Drawn in Blood

  “Dad, you’re overreacting,” Sloane said in an even tone. Not that what he’d just said hadn’t occurred to her. It had. But Xiao Long had enough eyes and ears of his own to get that information. And, whenever possible, he’d much rather rely on his own Red Dragons than involve a stranger.

  “Am I?” Matthew demanded.

  “Yes. Gaining access to your apartment is one thing. Setting up a kidnapping and murder like the KGB is something entirely different. Let’s not blow things out of proportion.”

  “Blow things out of proportion?” Matthew stared at his daughter, sheer panic in his eyes. “How much worse can things get?”

  “Matthew, put out the cigarette,” Rosalyn said in a firm, no-nonsense tone. “Destroying your lungs isn’t going to make this go away.”

  Sloane jumped on that. “I thought you were cutting down,” she grilled her father.

  “I was. Until this nightmare started.” Matthew ignored his wife’s demand and took another long drag of his cigarette. “Does it really matter anymore? We live like prisoners, with FBI agents in our home and guarding us wherever we go. We’re still part of the Bureau’s investigation, one that you can’t talk about, but I’m sure it runs deeper than either your mother or I know. We’re dealing with a killer who almost murdered your mother, and who’ll do whatever he has to to protect himself. And now we’re hearing that someone we know is in on this, and had a hand in helping with the break-in. Hell, maybe for a little extra cash, they’ll let themselves into our apartment one night and finish us off.”

  “Stop it, Dad.” Sloane yanked the cigarette out of his hand and stubbed it out, tossing the butt in the ashtray. “No one’s getting into this apartment, not with the FBI here. No one’s going to hurt you or Mom. And no one’s going to get away with this. I’ll make sure of that. Now please, start compiling that list. And you can leave out the apartment’s architect, builder, and real estate agent, along with the co-op office. The floor plans they have are generic, and none of them has a key to your apartment.”

  “So you already got started on this,” Matthew said.

  “Yesterday. You and Mom were unavailable, so I stuck with an impersonal list. I felt I should talk to you before I went any further. This is bound to be uncomfortable for you. No matter how tactful I am, I’m bound to piss off some people with my questions.”

  “I don’t really give a damn.” Rosalyn had already stood up and used her good arm to grab a pad and pen. “I piss people off every day. And that’s just by doing my job. This is a lot more serious than negotiating a book deal. I was nearly killed. If our neighbors and the building staff can’t deal with your probing, then screw them.”

  “I agree,” Matthew concurred instantly.

  “Then that’s settled.” Rosalyn pulled her chair close to Matthew’s and put the pad and pen on the table in front of him. “It’s easier for you to write. We’ll break this down by categories: neighbors, service people, building staff. That’ll make it easier for Sloane.”

  “That would be great, thanks.” Sloane noticed that her mother didn’t mention friends or acquaintances in her breakdown list. That meant she wasn’t even thinking in that direction. If she was, she would have confronted Sloane head-on. Maybe it was better that way. Let her parents focus on the path she’d planned on them taking anyway. Later, if it came down to it, she’d hit them with the ugly possibility that one of their friends—or partners—was the accomplice they were seeking.

  If it came down to it.

  Sloane extracted a few sheets of paper from her tote bag. “The FBI faxed me a copy of the police report. It details all the people they interviewed after the break-in. Take a look at it, see who’s applicable, and I’ll start with them while you write up your list.”

  “We will.” Curbing his apprehension, Matthew took the police report and glanced over it. “As far as I’m concerned, you can talk to all these people. Roz?” He showed the report to his wife.

  She nodded. “Go for it.”

  “Okay.” Sloane took back the list and headed for the front door. “I’ll check back in a little while.”

