Drawn in Blood (14 page)

“Then let’s make sure he knows he’s not getting any.” Sloane squeezed her father’s arm. “It wil be al right. Just let me do al the talking.” She walked inside and led the way into the living room.

Rich Wil iams was seated on the sofa with an empty coffee cup perched on the table in front of him. Quickly, Sloane sized him up. A distinguished, silver-haired man in a business suit, he was self-assured, comfortable in his own skin, and low-key in a way that suggested he’d already acquired everything he needed to cal this a wrap.

An experienced agent. And a perfect demeanor to unnerve someone like her father.

“Hel o, Agent Wil iams,” Sloane said in a crisp professional voice.

“Ms. Burbank.” He came to his feet at once, extending his hand to shake hers. “It’s a pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“I’m sure you have. Particularly while you were arranging to have me out of the picture while you questioned my father. Rather unethical, wouldn’t you say?” A spark of amusement flickered in Wil iams’s eyes. “The D.A. must have been very sorry to lose you. I know the Bureau is. Now I know why. You’re quite the steamrol er.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t intended to be. The reason I came by this morning was to clarify a few loose ends with your father. Some interesting information came out of our talk. It obviously upset him. He requested that his attorney be present. I immediately stopped asking questions. In fact, we haven’t exchanged a word since he cal ed you—several times. I believe al that is not only ethical, it’s entirely legal.”

“Let’s not play semantics.” Chin raised, Sloane stared him down. “I want to know what was discussed.”

“Gladly.” Wil iams played back the entire conversation.

It wasn’t much different than Sloane had expected.

“I want a few minutes with my client.”

“By al means.” Wil iams made a wide sweep with his arm, then picked up his coffee cup. “May I trouble you for a refil while you talk?”

“Certainly. Dad, you wait for me in the breakfast nook. I’l get Agent Wil iams his coffee.” Sloane stopped her father as he took a step toward the kitchen. He was a wreck. The last thing he needed to do was to spil coffee on a shrewd agent who already suspected him of murder or conspiracy to murder.

She took the empty cup from Wil iams as her father fol owed her instructions. “How do you take it?”

“Just black.” Wil iams stil looked amused, which infuriated the hel out of Sloane. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem. You can leave a tip on the table.” She was in and out of the kitchen and in the breakfast nook with her father in under a minute.

“Dad, listen to me.” She spoke in a low, confident tone, keeping both their backs to Agent Wil iams. “You’ve run out of choices—especial y once the NYPD finds out what happened to Mom and passes it along. It’s either risk prosecution on criminal charges or tel the FBI the truth.” She waved away her father’s objections before he could voice them. “I have some stipulations I plan to make before you lay out the facts. I believe Agent Wil iams wil agree to them—after he makes a few phone cal s and escorts us to the Field Office so that you can’t tamper with any al eged evidence.”

“What kind of stipulations?” her father managed, sounding dubious and hopeful al at once.

“The kind that wil get any potential charges against you dropped, and at the same time increase your level of protection. Mom’s, too.” Matthew sucked in his breath. “What about Leo, Phil, Ben, and Wal ace?”

“They’l be free of charges as wel .”

“How do you plan to accomplish this?”

“You let me worry about that. Cal your partners. Explain the situation to them. I’m sure they’l al agree with my strategy, since none of them wants to go to prison. Once we’re al on the same page, I’l present my offer to Agent Wil iams.” She saw the flash of indecision in her father’s eyes. “Trust me, Dad.” He nodded, reaching for the phone.

“Wait,” Sloane instructed, holding up her index finger to indicate that it would just take a minute. She walked into the living room, standing beside the settee that was across from Agent Wil iams.

“In my opinion, we can fil in the blanks to your satisfaction. But, as you know, there are four other partners in my father’s art investment group. Since this affects them al , he needs to get their permission before we proceed. Which means he has four phone cal s to make. You have my word that this isn’t a ploy, nor an attempt to devise a coordinated distortion of facts. Is that acceptable?”

Wil iams studied Sloane, this time with contemplation rather than amusement. “Tel your father he can make his cal s.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

An hour later, Sloane and her father were seated across from Tony at his desk in the New York Field Office. They were joined by SA Wil iams and—no surprise—Derek.

