Drawn in Blood (4 page)

How long do you think it’s going to take before they connect the two?”

“There’s no reason they ever should—unless you tel them.” Her father’s barb found its mark. “As far as the FBI knows, my investment group and I are persons of interest.

Nothing more. I already told you there are huge gaps in the provenance of
Dead or Alive
. Anyone who’s smart enough to kil and whose actions are so deliberate is smart enough to destroy any paper trail that leads to him. That leaves things wide open, with no proof of what we saw. We’re not even sure if we sold a fake or an original. How much more guilty can we look?”

“So when the FBI interviews you, you plan to leave out the part about witnessing the murder. Oh,” she added, holding up the file and fortune cookie. “And now you’re withholding physical evidence.”

“It’s the only way. Especial y after what happened tonight. If I open my mouth, I’l be the subject of an investigation, and our family wil be the target of a murderer. I won’t do it.

Robberies happen every day of the week. No one’s going to connect the break-in to the Rothberg. It’s not like I owned the painting.” Matthew paused, looking like a cornered rat. “Did I do the right thing by cal ing you? Or are you going to go to the FBI? They’re your former employer. I’m your father. My future—our whole family’s future—is in your hands.” There it was, pure and simple, laid out in the most basic way possible.

She’d tried. She’d failed. The whole situation sucked. But, in the end, there was no choice to make.

She had to protect her family.

“I have contacts in the private security sector. I’l cal them.”

Stark relief flashed across Matthew’s face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Gut instinct tel s me I’m not doing you any favors. But I won’t betray you. Let’s just hope my instincts are wrong, and we’re not making things worse.” Sloane paused, drawing a sharp breath. “In any case, like I said, I have contacts. They’l keep an eye on the apartment—and more important, on you and Mom.”

“And you?”

“I can take care of myself. Besides, I doubt any criminal would mess with me. Your murderer’s research must have revealed my credentials—and my connection to the FBI. The last thing he’d want is to open that door. Things might get ugly.”

“You’re tough, Sloane, but you have your vulnerabilities,” Matthew reminded her quietly.

Automatical y, Sloane glanced down at her right hand. The sight wasn’t pretty. The scars from the knife assault, and the three successive surgeries performed to save her life and her hand, were stil prominent.

Her injury was her Achil es’ heel. Everyone who knew her knew that.

“The murderer doesn’t have me in his sights,” she told her father. “He has you. As for Mom, the good news is that she didn’t see your kil er’s hired hands. So I’m less worried about her—unless they decide to use her as leverage against you. That’s why I want bodyguards on you both.” Sloane flipped open her cel phone. “I’l make arrangements right away.

After that, I want to go inside and see Mom. Oh, and I’l spend the next few days in the city, so I can be close by and keep an eye on you.”

“What are you going to tel Derek?” Her father asked the mil ion-dol ar question.

A heartbeat of a pause. “Whatever the cops tel me. Nothing more.”

BILBAO, SPAIN

Dressed in white coveral s, the team of Albanian gunmen kept their heads lowered as they pushed the maintenance carts across the plaza. They looked like custodial workers—

nondescript, virtual y invisible to the patrons exiting the museum. Their caps were pul ed down low, concealing their faces. No one noticed the stocking masks they’d yanked on moments earlier—masks that now completely distorted their facial features and hid their Mediterranean coloring.

The choice of museums had been deliberate.

The nearby Guggenheim Museum got al the attention. A prominent landmark, it had been targeted by the ETA, a Basque separatist group with a propensity for violence. In October 1997, just before the museum’s grand opening, a guard had been kil ed there. As a result, the Guggenheim was packed with armed guards, making it too risky.

In contrast, security at the Museo de Arte Moderno was light. Just a few guards with batons, a couple of docents, and a curator. Very peaceful and serene—especial y near closing time, which was only minutes away.

The gunmen reached the entrance. They grabbed their MP5Ks from inside the canvas utility carts where they’d been hidden. Bursting through the doors, they instantly overpowered the startled security guard, seized his baton, and ordered the frightened attendant to remain silent. In complete control, they forced their captives away from the entrance and shoved them through the museum at gunpoint. With speed, purpose, and an extensive knowledge of the floor plan, they made their way to the second level.