  Armed with a handful of people to interview, Sloane took the elevator down to the lobby. Might as well start on the ground level and work her way up. She stepped outside to talk to the doorman, and winced when she saw who was on duty. Bernie Raskin. This was going to be tough. Given that her parents had sublet their apartment during their short-term retirement, and moved right back in when they returned, Sloane had known Bernie for a decade. He was a gentle, polite sweetheart of a guy, who was always smiling and never had a bad word to say about anyone. Sloane could no more picture him aiding and abetting than she could a boy scout.

  Regardless, she couldn’t exclude anyone. The good news was that Bernie hadn’t been on duty the night of the burglary. So she wouldn’t be impugning his character with her questions. On the other hand, he had a tight friendship with the other three doormen who manned the entranceway on a rotating basis. He was bound to resent any implication Sloane made that any of them might be guilty of this.

  Well, she’d known this wasn’t going to be fun. Nevertheless, it had to be done.

  She took a deep breath and approached Bernie.

  Diagonally across the street, eating a hot dog and ostensibly scanning a college textbook, was a young Asian man. He blended right in with the pedestrian traffic, looking like every other New York college student. Except that on his right arm, concealed beneath his baggy army jacket, was a fiery Red Dragon tattoo.

  Sitting against a tree, he was careful to keep his distance so he wouldn’t be spotted by whatever security the FBI had guarding the place. At the same time, he had a bird’s-eye view of Matthew Burbank’s apartment building—and his daughter.

  She’d been there for over an hour, he noted, biting into his hot dog and watching her exit the building and walk over to the doorman. Adjusting his Yankee hat, he focused in on the exchange. It started casually enough, but got real heavy real fast. The doorman was pissed, that was for sure. He stiffened up and took a step back, whipping his head from side to side in a way that said “no friggin’ way” as clearly as if he’d shouted the words across the street. As Burbank’s daughter continued to press her point, he stopped talking altogether, shutting her down with an emphatic gesture, his hand slicing the air with absolute, dismissive conviction.

  Lucky for her that her interrogation session had gone south in a hurry. It had better stay that way.

  Because if the Dai Lo heard otherwise, she wouldn’t be around much longer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Peggy Sun took a few steps back to scrutinize her initial handiwork.

  In her mind, the canvas was still primarily bare. The lush green background was well under way, in both color and texture. But the little girl, the details of her features, the fluidity of her motion—all that was yet to be captured and re-created.

  A contemporary art piece would have been far easier to copy under these tight time parameters. With its broader strokes and more abstract concepts, contemporary art was more forgiving in its replication. And the process moved quickly. But a painting like this—detailed, rich with specific character expression, individualistic traits, and movement—it was Impressionism at its best, and a very tall order to replicate. At 13.5 by 10.5 inches, it was one of Renoir’s smaller paintings. Also one of his lesser known—and therefore less widely recognized. But Peggy approached her job as if she were copying La Lecture, the breathtaking depiction of two young girls studying at their desk that was currently hanging in the Louvre and was scrutinized on a daily basis by some of the most discerning art connoisseurs in the world.

  Totally immersed in her craft, Peggy didn’t hear Cindy come upstairs to the loft. Tucked away on the apartment’s second floor and reachable only by an inconspicuous back staircase, the loft was an artist’s haven. Peggy did all her work there, both for the solitude that inspired creativity and the privacy that ensured no intruders.

  “Incr
edible replica,” Cindy praised as she rounded the top of the staircase and caught a glimpse of Peggy’s canvas.

  “Partial replica,” her friend corrected, still studying what she’d painted thus far. “It’s still very much a work in progress. And Renoir? It’s humbling to try to emulate that level of genius.”

  Cindy shook her head, an expression of sheer disbelief crossing her face. “You’re a genius yourself. Every brushstroke is like a caress. Watching you paint is watching a love scene unfold.”

  “Thank you,” Peggy replied with simple gratitude. “I hope I can live up to your uncle’s expectations.”

