Drawn in Blood (21 page)

Leo felt a great sense of purpose as he glanced at the phone number on Cindy Liu’s business card. His own happy ending might be lost forever. But it would give him great joy to see Wal ace find his.

Sloane was at her parents’ apartment first thing in the morning.

They’d gotten her voice mail, so they were both there, waiting to hear what was on her mind. The FBI agent assigned to them that morning excused himself and went into the other room.

Over the muffins and coffee Sloane had picked up, she fil ed her parents in.

Matthew stopped chewing, and put down his piece of muffin. “You think one of our neighbors helped rob the apartment?”

“That’s not what I said.” Sloane took a fortifying sip of coffee. “I said that it’s virtual y impossible for the thugs who broke in here to have done so without help. The other burglaries in the neighborhood were different. There was inside knowledge of the security systems. That’s not true in your case. So someone either used a key to let the thieves in, or gave them access to get in on their own.”

“Gave them access—you mean this person was just waiting inside our apartment and let them in?”

“Or gave them a key to get in on their own.” Sloane paused, choosing her words careful y. Not only did she not want to freak out her parents any more than she already had, but she also was limited in what she could tel them.

“The other red flag is the amount of time the thieves spent here, and how they spent it,” she said. “Based on the police report, they were only here about twenty minutes, and Mom walked in less than five minutes after they did.” Sloane turned to her mother. “According to your recol ections, they went straight to Dad’s office. They found the Rothberg file pretty fast—no easy task, given his filing system. And they saved the rest—trashing his office, ripping off your valuables—until the end. So, other than your unexpected interruption, I’d say they had the whole burglary wel planned and wel timed.”

Rosalyn Burbank’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s what our impromptu reenactment was al about. You’re saying that whoever helped the burglars knew the layout of the apartment, specifical y where your father’s office is.”

“His office and his files, yes.” Sloane looked from one of her parents to the other. “I need you to compile a list of everyone—neighbors, building employees, acquaintances, you name it—who have a key to this place.”

With a muttered oath, Matthew reached for his pack of cigarettes and tapped it until he could extract one. “That murderer paid someone off so his thugs could get in here, steal my records, and threaten me.” Hands shaking, Matthew put the cigarette between his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. “Hel , why stop there? What if that same someone was paid off to get their hands on your mother’s schedule? What if they found out when her day and night security guys changed shifts so they could slip in their muscle to kidnap and kil her?”

“Dad, you’re overreacting,” Sloane said in an even tone. Not that what he’d just said hadn’t occurred to her. It had. But Xiao Long had enough eyes and ears of his own to get that information. And, whenever possible, he’d much rather rely on his own Red Dragons than involve a stranger.

“Am I?” Matthew demanded.

“Yes. Gaining access to your apartment is one thing. Setting up a kidnapping and murder like the KGB is something entirely different. Let’s not blow things out of proportion.”

“Blow things out of proportion?” Matthew stared at his daughter, sheer panic in his eyes. “How much worse can things get?”

“Matthew, put out the cigarette,” Rosalyn said in a firm, no-nonsense tone. “Destroying your lungs isn’t going to make this go away.” Sloane jumped on that. “I thought you were cutting down,” she gril ed her father.

“I was. Until this nightmare started.” Matthew ignored his wife’s demand and took another long drag of his cigarette. “Does it real y matter anymore? We live like prisoners, with FBI agents in our home and guarding us wherever we go. We’re stil part of the Bureau’s investigation, one that you can’t talk about, but I’m sure it runs deeper than either your mother or I know. We’re dealing with a kil er who almost murdered your mother, and who’l do whatever he has to to protect himself. And now we’re hearing that someone we know is in on this, and had a hand in helping with the break-in. Hel , maybe for a little extra cash, they’l let themselves into our apartment one night and finish us off.”

“Stop it, Dad.” Sloane yanked the cigarette out of his hand and stubbed it out, tossing the butt in the ashtray. “No one’s getting into this apartment, not with the FBI here. No one’s going to hurt you or Mom. And no one’s going to get away with this. I’l make sure of that. Now please, start compiling that list. And you can leave out the apartment’s architect, builder, and real estate agent, along with the co-op office. The floor plans they have are generic, and none of them has a key to your apartment.”

