Drawn in Blood (3 page)

Regardless, he’d managed to convey that he didn’t want Derek around. And Derek wasn’t buying in to that I’m-too-overwhelmed excuse. There was more to this whole scenario than that.

He was stil brooding when his phone rang.

Hoping it was Sloane, he snapped up the receiver. “Parker.”

“It’s me.”

The “me” in question wasn’t Sloane. It was fel ow agent Jeff Chiu, Derek’s friend and squad mate on the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force.

“Listen,” Jeff continued in his no-BS tone. “The squad just picked up a weird conversation from our wiretap on Xiao Long’s phone. Something about finalizing a deal with an old art dealer on East Eighty-second.”

“Shit.” Derek’s fist struck the kitchen table.

“So I
am
right. I remember your mentioning that Sloane’s parents live on the Upper East Side and that her father’s a retired art dealer.”

“Not so retired.”

“Meaning this involves him. And you don’t sound surprised. What do you know?”

“Only that the Burbanks’ apartment was just hit. Sloane got a cal from her father a little while ago. He’s at New York Presbyterian with his wife. Evidently, she interrupted the burglary. She was roughed up and knocked out.”

“Just knocked out?”

“Yup. That means she didn’t see Xiao Long’s guys, or she’d be dead. That’s al I know—at least until I hear from Sloane. She’s over at the hospital now. I’m assuming C-6 wil be getting official details soon. In the meantime, from what Sloane said, it sounds like the Nineteenth Precinct is al over this.”

“I’l have one of our task force detectives contact them and make sure they’re aware we have bigger fish to fry. But I doubt that’l come as big news. The NYPD knows we’re closing in on Xiao Long. He’s the Dai Lo. His gang members are superfluous. If the cops want to make a couple of independent arrests, so be it.”

“I doubt they’l find enough to do even that. I’d bet money that Rosalyn Burbank never saw her assailants, or she wouldn’t be alive to say otherwise. That eliminates a description or an ID. And, based on the previous break-ins, there’l be no physical evidence. Al that adds up to nothing.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “But from what Xiao Long said on the phone—this break-in wasn’t random.”

“No,” Derek repeated darkly. “It wasn’t.”

Matthew Burbank was pacing the floor of the waiting room when Sloane burst in.

“How’s Mom?” she asked.

“Better.” Matthew reached out and squeezed his daughter’s arm. “She’s talking a bit, and her memory is intact. The doctors want to keep her overnight just as a precaution.

Hopeful y, they’l release her tomorrow.”

Sloane blew out a relieved breath. “Can I see her?”

“In a little while. The doctor just finished his examination.” An uneasy pause as Matthew glanced down the hal toward his wife’s room. “Now the cops are with her. After that, she’s got to rest.”

“I’l wait til the police leave. Then I’l poke my head in.” Sloane studied her father’s ashen complexion and the tight lines around his mouth. There was sweat beading on his forehead, and he couldn’t seem to stand stil .

She hadn’t been imagining things. Something was wrong, something more than what she already knew.

“Dad?” She sought his attention, drawing his gaze to hers. “What is it?”

Another swift glance down the hal . “Let’s go for a walk outside,” he suggested. “I need the fresh air. And we need the privacy.”

“Al right.” Sloane didn’t question him. She just rode down in the elevator beside him, left the building, and waited until they were seated on a bench in a more secluded section of the hospital grounds before she spoke. “Talk to me.”

Matthew was trembling. “I never wanted to drag you or your mother into this. I real y thought it was over. Then the FBI got involved. And now the whole thing’s unraveling.” Sloane turned to face him. Taken aback as she was, she cal ed upon her training, making her questions direct and keeping her approach calm and sans accusation. “What is

‘it’? And why is the Bureau involved?”

Staring at the ground, Matthew spoke. “First, I need to know you’l keep everything I tel you between us.” He reached into his pocket and pul ed out a dol ar bil , which he tucked into Sloane’s hand. “You’re stil licensed to practice law in New York. So that should buy your silence.” Sloane’s gaze lifted from the dol ar bil to her father’s face. “I was a prosecutor, Dad, not a defense attorney. And that was before I joined the Bureau. But, yes, my license is current. So privilege does apply. I’m also your daughter. So I won’t repeat anything you tel me. You have my word.”

