Sidney Sheldon’s Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney)
Chasing Tomorrow: Part 1 – Chapter 1

TRACY WHITNEY LEANED BACK in her first-­class seat, number 4B, and sighed with contentment. In a few hours she would be reunited with Jeff. They would be married, in Brazil. No more capers, Tracy thought, but I won’t miss them. Life will be thrilling enough just being Mrs. Jeff Stevens.

Their last con, stealing the priceless Lucullan Diamond from the Netherlands diamond-­cutting factory in Amsterdam, had been a fitting swan song. Together, Tracy and Jeff had outwitted both the Dutch police and Daniel Cooper, the dogged insurance agent who had tracked them all across Europe, in a daring and dramatic heist. We’ll never top that, thought Tracy. And we certainly don’t need any more money. It was the perfect time to retire.

“Excuse me.”

A puffy, dissipated-­looking middle-­aged man was standing over her. He indicated the window seat. “That’s my seat, honey. Great day for a flight, huh?” There was a leer in his voice as he squeezed past her.

Tracy turned away. She had no interest in making conversation, especially with this creep.

Sitting down, her companion nudged her. “Since we’re going to be seatmates on this flight, little lady, why don’t you and I get acquainted? My name is Maximilian Pierpont.”

Tracy’s mental Rolodex whirred into action, but she displayed no visible sign of emotion.

Maximilian Pierpont. Legendary corporate raider. Buys up companies and strips them. Ruthless. Three times divorced. Owner of most valuable Fabergé egg collection outside the Hermitage in St. Petersburg.

“Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti.” She offered him her hand.

“A countess, eh? Charmed.” Maximilian Pierpont pressed his lips to Tracy’s wrist. They were wet and slimy, like a toad. She forced herself to smile.

Tracy had first heard the name “Maximilian Pierpont” on board the QE2, many years before, when she and Jeff Stevens found themselves passengers on the same voyage bound for London. Jeff had been planning to rob the famously unscrupulous Pierpont, but had ended up pulling an ingenious betting scam with Tracy instead, tricking two chess grand masters into playing each other in a rigged game.

Later, Gunther Hartog had commissioned Tracy to rob Pierpont on the Orient Express train to Venice, but he never turned up.

Tracy’s beloved mother, Doris Whitney, had killed herself after a local mafioso in her native New Orleans, Joe Romano, tricked her out of her family business. Tracy’s father had spent his life building up the Whitney Automotive Parts Company. After his death, Romano raided the company, firing everybody and leaving Doris penniless.

Tracy had long since taken her revenge on Joe Romano. But her hatred of corporate raiders never left her. As far as she was concerned, there was a special corner of hell reserved for the Maximilian Pierponts of this world.

You won’t get away this time, you bastard.

THE FLIGHT WAS LONG. Tracy chatted amiably with Pierpont for almost two hours before he fell asleep, snoring loudly like a beached walrus. It was enough time for her to embellish her alter ego a little. Tracy had played the Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti before and knew her history well. (She’d written the countess’s Wikipedia page, after all.) Valentina was a widow (Poor Marco! He died so young and so needlessly. A Jet Ski accident in Sardinia. Valentina witnessed it all from the upper deck of their yacht, El Paradiso) and came from an ancient, aristocratic family. She had recently lost her father and hinted at a large inheritance, without being drawn into details. Details were best avoided, in Tracy’s experience, especially while a con was still being formulated. She also made sure to display a charmingly feminine lack of understanding about financial matters and the ways of the world that made Maximilian Pierpont’s greedy eyes shine almost as much as they did when he looked at her breasts, something he did frequently and with no hint of embarrassment. By the end of the conversation, Countess Valentina had agreed to meet him for dinner the following evening at one of Rio’s finest restaurants.

Relieved that the odious Pierpont was finally asleep, Tracy picked up an in-­flight magazine. The first article she read was about the soaring value of beachside property in Brazil. One featured estate boasted an Olympic-­size infinity pool and formal gardens that could have rivaled those at the palace of Versailles. Tracy ran a finger over the pictures in awe. Jeff and I could be happy in a place like that. Our children could swim in the pool. They’ll all be amazing swimmers. And one day our daughter could get married in the gardens, with a line of flower girls in front of her, carpeting the lawn with rose petals . . .

She laughed at herself. Perhaps they should get married themselves first. One fantasy at a time.

