Sydney Sheldon - If Tomorrow ComesIf Tomorrow Comes Sydney Sheldon Hmmm, looks like another DOWNLOAD PDF If Morning Ever Comes: A Novel. She's Tracy Whitney, Sidney Sheldon's most exciting heroine ever. Lovely, idealistic, she's soon to enter a life of hardship and revenge, one that will lead her into. If Tomorrow Comes by Sidney Sheldon. On Sale: Spend $49 and get FREE shipping on lyubimov.info To read e-books on the BookShout App, download it on.
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Read "If Tomorrow Comes" by Sidney Sheldon available from Rakuten Kobo. Sign up today and The Stars Shine Down ebook by Sidney Sheldon. The Stars . Read If Tomorrow Comes online free from your iPhone, iPad, android, Pc, Mobile . If Tomorrow Comes is a Thriller novel by Sidney Sheldon. Read “If Tomorrow Comes”, by Sidney Sheldon online on Bookmate – Lovely, idealistic Tracy Whitney is framed into a fifteen year sentence in an escape-proof .
Sidney Sheldon. She undressed slowly, dreamily, and when she was naked, she selected a bright red negligee to wear so that the blood would not show. Doris Whitney looked around the bedroom for the last time to make certain that the pleasant room, grown dear over the past thirty years, was neat and tidy. She opened the drawer of the bedside table and carefully removed the gun. It was shiny black, and terrifyingly cold. She placed it next to the telephone and dialed her daughter's number in Philadelphia.
That was the day she really died, I think. Orsatti runs New Orleans. I found out too late that Romano's done this before with other companies. Even if your mother had taken him to court, it would have been years before it was all untangled, and she didn't have the money to fight him.
And what could you do? There's nothing anyone can do. Where can I find him? You have no idea how powerful he is. She was filled with an emotion totally unfamiliar to her: Joe Romano is going to pay for killing my mother, Tracy swore to herself. Time to think, time to plan her next move. She could not bear to go back to the despoiled house, so she hecked into a small hotel on Magazine Street, far from the French Quarter, where the mad parades were still going on.
She had no luggage, and the suspicious clerk behind the desk said, "You'll have to pay in advance. That'll be forty dollars for the night. He concealed his irritation at being inconvenienced. Tracy's next call was to Charles. Mother has been trying to reach you all morning. She wanted to have lunch with you today. You two have a lot of arrangements to go over. I'm in New Orleans. What are you doing in New Orleans?
It must have been very sudden. She was quite young, wasn't she? Aloud she said, "Yes. Yes, she was. Are you all right? She wanted desperately to cry out the whole terrible story about what they had done to her mother, but she stopped herself. It's my problem, she thought. I can't throw my burden on Charles. She said, "Don't worry I'm all right, darling. Thank you. I can handle it. I'm burying Mama tomorrow. I'll be back in Philadelphia on Monday. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling.
Joe Romano She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother.
Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter. Tell you what. I'll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I'll throw in a box of bullets. He brought it to the counter. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he's the criminal, not I.
The green eyeshade made the man's eyes a pale yellow as he watched her.
Joan Smith. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We'll make it Fifty-twenty. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees.
Joe Romano lived in one of those houses. Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.
She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother's name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother's name would be protected.
She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.
She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He's probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras.
But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor.
His voice was low and friendly. May I help you? What can I do for you? No wonder my mother was taken in by this man, Tracy thought. Please come in. Joseph Romano lived well. On my mother's money, Tracy thought bitterly. What would you like? I'm Doris Whitney's daughter.
I heard about your mother. Too bad. He had caused the death of her mother, and his only comment was: Romano, the district attorney believes that my mother was guilty of fraud. You know that's not true. I want you to help me clear her name. It's against my religion. Tracy opened her purse and pulled out the revolver. She pointed it at him. Having you confess to exactly what you did to my mother. It could go off. You're going to write down how you stripped the company, put it into bankruptcy, and drove my mother to suicide.
What if I refuse? His voice was soft and sincere. Tracy felt the sharp sting of the alcohol in her eyes, and an instant later the gun was knocked from her hand.
She tried to move away from him, but he backed her into a wall, pressing against her. I like that. It turns me on. Tracy could feel his body hard against hers, and she tried to twist away, but she was helpless in his grip. Well, Joe's going to give it to you.