  “You always do.” Balancing the heavy vase she was carrying, Cindy moved closer, taking in the astonishing similarities between the original and Peggy’s emerging forgery. “I know how disappointed you were that you only got one of the two Renoirs to copy. But, as we both know, the other original was sold—at an exorbitant price. Especially considering it’s never going to be seen.”

  “Except by the buyer.”

  “Yes, except by the buyer. Speaking of whom, look what just arrived.” Cindy waited until Peggy turned around, so she could watch her reaction to the vase of magnificent pink roses. “Two dozen,” Cindy clarified, placing the vase on a nearby table so they could both admire it. “From the buyer of our other Renoir.”

  With that, she pulled out the card and offered it to Peggy.

  “‘Congratulations on a stunning debut,’” Peggy read aloud. “‘Let’s celebrate over dinner. You choose the where and when. With great admiration, Wallace.’” Lowering the card, Peggy made a gesture of proud recognition. “In the realm of great work, you accomplished even more than I did, and a whole lot faster. From a man who’s barely come out of his shell for almost two years, Mr. Johnson is certainly chomping at the bit. A bouquet worthy of a bride, and a dinner invitation with terms dictated by you. And all after one successful event that was supposedly a mere business endeavor. Brava.”

  Cindy shrugged off the compliment and gave the roses an appreciative sniff. “Let’s not give me too much credit. You said yourself he was mesmerized by my resemblance to Meili.”

  “Oh, he was. I watched him staring at you and hungering over the past. But you’re the one who played the part. The incentive for him is far greater this time. Meili was a reckless child. You’re a shrewd and accomplished woman. And there’s no wife standing in the way. So the tables will be turned. You’ll be the one pulling the strings.”

  Cindy straightened up and grinned. “I think I’ll start pulling now. A thank-you phone call setting our dinner date is in order. My A Sook already shipped the gift. It will be a lovely presentation.” She lifted the vase and headed for the stairs. “We have to display these, of course. And since no one is allowed up here but us, I think the living room table would be best. A centerpiece, drizzled with sunlight.”

  “Moonlight,” Peggy amended. “You’re having dinner. The evening could run late.”

  “Right.” Cindy paused, thinking. “Friday night is too soon. Saturday night is too intimate. Besides, he spends the weekends in the Hamptons.”

  “Not if you gave him reason not to. If you chose a weekend night for your dinner, I’m sure he’d stay at his Manhattan town house.”

  “Maybe. But I’d rather wait.” Cindy’s eyes twinkled. “Who knows when I might want to spend a weekend in East Hampton—after an appropriate amount of time has passed, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “What would you think about next week, say Tuesday?”

  “I’d say it’s a good choice. It’s enough time to make you look interested but not overeager. Oh, and I’d say wear your turquoise silk blouse. It looks gorgeous on you. He’ll be captivated.”

  Cindy’s laughter trailed behind her as she descended the stairs. “Then Tuesday and the turquoise silk it is.”

  Phil Leary’s hand was shaking as he hung up the phone. When the call had come in from his bookie, Ardian Sava, he thought it would be routine—a hot tip on next week’s race and a reminder of the hefty wad of cash he owed.

  It was anything but.

  Sava had gotten wind from a reliable source that someone was trying to dig up dirt on Phil’s background, who he associated with and his recreational spending habits. They were nosing around at the track to find out how much time he spent there. They’d even contacted two Vegas casinos to determine his gambling habits and the frequency of his visits.

  No surprise that Sava was freaked out. The hotheaded Albanian had told Phil not to contact him until this fishing expedition blew over—except to pay him his money. All of it.

  Phil didn’t even have half. But that was the least of his problems. If this got out, it could ruin his career. It could ruin his life.

  And, depending upon who’d ordered this investigation, it could end it.

  Automatically, he grabbed the phone and punched in Leo’s number.

  Wallace felt unusually peaceful.

  Downstairs in his private haven, he sank back in his chair and soaked up the beauty of his personal gallery. The newly purchased Renoir had been well worth waiting for. He’d completed the transaction and hung it just hours earlier. And already it was enhancing the room.