The second article was about the environment, and the devastating effects of erosion on communities south of Rio. Tracy read about farmers who’d lost everything, of entire villages that had been abandoned, reclaimed by the sea. She read about terrible accidents, in which slum dwellers by the coast had drowned, and those inland had been buried alive under rivers of wet mud. What a terrible way to die, thought Tracy. In Brazil, more than anywhere else in the world, there was one country for the rich and another for the poor.

It wasn’t until the seat-­belt signs were switched back on and the plane began its descent into Rio that it came to her. As the images rolled through her consciousness one by one—­of her and Jeff at an altar, getting married; of infinity pools and mansions and slums and mudslides; of Maximilian Pierpont pressing his revolting wet lips to her skin; of her mother, eyes shut tight, holding the revolver up to her temple—­she suddenly murmured the word “Yes!”

“You all right, little lady?”

Pierpont, awake again now, leaned in closer. His breath smelled of stale onions.

“Oh, sorry. Yes, I’m fine.” The Countess Valentina collected herself. “I love to visit Brazil. I always get excited when I’m going down.”

“So do I, baby.” Maximilian Pierpont squeezed her thigh and winked suggestively. “So do I.”

MAXIMILIAN PIERPONT TOOK TRACY to Quadrifoglio, a Michelin three-­star restaurant in the quaint, backstreet neighborhood of the Jardim Botânico.

“This is really too generous of you, Mr. Pierpont.”

“Please, call me Max.”

“Max.” Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti smiled.

She was looking particularly ravishing tonight, in a white lace Chanel blouse and floor-­length black skirt from Ralph Lauren that emphasized her tiny waist. The diamonds at her ears and neck were flawlessly cut, perfect enough to convey serious wealth, yet small enough to mark her out as “old money.” Max Pierpont was a vulgar man, but he despised vulgarity in others, especially women. No danger of that with this lady. Max had Googled the Countess Di Sorrenti as soon as they landed. Her family was one of the oldest and grandest in South America.

Max wondered how long it would take him to get her out of her couture clothes and into his bed.

“So, Valentina. What brings you to Rio?” He filled Tracy’s glass to the brim with red wine from the bottle of vintage Quinta de la Rosa he’d just ordered.

The Countess Di Sorrenti’s beautiful face fell. “Business.” She looked up at Pierpont with sad, soulful eyes. “And tragedy. My father recently passed away, as I told you.”

Maximilian Pierpont reached across the table and closed his clammy hand over hers.

“He left me a beautiful property. Almost a mile of land along the coast. I thought of building a home there. It could be an exquisite estate. I have all the permissions to build and the views . . . Well, you have to see it to believe it. But”—­she sighed heavily—­“it was not to be.”

“Why not?” Like a hound picking up the scent of a fox, Maximilian Pierpont’s business instincts stirred to life. Coastal property in Brazil was going through the roof.

“It would make too sad. Always to be thinking of Papa.” The Countess Di Sorrenti gave a heartfelt sigh.

“That’s a shame. So what will you do with the land?”

Maximilian Pierpont framed the question casually. But Tracy could see the naked greed flickering in his piggy little eyes. She sipped at her wine.

“I thought about keeping it as is. But in the end I decided it was too much of a waste to let it just sit there. Someone should enjoy the beauty of that spot, even if I can’t.”

“That’s a very generous way of looking at it. I can see you’re a real giving person, Valentina.”

“Thank you, Max.”

Their food arrived. With typical arrogance, Max had ordered for both of them, although Tracy had to admit that the food was delicious. The gema caipiri—­polenta caviar with egg yolk—­was a highlight. Tracy could see why the likes of Bill Clinton and Fidel Castro had chosen to dine here, along with all of Rio’s business elite.

“Perhaps we could help each other out, Countess.” Maximilian Pierpont shoveled food into his mouth as if he were eating at a McDonald’s.

“Valentina,” Tracy purred.

“Well, Valentina, it just so happens that real estate is one of my passions. I could take the land off your hands and build something beautiful there. If I sell it for a good price, we could split the profits. How does that sound? That way the land wouldn’t be wasted, and everybody would gain.”

“It’s a lovely idea.” Tracy sighed again, leaning back in her chair. “If only I’d met you sooner, Max. But I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“What do you mean?”

“I already agreed to sell the land to the Church. It’s six acres, the perfect site for a small monastic community. Monsignor Cunardi showed me his plans for the chapel he wants to erect there. Very simple and elegant. I think Papa would have approved.”

Maximilian Pierpont experienced a stabbing pain in his chest. Forget Papa. Who builds a church on prime beachfront land in Rio?

