has to do with it.”

“All right, then. I don’t want it.” Jeff sounded more angry than he’d intended to. “Sorry, Gunther. But money doesn’t help me. It doesn’t mean anything. Not anymore.”

Gunther gave a nod of understanding. “You must give it away, then,” he said. “If it can’t help you, I’m sure it can help someone else. But that’s your decision, Jeff. I can’t keep it.”

TWO WEEKS LATER, AN
article appeared in
Leggo
’s Rome edition under the headline
TINY CHARITY RECEIVES
REMARKABLE GIFT
.

Roma Relief, an almost unknown nonprofit organization devoted to helping Gypsy families in some of Rome’s worst slums, received an anonymous donation of more than half a million euros.

The mystery donor asked that the money be used to set up a fund in memory of Nico and Fabio Trattini, two Roma brothers who died in an accidental fall from a condemned building two years ago.

“We’re incredibly grateful,” Nicola Gianotti, Roma Relief’s founder told us in an emotional interview. “Overwhelmed, really. Thank God for the kindness of strangers.”

CHAPTER 7

THREE MONTHS LATER

STEAMBOAT SPRINGS, COLORADO

T
RACY STOOD ON THE
deck of her new home and gazed out at the mountains. She’d chosen the place for its privacy, set back off a private road in the hills above the quaint town of Steamboat Springs, and for the views, which were breathtaking. The snowcapped Rockies loomed like protective giants against a vast sky, cloudless and blue even on this cold October morning. Tracy could smell wood smoke and pine, and hear the distant whinnying of the horses in the fields.

It’s a far cry from my childhood in New Orleans,
she thought, stroking her swollen belly protectively. Tracy’s father had been a mechanic and her mother a housewife, and although Tracy had been very happy, the Whitneys had never had much money. As a little girl growing up in the city, Tracy had always dreamed of wide-open spaces and ponies. Or somewhere just like Steamboat Springs.
You’re a lucky girl, Amy. You’re going to grow up here and it’s going to be perfect.

It had not been an easy decision, returning to the States. Tracy hadn’t been back since the day she set sail on the
QE2
from New York, to start a new life in Europe. Released from prison early, having spent years in the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women for a crime she didn’t commit, Tracy had tried hard to go straight. But she quickly learned that very few people were prepared to give an ex-con a second chance. Her old employer, the Philadelphia Trust and Fidelity Bank, had laughed in her face when she attempted to get her old job back. Tracy was a brilliant computer expert with a first-class education. But she found even menial cleaning jobs hard to come by, and even harder to keep. As soon as anything was stolen or damaged, Tracy would get the blame and find herself fired. Without a means to support herself, she grew bitter and desperate. It was desperation that drove her to her first job as a jewel thief, robbing a thoroughly unpleasant woman by the name of Lois Bellamy.

That was the job during which she had first met Jeff Stevens. He conned her out of Lois Bellamy’s stolen jewels. Furious, Tracy had stolen them back. So began a rivalry that became an attraction that became love.
The love of my life.
Jeff Stevens had made Tracy Whitney’s life an adventure, a wild roller-coaster ride of adrenaline, excitement and fun.

But all rides must come to an end. Tracy had trusted Jeff utterly, but he had betrayed her utterly, shattering that trust and, with it, Tracy’s heart. The image of Jeff in the bedroom with Rebecca was seared permanently in Tracy’s brain, like a cattle brand.

She still loved him. She would always love him. But she knew she could never go back. Not to Jeff, not to London, not to any of it. From now on it would just be her and the baby.
My baby. My Amy.

Right on cue, Tracy’s daughter gave a whopping kick. Tracy laughed out loud.
You’re trying to break out of prison, aren’t you, my darling? Just like Mommy did.

Tracy had learned at her twenty-week scan that her unborn child was a girl, and she amazed herself by bursting into sobs of relief. A boy would have reminded her too much of Jeff. She decided at once to name her daughter Amy, after Amy Brannigan, the warden’s daughter at the penitentiary whom Tracy had come to love like her own.

Amy Doris Schmidt.

