Drawn in Blood Read online

  “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 collected some expensive pieces from his travels, that he and his wife were fairly well 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 full-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’ll tell 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 spill her guts if she chooses not to—with or without a confrontation. One thing’s for sure—if she planned to tell 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 all knew what the wiretap on Xiao Long’s phone had revealed last night. They all knew about his relationship with Sloane. And they all knew it was her parents’ house that had been robbed.

  He couldn’t look at their curious expressions anymore.

  He poured a cup of coffee and kept walking. He hoped one of the interviewing rooms was empty. It was either that or a men’s room stall. He really needed to be alone or he’d explode. And this situation warranted logic, not emotion.

  Easier said than done.

  He rounded the corner to the interviewing rooms. The first one was occupied. So was the second. He was about to turn away when he happened to glance inside—and what he saw made him stop dead in his tracks. There, deep in discussion with his subject, was SA Rich Williams.

  Rich was the senior agent on the Art Crime Team, and one of the SAs Derek most respected. Silver-haired and distinguished, Rich handled cases of art theft, art fraud—you name it. He’d been doing it for decades, since long before the Art Crime Team was officially formed several years back. He often worked undercover, especially when the case he was cracking was international in scope.

  He and Derek had met more than twelve years ago, during Derek’s initial training at Quantico, when Rich had given a guest lecture on interstate trafficking of stolen property. Derek had been so impressed by the colorful agent—his knowledge and insights—that he’d waited until after the lecture and introduced himself, asking half a dozen questions. Rich had been generous with his time, and was as impressed by Derek’s big-picture mentality as Derek was by Rich’s experience and expertise.

  Since then, they’d stayed in touch, especially after Derek was transferred to Rich’s home turf—the New York Field Office. They caught a drink together when Rich’s time permitted, and talked Bureau politics, world events, and life in general. They also made sure to good-naturedly one-up each other on the subject of the military, since Derek was a former Army Ranger and Rich was a former marine.

  The Art Crime Team was part of the Major Theft Squad, which was also on the twenty-second floor. So seeing Rich interviewing a subject here wasn’t what startled Derek. What startled him was the man being interviewed.

  Matthew Burbank.

  For a long moment, Derek peered through the glass, watching Matthew’s body language as he answered Rich’s questions. He was definitely unsettled. Then again, Rich had a way of doing that to people. With his laid-back demeanor and that great poker face, he usually threw people off and found a way to make them talk.

  Filled with questions of his own, Derek turned away long enough to stop a computer tech who was passing by. “Hey, Gus, do me a favor,” he said. “Poke your head in there and ask Agent Williams to step outside for a minute. And don’t mention my name in front of the guy he’s interviewing, okay?”

  Gus looked perplexed, but he nodded. “Okay.” He walked over, knocked on the door, and went inside long enough to follow Derek’s instructions.

  Without a flicker of reaction, Rich came to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said to Matthew. “This will only take a moment.” He buttoned his blazer and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  He spotted Derek right away, even as Gus explained that it was Agent Parker who wanted to see him.

  “That’s fine, Gus. Thanks.” Rich looked more intrigued than surprised to see Derek. He waited until the computer tech had continued on his way before speaking his mind. “That was fast. How did you find out I was interviewing Burbank?”

  “I didn’t.” Derek’s reply was equally as direct. “I just happened to walk by and see you.” His gaze flickered from Rich’s face to inside the room where Matthew was fidgeting. “What’s this about?”

  “Long story.” Concisely, Rich filled Derek in on the two copies of Dead or Alive and the sketchy provenance his team had pieced together on each. “Given your relationship with Burbank’s daughter, I planned to run all this by you after I heard what Burbank had to say. If any additional facts or perspective exist that you can provide, I want them. As of now, I have no reason to suspect the man of anything, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “But the wrong place happened to be in Hong Kong,” Derek muttered, frowning as he contemplated what Rich had told him. “And the wrong time happened to be when a murder was committed there, in a region where murders are rare. That’s one too many coincidences to me, in light of what happened last night.”

  “Last night?”

  Derek told Rich about the burglary, and about the tidbit C-6 had picked up on Xiao Long’s wiretap.

  “Interesting.” Rich ingested that thoughtfully. “Burbank never mentioned the break-in. I’ll bring up the subject, and ask him about that omission as soon as I go back in there. He’s probably just shell-shocked. And, other than the nationality of the criminals, there’s nothing linking the two incidents, and nothing tying Burbank and his investment group to the murder.”

  “His group sold the murder victim one of the Rothbergs.”

  “Yes, but the paper trail tells us they sold Cai Wen the original, not the fake. That eliminates motive. And Cai Wen wasn’t exactly squeaky clean. We’re still investigating him and his clientele, but it looks like it runs the gamut—from trustworthy to questionable. Any of the questionables could have been involved. There’s also a gap in the provenance. No sales records for the painting from when Cai Wen was killed in 1995 until the painting resurfaced five years later in the private gallery of a Dutch collector.”

