“This whole situation is impossible,” she finally determined aloud. “We can’t change who we are. And we can’t seem to table it, not even when it comes to separating our personal and professional lives. Look at your reaction in Tony’s office. You shot down my idea of becoming part of the investigation simply because you were worried that I was setting myself up as a target. Would you have done that if it had been anyone but me making that stipulation? Especially if that anyone had my experience, my credentials?”
Derek rolled his wine goblet between his palms. “No,” he stated flatly. “I wouldn’t have.” He pinned her with his gaze. “So what’s the solution? Do you want to change your mind and bow out?”
“Of what? The investigation or our living together?”
“You tell me. Which means more to you?”
There it was. Out in the open, just like the last time. Only Sloane had learned a lot since then.
“You’re testing me,” she replied. “I don’t like it, but I know where it’s coming from. So I’ll surprise you. I’ll answer—honestly. No, I’m not going to walk away from us. No, I won’t put an investigation ahead of what we have. But I also won’t bow out of this case. Not unless you force me to. In which case, it’s you who haven’t learned anything from the past.”
She knew she’d gotten through by the expression on Derek’s face.
“You’re right,” he acknowledged. “My being a hard-ass will only make things worse. So how do we handle this?”
“The way I see it? One minefield at a time. We’ll butt heads, constantly rip each other a new one, and with any luck, come out alive and together.”
A flicker of amusement. “Sounds like the story of our relationship.”
“More or less.”
Derek reached across the island and held out his right hand, palm out. “Truce?”
Sloane eyed him for a moment, then met his handshake. “A reluctant one, but okay, truce.”
“Enough to get me out of the guest room?”
Reflexively, Sloane’s lips twitched. “Barely. And only because you’re so good in bed.”
A broad grin. “Works for me. Want to try out our truce now? You look very sexy in that nightshirt.”
“After I finish my wine and brie. And after you fill me in on this Dai Lo, Xiao Long, and his enforcer, Jin Huang, who my parents’ descriptions helped you sketch and identify.”
“I’ll fill you in, but on a need-to-know basis,” Derek reminded her.
“Agreed. I’ll take what I can get.”
The cemetery was quiet.
Low, moody clouds eclipsed any trace of early morning sun. But it wouldn’t have mattered what the weather was. It was the same ritual each month.
The eleventh. Seven-twenty a.m.
That’s when the medical examiner had declared her dead.
And when life had changed forever.
Whoever originated the phrase “time heals all wounds” was wrong. There were some wounds that nothing could heal. They remained open sores that festered as the years crept by.
He made his way across the cemetery’s manicured lawns, passing headstone after headstone. Each one of them had its own story. But none of them was his.
He reached her graveside and stood reverently before it. The familiar gripping pain constricted his chest. It never got easier. It never would.
He knelt, running his fingers over the etched letters and numbers on the stone, tasting his own tears as they glided down his cheeks.
So young. So innocent. A whole life stretching before her.
Extinguished in one heinous, senseless moment.
It should have been him. If someone had to die, it should have been him.
But it wasn’t.
He took the bouquet of daisies and placed it on her grave. It was always daisies. They were her favorite flower. She’d picked them from the garden on the estate from the time she was two. She’d present them to him like they were a sacred gift, rather than a crumpled tangle of stems.
To him, they were sacred. And so was she.
He bowed his head, let the grief and the guilt consume him. He didn’t pray. He couldn’t. He no longer believed.
Sloane panted as her sneakers pounded rhythmically on the road, the hounds racing along at her side.
The morning was gray. And so was her mood. Something was bothering the hell out of her.
Long after Derek had fallen asleep beside her last night, she’d sat up with the reading lamp on, poring over the portion of Xiao Long’s file that Derek had given her access to.
Detailed accountings of the recent string of burglaries Xiao had orchestrated. The part that his nephew, Eric Hu, and his computer services company had played, electronically equipping every apartment that the Red Dragon kids had hit. All except for the Burbanks’ apartment. The burglary at her parents’ place didn’t fit the pattern—for obvious reasons.
The facts were in order. The conclusions seemed logical.
So what was bugging her?
She’d thrashed around in bed until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Then, she’d leashed up the hounds and gone out for her run, hoping it would clear her head and provide her with an answer.
It did.
Halfway through her jog, the incongruity struck home.
Rosalyn Burbank opened the front door with her good arm when her daughter arrived. She looked peaked but determined, her gaze still dulled by medication, but her power suit saying she was fighting bed rest tooth and nail. She also looked distinctly baffled, and not particularly pleased.
“Sloane.” She gave her daughter a quick hug, then stepped back and glanced at her watch. “I postponed the breakfast meeting with my author for an early lunch. He wasn’t too happy about it, since he’s in New York only another day before he takes off for his European tour. Why did you insist on meeting here, now? What on earth is going on?”
“Hi to you, too, Mom.” Sloane was used to her mother’s type A directness. After all, that’s who she’d inherited it from.