“So you already got started on this,” Matthew said.

“Yesterday. You and Mom were unavailable, so I stuck with an impersonal list. I felt I should talk to you before I went any further. This is bound to be uncomfortable for you. No matter how tactful I am, I’m bound to piss off some people with my questions.”

“I don’t real y give a damn.” Rosalyn had already stood up and used her good arm to grab a pad and pen. “I piss people off every day. And that’s just by doing my job. This is a lot more serious than negotiating a book deal. I was nearly kil ed. If our neighbors and the building staff can’t deal with your probing, then screw them.”

“I agree,” Matthew concurred instantly.

“Then that’s settled.” Rosalyn pul ed her chair close to Matthew’s and put the pad and pen on the table in front of him. “It’s easier for you to write. We’l break this down by categories: neighbors, service people, building staff. That’l make it easier for Sloane.”

“That would be great, thanks.” Sloane noticed that her mother didn’t mention friends or acquaintances in her breakdown list. That meant she wasn’t even thinking in that direction. If she was, she would have confronted Sloane head-on. Maybe it was better that way. Let her parents focus on the path she’d planned on them taking anyway. Later, if it came down to it, she’d hit them with the ugly possibility that one of their friends—or partners—was the accomplice they were seeking.

If
it came down to it.

Sloane extracted a few sheets of paper from her tote bag. “The FBI faxed me a copy of the police report. It details al the people they interviewed after the break-in. Take a look at it, see who’s applicable, and I’l start with them while you write up your list.”

“We wil .” Curbing his apprehension, Matthew took the police report and glanced over it. “As far as I’m concerned, you can talk to al these people. Roz?” He showed the report to his wife.

She nodded. “Go for it.”

“Okay.” Sloane took back the list and headed for the front door. “I’l check back in a little while.”

Armed with a handful of people to interview, Sloane took the elevator down to the lobby. Might as wel start on the ground level and work her way up. She stepped outside to talk to the doorman, and winced when she saw who was on duty. Bernie Raskin. This was going to be tough. Given that her parents had sublet their apartment during their short-term retirement, and moved right back in when they returned, Sloane had known Bernie for a decade. He was a gentle, polite sweetheart of a guy, who was always smiling and never had a bad word to say about anyone. Sloane could no more picture him aiding and abetting than she could a boy scout.

Regardless, she couldn’t exclude anyone. The good news was that Bernie hadn’t been on duty the night of the burglary. So she wouldn’t be impugning his character with her questions. On the other hand, he had a tight friendship with the other three doormen who manned the entranceway on a rotating basis. He was bound to resent any implication Sloane made that any of them might be guilty of this.

Wel , she’d known this wasn’t going to be fun. Nevertheless, it had to be done.

She took a deep breath and approached Bernie.

Diagonal y across the street, eating a hot dog and ostensibly scanning a col ege textbook, was a young Asian man. He blended right in with the pedestrian traffic, looking like every other New York col ege student. Except that on his right arm, concealed beneath his baggy army jacket, was a fiery Red Dragon tattoo.

Sitting against a tree, he was careful to keep his distance so he wouldn’t be spotted by whatever security the FBI had guarding the place. At the same time, he had a bird’s-eye view of Matthew Burbank’s apartment building—and his daughter.

She’d been there for over an hour, he noted, biting into his hot dog and watching her exit the building and walk over to the doorman. Adjusting his Yankee hat, he focused in on the exchange. It started casual y enough, but got real heavy real fast. The doorman was pissed, that was for sure. He stiffened up and took a step back, whipping his head from side to side in a way that said “no friggin’ way” as clearly as if he’d shouted the words across the street. As Burbank’s daughter continued to press her point, he stopped talking altogether, shutting her down with an emphatic gesture, his hand slicing the air with absolute, dismissive conviction.

Lucky for her that her interrogation session had gone south in a hurry. It had better stay that way.

Because if the Dai Lo heard otherwise, she wouldn’t be around much longer.

Peggy Sun took a few steps back to scrutinize her initial handiwork.