  “Did you question the collector?”

  “He died of natural causes a few years ago, and his heirs recently submitted Dead or Alive to Sotheby’s for auction. The painting showed up in their current catalog at the same time the forgery showed up in the Christie’s catalog. That’s where we came in.”

  “So whoever killed Cai Wen stole the painting and sold it to an anonymous source.”

  “Where it could have changed hands any number of times before finding its way to the Netherlands.”

  “Talk about complicated.” Derek whistled, and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Welcome to my world.” Rich gave
a tight-lipped smile. “For what it’s worth, I’ve spent the last hour interviewing Burbank, and I’d be really surprised if he’s involved with organized crime. If this Xiao Long is targeting him, it’s probably because he saw or heard something he shouldn’t have. But I tell you what. I’ll find a way to drop in your Dai Lo’s name, just to see if Burbank reacts. If there’s a connection, I’ll spot it. And I’ll stop by your desk afterward to fill you in.”

  “That works.”

  Rich had just turned to go back into the interviewing room when another agent from the Major Theft Squad strode over. “Rich. Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got an urgent phone call from Interpol. The Museo de Arte Moderno in Bilbao was just hit. The story is already breaking on Fox News and CNN.”

  “On my way.” Rich was already in motion. “Do me a favor,” he directed his coworker. “I’m interviewing someone—Matthew Burbank—in there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the interviewing room. “Would you just tell him something urgent came up, and ask him to please wait. Tell him I’ll be in as soon as I can.” A quick glance at Derek. “Somehow I doubt you want to do it.”

  “You got that right.”

  Rosalyn Burbank sank back in one of the pebbled chocolate leather sofas in her living room. Gratefully, she accepted the cup of tea her daughter had brought her, at the same time turning her trained smile on Derek.

  “I appreciate your dropping by, Derek. I also apologize for the mess. The cleaning team I hired is still putting things back in order. But, as you can see, we’re almost there. Myself included.” Gingerly, she rubbed the side of her head. “No permanent damage. Certainly nothing that won’t return to normal in a few days.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Derek stood against the far wall of the living room, his arms folded across his chest, his body language conveying that he had no intention of making this a long visit. “Sloane said you defended yourself like a pro. Maybe you should take up Krav Maga and give your daughter a run for her money.”

  Amusement flickered in Rosalyn’s eyes. “I don’t think so. Not at this stage of my life. But, you never know. I did knee one of those animals in the groin. I hope he’s doubled over for weeks.” Her smile vanished. “I just wish I’d understood what they were saying. I should have joined Sloane on those trips she took to the Far East with her father. Then maybe I could tell the police something useful. As it is, all I’m sure of is that the thieves sounded like they were young—early twenties. And they weren’t speaking Mandarin; I have a feel for that from hearing Matthew on the phone. Their phrases sounded way too guttural. Not that that’s helpful. There are more Chinese dialects than I can count. And frankly, my main focus was on keeping myself alive. So I couldn’t give the detectives much to go on.”

  “I’m sure you told them whatever you could.” Derek felt Sloane’s probing stare. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she was trying to gauge his real reason for dropping by. And if that reason was to pry information out of her mother, she’d be applying the brakes—forcibly.

  Derek could have saved her the aggravation. Whatever information he wanted, he wanted from her, not her mother.

  Purposefully, he straightened. “I’m sure the NYPD launched a full-scale investigation. They’ll come up with answers. I’m just glad to see you looking so well,” he concluded, his brows lifting in question. “Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow Sloane for a while—if you feel up to sparing her.”

  Realization flashed in Rosalyn’s eyes. “This is the week you’re supposed to move into the cottage.” She shot Sloane a rueful look. “I’m sorry. I forgot all about it. This must have caused a major chink in your plans.”

  “Not at all.” Derek answered before Sloane could. “Given the circumstances, I assumed Sloane would want to be here with you. Besides, moving’s a bigger hassle than I thought, especially since I’m practically married to my job. So I’ll spend my evenings driving boxes over to New Jersey. Sloane’s welcome to stay at my place until you’re fully recovered.”

  “Nonsense.” Rosalyn waved away the idea. “Matthew hired a private nurse until my hospital recheck at the end of the week. After that, it’ll be business as usual. Now go.” Another wave, this time toward the door. “Both of you. Stop by your place and pick up the hounds. Take them for a walk. Then plan your move. I’m absolutely fine.”

  Sloane hesitated, clearly not eager to talk to Derek alone.

  “Go on,” Rosalyn reiterated, shooing her daughter off. “Your father’s due home soon anyway. He had an early morning meeting. And Lana, my nurse, is in the kitchen, getting my pain medication. So I’m in excellent hands.”