It was a good name, a fitting blend of the past and the future. Doris was the name of Tracy’s beloved mother. Doris Whitney would never know her granddaughter, but her memory would live on in Amy. Schmidt was the family name Tracy had chosen for her new identity, a tribute to dear old Otto Schmidt, her father’s business partner back in New Orleans. Tracy had adopted countless alter egos over the last ten years, but this one was different. The name she chose now would be hers and Amy’s for life. Tracy Whitney no longer existed. Nor did Tracy Stevens.

My name is Tracy Schmidt. My husband, Karl, a wealthy German industrialist, was killed in a freak skiing accident in February, shortly after Amy was conceived. I came to America to start a new life with our daughter. Karl always loved the mountains. I just know he would have adored Steamboat.

With Tracy’s computer background and long experience as a con artist, forging a new identity had been easy. Passports, credit history, medical records and Social Security cards—all could be created and altered at the click of a mouse. Telling Amy the truth, as she would have to one day—that would be the hard part. But Tracy would simply have to cross that bridge when she came to it. For now, Mrs. Tracy Schmidt had enough on her plate, decorating the nursery—Tracy had gone for a whimsical, Flower Fairies theme—and attending pregnancy yoga classes and doctor’s appointments down in town. Between that and managing the ranch—Tracy’s luxurious log-cabin home came with over a hundred acres of private land—she had little time to dwell on the future. Or the past.

“Knock knock. Don’t suppose you’ve got any coffee perkin’, ma’am?”

Tracy spun around. Blake Carter, her ranch manager, was in his early fifties but looked older, thanks to countless hard winters and hot summers spent outdoors in the mountains. Blake was a widower and handsome in a craggy, rugged sort of way. He was also shy, hardworking and relentlessly old school. Tracy had been trying for months, but nothing would stop Blake from addressing her as “ma’am.’ ”

“Morning, Blake.” She smiled. Tracy liked Blake Carter. He was quiet and strong and he reminded her of her father. She knew she could trust him not to ask questions about her background, or to gossip about her in the village. She knew she could trust him, period. “There’s plenty in the pot. Help yourself.”

She walked back into the kitchen. “Waddled” might be a more accurate word. At over eight months pregnant, Tracy’s belly was enormous and in the last two weeks her ankles had started to swell terribly. Come to think of it, everything had started to swell. Her fingers looked like five sausages sewn together and her face was as puffy and round as a Dutch cheese. The effect was made worse by the ultrashort haircut she’d adopted for her new persona as Mrs. Schmidt. Tracy had thought it looked so chic in the salon, when she was still slim and barely showing. Now it made her feel like a lesbian prison warden.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

Blake Carter watched anxiously as Tracy slowed down, grabbing her belly.

“Yes, I think so. Amy’s been trying to break out of there all morning. She’s got quite a kick on her now. I . . .
ow!
”

Doubling over, Tracy grabbed the kitchen counter. Moments later, to her intense embarrassment, her water broke all over the newly tiled floor.

“Oh my God!”

“I’ll drive you to the hospital,” said Blake. He had no children of his own but had delivered countless calves, and unlike Tracy, he wasn’t remotely embarrassed.

“No, no,” said Tracy. “I’m having a home birth. If you wouldn’t mind just calling my doula and asking her to get up here? Her number’s on the refrigerator.”

Blake Carter frowned disapprovingly. “With all due respect, ma’am, your water just broke. You should be in a hospital. With a doctor, not a Dolittle.”

“Dou-
la.
” Tracy grinned.

She was determined to have a drug-free birth and to do it herself. Being a mother was the one role she had waited for her whole life. She needed to be good at it. Capable. In control. She needed to prove to herself that she could manage alone.

“I’d really feel better taking you to the hospital, ma’am. As your husband . . . you know . . . ain’t with you.”

“It’s all right, Blake, truly.” Tracy was touched by his concern and grateful for his calm, strong presence. But she’d planned for this. She was ready. “Just call Mary. She’ll know what to do.”

THE SCREAMS WERE GETTING
LOUDER.