A minute and a half later, they were there.

Footsteps. Another security guard turned the corner. Using the just-confiscated baton, one muscular gunman dealt a punishing blow to his head. The guard’s knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, unconscious.

Right on schedule, the wel -trained team entered the display of nineteenth-and twentieth-century paintings. They headed first for the Cassatt. The tal est gunman pul ed out a pair of wire cutters and snipped the wires that suspended the painting from the ceiling. He then turned to the adjacent wal and repeated the process, releasing the Bacon from its mounting wires. With both paintings safely in their possession, they headed to the other room and the works of those artists who inspired great national pride: Miró and Picasso.

An unexpected guard appeared on the scene and spotted them. He pul ed his baton from its holster, lunging at the thieves and shouting, “¡Ustedes! ¡Para!” They had no intention of stopping.

The team leader turned, releasing an explosive spray of bul ets from his submachine gun. The first shots ripped the baton from the guard’s hand, sending the baton tumbling to the ground and severing two fingers in the process. Bul ets also pierced the guard’s torso, puncturing his chest and shoulder. He screamed, lurching forward in agony. Instinctively, he reached over to clutch his mangled hand, dropping to his knees as he did. Another burst of fire and he was dead.

The other gunmen had already gone on to complete their mission. Once they’d secured the Miró and the Picasso, they turned to their leader for further instructions. He motioned for them to leave.

Blood was oozing from the dead guard’s body and pooling around him, the last of his screams stil echoing through the expansive building as the team of gunmen raced off.

They passed stunned onlookers, who were frozen with fear as they tried to assess what had just happened. Once outside the museum, the gunmen dashed across the plaza with the four paintings and jumped into a white Mercedes Sprinter that had been waiting, engine running. The van screeched off, heading toward the A-8 and Santurtzi, where a cargo ship was departing tonight for the Philippine province of Cebu.

Derek shoved aside the foam cup on his desk. There was nothing left except the dregs of his third cup of morning coffee.

The coffee was foul. The weather was foul. And his mood was foul.

Swiveling around in his chair, Derek stared broodingly off into space. He’d waited for hours last night for Sloane to come home. She’d cal ed twice from the hospital, both times giving him brief updates on her mother’s condition, both times cutting the conversation short. When she’d final y gotten back to his place, she’d looked like hel —exhausted and stressed out. She’d greeted him and the hounds, taken a few halfhearted bites of lasagna, and provided him with details about the break-in that he already knew or could read in today’s newspaper. A half hour later, she’d crawled into bed and fal en asleep.

This morning had been no better. She’d been asleep when he left for the gym, and gone when he returned, leaving a note saying she’d gone to the hospital to visit her mother, and hopeful y, to expedite her release.

Sloane’s worry over her mother was genuine. But it was crystal clear to Derek that she’d learned something else—something that her father had shared with her, and that she had no intention of sharing with him.

The worst-case scenario was that Matthew Burbank had done something il egal that linked him to Xiao Long, and that Sloane was protecting him. But that theory didn’t fly.

Sloane would never agree to hide information that kept organized criminals in business. Especial y when it was Asian organized crime, the very gangs Derek was trying to bring down.

Sure, Matthew could have lied to Sloane about who the players were or about the extent of his involvement. But Sloane was way too smart for that. If her father had fed her a line of crap, she’d see through it.

Besides, Matthew was an art dealer—wel established, financial y comfortable, with a clientele who was educated and affluent. What possible link could he have with a Dai Lo?

Xiao Long was a thug, not an art connoisseur. So maybe Derek was walking down the entirely wrong path. Maybe Matthew’s career had nothing to do with this. Maybe he’d witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to, something he didn’t even recognize as significant until last night’s robbery had shoved his nose in reality. Maybe he had no idea who he was dealing with, or, if he’d figured it out, what Xiao Long was capable of.