  “Okay.” Sloane relented, scooping up her jacket. “But I’ll be back later to check on you.”

  Ignoring her mother’s protests, Sloane led Derek out of the apartment. She made sure to double-lock the front door.

  The elevator ride was silent, and there was definite tension in the air.

  Sloane turned up her jacket collar as they stepped outside and began to walk. “It’s cooler than I realized.”

  “Don’t,” Derek stated flatly.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Patronize me with small talk. It’s not going to work. Something’s going on. And you’re going to tell me what it is.”

  Sloane blew out a breath. “If this is about your moving in, I’m not getting cold feet. Just be patient for a few more days, a week tops. Once my mother’s gotten the green light from her doctor…”

  “Cut it out, Sloane. I mean it. I’m not talking about the move. It’s waited this long. It can wait another week. This is about whatever’s going on with your father.”

  “Their place being robbed and my mother being knocked unconscious isn’t enough?”

  “It’s plenty. But you’re keeping something from me. We’re not going that route—not again. So I’m asking you straight out—what is it?”

  Sloane stopped dead in her tracks, ignoring the pedestrian traffic that parted to get around them, and the glares of the people as they passed by. She turned to face Derek. “Fine. I won’t patronize you. And I won’t lie to you. I’ll just say that I’m not at liberty to discuss this. It’s confidential. Which is no different than it would be with any other client.”

  Client privilege. So she was playing it that way.

  Derek was almost relieved. At least she was being straight with him, even if she was ducking his question with a ridiculous excuse. “I understand.”

  Surprised darted across Sloane’s face. “Do you?”

  “Better than you think.”

  “And you’re going to just leave it at that?” she asked warily.

  “Now that I didn’t say. I do understand. I don’t like it, but I understand. So I’ll follow your rules and be just as vague as you’re being.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you’ll never guess who I spotted at the New York Field Office an hour ago. Then again, I’m sure you already know. That must have been where his morning meeting was.”

  Sloane didn’t flinch. “Fine. So you saw my father.”

  “Last I heard, it was the NYPD who handled routine burglaries. Then again, this wasn’t about the burglary, was it?”

  No response.

  “Did I ever mention to you that I have a close colleague at the Major Theft Squad? Actually, he’s the senior agent on the Art Crime Team.”

  This time, Sloane started.

  “Ah. So you get my drift. Any idea what the Art Crime Team wants with your father? Because I’d much rather hear it from you than the other way around.”

  Sloane’s eyes began to blaze. “Why are you so interested in this?”

  “Because I think you’re in over your head. And I don’t think even you know how far.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Xiao Long, or “Little Dragon,” as his street name translated into English, crossed the street with his driver, who also served as his bodyguard. The driver unlocked the doors of Xiao’s Mercedes sedan, and Xia
o slid into the backseat. He popped a couple of aspirin in his mouth, swallowing them with a gulp of bottled water. His head ached from the effort of carrying on a conversation in unbroken English. His client, the rich collector Wallace Johnson, was a world traveler, so he spoke some Mandarin and Cantonese, but not enough to conduct a whole business exchange. So they used English. As for Xiao’s native dialect of Fukienese? That was far too low-class for Johnson. Xiao was too low-class for Johnson. The old man treated him like a stupid delivery boy. Which, in his eyes, he was.

  The irony of that was almost funny. Education didn’t make a man smart, only well read. Xiao was smart. It was he who was the spider, and Johnson the fly. The pathetic old fool had no idea who he was dealing with, or the power he wielded.

  He’d shudder if he knew the lengths Xiao had gone to in order to secure his position. And he’d be terrorized if he knew how far Xiao would be willing to go to preserve and increase his power.

  Success was his. He was already the Dai Lo of the Red Dragons, hand chosen and sent to the United States by the triad’s Dragon Head himself. And that was just the beginning. He’d come from nothing, clawed and killed his way to something, and stood on the brink of becoming the supreme leader.

  And Johnson? He was on his way to hell.

  Xiao ordered his driver to go. The bodyguard obeyed instantly, inserting the key in the ignition and turning over the motor. The car hummed to life. Xiao gazed across the street at the sprawling manor as they pulled away from the curb. Then, he plucked the disposable cell phone out of his jacket pocket. It had been purchased for him by one of his Red Dragon kids this morning.

  The first call he made was to the bank. This time speaking in Cantonese, he confirmed that the wire transfer was complete. All of the five hundred thousand dollars that had been deposited in his Cayman Islands account earlier this week had been transferred to the designated account in Hong Kong. Ten percent of the full five million the Cassatt was worth when it hung in the Museo de Arte Moderno. An excellent price for a stolen masterpiece that would be far too recognizable to sell. Then again, the world would never see this painting again. Its buyer had other plans.