Drawn in Blood (44 page)

probably in the hopes of driving Wal ace over the edge.”

“And having the perfect ammunition to blackmail him with,” Derek added. “Wal ace had to be terrified of going to jail, more terrified of what Xiao would do to him if he opened his mouth, and most terrified of losing his link to the paintings that were his obsession.”

“Now we know why Johnson flipped out when I mentioned Xiao Long’s name in connection with the Rothberg.” Rich dropped another puzzle piece into place. “He was learning that the same man he’d been buying valuable stolen paintings from was the kil er who Burbank, Fox, and Leary had seen in Kowloon and was now threatening their lives. That realization must have blown his mind.”

With a shudder, Sloane turned away. “This whole plot makes me sick.”

“Liu’s a bastard. That doesn’t change the fact that Wal ace is guilty of buying and harboring stolen property,” Derek replied quietly. “We have no choice but to arrest him.”

“I’m not arguing,” Sloane returned.

“And we’d better move fast,” Rich informed them. “Remember, once Sloane talked to Johnson, he figured out that Liu was behind the sale of the paintings and that he means to bring him down at al costs. If Johnson is as smart as I think he is, he’s going to get this merchandise out of here as soon as possible.”

“And hide it where?” Sloane asked, spreading her hands wide. “There must be thirty paintings here.”

“I have no idea what his plan is. I only know we’ve got to get him into custody before he or the evidence disappears.” Rich’s brows drew together, and he glanced quizzical y at Sloane. “Didn’t you say he was at a museum reception tonight?”

“Yes.” Sloane nodded. “At the Jaspar Museum of Art—on Crosby Street in Soho.”

“We can grab him there,” Derek concluded. “Rich, cal the Major Theft Squad from your car. Work out whatever details you have to. I’l cal C-6 and have them seal off this manor until ERT can catalog and take the stolen pieces into evidence. When I talk to my squad, I’l also check on the status of the warrant to search Cindy Liu’s place.” Rich nodded. “Agreed.”

Derek was already climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Let’s move.”

QUEENS, NEW YORK

It was dark.

The business day had ended hours ago.

The team’s targeted industrial area was empty except for a few delivery trucks parked behind fenced-in loading docks and surrounded by tal razor-wire fences.

With its close proximity to Manhattan, Long Island City had been bustling with activity just hours ago. Now, it was deserted.

The beat-up white van turned off its lights and crept toward the rear of the two-story industrial building with a painted metal sign that read ALL-CITY SECURITY, INC. The driver pul ed into a spot that was sandwiched between two trucks. It couldn’t be more ideal. Ensured concealment. An unlit area. Close proximity to their target. A clear path to get away.

Now, they’d wait. It wouldn’t be long. As their ongoing surveil ance had shown, the younger guy, maybe in his early twenties, was a nicotine addict.

Sure enough, not fifteen minutes later, the metal door swung open and the kid stepped out. He reached down for the brick he kept alongside the concrete wal and wedged it between the doorjamb and the door. He double-checked to make sure the brick was secure so the door couldn’t lock behind him. Satisfied, he strol ed into the cool night air, lighting up his cigarette.

It took a drag or two, but he began to visibly relax. Twice, he succumbed to a hacking cough, cursing under his breath. It didn’t seem to deter him. He returned to his smoke, total y unaware that the four men in the hidden van were watching him with keen interest.

“He smokes so much he’s going to die of cancer,” the driver said wryly to the others, speaking in Albanian.

They chuckled.

With that, the leader, who was in the front passenger seat, motioned to one of his men in the rear to get out of the van and get started.

The designated member of the team fol owed orders, exiting the van behind one of the trucks and walking nonchalantly toward the building. He placed a cigarette between his lips, simultaneously fumbling in his pocket for a pack of matches. Coming up empty, he scanned the area and pretended to catch his first glimpse of the smoker just outside the back entrance.

He slid a large knife out of his other pocket, gripping it behind his back as he headed in the kid’s direction. Approaching him, he asked for a light in heavily accented English.