  The little girl in the painting was far off in the background, her features and expressions indistinct, creating a haunting, surreal effect. Her coloring was perfect, as was the hue of her frock. The full impact made it all the more effortless to lose himself in it. Especially given the focus of the painting—the breathtaking field of wildflowers spread out before the little girl, and her fascination with it. Her basket was beside her, and she was squatting down, reaching for another of the identical flowers she clutched in her hand.

  Daisies.

  When Wallace had first held the painting in his hands and scrutinized it up close, he’d felt that familiar constriction in his throat and chest, that pain that shot through his soul. But now, studying it as it hung in its carefully chosen spot on the wall adjacent to his chair, he felt oddly at peace.

  The pain was still there. But so was an odd sense of comfort.

  He shut his eyes, letting memories wash over him. He couldn’t explain why the sharp agony was softened by a feeling of peace. Maybe it was because his collection was almost complete, the sole bare spot on the wall across the room waiting for the masterpiece that would be the culmination of it all.

  And maybe it was because he was experiencing the unexpected and ever-so-slight longing to live again.

  The vision of wildflowers in his mind transformed into a vision of pink roses—and their recipient.

  Cindy had been touched by and appreciative of his gesture. She’d expressed her thanks with genuine warmth, and they’d made dinner plans for this coming Tuesday night.

  He was looking forward to the evening. Yes, he understood that a portion of the conversation would be about the cocktail party invitations that had been pouring in from eager new clients she’d met at her gallery debut. And, yes, he knew that another portion of the conversation would be about the future plans her uncle had for her success.

  But Wallace was hoping that they’d have more, much more, that they could talk about.

  Sloane felt sapped in more ways than one as she drove away from the Hospital for Special Surgery and her hand therapy session that evening. It had been quite a harrowing day. Poor Connie. She’d had to work like a demon just to relax Sloane’s hand enough to unclench it and massage the remaining scar tissue on her palm.

  Of course she’d asked why Sloane was so wound up. And there was very little Sloane could reveal. So she emphasized the personal part. She told Connie that she was working on a high-profile case that was pitting her and Derek against each other, and that they were fighting like cats and dogs.

  The male-female bickering Connie understood well. She commiserated with Sloane about men and their pigheadedness. But she’d also reminded her how hard she and Derek had worked to find their way back to each other after their break-up in C
leveland.

  Sloane didn’t need any reminders of how destructively each of them had behaved after the robbery that resulted in her hand being slashed. Derek had pressured her to stay with the Bureau, injury be damned, showing the compassion of a stone wall. She, in turn, had shut him out, showing the maturity of a child.

  But wanting to be together didn’t mean either one was willing to take the subordinate role. And this case was a grueling test of their relationship.

  Especially since the sides were unbalanced. She was operating alone, with no backup, and no time to hire the right resources. Whereas Derek had not only himself but also the manpower of both C-6 and the Art Crime Team, not to mention whatever confidential human sources he called upon to fully investigate every man in her father’s partnership.

  The scales were tipped in his favor.

  As luck would have it, today she’d taken a detour that might just untip them.

  She’d spotted the lanky Asian kid while she was talking to Bernie. After that, he’d been on her tail all day. She’d purposely tested him, overtly talking to the apartment maintenance staff outside so he could see, and hopefully hear, her. She’d also made it a point to catch most of the neighbors on her parents’ list as they entered or left the building, initiating the conversations she needed to have in full view of her Red Dragon shadow.

  She’d then walked three blocks at lunchtime for a sandwich, taken the long route back to her parents’ place, and still the punk was half a block behind.

  Finally. She’d been added to the list of Burbanks that Xiao Long considered to be a threat. He was definitely keeping an eye on her. Excellent. It was time to up the stakes and give him something real to worry about. That would make her more vital to the Bureau, and shift Xiao Long’s focus from her parents to her.