Finding his wife bound, gagged, and knocked unconscious would be a major eye-opener. It would certainly explain why Matthew would panic, and why he’d turn to his daughter rather than the cops. If he felt threatened, his first instinct would be to protect his family.

That had to be the explanation—not just for Matthew, but for Sloane. Her loyalty to her father, and her own independent pigheadedness, would spur her into action. She’d get whatever facts her father had, including any he might have omitted from his official police report, and then run with this alone.

She had no clue what kind of danger she’d be walking into.

That did it. Derek was going to insert himself in the situation—
now
.

Gripping the arms of his chair, he shoved himself around to face his desk. He’d finish up his critical work here, and then head over to the hospital, or the Burbanks’ apartment if Rosalyn had already been released. He’d respectful y check on her recovery. And then, he was going to get Sloane alone and pry information out of her.

Reaching for his keyboard, he nearly knocked over his almost-empty coffee cup and a pile of paperwork.

Son of a bitch. His desk was a disaster. He didn’t have a minute to organize it—not today. But, damn, he hated clutter.

The paradoxical thought almost made him laugh aloud. Clutter and the far corner of the twenty-second floor, where C-6’s squad was located, went hand-in-hand. Boxes of confiscated goods—from fake Rolexes to equal y fake Nike sneakers—were stacked everywhere. Getting from point A to point B meant weaving your way around the crap and through the aisles.

Derek always got a kick out of watching FBI shows on TV. In the Hol ywood versions, the New York Field Office was usual y a tal glass building that was a dead ringer for Trump Tower and that took up half a city block. Modern, expansive, and grand—it didn’t even slightly resemble the perpetual construction zone that was 26 Federal Plaza. And the FBI’s home in that building? Just eight floors in al . Too bad reality didn’t emulate fiction. Bureau employees would be in hog heaven inside one of those TV buildings—glass-wal ed offices and spacious cubicles, al decorated with sleek, streamlined furnishings instead of what looked like rejects from a scratch-and-dent sale at a used furniture outlet.

So, C-6—or the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force, as it was formal y known—existed in its old, cluttered splendor. On the plus side, at least there was a great view of the Brooklyn Bridge. And the ten agents and two NYPD detectives who constituted the squad were great to work with.

“Hey.” Jeff poked his head over the top of Derek’s cubicle. “What happened with Sloane last night? Did she say anything?”

“Yeah.” Derek grimaced. “‘Good night.’”

“You’re kidding. No guess as to why her parents’ place was broken into?”

“Nothing except the party line—that it was no secret that Matthew had col ected some expensive pieces from his travels, that he and his wife were fairly wel off, and that they both worked long hours—leaving an empty apartment that was a perfect target for thieves.”

“Nice logic. Except for the fact that there’s a ful -time doorman there to dissuade thieves, and that we know it was Xiao Long’s guys who did the breaking and entering.” Jeff’s comment was greeted by silence.

“Are you going to confront her?” Despite the potential blowup that provoking Derek might elicit, Jeff wasn’t ready to back off. “Or do you plan to let things slide and see what you can draw out of her without clueing her in to your motives?”

Derek slapped his hands on his desk, using the leverage to shove back his chair. “Tony’s asked me that same question three times already,” he retorted, referring to their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Antonio Sanchez.

“And?”

“And I’l tel you what I told him. We have no proof Matthew Burbank is involved in anything. He could be a target, not a criminal. As for Sloane, she’s way too smart for games.

Whatever her father told her, she’s not about to be fooled by supposedly subtle attempts to pump her for information. She’s also not about to spil her guts if she chooses not to—with or without a confrontation. One thing’s for sure—if she planned to tel me what her father said, she would have done so last night.” Derek got to his feet. “I need more coffee.” He walked around Jeff and snaked his way down the aisle.

He was irked at the situation, worried about Sloane, and pissed off for being in the position he was in. His whole squad had been eyeing him speculatively since they arrived.

They al knew what the wiretap on Xiao Long’s phone had revealed last night. They al knew about his relationship with Sloane. And they al knew it was her parents’ house that had been robbed.

He couldn’t look at their curious expressions anymore.