The kid was happy to oblige, pul ing out a cheap disposable lighter. In one smooth motion, the intruder bent over to accept the light, reached behind his victim, and plunged the knife in his back. Before the kid could react, the kil er slapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the inevitable cries of agony.

The struggle was over quickly. The young guy dropped to the ground, dead.

Without so much as a second glance, the kil er bent down and ripped the key fob holding the victim’s car keys off his pants. He then signaled for his col eagues to join him.

The leader and one other team member jumped out of the van and headed toward the building, while the driver remained at the wheel, ready to take off the instant the job was done.

The three Black Eagles dragged the lifeless body into the building. Shutting the door with a loud clang, they rushed upstairs to the main command center where a technician was huddled over a bank of monitors.

The guy spun around, expecting to see his buddy back from his cigarette break. Instead, he was greeted by the business end of an MP5K.

“Where’s John?” the terrified technician stammered, his gaze darting around frantical y for his smoker chum.

“Dead,” the leader replied calmly. “He died”—a quick mental search for the right English word—“unexpectedly. Now I ask you question. Tel me administrative password.” The technician hesitated. The leader veered sharply to the left, aiming his subgun at a nearby chair. He blew its back to bits in a hail of gunfire, transforming the plastic molded chair into a stool. Ejecting the empty magazine and inserting a ful y loaded one, he turned back to the technician and moved in, holding the barrel of the subgun so close to his face that the man’s nostrils burned from the smoking barrel and the hot, acrid smel of spent gunpowder.

“Password!” the leader shouted.

The technician needed no further convincing.

“‘Mortal Kombat,’” he blurted out instantly, his voice quaking with fear as he spel ed the password. “The M and the K are capitals. The rest of the letters are smal . It’s al one word: ‘MortalKombat’—no spaces.”

The leader smiled, motioning for the technician to move over and sit in the chair he had just blasted with gunfire. The second gunman forced the technician’s hands behind his back and secured them with Flex-Cufs. Then he rifled his pockets, confiscating his car keys.

At the same time, the third gunman sat down at the console, expertly navigating the menus and logging in to the administrative application. With a clear knowledge of how the alarm-monitoring software functioned, he located the museum’s account and quickly changed al the alarm dispatch codes from “immediate” to “cal first.” With a chuckle, he replaced the series of phone numbers for key museum personnel that were listed in the system with Phil Leary’s office number and Ben Martino’s factory and home numbers.

That done, he placed the entire museum account on “test” for the next twenty-four hours. Everything he had completed would ensure that al alarm signals received from the museum would be ignored. No police. No fire department. Even if someone at the alarm-monitoring company tried to contact the museum, al they would reach was the disconnected number of a dead person or a drunk. As a final mocking gesture of what was about to take place, he changed the administrative password to “JOHNSON.”

“Finished,” he announced in Albanian, rising from the console and giving the thumbs-up sign to indicate the task was complete.

Nodding, the leader turned and opened fire with his subgun, obliterating what was left of the stool-chair along with its struggling occupant.

“Finished,” he echoed, smiling as he led the others back down the stairs, past the corpse, and out the rear entrance.

The van driver spotted them the instant they appeared.

He shifted the van into drive and eased out from between the trucks to pick up the team leader. In the meantime, the other two men raced through the lot, splitting up as they neared their arranged goals. Each one of them located one of the dead technicians’ cars, unlocked it, and climbed in. Seconds later, they turned over the motors.

“Done. No problems,” the leader was informing the driver in Albanian, as he settled himself in the van.

He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the two other cars pul ing up behind them. “Go,” he commanded.

The three vehicles swerved out of the lot and through the streets of Long Island City, on their way to Manhattan.

The Jaspar Museum was the brainchild of bil ionaire venture capitalist Edward Jaspar. With Jaspar supplying the seed money, and the help of some affluent sponsors who were patrons of the arts, the new SoHo museum had been built on two adjoining properties on Crosby Street. Mil ions had been spent to create a smal but effective space for exhibiting Jaspar’s eclectic art col ection, as wel as showcasing the talents of new, unique, and gifted artists.