Look at those tits," he whispered. He began pinching her nipples. She felt herself being forced down to the floor. He was astride her now, his body heavy on hers, his hands moving up her thighs. Tracy pushed out blindly, and her fingers touched the gun. She grabbed for it, and there was a sudden, loud explosion. His grip suddenly relaxed. Through a red mist, Tracy watched in horror as he fell off her and slumped to the floor, clutching his side.
You shot me She felt she was going to be sick, and her eyes were blinded by stabbing pain. She pulled herself to her feet, turned, and stumbled to a door at the far end of the room. She pushed it open. It was a bathroom. She staggered over to the sink, filled the basin with cold water, and bathed her eyes until the pain began to subside and her vision cleared. She looked into the cabinet mirror.
Her eyes were bloodshot and wild looking. My God, I've just killed a man. She ran back into the living room. Joe Romano lay on the floor, his blood seeping onto the white rug. Tracy stood over him, white-faced. Tracy hurried to the telephone on the desk and dialed the operator. When she tried to speak, her voice was choked.
The address is Four-twenty-one Jackson Square. A man has been shot. Oh, God, she prayed, please don't let him die. You know I didn't meal: She knelt beside the body on the floor to see if he was still alive. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. She fled. She tried not to run, afraid of attracting attention. She pulled her jacket close around her to conceal her ripped blouse.
Four blocks from the house Tracy tried to hail a taxi. Half a dozen sped past her, filled with happy, laughing passengers. In the distance Tracy heard the sound of an approaching siren, and seconds later an ambulance raced past her, headed in the direction of Joe Romano's house.
I've got to get away from here, Tracy thought. Ahead of her, a taxi pulled to the curb and discharged its passengers. Tracy ran toward it, afraid of losing it. Where you goin'? What if they were too late and Joe Romano was dead? She would be a murderess. She had left the gun back at the house, and her fingerprints were on it. She could tell the police that Romano had tried to rape her and that the gun had gone off accidentally, but they would never believe her.
She had purchased the gun that was lying on the floor beside Joe Romano. How much time had passed? Half an hour? An hour? She had to get out of New Orleans as quickly as possible. Tracy swallowed. She had been stupid to try to make Joe Romano confess. Everything had gone wrong. How can I tell Charles what happened? She knew how shocked he would be, but after she explained, he would understand.
Charles would know what to do. Did all this happen in just one day? Her mother's suicide That's what a guilty conscience does, she thought. She wished there were some way she could learn about Joe Romano's condition, but she had no idea what hospital he would be taken to or whom she could call. He's going to be all right. Charles and I will come back for Mother's funeral, and Joe Romano will be fine.
She tried to push from her mind the vision of the man lying on the white rug, his blood staining it red. She had to hurry home to Charles. Tracy approached the Delta Airlines counter. You're in luck. I have one seat left. You just have time to board. One of them said, "Tracy Whitney? It would be stupid to deny my identity. Tracy watched herself being led through the airport, manacled to one of the policemen, while passersby turned to stare. She was shoved into the back of a black-and-white squad car with steel mesh separating the front seat from the rear.
The police car sped away from the curb with red lights flashing and sirens screaming. She huddled in the backseat, trying to become invisible. She was a murderess.
Joseph Romano had died. But it had been an accident. She would explain how it had happened. They had to believe her. They had to. The booking room was crowded with seedy-looking characters--prostitutes, pimps, muggers, and their victims.
Tracy was marched to the desk of the sergeant-on-watch. One of her captors said, "The Whitney woman, Sarge. We caught her at the airport tryin' to escape. Tracy found her voice. I didn't mean to kill him. He tried to rape me and" She could not control the hysteria in her voice.
The desk sergeant said curtly, "Are you Tracy Whitney? I" "Lock her up. Wait a minute," she pleaded. I I'm entitled to make a phone call.
How many times you been in the stammer, honey? This is" "You get one call. Three minutes. What number do you want? She could not even recall the area code for Philadelphia. Was it two-five-one? That was not right. She was trembling.
I haven't got all night. That was it! She could hear the phone ringing.
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And ringing. Charles had to be home. The desk sergeant said, "Time's up. But she suddenly remembered that Charles shut off his phone at night so that he would not be disturbed. She listened to the hollow ringing and realized there was no way she could reach him.
The desk sergeant asked, "You through? He walked away, leaving her alone. None of this is happening, Tracy thought. This is all a terrible dream. Oh, please, God, don't let any of this be real. But the stinking cot in the cell was real, and the seatless toilet in the corner was real, and the bars were real.