She walked in, hung her jacket on the coatrack, and turned to face Rosalyn as she shut the front door. “Breakfast meeting? You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I rested enough after the concussion. I’m not missing an important client meeting because of a broken arm. But don’t worry. I’m pumped full of painkillers. And I won’t be at the wheel. Special Agent Carter is driving me.” She gestured at the breakfast nook, where Alan Carter was sitting, drinking a cup of coffee. He gave Sloane a brief wave of his hand that looked more like the wave of a white flag of defeat.
Sloane stifled a smile. Babysitting her mother was probably as taxing as working Violent Crimes. “May I have a few minutes alone with my mother?” she asked.
“Of course.” He nearly leaped up. “I’ll go out and stretch my legs, then make sure the car’s brought around.”
“Thank you.” Sloane waited until he was gone. “Are you torturing the poor man?” she asked her mother.
“No, I’m just living my life—which includes meeting my client.” Rosalyn shifted impatiently. “So let’s get to the point of this visit.”
Sloane complied. “Ground rules,” she began. “There’s information I can share with you and information I can’t. So let’s do this my way. No twenty questions.”
“A tall order,” Rosalyn responded drily. “But, fine. I’ll do my best.”
“Good.” Sloane pointed at the door. “I want you to reenact for me exactly what happened the night of the burglary. Start right there, at the front door. Pretend you just got home. Walk in. Look around. Close your eyes when you get to the part where the thieves pulled the sack over your head. That way, you can play it out as you remember it.”
Rosalyn blinked in astonishment. “What good will it do for me to—” She bit off the rest of her question, remembering her promise to Sloane. “I’ve gone over this story a thousand times—with the police, the FBI, and you. I don’t see the point in doing it again.”
“
Humor me.”
An exaggerated sigh. “It couldn’t have been more than a minute from when I walked in and when that ape grabbed me. After that, the bag was over my head, the rag was in my mouth, and the rest happened in darkness.”
“Fine. I still want you to take it from the beginning.”
“Are you saying you want me to stagger blindly around the apartment in the direction I think they dragged me?”
“No. I want you to visualize it in your mind’s eye, step by step, and relive it aloud.”
Rosalyn shot her daughter an exasperated look, but refrained from firing any more questions. “I had my keys, but I didn’t need them. As I told you and the authorities, the apartment door was ajar. I assumed your father forgot to shut it behind him when he got home. I called out to him as I walked in. That’s when the first intruder grabbed me from behind, gagged me, and yanked the sack over my head. I suppose I should be grateful. If I’d seen his face, I’d probably be dead right now. No such luck yesterday.”
“That’s why you’ve got FBI protection. No one’s getting near you,” Sloane said fervently. “Now, I want you to freeze-frame those first few seconds when you stepped through the front door, but before you were assaulted. You had a direct view of the entire living room. What was going on? Was the place wrecked? Was there activity? Movement? Noise?”
A long, intent pause. “No. Nothing. The room looked normal.”
“You also had a good view of the breakfast nook and the kitchen. Were the silverware drawers dumped? Were there pieces scattered around or were they already missing?”
“Again, no. Everything looked to be in place. I’m not stupid enough to stay in an apartment that’s obviously just been burglarized.”
“I agree. One last thing—what about your diamond stud? Dad found it on the floor near the door when he got home.”
Rosalyn arched a brow. “When have you ever known me to overlook a diamond? That pair of studs were two carats each. Your father gave them to me for our twenty-fifth anniversary. If one of them had been lying on the floor, I would have seen it.”
“Good point.” Sloane made the necessary mental note. “Okay, now go on. This time from after you were grabbed. Shut your eyes.”
Rosalyn complied. “I fought that son of a bitch tooth and nail. He wasn’t too tall, but he was strong. He yelled out something in Chinese. Clearly, he was shouting for help from his accomplices, because one of them came running. The two of them dragged me into your father’s office and tied me up in a chair—”
“Stop,” Sloane interrupted. “Were both of the other burglars in Dad’s office when the first one called for help?”
Another pause. “I’d say yes. The footsteps of the one who ran out to help subdue me definitely came from that direction.”
“And the other guy?”
“He had to already be in there when I was brought in. No one came into the office after that. But just before they knocked me out, I heard all three of them talking and arguing. They were all definitely in the room with me.”
“So while you were conscious, no one left to grab the stuff they ripped off? No sound of unplugging components from the entertainment center? No grunting as they hauled off the TV? No clanking of silverware?”
“No. Just a lot of banging and thudding that I now realize were probably the drawers and file cabinets in the office being dumped. I don’t know when they ransacked the rest of the place. It had to be after that second blow to my head, when I was unconscious.”
“They were certainly efficient,” Sloane murmured thoughtfully. “Was there any hesitation in their motions or questions in their voices? Like they were trying to figure out where things were?”
“Not that I recall. I wasn’t exactly coherent. I assume they found what they wanted, robbed us blind, and took off.” Rosalyn opened her eyes and waved her hand in noncomprehension. “What are you getting at?”