Blake Carter stood outside Tracy’s bedroom feeling increasingly alarmed. He knew a woman’s first delivery could take awhile. But he also knew that once the water has gone, the baby needs to get on out. Mrs. Schmidt had been in there for hours. And the noises she was making weren’t normal. Blake Carter had only known Tracy Schmidt a short while, but it was long enough to see that she was a tough cookie, physically and emotionally. It simply wasn’t like her to holler like that.

As for the do-lally, Mary, the girl looked like she was barely out of high school.

Another scream. This time there was fear in it.
Enough’s enough.

Blake Carter burst into the room. Tracy was lying on the bed. The entire sheet and mattress were soaked with blood. The girl, Mary, hovered beside her, white-faced and panicked.

“Jesus Christ,” said Blake.

“I’m sorry!” The doula had tears in her eyes. “I . . . I didn’t know what to do. I know some bleeding can be normal but I . . .”

Blake Carter pushed the girl aside. Scooping Tracy up into his arms, he staggered toward the door. “If she dies, or the baby dies, it’s on your head.”

TRACY WAS LYING ON
the floor of the plane. It was a 747 from the Air France fleet headed for Amsterdam and it was bumping around like crazy.
Must be a storm.
She was supposed to do something.
Steal some diamonds? Tape up a pallet?
She couldn’t remember. Sweat was pouring off her. Then the pain came again. Not pain, agony, like somebody cutting out her internal organs with a serrated kitchen knife. She screamed wildly.

In the front seat of the truck, Blake Carter fought back tears.

“It’s all right honey,” he told her. “We’re almost there.”

TRACY WAS IN A
white room. She heard voices.

The prison doctor in Louisiana.
“The cuts and bruises are bad but they’ll heal . . . she’s lost the baby.”

Her mother, on the telephone, the night that she died.
“I love you very, very much, Tracy.”

Jeff, in the safe house in Amsterdam, screaming at her.
“For Christ’s sake, Tracy, open your eyes! How long have you been like this?”

“HOW LONG HAS SHE
been like this?” the young doctor barked at Blake Carter.

“Waters broke about four hours ago.”

“Four
hours
?” For a moment Blake thought the doctor was about to hit him. “Why the hell did you wait so long?”

“I didn’t realize what was happening. I wasn’t . . .” The words caught in the old cowboy’s throat. Tracy was already being wheeled into the operating room. She was still screaming and delirious. She kept calling for someone named Jeff. “Will she be okay?”

The doctor looked him square in the eye. “I don’t know. She’s lost a huge amount of blood. There are some signs of eclampsia.”

Blake Carter’s eyes widened. “But, she’ll live, right? And the baby . . . ?”

“The baby should live,” said the doctor. “Excuse me.”

THE PAIN WAS THERE,
and then it was gone.

Tracy wasn’t afraid. She was ready to die, ready to see her mother again. She felt suffused with an immense sense of peace.

She had heard the doctor. Her baby would live.

That was all that mattered in the end.

Amy.

Tracy’s last thought was of Jeff Stevens and how much she loved him. Would he find out about his daughter eventually? Would he come looking for her?

It’s out of my hands now.

Time to let go.

BLAKE CARTER COLLAPSED IN
sobs in the young doctor’s arms.

“I shouldn’t have been so rough on you earlier,” the doctor said. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“It
was
my fault. I should have insisted. I should have driven her here right away.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty, Mr. Carter. The point is, you brought her here. You saved her life.”

Blake Carter turned to look at Tracy. Heavily sedated after her emergency cesarean—she’d needed a blood transfusion while they stitched her back together—she was only now starting to come around. Her baby had been taken to the ICU for tests, but the doctor had assured Blake that everything looked good.

“My baby . . . ,” Tracy called out weakly, her eyes still closed.

“Your baby’s just fine, Mrs. Schmidt,” said the doctor. “Try to rest a little longer.”

“Where is she?” Tracy insisted. “I want to see my daughter.”

The doctor smiled at Blake Carter. “Will you tell her or should I?”

“Tell me what?” Tracy sat up, wide-awake now and panicked. “What’s happened? Is she okay? Where’s Amy?”

“You might want to rethink that name.” Blake Carter chuckled softly.

Just then a nurse walked in, holding the swaddled infant in her arms. Beaming, she handed the bundle to Tracy.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Schmidt. It’s a boy!”