If only I could have reached Charles. She needed him now more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. I should have confided in him in the first place. If I had, none of this would have happened. She could not touch it. Her stomach was in knots. He's a mean son of a bitch. An elderly judge was seated on the bench.
His head and hands kept moving in small, quick jerks. In front of him stood the district attorney, Ed Topper, a slight man in his forties, with crinkly salt-and-pepper hair cut en brosse, and cold, black eyes.
Tracy was led to a seat, and a moment later the bailiff called out, "People against Tracy Whitney," and Tracy found herself moving toward the bench. The judge was scanning a sheet of paper in front of him, his head bobbing up and down.
Now was Tracy's moment to explain to someone in authority the truth about what had happened. She pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling.
I shot him, but it was an accident. I only meant to frighten him. He tried to rape me and" The district attorney interrupted. This woman broke into Mr. Romano's home, armed with a thirty-two-caliber revolver, stole a Renoir painting worth half a million dollars, and when Mr. Romano caught her in the act, she shot him in cold blood and left him for dead.
The district attorney rapped out, "We have the gun with which she wounded Mr. Her fingerprints are on it. Then Joseph Romano was alive!
She had not killed anyone. Your Honor. It's probably in the hands of a fence by now. For that reason, the state is requesting that Tracy Whitney be held for attempted murder and armed robbery and that bail be set at half a million dollars.
He raised his voice. I what what this man said isn't true. I never" "Do you have money for an attorney? There was Charles. You are ordered held in jail, in lieu of five hundred thousand dollars bail.
Next case. This is all a mistake! I'm not" She had no recollection of being led from the courtroom. He was in his late thirties, with a craggy, intelligent face and sympathetic blue eyes. Tracy liked him immediately. He walked into her cell, sat on the cot, and said, "Well! You've created quite a sensation for a lady who's been in town only twenty-four hours. You're a lousy shot. It's only a flesh wound. Romano's going to live. Miss Whitney.
I swear I'm not. From the beginning. Take your time. Perry Pope sat quietly listening to her story, not speaking until Tracy was finished. Then he leaned back against the wall of the cell, a grim expression on his face.
Joe Romano used you as a patsy, the same way he used your mother. You walked right into a setup. Romano will put in an insurance claim for half a million dollars for the Renoir he's hidden away somewhere, and he'll collect. The insurance company will be after you, not him.
When things cool down, he'll sell the painting to a private patty and make another half million, thanks to your do-it-yourself approach. Didn't you realize that a confession obtained at the point of a gun is worthless? I just thought that if I could get the truth out of him, someone would start an investigation. He relit it. Romano let me in. There's a smashed window at the back of the house, where he says you broke in. He told the police he caught you sneaking out with the Renoir, and when he tried to stop you, you shot him and ran.
I" "But it's his lie, and his house, and your gun. Do you have any idea with whom you're dealing? This town is sewn up tight by the Orsatti Family. Nothing goes down here without Anthony Orsatti's okay. If you want a permit to put up a building, pave a highway, run girls, numbers, or dope, you see Orsatti. Joe Romano started out as his hit man. Now he's the top man in Orsatti's organization.
Finally she asked, "Do you believe my story? It's so dumb it has to be true. I'd give anything to put them all behind bars. They own this town and most of the judges in it. If you go to trial, they'll bury you so deep you'll sever see daylight again. There's only one judge Orsatti has never been able to buy. His name is Henry Lawrence. If I can arrange for him to hear this case, I'm pretty sure I can make a deal for you. It's not strictly ethical, but I'm going to speak to him privately.
He hates Orsatti and Romano as much as I do. Now all we've got to do is get to Judge Lawrence. Tracy heard the familiar voice of Charles's secretary. Stanhope's office. This is Tracy Whitney. He's been trying to reach you, Miss Whitney, but we didn't have a telephone number for you. Stanhope is most anxious to discuss the wedding arrangements with you. If you could call her as soon as possible" "Harriet, may I speak to Mr.
Stanhope, please? He's on his way to Houston for a meeting. If you'll give me your number, I'm sure he'll telephone you as soon as he can. Not until she had a chance to explain things to him first.
Stanhope back. Tomorrow, Tracy thought wearily. I'll explain it all to Charles tomorrow. That afternoon Tracy was moved to a larger cell. A delicious hot dinner appeared from Galatoire's, and a short time later fresh flowers arrived with a note attached.
Tracy opened the envelope and pulled out the card. The instant she saw the smile on his face, she knew there was good news. Topper screamed like a banshee, but we've got a deal. He's agreed to accept a guilty plea from you. But I'm not" He raised a hand.