“So, Sloane,” Tony began, leaning forward and interlacing his fingers on his desk. “I hear you have a proposal for us—along with some valuable information.”

“I do.” She crossed one leg over the other, sitting rigidly against the back of the wel -worn chair. “As I’m sure Agent Wil iams told you…”

“Rich,” Wil iams corrected.

“Very wel —Rich. I’m sure Rich told you that my proposal has stipulations attached.”

“He did. So go ahead, shoot.”

“First, I want your word that neither my father nor any of his partners wil be charged with a crime.”

Tony’s brows rose. “How can I do that without knowing what they’ve done?”

“Fair enough,” Sloane acknowledged, feeling her father shift nervously beside her. “Suffice it to say that
if
any crime was to have been committed, the al eged charges could be withholding evidence or, if you were feeling particularly vindictive, obstruction of justice. Al of which would have been done out of fear for their lives and, in my father’s case, the lives of his family. Hypothetical y speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” Tony concurred.

“The break-in was a threat?” Derek asked. “Why? For what purpose?”

Sloane pinned him with a cool, impersonal stare. “No comment. Not until and unless my conditions are agreed to.”

“I can live with this one,” Tony replied. “If what you’re saying is true, and if your father has information that could benefit us, no charges wil be filed.”

“Good. On to my second stipulation. As you know, I’ve been arranging for private bodyguards up until now. I want FBI security assigned to my father. He, above al his partners, is in constant danger. I want that security to extend to my mother as wel . Now more than ever. I’l supply an explanation for that once we have an agreement.”

“You want us to put your parents in protective custody?”

“No.” Sloane shook her head. “That would be a glaring declaration to the wrong people that my father had spoken to you. I want them to go on staying in their apartment—
with
an FBI agent inside. And I want agents assigned to them when they go out.”

“That takes resources. But judging from the urgency of your tone—fine. It can be arranged.” Tony shot her a quizzical look. “How many other conditions are there?”

“Just one.” Sloane didn’t blink. “Give me an operational assignment. Make me a confidential human source. I want to be ful y briefed on your investigation.” Rich couldn’t help but chuckle at the magnitude of her request. At the same time, he noticed that neither Derek nor Tony was laughing. To the contrary, they didn’t appear the least bit taken aback.

“Am I to assume this is business as usual?” he inquired.

“We’re lucky she stopped there,” Tony responded drily. “I was half expecting her to ask that I order Derek to step down and make her the lead investigator.” He tapped his pen against his leg, mul ing over Sloane’s request. “I can justify it,” he final y announced. “But only if you can explain how your involvement would benefit the Bureau.” Sloane was prepared for the standard prerequisite. Her inclusion in the process had to be substantiated for the legal department. “Obviously, I have information that I believe you want. Further, I believe that I’m a potential target for one of the top brass, maybe even the leader, of the gang you’re pursuing.” She turned to Rich. “Who’s also a player in the art crime you’re investigating. By giving me an operational assignment, you just might wrap up both cases.”

“Forget it,” Derek stated flatly. “That’s not an operational assignment. That’s using you as bait. I’m not doing it.”

“No, you’re not. I am.” Sloane gazed steadily at Tony. “Wel ?”

“Wel , for starters, if I were to agree, you wouldn’t be cal ing the shots. Derek would. So answers like the one you just gave him would be out.”

“Fine. But so would personal feelings,” Sloane countered. “If I’m unqualified for the job, that’s one thing. But if Agent Parker is reacting out of some unprofessional need to protect me, that’s discrimination. You and I have worked together many times, Tony. I doubt you’d evaluate me as being unqualified.” Tony inclined his head in Derek’s direction. “She’s got you there. Is there some professional reason I should refuse Sloane’s request?” A tense, prolonged silence.

“No,” Derek final y admitted, sounding as if the words were being dragged out of him. “I’m sure Sloane’s inside knowledge wil benefit us, and her skil s wil contribute positively to the investigation. However,” he added in a no-nonsense tone, “I want it understood that I am the lead investigator on the organized crime case, and that
professionally
I make the decisions. Ditto for Rich on the Rothberg case.”

