Drawn in Blood (32 page)

Rich turned the page and continued. “Phil Leary’s an interesting fel ow. His professional books are impeccable, but when I brought up how erratic his personal financial statements are, he fel al over himself. After that, he was a basket case. He looked dazed and clueless when I brought up the Fong Triad and Zhang, and when I brought the interview to a close, he spil ed his coffee in a race to get out the door. Whatever he does or doesn’t know, his actions are certainly consistent with your findings that he’s a compulsive gambler.”

“Not just compulsive. An addict,” Derek corrected. “I verified the extent of his problem through a half-dozen sources. And, yeah, he’s loyal to his partners, but you and I both know that addicts sacrifice a lot more than just friends to support their habit. I’m on the verge of finding out his bookie’s name. Once I do, I’l get the scumbag to talk, even if I have to throw his ass in jail.”

“Sounds like a plan. With regard to Leary, I’m tapped out at my end.”

“Fair enough. What about Johnson and Martino?”

“That’s where things get more intriguing. Both Johnson and Martino reacted when I mentioned Xiao Long’s name. I found that to be fascinating, considering they’re the only two partners who weren’t in Hong Kong when Cai Wen was murdered. That’s why we didn’t bother showing them our sketch. And since Xiao is under FBI investigation, we never mentioned his name before now. So any interactions either Martino or Johnson had with him had to be under different circumstances, probably right here in the U.S.” Derek was al ears. “Did you get the feeling they were in this together or separately?”

“Not sure.”

“Under what contexts did each of them react?”

“Martino wasn’t total y sober. When I asked him about Fong and Zhang, he claimed not to know them. But then he went on to slur a bunch of stuff about being sick to death of al this Chinese organized crime. That’s when I slipped in Xiao’s name. He started shaking and sweating, and looking around like he’d kil for a drink. So I dropped the bomb that Xiao Long was the one who stole the Rothberg and kil ed Cai Wen. I thought he was going to either vomit or pass out at my feet. He definitely knows the guy. Does that association relate to the Rothberg? It’s possible. As for Zhang and the triad, I’l run Martino’s name by Daniel Zhang and see what he says. Either way, Martino warrants further investigation.”

“He’s at the top of my list.” Derek’s hands bal ed into fists. “What about Johnson?”

“Wal ace Johnson is a complicated man. Smart. Polished. Quite adept at keeping a poker face. But he made no secret of the fact that he was displeased about holding our fol ow-up interview, or discussing the ongoing art thefts at al .”

“Any reaction to Fong’s or Zhang’s name?”

“He said he vaguely knew of the Fong Triad, that he’d heard of them during his numerous business trips to China. But he added that he’d never met any of the members personal y, Zhang included. I doubt he’s lying. He’s too shrewd not to know I could easily check out his story with Zhang. Then I dropped Xiao Long’s name. Despite his best attempts to cover up his reaction, he was taken aback. He asked me if Xiao was suspected of being part of the Fong Triad. I evaded the question, but told him that Xiao had kil ed Cai Wen and stolen the Rothberg. Again, he tried to take it al in stride, but he was thrown for a loop. It could be personal. Maybe Xiao screwed him over in an art deal.”

“Maybe. Or maybe Johnson and/or Martino are involved in something il egal.”

“Yeah.” Rich blew out a breath. “Between this information, and the recent home invasions and art thefts, we certainly have our work cut out for us.”

“You’ve done your job with Burbank and his partners. The next step’s mine.” Derek picked up the reports he’d been reading when Rich came in, then tossed them across his desk in disgust. “Three damned break-ins in one week. Al at affluent homes. And even though Xiao Long organized them, these robberies were definitely
not
committed by the Red Dragons. Windows smashed to gain entry. Burglar alarms ignored. Home owners al present, with no attempts made by the intruders to wait for the houses to be empty. Al residents held at gunpoint and restrained with Flex-Cufs. Thieves who wore masks, spoke with accents, and were in and out by the time the cops arrived—in under ten minutes, according to the victims. And nothing taken except valuable paintings. Your Black Eagles strike again. With one charming addition, courtesy of Xiao Long.”

“Yeah, the empty fortune cookie left at each home.” Rich scowled. “This burglary ring is not only practicing for their pièce de résistance, they’re taunting us, demonstrating our ineffectiveness at stopping them.”