By pleading guilty, you save the state the expense of a trial. I've persuaded the judge that you didn't steal the painting. He knows Joe Romano, and he believes me. He'll suspend the sentence, and you can do your probation out of the state.
Perry Pope was patiently watching her. It's a miracle that I got away with this. They want an answer now. You don't have to take the deal. You can get another lawyer and" "No. Under the circumstances, considering her insane behavior, he had done everything possible for her. If only she could talk to Charles. But they needed an answer now. She was probably lucky to get off with a three-month suspended sentence. She had to force the words out. He nodded. Ed Topper stood on one side of her, and Perry Pope on the other.
Seated on the bench was a distinguished-looking man in his fifties, with a smooth, unlined face and thick, styled hair. Judge Henry Lawrence said to Tracy, "The court has been informed that the defendant wishes to change her plea from not guilty to guilty.
Is that correct? Judge Lawrence sat there in silence for a long moment. Then he leaned forward and looked into Tracy's eyes. People who laugh at the law. Some judicial systems in this country coddle criminals. Well, in Louisiana, we don't believe in that. When, during the commission of a felony, someone tries to kill in cold blood, we believe that that person should be properly punished. She turned to look at Perry Pope. His eyes were fixed on the judge.
The defendant shot him while in the act of stealing an art object worth half a million dollars. Some horrible joke was being played.
The judge was an actor typecast for the part, but he was reading the wrong lines. He was not supposed to say any of those things.
She turned to explain that to Perry Pope, but his eyes were averted. He was juggling papers in his briefcase, and for the first time, Tracy noticed that his fingernails were bitten to the quick. Judge Lawrence had risen and was gathering up his notes.
Tracy stood there, numb, unable to comprehend what was happening to her. A bailiff stepped to Tracy's side and took her arm. I" And as she felt the bailiff's grip tighten on her arm, Tracy realized there had been no mistake.
She had been tricked. They were going to destroy her. Just as they had destroyed her mother. The major wire services picked up the story and flashed it to correspondent newspapers around the country, and when Tracy was taken from the courtroom to await transfer to the state penitentiary, she was confronted by a crew of television reporters. She hid her face in humiliation, but there was no escape from the cameras.
Joe Romano was big news, and the attempt on his life by a beautiful female burglar was even bigger news. It seemed to Tracy that she was surrounded by enemies. Charles will get me out, she kept repeating to herself. Oh, please, God, let Charles get me out. I can't have our baby born in prison.
It was not until the following afternoon that the desk sergeant would permit Tracy to use the telephone. Harriet answered. I'd like to speak to Mr. Stanhope is in. She could have wept with relief. Is that you, Tracy?
Oh, Charles, I've been trying to reach" "I've been going crazy, Tracy! The newspapers here are full of wild stories about you. I can't believe what they're saying. None of it. I" "Why didn't you call me?
I couldn't reach you. I" "Where are you now? Charles, they're going to send me to prison for something I didn't do. Listen to me. The papers say that you shot a man. That's not true, is it? It's not like that at all.
I can explain everything to you. I" "Tracy, did you plead guilty to attempted murder and stealing a painting? And trying to kill someone I can't believe this. Neither can my parents. You're the headline in this morning's Philadelphia Daily News. This is the first time a breath of scandal has ever touched the Stanhope family. She had counted on him so desperately, and he was on their side. She forced herself not to scream. Please come down here.
You can straighten all this out. Not if you've confessed to doing all those things.
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The family can't afford to get mixed up in a thing like this. Surely you can see that. This has been a terrible shock for us. Obviously, I never really knew you.
The world was falling in on her. She felt more alone than she had ever felt in her life. There was no one to turn to now, no one. She stood there holding the dead receiver in her hand. A prisoner behind her said, "if you're through with the phone, honey, I'd like to call my lawyer. You'll be picked up at five o'clock. Otto Schmidt seemed to have aged years during the few hours since Tracy had last seen him. He looked ill. We know whatever happened wasn't your fault.
Doris's funeral tomorrow. She spent the night wide awake, lying on her narrow prison bunk, staring at the ceiling. In her mind she replayed the conversation with Charles again and again. He had never even given her a chance to explain. She had to think of the baby. She had read of women having babies in prison, but the stories had been so remote from her own life that it was as though she were reading about people from another planet. Now it was happening to her.