“Agreed,” Sloane said without hesitation.

“Then it looks like we’re in business.” Tony rose and shook Sloane’s hand. “Welcome aboard. By the time you rejoin the Bureau, no one wil realize you were gone.” He turned his attention to Matthew, who, on Sloane’s advice, had stayed silent until now. “The floor’s yours, Mr. Burbank. Tel us what you know.” Matthew glanced at his daughter, his forehead creased with worry.

With loving support, Sloane squeezed his arm, stil facing Tony. “First, I need to tel you that my mother is hospitalized in the Bronx. She was kidnapped several hours ago with the intent to kil her. Her abductor was one of your Asian gang members. Evidently, he knew Rich was on his way over to see my father. This was retaliation.”

“Is she al right?” Derek asked instantly.

“Her arm is broken. The subject bent it until it snapped.” Sloane reported the incident as objectively as she could, regarding Derek with a cool, impersonal stare. “Thankful y, she got out of the car before he could kil her. She’s heavily sedated right now. But after you get my father’s statement, I want to pick her up and bring her home, where she can be comfortable.”

“Shit,” Derek muttered under his breath.

“She saw her abductor,” Sloane continued, her gaze shifting back to Tony. “In addition, I’m convinced that my father saw the mobster who ordered their apartment break-in

—
and
who kil ed Cai Wen. So after this meeting, I’d suggest you cal in a sketch artist. That way, we can put names to faces. I have a strong feeling you’l recognize these thugs.”

“Done,” Tony replied.

With that, Sloane gestured to her father, nodding for him to do what he had to.

He took her cue, producing the empty Rothberg file, the fortune cookie, and the ominous message that had been inside it.

“It’l be fine now,” she reassured him quietly. “Tel them everything.”

Cindy Liu was an up-and-coming architect with enough talent to have graduated from Cornel University’s Col ege of Architecture, Art and Planning at the top of her class. She’d done the same again two years later, earning her master’s in architecture. From there, she’d been snapped up by Crawley & Foster, one of Manhattan’s most prestigious architectural firms.

She’d worked there for three years, learning and absorbing every nuance of the business, and making enough contacts to assure herself some clients. Then, she’d fol owed her dream and gone out on her own.

Her powerful
A Sook
in Hong Kong, Johnny Liu, had funded her new business, no questions asked. He’d been her guardian angel al her life, and she adored him—not only because he was her uncle or because he’d orchestrated her move to America to ensure she had the best education and future, but also because the two of them had shared a special bond since her childhood.

Johnny Liu had been blessed with only one child before his wife died. Given that fact, along with his wealth, he had spoiled his daughter from the time she was smal , and she’d grown up to be a wild, reckless teenager. Her life had ended tragical y several years after Cindy—Jiao was her given name—had come to America.

Cindy’s own parents were very different from her
A Sook,
as were her siblings. They were traditional, content to stay within the confines of their vil age and their people. Her father, although Johnny Liu’s brother, had none of Johnny’s initiative, nor did he see any reason for Cindy, as a female, to reach beyond Loong Doo, much less to leave China to further her education and broaden her horizons.

Cindy saw life differently. She admired her
A Sook,
and often traveled with him from Hong Kong to Macao and back, watching him conduct business as he earned his fortune.

She wanted the same for herself.

She’d been drawing since she could hold a crayon, and pencil sketching since not too many years after that. She always thought she’d be an artist, but her interests took a detour along the way, influenced by her structured, engineering-oriented mind and her photographic memory. So architecture seemed the perfect way to go, a marriage between her technical and creative sides.

Her true talents were in the design and creation of interior space, the very direction she pursued. Fortunately, in good times or bad, there were always a select few among New York’s affluent who were adding wings to their homes or redesigning their existing living space. Consequently, there was no shortage of work in New York City for architects as talented as she.

Cindy lived on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with her amah, Peggy Sun, a close family friend and paid companion who’d accompanied Cindy to the United States when Cindy was fifteen. That was when Johnny Liu had ensured his niece a place in an exclusive private high school, and her new life had begun.