“Xiao Long knows we’ve linked him to the Albanians. But he’s flaunting our lack of proof.”

“We’l get some,” Rich vowed. “We’l nail our triad, and connect them to the Albanians and to Xiao Long.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Derek started with Ben Martino.

His gut instinct had always been that Martino was the weakest link. So Derek had decided to save his visit to Wal ace Johnson for later, and see if he could rattle Martino and get some information.

He waited until two o’clock. That meant lunchtime was over, and Martino had doubtless had his share of drinks, and then some. The consequence of that would be lowered defenses and a looser tongue.

Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Derek hung out near Martino’s manufacturing factory on East Broadway until a delivery boy final y exited the building.

Derek approached him, jerking his thumb in the direction of the factory. “Hey, I have to see Martino about an order for my company. Is he in there now?”

“Yeah,” the teenager replied, barely breaking stride or glancing up. “He’s in the front office.”

“Thanks.” Derek had his answer. He also had the very thing he’d hoped for going for him—the element of surprise.

He headed inside.

Ben Martino was right where the delivery boy had said. Through the office’s glass pane, Derek could see him standing up and throwing papers around on his desk. He was in a visibly agitated state, and pretty loaded, too, judging from the uncapped, half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk that he was taking repeated swigs from.

Derek gave a brief knock and walked in.

“What?” Martino snapped, not abandoning his paper-hurling, not even glancing up.

“Mr. Martino, I’d like a few minutes of your time.”

Now, Martino’s head snapped up. He gazed at Derek through glazed, bloodshot eyes. “Do I know you?” he asked in a slightly slurred voice.

“Special Agent Derek Parker,” Derek replied.

It took a minute. “Sloane’s boyfriend. Right.” Martino shook Derek’s hand. His palm was shaking and sweaty, and his expression reminded Derek of a nervous rabbit at the wrong end of a shotgun.

“I’m here in my official capacity.” Derek wasted no time, getting to the point and utilizing the intimidation factor. “I’m sure Matthew Burbank told you I’m working the Chinese organized-crime angle of the Rothberg case.”

“Yes, he did. So did that other agent—Wil iams. He asked me al about some triad leaders in Hong Kong. I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. I’m not exactly an expert on what goes on in China.”

“Good point. Now that I think about it, you weren’t even there when your partners sold
Dead or Alive
to Cai Wen—or after the transaction, when he was kil ed and the painting was stolen.”

Martino shook his head. “My father had just had a stroke. I was here in New York with him.” An awkward laugh. “I sure missed al the excitement.”

“You sure did. You and Wal ace Johnson. He was away on a business trip when the ugly mess went down.” Derek went out on a limb and feigned knowledge he didn’t have.

“But he did check in on you when he returned—you and your father.”

Sure enough, Martino nodded. “He was concerned. He dropped by the hospital.”

“Very considerate.” A quizzical look. “Are you two close friends?”

Martino swal owed so hard his Adam’s apple visibly rose and fel . “We’re al good friends. We have been since col ege.”

“True. But I get the feeling that you and Johnson have a unique bond.”

“We do…We did…We don’t talk about it anymore.” Although Martino was stumbling on his words, he was clearly providing a lot more information than he would have if he were sober. “Wal ace desperately wanted a child. No one understood that better than me. My family, my kids and grandkids—they mean everything. But Wal ace and Beatrice had a rough time conceiving. I introduced them to a specialist. He performed a procedure. It worked. When Sophie was born, Wal ace made me her godfather. She was the sun, the moon, and the stars to him.” Tears glittered in Martino’s eyes, and, disregarding Derek’s presence, he took a gulp from his whiskey bottle. “I’m sure you know she was kil ed in a hit-and-run accident.”

“Yes, I did. She was only five. That’s a tragedy no parent should have to bear. I’m sure you ral ied around Johnson, gave him your time and emotional support.”

“I tried. We al did. But Wal ace has never been the same.” Martino took another drink, then deposited the bottle, now two-thirds empty, onto his desk.

Derek’s gaze fol owed its path. “Do you always drink during the workday?”

“What?” Martino started, and then a flush crept up his neck as he struggled to switch gears. “In case you missed it, the garment center’s dying. I’ve got a business I’m fighting to keep alive—one my father started years ago. So, yeah, I have a couple drinks now and then to calm my nerves.”