You'll have to do whatever you think best with your baby, Charles had said. She wanted to have her baby. And yet, she thought, they won't let me keep it. They'll take it away from me because I'm going to be in prison for the next fifteen years. It's better that it never knows about its mother.
She wept. Let's move it, babe. There was a series of catcalls. She'll take real good care of you Good-bye, Charles. A yellow prison bus with barred windows stood there, its engine idling. Half a dozen women already were seated in the bus, watched over by two armed guards.
Tracy looked at the faces of her fellow passengers. One was defiant, and another bored; others wore expressions of despair. The lives they had lived were about to come to an end. They were outcasts, headed for cages where they would be locked up like animals.
Tracy wondered what crimes they had committed and whether any of them was as innocent as she was, and she wondered what they saw in her face. The ride on the prison bus was interminable, the bus hot and smelly, but Tracy was unaware of it. She had withdrawn into herself, no longer conscious of the other passengers or of the lush green countryside the bus passed through. She was in another time, in another place.
When the water closed over her head, she panicked and began to choke, and her father lifted her up and did it again, and from that moment on she had been terrified of the water The college auditorium was filled with students and their parents and relatives.
She was class valedictorian. She spoke for fifteen minutes, and her speech was filled with soaring idealism, clever references to the past, and shining dreams for the future. The dean had presented her with a Phi Beta Kappa key. I'm going to Philadelphia, Mother. I have a job at a bank there.
Annie Mahler, her best friend, was calling her. You'll love Philadelphia, Tracy. It's full of all kinds of cultural things. It has beautiful scenery and a shortage of women. I mean, the men here are really hungry! I can get you a job at the bank where I work Charles was making love to her.
She watched the moving shadows on the ceiling and thought, How many girls would like to be in my place? Charles was a prime catch. And she was instantly ashamed of the thought. She loved him. She could feel him inside her, beginning to thrust harder, faster and faster, on the verge of exploding, and he gasped out, Are you ready? And she lied and said yes.
Was it wonderful for you? Yes, Charles. And she thought, Is that all there is? And the guilt again I'm talkin' to you. Are you deaf for Christ's sake? Let's go. It had stopped in an enclosure surrounded by a gloomy pile of masonry. A series of nine fences topped with barbed wire surrounded the five hundred acres of farm pasture and woodlands that made up the prison grounds of the Southern Louisiana Penitentiary for Women.
There's only one way you're gonna make it, and that's by forgettin' all about the outside world. You can do your time the easy way or the hard way. We have rules here, and you'll follow those rules. We'll tell you when to get up, when to work, when to eat, and when to go to the toilet. You break any of our rules, and you'll wish you was dead. We like to keep things peaceful here, and we know how to handle troublemakers.
After that you'll go to the showers and be assigned your cells. In the mornin' you'll receive your work duties. That's all. A pale young girl standing next to Tracy said, "Excuse me, please, could" The matron whirled around, her face filled with fury.
You speak only when you're spoken to, do you understand? That goes for all you assholes. The matron signaled to two women guards at the back of the room. The prisoners were marched into a large, white-tiled room, where a fat, middle-aged man in a soiled smock stood next to an examination table.
One of the matrons called out, "Line up," and formed the women into one long line.
The man in the smock said, "I'm Dr. Glasco, ladies. One of them said, "How far should we? Get your clothes off all of them. Some of them were self-conscious, some outraged, some indifferent.
On Tracy's left was a woman in her late forties, shivering violently, and on Tracy's right was a pathetically thin girl who looked to be no more than seventeen years old. Her skin was covered with acne. The doctor gestured to the first woman in line. You're holding up the line. The doctor inserted a speculum into her vagina. As he probed, he asked, "Do you have a venereal disease?
As the doctor started to insert the same speculum into her, Tracy cried out, "Wait a minute! She said, "I Glasco gave Tracy a slow, cold smile. We have a gynecologist in the house. You're worried about germs, are you? Move down to the end of the line. Move down. He was going to examine all of them with the same unsterilized speculum, and she would be the last one on whom he used it. She could feel an anger boiling up inside her. He could have examined them separately, instead of deliberately stripping away their dignity.
And they were letting him get away with it. If they all protested It was her turn. She climbed up on the table and closed her eyes. She could feel him spread her legs apart, and then the cold speculum was inside her, probing and pushing and hurting.
Deliberately hurting. She gritted her teeth. Not this monster. Marriage of Inconvenience. Debbie Macomber. The Family at Number Island in the East. Jenny Ashcroft. The One. John Marrs. The Lost Letters. Sarah Mitchell.
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