In her mind, the canvas was stil primarily bare. The lush green background was wel under way, in both color and texture. But the little girl, the details of her features, the fluidity of her motion—al that was yet to be captured and re-created.

A contemporary art piece would have been far easier to copy under these tight time parameters. With its broader strokes and more abstract concepts, contemporary art was more forgiving in its replication. And the process moved quickly. But a painting like this—detailed, rich with specific character expression, individualistic traits, and movement—it was Impressionism at its best, and a very tal order to replicate. At 13.5 by 10.5 inches, it was one of Renoir’s smal er paintings. Also one of his lesser known—and therefore less widely recognized. But Peggy approached her job as if she were copying
La Lecture
, the breathtaking depiction of two young girls studying at their desk that was currently hanging in the Louvre and was scrutinized on a daily basis by some of the most discerning art connoisseurs in the world.

Total y immersed in her craft, Peggy didn’t hear Cindy come upstairs to the loft. Tucked away on the apartment’s second floor and reachable only by an inconspicuous back staircase, the loft was an artist’s haven. Peggy did al her work there, both for the solitude that inspired creativity and the privacy that ensured no intruders.

“Incredible replica,” Cindy praised as she rounded the top of the staircase and caught a glimpse of Peggy’s canvas.

“
Partial
replica,” her friend corrected, stil studying what she’d painted thus far. “It’s stil very much a work in progress. And Renoir? It’s humbling to try to emulate that level of genius.”

Cindy shook her head, an expression of sheer disbelief crossing her face. “You’re a genius yourself. Every brushstroke is like a caress. Watching you paint is watching a love scene unfold.”

“Thank you,” Peggy replied with simple gratitude. “I hope I can live up to your uncle’s expectations.”

“You always do.” Balancing the heavy vase she was carrying, Cindy moved closer, taking in the astonishing similarities between the original and Peggy’s emerging forgery. “I know how disappointed you were that you only got one of the two Renoirs to copy. But, as we both know, the other original was sold—at an exorbitant price. Especial y considering it’s never going to be seen.”

“Except by the buyer.”

“Yes, except by the buyer. Speaking of whom, look what just arrived.” Cindy waited until Peggy turned around, so she could watch her reaction to the vase of magnificent pink roses. “Two dozen,” Cindy clarified, placing the vase on a nearby table so they could both admire it. “From the buyer of our other Renoir.” With that, she pul ed out the card and offered it to Peggy.

“‘Congratulations on a stunning debut,’” Peggy read aloud. “‘Let’s celebrate over dinner. You choose the where and when. With great admiration, Wal ace.’” Lowering the card, Peggy made a gesture of proud recognition. “In the realm of great work, you accomplished even more than I did, and a whole lot faster. From a man who’s barely come out of his shel for almost two years, Mr. Johnson is certainly chomping at the bit. A bouquet worthy of a bride, and a dinner invitation with terms dictated by you. And al after one successful event that was supposedly a mere business endeavor. Brava.”

Cindy shrugged off the compliment and gave the roses an appreciative sniff. “Let’s not give me too much credit. You said yourself he was mesmerized by my resemblance to Meili.”

“Oh, he was. I watched him staring at you and hungering over the past. But you’re the one who played the part. The incentive for him is far greater this time. Meili was a reckless child. You’re a shrewd and accomplished woman. And there’s no wife standing in the way. So the tables wil be turned.
You’ll
be the one pul ing the strings.” Cindy straightened up and grinned. “I think I’l start pul ing now. A thank-you phone cal setting our dinner date is in order. My
A Sook
already shipped the gift. It wil be a lovely presentation.” She lifted the vase and headed for the stairs. “We have to display these, of course. And since no one is al owed up here but us, I think the living room table would be best.

A centerpiece, drizzled with sunlight.”

“Moonlight,” Peggy amended. “You’re having dinner. The evening could run late.”

“Right.” Cindy paused, thinking. “Friday night is too soon. Saturday night is too intimate. Besides, he spends the weekends in the Hamptons.”

“Not if you gave him reason not to. If you chose a weekend night for your dinner, I’m sure he’d stay at his Manhattan town house.”