“May I ask how much the monsignor has offered you?”

“Five million Brazilian reals. He’s been very generous.”

Maximilian Pierpont almost choked on his Quinta de la Rosa. Five million reals was a little more than $2 million. Six acres of land on the coast, with planning permission, was worth ten times that amount at least! The stupid bitch clearly hadn’t even had the property appraised.

“It’s a good price, Valentina.” He looked at Tracy with a straight face. “But what if I could do better? Say I offered you six million. As a friend. I could build your dream estate exactly as you imagined it.”

“Well, that would be wonderful, Max!”

“Great.” Pierpont grinned triumphantly. What a stroke of luck, meeting this rich, sexy airhead on the flight. Now he would get to screw her and screw her over. And all for the price of one measly dinner! “When can I see the property?”

Tracy gave him a pained expression. “I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“What do you mean”

“My deal with Monsignor Cunardi closes tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here, to oversee the transfer of the funds. If only we’d met sooner. Anyway, enough about business. I must be boring you stiff! I hear the desserts here are to die for.”

She began to peruse the dessert menu. Maximilian Pierpont wore the expression of a man who could feel millions of dollars slipping through his fingers.

“Look. I don’t need to physically see the land. You say you have the necessary planning permissions?”

Tracy nodded gravely.

“If you could get me copies of those tomorrow morning, along with the deeds to the property, that’d be enough. Do you think that’s possible, Valentina?”

“Well, yes!” The Countess Di Sorrenti’s eyes lit up. “Of course. But surely you wouldn’t want to pay such a huge amount of money without even seeing the land? I mean, one has to walk there to understand the true magic of the place. Papa always said—­”

“I’m sure.” Maximilian Pierpont cut her off, unable to listen to another minute of her vacuous rambling. As if he gave a damn about the “magic” or her stupid dead father. He did still want to maneuver the countess into bed. But he’d better wait until the deal was done first.

“Well . . .” Tracy smiled broadly. “I’ll send over the paperwork in the morning, then. I must say, this really is incredibly kind of you, Max.”

“Not at all, Valentina. I’d hate to see your dream for that land slip away. Waiter!” Maximilian Pierpont clicked his fingers imperiously. “Bring us some champagne. The best in the house! Countess Di Sorrenti and I are celebrating.”

THAT NIGHT JEFF CALLED Tracy’s cell.

“I’m trying to reach the future Mrs. Stevens.”

Just hearing his voice again made Tracy’s heart leap.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong number. This is the Countess Valentina Di Sorrenti.”

No man had ever gotten to Tracy the way that Jeff did. Not even Charles Stanhope III, the first man she’d thought she wanted to marry, back in Philadelphia, in another life. Charles had betrayed her. When Tracy was sent to prison for a crime she didn’t commit, Charles Stanhope III hadn’t lifted one powerful finger to help her.

Jeff Stevens was different. Tracy trusted him with her life. And he had saved her life once. That was when Tracy first realized that he loved her. Every day with Jeff was an adventure. A challenge. A thrill. But the irony wasn’t lost on her:

The one person on this earth that I trust completely is a con man.

Jeff said, “I thought you said we were done with capers?”

“We are. Just as soon as I’m done with this. It’s Maximilian Pierpont, for God’s sake!”

“How long will it take?” Tracy could hear the pout in his voice.

He misses me. Good.

“A week. Maximum.”

“I can’t wait that long, Tracy.”

“Valentina,” Tracy teased. “Although you can call me ‘Countess.’ ”

“I want you in my bed, not on the end of a telephone line.”

Jeff’s voice was hoarse with desire. Tracy gripped the phone, feeling weak with longing. She wanted him too, desperately. It had been only a week since they had been together in Amsterdam, but her body was already crying out for him.

“We can’t be seen together in Rio. Not until I’ve nailed Pierpont.”

“Why not? I can be the Count Di Sorrenti.”

“He died.”

“Bummer. How?”

“Jet Ski accident in Sardinia.”

“What a phony. He deserved it.”

“I watched it happen from our yacht.”

“Of course you did, Countess.” Jeff chuckled. “How about I come back as his ghost?”

“I’ll see you in church next Saturday, darling. I’ll be the hot girl in the white dress.”

“At least tell me where you’re staying.”

“Good night, Mr. Stevens.”

THE LAWYER’S OFFICE WAS small and airless, tucked away in a small street off the Avenida Rio Branco in Rio’s Centro business district.