“Not even to Derek?”

A hard swal ow. “Not even to Derek.”

Matthew nodded. “You know how far back the art-partnership guys and I go.”

“Of course. You’ve been tight since col ege.” Sloane had grown up among the group of men her father was describing. Leo Fox, Phil Leary, Ben Martino, and Wal ace Johnson.

The five of them, including her father, had met at NYU, formed a lifetime friendship and an equal y long-standing poker game, and eventual y combined their individual talents to form an art partnership that ended up making each of them comfortably successful. Wal ace—formal y C. Wal ace Johnson I I—had put up the initial capital, being that he could afford it. He came from money and had increased his wealth through his career as a successful investment banker.

“Right.” Matthew was talking again. “Wel , a little over fourteen years ago we were lucky enough to buy an Aaron Rothberg—a pretty renowned one, cal ed
Dead or Alive
. Then, we got a handsome offer for it from a dealer in Hong Kong. So we flew over there to finalize the transaction—al of us except Ben and Wal ace. Ben’s father had just suffered his stroke, and Wal ace was tied up with a major acquisition. That didn’t present a problem. The three of us could handle it.”

“Go on.”

“We made the exchange. The dealer, Cai Wen, was impressed with us. He asked us to meet him the fol owing evening at his Hong Kong office in the Kowloon district to discuss future deals. We were delighted. We showed up at the arranged time. As we arrived, we saw a young man leaving the building. He was carrying the Rothberg under his arm.”

“A pretty quick turnover,” Sloane observed.

“That’s what we thought. We soon found out otherwise.” Matthew drew a ragged breath. “The office door was open. We let ourselves in. Cai Wen was lying on the floor. Half his head had been blown away, and blood was everywhere. There was never any doubt he was dead. And the only ones at the scene were the three of us—al Americans. We had to get away—fast. We had families, lives to protect. So we took off. We agreed never to discuss it again.”

Sloane was processing this nightmare as quickly as she could. “Obviously something happened to reverse your decision.”

“The FBI happened. Several months ago, two copies of Rothberg’s
Dead or Alive
appeared on the U.S. art scene—both presumably authentic. One was up for auction at Sotheby’s. The other showed up in Christie’s catalog before they learned about the discrepancy and pul ed it.”

“I remember reading about this in the paper,” Sloane said, her eyes narrowing. “Although I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I had no idea any of this affected you. I take it the Christie’s painting was the forgery.”

“Right. The Sotheby’s painting was authenticated.”

“And which was the painting you sold?”

“You tel me. There are gaping holes in the provenance of both paintings. They changed hands numerous times. Receipts are missing, sales went undocumented. That’s al too typical in my business. So I have no idea if the painting we sold to Cai Wen was genuine. Or if that’s what got him kil ed. I only know that we believed our painting was authentic and that we had nothing to do with the murder.” Matthew rubbed the back of his neck. “The FBI’s investigation is coming to a head. Each of the guys in my partnership is being interviewed by an agent with the Art Crime Team. I’m up first. Tomorrow.”

“Do they know about the murder?”

“Murders are rare in Hong Kong—then and now. So I doubt it slipped by them. Whether they suspect us of being involved, I don’t know.” Sloane placed her hand over her father’s. “Tel them the truth.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” Sloane’s forehead creased. “You’re not going to be prosecuted for a murder that took place in Hong Kong. Plus, you didn’t do it.”

“But I know who did.”

Sloane went very stil . “You’d better explain.”

“I don’t know his name. But I saw his face—clearly. We al did. It was early evening. The sun was just starting to set. There was more than enough light. Like I said, we thought Cai Wen had turned over the painting to a buyer he’d already secured. It turned out the buyer was a kil er.” A pause. “It also turned out he was smart. When news of the forgery got out, he did his homework.”

“Which led him to you.”

“Right.”

“So he knows your investment group sold Cai Wen the painting.”

“He also knows we saw him take it—and under what circumstances. That’s why he had your mother’s and my apartment broken into tonight. It was a threat to keep my mouth shut.” Matthew fumbled in his trench coat’s pocket, pul ed out the empty file folder and the fortune cookie, complete with message. “He left me these.” Sloane glanced over al the items, concentrating on the ominous fortune that had been placed inside the cookie. “What about the rest of your friends? Did they get similar threats?”

