Drawn in Blood, Page 3

  “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 still. “You’d better explain.”

  “I don’t know his name. But I saw his face—clearly. We all 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 killer.” 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, pulled out the empty file folder and the fortune cookie, complete with message. “He left me these.”

  Sloane glanced over all 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 calls since I saw them a few hours ago. But that doesn’t surprise me. Even though the killer’s aware that the art investment group had a handful of members, the signature on the bill 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 filled 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 pulled up to the curb where I was standing. The man who got out—it was him. It might be fourteen years later, but I’ll 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 full 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 killer. 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 fell 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 fall apart this way—albeit for a very real and terrifying reason—made Sloane feel ill. Ill 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 tall 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—mentally, physically, and psychologically.

  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 well 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 all. I just wanted to forget.”

  “Yes, well, 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. How long do you think it’s going to take before they connect the two?”

  “There’s no reason they ever should—unless you tell 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 kill 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. Especially after what happened tonight. If I open my mouth, I’ll be the subject of an investigation, and our family will 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 calling 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’ll call them.”

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

  “Don’t thank me. Gut instinct tells 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’ll 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.

  Automatically, 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 still prominent.

  Her injury was her Achilles’ 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 killer’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 cell phone. “I’ll make arrangements right away. After that, I want to go inside and see Mom. Oh, and I’ll 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 tell Derek?” Her father asked the million-dollar question.

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

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BILBAO, SPAIN

  Dressed in white coveralls, the team of Albanian gunmen kept their heads lowered as they pushed the maintenance carts across the plaza. They looked like custodial workers—nondescript, virtually invisible to the patrons exiting the museum. Their caps were pulled 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 all 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 killed 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—especially 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 well-trained team entered the display of nineteenth-and twentieth-century paintings. They headed first for the Cassatt. The tallest gunman pulled out a pair of wire cutters and snipped the wires that suspended the painting from the ceiling. He then turned to the adjacent wall 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 pulled 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 bullets 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. Bullets 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 still 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 called twice from the hospital, both times giving him brief updates on her mother’s condition, both times cutting the conversation short. When she’d finally gotten back to his place, she’d looked like hell—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 fallen 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 hopefully, 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 illegal 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. Especially 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—well established, financially 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 d
anger 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 respectfully 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 equally 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 Hollywood versions, the New York Field Office was usually a tall 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 all. Too bad reality didn’t emulate fiction. Bureau employees would be in hog heaven inside one of those TV buildings—glass-walled offices and spacious cubicles, all 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 formally 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?”