“You’re sure these permissions are genuine?”

“Yes, Countess Di Sorrenti.”

“And complete? There’s nothing else I would need, legally, apart from the deeds here”—­Tracy held up a sheaf of papers—­“to begin work on this site?”

“No, Countess.” The lawyer’s frown deepened. He’d explained the situation to the beautiful young lady multiple times now, but she still seemed unable to grasp it. The Countess Di Sorrenti might be rich and beautiful, but she was also clearly profoundly dim. He tried one last time. “You do understand, there is still the issue of—­”

“Yes, yes. Thank you.” Tracy waved an imperious hand before reaching into her vintage Louis Vuitton handbag for a gold Montblanc pen. “How much do I owe you?”

Suit yourself, thought the lawyer. He’d done his best.

FIVE DAYS AFTER HIS dinner with the Countess Di Sorrenti at Quadrifoglio, Maximilian Pierpont drove south of Rio, along the breathtaking Green Coast road, toward his latest acquisition. As good as her word, the countess had couriered over copies of the deeds to her property along with building permits the very next morning. Pierpont had wired the six million reals to her Swiss account within an hour, and the land was his. Go to hell, Monsignor Cheapskate! But he hadn’t had a chance to drive out and see it until today.

Six acres of prime cliff-­side property—­six acres!—­with its own private beach, easily accessible from both the city and from Paraty, Rio’s answer to East Hampton. Maximilian Pierpont could hardly believe his luck. Better still, he fully intended to nail the lovely Countess Valentina tonight, once he returned to the city. She’d invited him over to her apartment for dinner, always a good sign. The address was on one of the finest streets in Leblon, the most exclusive neighborhood in the whole of South America. Clearly neither “Papa” nor “poor Marco” had left the lady short of funds. The prospect of swindling the sexy young heiress out of still more millions, while availing himself of her smoking-­hot body in bed, was giving Maximilian Pierpont the biggest hard-­on he’d had in a decade.

He reached the property just before noon. There were a few houses along this stretch of road, but no real standouts. Pierpont’s plot stood in splendid isolation at the very top of the bluffs. Valentina wasn’t kidding about the views. They were spectacular. On one side the ocean blurred into the cloudless sky, a symphony in limitless blue. On the other, mountains smothered by vivid green rain forest sparkled like vast heaps of newly polished emeralds. It’s even prettier than I imagined. Maximilian Pierpont congratulated himself again that he hadn’t lost out on this deal by listening to his dumb-­ass lawyer.

“It’s the first rule of real estate, Max,” Ari Steinberg had warned him. “Don’t buy a pig in a poke. You taught me that, remember?”

“The problem is, some stupid monsignor’s already poking my pig. He’s got this chick wrapped around his little finger, Ari. I need to make a move before he does.”

The lawyer was insistent. “You haven’t seen the land. You gotta see the land.”

“I’ve seen the deeds. I’ve seen the building permits. And I know where it is. Prime coast, Ari, the best. We’re talking a Brazilian Malibu.”

“But, Max . . .”

“If we were talking about a ten percent profit, or twenty, or even fifty, I’d agree with you. But I can get this for peanuts! A fraction of what it’s worth. Wire her the money.”

“I strongly urge you to reconsider.”

“And I strongly urge you to do what the hell I tell you, Ari.”

Maximilian Pierpont hung up.

Stepping out of his Bentley, he ducked under the orange construction tape that marked the entry to the Di Sorrenti property. Make that the Pierpont property, he thought gleefully. A team of surveyors were already on-­site. Pierpont walked up to the chief surveyor, smiling broadly.

“Whaddaya think? Quite a view, huh?” He couldn’t help boasting.

The chief surveyor looked at him steadily. “You can’t build a house here.”

Maximilian Pierpont laughed. “What do you mean I can’t build a house here? I can do whatever I want. It’s my land.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Sure it’s the point.” Pierpont stopped laughing. This dweeb was starting to annoy him. “I got legal permits, set in stone.”

“I’m afraid that’s all that’s set in stone,” said the surveyor. “The ground you’re standing on?” He tapped at the grass beneath their feet with a stick. “This time next year it won’t be here.”

A chill ran down Maximilian Pierpont’s spine. “What?”

“This is some of the worst erosion I’ve seen. Ever. It’s an ecological tragedy. Anything you build here will be down there before the walls are dry.” The surveyor pointed at the beach below. Reached by a charming set of winding wooden steps, its soft white sand looked mockingly perfect.