“Doubtful. I haven’t gotten any frantic phone cal s since I saw them a few hours ago. But that doesn’t surprise me. Even though the kil er’s aware that the art investment group had a handful of members, the signature on the bil of sale between us and Cai Wen was mine. Lucky me. I chose that particular opportunity to sign as a member of the partnership.”

“So you’re the only one he could trace.”

“I think so. And it gets worse.” Matthew turned toward his daughter, his eyes fil ed with fear. “Sloane, he doesn’t just know my name on paper. He saw my face that night. I was never sure. But I am now.”

That was the last thing Sloane wanted to hear. “How?”

“When I met with the guys earlier this evening, it was to coordinate our stories. We had dinner in Chinatown. I stepped outside the restaurant for a cigarette while Ben and Phil were settling the check. A black Mercedes pul ed up to the curb where I was standing. The man who got out—it was him. It might be fourteen years later, but I’l never forget that face. He looks older, but otherwise unchanged. It was definitely him. He had a bodyguard with him, and he met up with two Mediterranean guys who looked like bouncers. But his choice of meeting places was no coincidence. He knew I was there. He’d arranged a ‘chance encounter’ so I could see him, and he could emphasize what I was about to find at home. He was less than five feet away before he raised his head and looked me in the eye. I had no time to think, much less duck back inside the restaurant. Besides, I couldn’t move. It’s like I was frozen in place. Which gave me plenty of time to stare at him. And he definitely knew who I was.”

“Maybe he recognized you from a photo that appeared in one of the articles you’ve written over the years—”

“He remembered
me,
Sloane,” Matthew interrupted her. “Not from some random photo. From that night. I saw the look in his eyes. It was stark recognition. Only he wasn’t shocked. I was. And he witnessed the ful extent of my shock. That was the nail in my coffin. If I’d only had time to hide my reaction…but I didn’t. He realized I could identify him. He’s a kil er. I’m a threat. What do you think that adds up to?”

“A dangerous situation.” Sloane raked her fingers through her hair. “Did he speak to you?”

“Not a word. He just stood there for maybe thirty seconds, watching me. Then he passed by with his goons, and they walked into another restaurant. He was like some kind of pack animal letting me know he was about to tear out my throat. And it’s not just me I’m worried about—not anymore. I’m terrified for your mother, for you. Sloane, I don’t know what to do.” Matthew leaned forward, holding his head with unsteady hands.

Sloane fel silent. She’d never seen her father like this. It’s not that he was a rock. He wasn’t. But he’d always been the positive force in the family, the extraverted optimist. Even though her mother was the family powerhouse—‘the Barracuda,’ as she was known in the publishing world—there was a quality about her father that made him her mother’s stabilizing foundation. Sloane felt the same way. She’d inherited her aggressive nature from her mother, and it was her father who made things right. He loved life, and life loved him. To see him fal apart this way—albeit for a very real and terrifying reason—made Sloane feel il . Il and responsible for finding a solution to this ordeal.

For a long moment, she desperately tried to separate the daughter in her from the professional. It was a pretty tal order. Life-threatening danger was part of
her
world, not theirs. She was a trained FBI agent. She was also an expert in Krav Maga—“contact combat,” as it translated into English—a self-defense technique so forceful and effective that it was used by the Israeli Defense Forces. Plus, she was thirty-one years old. Her parents were in their late fifties. She was young, strong, and vital—mental y, physical y, and psychological y.

And her parents?

They were regular people with regular lives. They’d lived and worked in Manhattan. Two years ago, they’d tried retirement. They’d bought a condo in Florida and taken up golf.

That lifestyle didn’t last long. They’d both missed the New York scene. So they’d moved back.

To this.

“Sloane?” her father prompted, seeking something she wasn’t sure she could provide.

She stared straight ahead, keeping her emotion wel in check. “You and Mom are going to need protection.”

“Your mother doesn’t know anything about this. She thinks the break-in was just a random burglary.”

“Then it’s time you told her. It’s her life, too. This isn’t a secret you can keep anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have kept it at al . I just wanted to forget.”

“Yes, wel , forgetting doesn’t work. Neither does hiding things from law enforcement. The cops are questioning Mom about the break-in. The Bureau is investigating the art theft.