“A couple?” Derek arched a pointed brow at the near-empty bottle. “I’d say you have a lot more than that.”

“Fine,” Martino snapped. “I drink. I doubt that comes as a big surprise to you.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. Based on your police record, you lost your license for six months after a DWI back in 2004. And the bars in midtown have been seeing quite a lot of you these days.”

Martino turned a sickly shade of green. “So I have an on-again, off-again drinking problem.”

“It’s certainly on-again these days,” Derek observed.

“I just told you, I’m under a lot of pressure.” There was no doubt that Martino was unraveling—fast. “Why are you here? Am I being accused of something because of my drinking? Because I haven’t gotten behind the wheel of a car after having even one drink—not in years.”

“You’re not being accused of anything,” Derek assured him, making a mental note of Martino’s paranoia about his drinking. “I was just acknowledging the chal enge you face.

Especial y since the garment industry is shifting to China big-time.”

“It’s their cheap labor,” Martino muttered, glancing through the glass window that overlooked the floor of his factory. “It’s hard to come by here.”

“Especial y when the workers you hire are legal,” Derek probed with a pointed statement, having fol owed Martino’s stare and noting the rows of Asian women hard at work on their sewing machines. “You seem to have that problem wel covered. A factory ful of hard workers, who probably command little more than minimum wage.”

“It’s a win-win situation,” Martino responded quickly. “They work hard, and, you’re right, it doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg to keep them. But their pay is more than fair. There isn’t exactly a slew of job opportunities waiting for them. Most of them can’t speak a word of English.”

“Real y. So how do you find them?”

Martino was sweating. He shot a sidelong look at the whiskey bottle, clearly itching to take another drink. “The usual. Word of mouth. Referrals. Employment agencies.” Interesting that employment agencies was the last thing Martino had mentioned—and he’d done so with great reluctance. He was looking at the whiskey bottle again, this time his gaze flickering nervously to its base.

Derek’s gaze fol owed suit. Currently acting as a coaster for Martino’s whiskey bottle were a couple of business cards. They were identical, both with the words sih fu employment agency printed on them, along with some other information Derek couldn’t make out, half of which was in English, half in Chinese.

Sih Fu Employment Agency. That name rang a bel . And for good reason.

Xiao Long owned it.

One thing was for sure. Xiao never formed a business relationship that didn’t earn him a hefty profit. So there had to be more to this arrangement than met the eye. Xiao had to be bleeding Martino dry, using either the threat of having Martino’s bones broken by Jin Huang, or the threat of an anonymous tip being made to the cops that Ben Martino was hiring il egals.

Either way, Martino was screwed.

And either way, it was no coincidence that Xiao Long had chosen him as a victim, any more than it was a coincidence that Xiao was involved with Wal ace Johnson in some capacity as wel .

There was an underlying pattern here, one that Derek was determined to unravel.

Next stop, Wal ace Johnson.

Derek was heading toward Johnson’s midtown art gal ery when he flipped open his cel phone and cal ed Jeff on speed dial.

“Hey.” Jeff recognized Derek’s cel phone number. “What’s up?”

“A lot. Most of which I’m stil putting together. But get this. Ben Martino is hiring his workers from the Sih Fu Employment Agency.” Jeff whistled. “There’s your tie to Xiao. Rent-an-il egal.”

“More like rent an il egal today, get squeezed and threatened tomorrow.”

“Threatened with what—violence? Bringing down the business?”

“Or something bigger. I’m on my way to Johnson’s gal ery. I’m sure he’s expecting me, since Martino probably cal ed him the minute I walked out the door. Could you do a little digging for me?”

“Not a problem. I’l find out how long Martino and Xiao have been doing business, and how the relationship got started. Also if Johnson is part of the equation. And speaking of digging, Rich and I have both talked to our contacts at the Hong Kong police. There’s no record of a suicide involving a woman in her early to mid-twenties matching Meili’s description

—not as Meili Somebody or Jane Doe.”

“So someone’s covering it up.”

“That’s our take. We’re pushing to find out who. I’m also putting some of our informants out on the streets to see if Xiao Long’s name is linked to a girl named Meili. He’s been running his gang here since the mid-nineties, slowly growing his empire. Now we’re pretty sure it’s triad-funded. In which case, he’d be tight enough with the right people to find out if the Rothberg he’d kil ed for had been ripped off and sold to Henry Fong.”