“Hopefully, answers.”
“What kind of answers?”
“The kind I don’t think we’re going to like.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ARMONK, NEW YORK
The total worth of multimillionaire Theodore Campbell’s private art collection was not something he publicized. Personal friends and trusted business associates were the only ones privy to the elaborate art gallery he’d built as an adjunct wing to his twenty-acre estate, just thirty-five miles north of Manhattan.
His collection ranged from paintings dating back to the French Renaissance to those created by the world’s greatest Impressionists, to masterpieces of the Modern age. His tastes were eclectic, and his paintings were arranged according to style, each grouping tucked in alcoves all their own. His security system was state-of-the-art, and it would take a veritable genius to crack it.
The armed team approaching the estate wasn’t foolish enough to try.
They’d chosen the time for their hit after the family’s routine had been scrutinized for weeks. From there, it was an easy decision to make.
It was a drizzly October dawn. Saturday morning at 6:45, before the sun and the joggers were up. Not that it mattered. The Campbell estate was set so far back from the road that the manor itself was virtually invisible.
Adhering to their Saturday morning custom, Mr. and Mrs. Campbell were still asleep, as were most of the servants, who were taking advantage of the extra few hours of rest that came with not disturbing the master and mistress. The only ones up and about were the butler, the cook, and the nanny, who was supervising the Campbells’ six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son as they watched early morning cartoons in the den.
The four Black Eagles approached quietly. Three hid in the bushes on either side of the entranceway, ski masks pulled over their heads and faces, weapons loaded and ready.
The leader of the team marched up to the front door. His police uniform was authentic.
He didn’t ring the bell. That would awaken the household. He simply waited until the butler was passing through the foyer. Then, he knocked—two brief, authoritative raps.
Startled, the butler came to a halt, then turned and walked over to the door. “Yes?” he asked through the intercom.
“Police,” the leader replied, keeping his tone low and his words few to hide his accented English. “Silent alarm—rear wing.” With that, he stood tall, directly in front of the video monitor so the butler could see his uniform.
The desired effect was achieved the moment he uttered the phrase “rear wing.” The butler knew what that meant—the master’s revered art collection was in danger.
Without another word, he yanked open the door. “What alarm? The security company—”
The rest of his sentence was silenced by the spray of bullets that blew through his chest.
On cue, the other three Black Eagles appeared, rushing inside as their leader yanked on his ski mask and stormed in behind them. By the time the cook hurried out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was, the assailants were in the den. The cook’s hands flew to her face, and she emitted a muffled shriek as she saw the butler’s crumpled body lying in the foyer, blood oozing from his chest. Inside the den, the nanny cried out in pain, as one of the gunmen dragged her away from her charges and threw her roughly onto the floor.
Two of the gunmen grabbed the two whimpering children, holding each of them in a viselike grip and pointing the MP5Ks at their heads.
“Nobody do anything stupid,” the leader instructed the terrified nanny and cook as he raised his submachine gun, shifting its aim from one woman to the other. “Or my friends blow off kids’ heads. And I use this”—he gave a slight jerk of his gun—“so you both end up like butler.”
An utterly panicked silence filled the air, punctuated by the women’s rapid breathing and the frightened weeping of the children.
A commotion erupted upstairs, and a minute later Theodore and Leona Campbell flew into the room, their bathrobes billowing out around them.
“What the…Oh dear God.” Theodore turned
sheet white when he saw his children being held at gunpoint. Leona let out an agonized scream and flew forward, instinctively trying to reach her beloved children and get them out of danger.
“Stop,” the armed leader commanded, turning his subgun on Leona. “One more step and I kill kids.”
Theodore caught his wife and pulled her back. “Don’t hurt them,” he implored. “Take whatever you want. Just don’t hurt our children.”
“Is up to you. Do as we say, no one gets hurt. Give us trouble, and your wife has good time watching us shoot kids. No send alarm. No call cops. Otherwise, kids will be dead before first cop car gets to house. You understand?”
“Yes,” Theodore agreed.
“Good. Let’s go.” He nudged Theodore with his MP5K, forcing him into the hall. One of the other Black Eagles pushed the nanny and cook into chairs and tied them up back-to-back. Leona he sat directly in front of her children, still being held at gunpoint, and bound her arms behind her and her ankles together.
“Now what?” she whispered, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“You wait.”
The rest went like clockwork. Twenty minutes later, a dozen invaluable paintings were carefully wrapped in the back of their van, and they were on their way to the docks.
The exchange would be made there. And the ship and its new cargo would be in international waters before noon.
The haul was a fine initiation of their American enterprise.
Wallace opened his midtown gallery earlier than usual that day. He’d stayed at his Hamptons estate last night. But he’d never gone to sleep. Instead, he’d sat up all night, staring at the paintings he so loved, and drinking his cognac.
He’d gotten a phone call on his private, unlisted line just before midnight. He knew who it was. And he knew he had to answer—for good or for bad.
This time it was for good.