Tonight was an invitation-only soirée intended to tap into Jaspar’s rich friends and raise additional funds for the museum’s aggressive expansion plans. In honor of the occasion, Jaspar had fil ed the museum with some of his most cherished artwork, including
Innocence,
which was the talk of the elite art crowd.
Innocence
had been painted by Christian Arlington, a newly discovered young American artist with incredible talent. His paintings were already commanding six figures. And
Innocence
was worth even more.

Unfortunately, Jaspar wasn’t wil ing to sel it.

Wal ace Johnson sipped at his champagne, strol ing through the connected exhibition rooms. He’d already stopped three times in the central viewing room to stare at
Innocence
. No one could appreciate or want it as much as he. He’d be wil ing to pay any amount Jaspar asked. But Jaspar had made it abundantly clear that this particular painting was not for sale.

The piece of art itself surpassed the description
breathtaking
. But that wasn’t the main reason Wal ace wanted it.

The little girl who was the centerpiece of the painting was the spitting image of Sophie.

It wasn’t just a strong resemblance. It wasn’t only similar features, facial expressions, or body movements. It was as close a rendition of Sophie as any actual portrait of her could convey—from her flowing golden brown hair to the sparkle in her wide, velvety dark eyes, to the impish grin and the dimple she always flashed that had Wal ace wrapped around her little finger. The little girl in the painting had Sophie’s stubborn chin, upturned nose, and soft peaches-and-cream complexion. In al ways but in reality, she
was
Sophie.

Wal ace had saved that final central spot on his gal ery wal for this painting. A painting that he’d original y been promised by that street scum Xiao Long. That transaction sure as hel wasn’t going to happen now—not since Wal ace was ful y aware that it was real y Liu who’d been sel ing him the paintings out of some sick desire to torture him.

Once again, rage knotted his gut. What an idiot he’d been. Missing al the signs. Mistaking Liu’s support of his gal eries for compassion. Bartering his investment-banking services for a minority stake in that Italian company, only to learn that the Mafia was involved with the business. Missing Liu’s reasons for introducing Cindy into his life, even after seeing her strong resemblance to Meili. And missing the fact that Xiao Long, that low-class thug, was fronting al along for Johnny Liu.

Liu blamed Wal ace for a negligence that was, in fact, his own.

Wal ace had loved Meili. He’d never intentional y hurt or abandon her. If he’d had even the slightest inkling that she was desperate and, of al things, pregnant with his child, he would have been by her side, taken care of her and the baby.

To Liu, it would stil have been a disgrace he couldn’t abide. He stil would have cast Meili aside. And he stil would have hated and resented Wal ace. But Meili would have been alive today.

None of that could be undone. But Liu’s retaliation—to maliciously, deliberately rob a five-year-old child of her life? No one short of a monster could do that.

And the bastard wasn’t finished.

Wal ace might have been blind before, but his eyes were wide open now. He knew Liu’s plans for him were building steam. He’d already stripped him of everything he held dear. The only thing left to bring Wal ace to his knees was criminal prosecution. Liu would find a way to alert the authorities to the stolen paintings in Wal ace’s private col ection. Then, he’d manage to keep his own name out of it and frame Wal ace for stealing al those works of art.

Johnny Liu wasn’t a patient man. Time was of the essence.

Wal ace’s entire col ection would have to immediately be disassembled and moved to the rustic little cottage in the Catskil s that he’d purchased some fifteen years ago. The cottage was set on twenty acres on top of a rol ing hil . He’d original y bought it for investment and recreational purposes. But after 9/11, he’d carved a hidden underground bunker into the beautiful hil side. At the time, he’d been thinking of preservation of life and the salvage of his most precious possessions.

Now he was fighting for his freedom.

He’d clear out his col ection later tonight, pack up his car, and leave at dawn for the drive to upstate New York.

He’d be home before any suspicions were raised.

The three vehicles turned onto Crosby Street and paused.

No traffic ahead.

The van and one of the cars proceeded down the narrow street, while the wel -worn gray Honda Accord stayed behind, maneuvering itself perpendicularly, blocking al vehicles from passing. The driver shut off the vehicle, yanked out the ignition key, and tossed the key fob belonging to the dead alarm-company employee under the front seat and out of sight.