“But this area, this stretch of the coast . . . prices are sky-­high,” Pierpont spluttered.

“Halfway up the mountain, sure,” said the surveyor. “You got this knockout view. But here?” He shrugged. “Here you are the view. Didn’t anyone say anything to you when you applied for these permits?”

“I didn’t apply for them. The previous owner did.”

The surveyor frowned, confused. “Really? That’s odd. Because they’re only a week old.”

Behind Maximilian Pierpont, the leaves of the rain forest rustling softly in the breeze sounded uncannily like Ari Steinberg’s laughter.

THE APARTMENT IN LEBLON took up the entire top floor of a grand Victorian mansion. The door was opened by a British butler in full uniform.

“I want to see the Countess Di Sorrenti.” Maximilian Pierpont’s jowly face looked uglier than ever, like a bulldog chewing a wasp. That bitch is giving me my money back if I have to beat it out of her with a crowbar. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Valentina was so stupid, she probably didn’t realize herself that the land was worthless. It should be a simple enough thing to convince her to go back to the monsignor.

“I’m sorry, sir. Who?”

Maximilian Pierpont glared at the butler.

“Now listen to me, Jeeves. I’ve had a bad day as it is. I don’t need any more aggravation. You go and tell Valentina that Maximilian Pierpont is here.”

“Sir, this apartment is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Miguel Rodriguez. The Rodriguezes have lived here for more than twenty years. I can assure you, there is no ‘Valentina’ at this address.”

Maximilian Pierpont opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, like a toad gaping uselessly at a fly.

There is no Valentina at this address.

There is no Valentina . . .

Racing back to his car, he called his accountant. “The money we wired on Tuesday, to that Swiss account? Make some calls. Find out who opened the account and where the funds are now.”

“Mr. Pierpont, no Swiss bank is going to reveal that sort of information. It’s proprietary, and—­”

“DO IT!”

A vein began to throb in Maximilian Pierpont’s temple. It was still throbbing forty minutes later when the accountant called back.

“I don’t have a name, sir. I’m sorry. But I can tell you the account was closed down yesterday and all funds were withdrawn. That money is gone.”

GUNTHER HARTOG DROVE THE wedding car, a vintage 1957 Daimler Conquest, with Tracy and Jeff cuddled up in the back.

“So, Mr. and Mrs. Stevens. Where to?”

“The Marina da Glória,” said Tracy. “We have a small yacht waiting there to take us to Barra da Tijuca. I packed us some clothes,” she added to Jeff.

Jeff squeezed his wife’s thigh. “I can’t think why. You won’t be needing any for the next week at least.”

Tracy giggled. “Tomorrow morning we’re on a private plane to São Paulo, then on to Tunisia for the honeymoon. It’s too dangerous to fly direct from Rio. Pierpont or his goons might be waiting at the airport.”

Jeff looked at her lovingly. “You’ve thought of everything, ­haven’t you, darling?”

“I try.”

Tracy leaned into him. She tried to remember if she had ever felt quite this happy before but nothing came to mind. I’m Mrs. Stevens. Mrs. Jeff Stevens! she told herself, over and over. The scam she’d run on Pierpont had gone perfectly. Now she and Jeff really would go straight and leave this crazy life behind them. Jeff could follow his dream of becoming an archaeologist, something he’d always been passionate about. And Tracy could fulfill her dreams too.

A baby. A baby of my own. Mine and Jeff’s.

They would settle down to a normal, domestic life together and live happily ever after.

Tracy closed her eyes and imagined it.

“I must say, I was pleased you went for such a traditional wedding,” observed Gunther, from the driver’s seat. “Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.”

“We did?” Tracy and Jeff exchanged puzzled glances.

“Why yes.” Gunther smiled. “Tracy used the ‘barred winner’ scam on Pierpont. Where she had the winning ticket—­in this case the land ripe for development—­but couldn’t claim the prize herself. That’s as old as the hills.”

Jeff grinned. “Okay, I get it. So go on, then, Gunther. What was new?”

“The money!” Tracy laughed.

“Quite so. The money is new. New to you, at least,” said Gunther.

“Tracy’s identity was borrowed,” said Jeff. “I’m getting good at this game. But what’s blue?”

Gunther Hartog arched an elegant eyebrow. “I imagine,” he said, “that Mr. Maximilian Pierpont is blue. At this precise moment, in fact, I should say that our old friend Mr. Pierpont is feeling very blue indeed.”