Drawn in Blood

  The file on Xiao that Derek had given her included the police reports on all the Upper East Side burglaries the Red Dragons had pulled off. There were eight of them, not counting her parents’ place. She had all the names and addresses, as well as a list of items stolen from each apartment.

  Sure enough, every list of stolen items included valuable paintings. And that gave her just the in she needed.

  She didn’t call ahead. That way, no one could refuse to see her. She simply walked from location to location, acknowledging doormen and pressing intercom buzzers. In a clear, official voice—one that the punk tailing her was sure to hear—she introduced herself as a private consultant representing un-disclosed insurance companies who’d paid claims on several of the more valuable paintings taken during their string of neighborhood burglaries. She further informed them that there were similarities between those paintings and the ones taken from their home. It was imperative that she discuss it with them.

  She stopped at all eight apartment buildings, and managed to talk her way into five of them. The Dragon kid who was following her overheard only what she wanted him to. He had no idea what was being said in private. That would freak him out big-time.

  Then came the pièce de résistance. Sloane exited the last building, still scribbling down a few notes. She paused a few steps away, flipped open her cell phone, and punched in a number.

  “Nineteenth Precinct?” she inquired. “This is Sloane Burbank. Could you please connect me with Detective Diane Yuen?” A pause. “Hi, Diane. Listen, are you going to be at your desk for the next hour? Because I’ve got something on the paintings stolen in that string of burglaries you’re investigating. And it’s something you’ll be able to act on faster and with less red tape than the FBI. Can I come by and run it by you? Great. See you in a few.”

  She punched off her phone, silencing the computerized voice at the other end that was providing her with the accurate time and temperature.

  She headed over to the Nineteenth Precinct, had an impromptu cup of sludgy coffee with Diane, whom she’d known for years, and gave her a brief explanation of what she’d done, and what she’d presumably told Diane over the phone.

  Diane started to laugh. “Very creative. Posing as an independent freelance insurance investigator. And, of course, I assume that once you got inside and actually spoke to these people, you let it slip that you’re working on a contingency basis.”

  “You got it.” Sloane grinned back. “Money is a motivator everyone understands. And I admitted that I’d collect a whopping finder’s fee if I recovered the paintings.” She leaned forward. “Between you and me, this was my idea. It’s a little outside the lines, so I figured I’d run it by C-6 after the fact, perhaps later today. So, in the meantime, keep this between us.”

  “Only if, in return, you pass along anything solid that comes out of this.”

  “When I know, you’ll know.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Sloane rose. “I’ve got to get going.” She took a last gulp of coffee and shuddered. “Next time, let’s meet for a real lunch—one where you actually sit down in a restaurant and get coffee that doesn’t taste like it was pumped from the sewer.”

  “That sounds like heaven.” Diane stood up as well, ready to get back to the mounds of paperwork on her desk. “Stay in touch.”

  “I will.”

  Sloane had stopped outside the precinct to glance at her watch, and to make sure Xiao’s guy was still there.

  He was. And her watch told her it was time to head over to HSS and her hand therapy appointment with Connie.

  She chose to walk. He followed her all the way there.

  But he was gone when she came out, and no one followed her to the garage where she’d parked her car.

  Purposely, she took her time getting behind the wheel. She even slipped out of her jacket and tossed it into the backseat, giving herself an extra moment to scan the area. Nope. No shadow.

  Interesting. He’d probably rushed off to fill in Xiao Long. And she’d know soon enough just how rattled the Dai Lo was.

  The drive home was uneventful, although she did glance in her rearview mirror a few times just to make sure. When she was certain she was alone, she turned her thoughts to Derek, and how she was going to handle him.

  He was going to be furious. Not only had she overstepped her bounds without consulting him but she’d also thrown herself right in front of the very moving train he’d warned her against. Professionally and personally, he was going to blast her. And telling him that she was fighting the odds, that she was trying to figure out who’d helped the Red Dragons break into her parents’ apartment while he was working to implicate her father’s closest friends—that wasn’t going to fly. What she’d done today, after questioning the names on her parents’ list, had been totally unrelated to her original task. Instead of hunting down Xiao’s helper, she’d spent the majority of the day intentionally baiting Xiao.

  She steeled herself as she drove through the wooded back roads of Hunterdon County. Connie’s advice had been great—in theory. But Sloane knew that her relationship was about to take another whopping hit.

  Turning up the secluded hill that led to her cottage, Sloane continued the steep climb until she was just one wide curve away from home. She spotted a row of blinking lights blocking the road and she slowed down. It was a line of sawhorses with blinkers closing off the rest of the road. Breaking to a stop, she gave an inward groan. Construction work. There’d obviously been some going on here today. And given the sparse population of the area, no one had bothered moving the barriers for the few vehicles that accessed this section of the hill each night.

  Well, there was no point in bitching, silently or otherwise. At this point, all Sloane wanted to do was to get home and get this fight with Derek over with. Bearing that in mind, she shifted her car into park, put on her hazard lights, and got out. She headed over to the sawhorses to drag them away one at a time.

  She’d just pulled the first sawhorse out of the way when she caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye.

  She whirled around just as the punk who’d been following her all day got in her face. Only this time, he was carrying a long switchblade.

  He didn’t pause. He pivoted slightly, and his arm plunged downward in a sharp diagonal slash. The silver switchblade flashed in the night, and even though Sloane lurched backward instinctively, it managed to slice her right forearm. A burning pain shot through her.

  In that fraction of an instant, she realized her assailant’s intent.

  Xiao Long had ordered him to go for her injured hand.

  Sloane’s Krav Maga training took over and she snapped into defensive mode. The blade was already on its return upward swing, this time aiming directly for her palm.

  Blocking out the pain, Sloane acted. Simultaneously, she shot her feet back, arching forward and thrusting her left forearm down to block his ascending blow, breaking his momentum and halting his arm as it swung up toward her. Her left arm then wound around his blade-wielding hand, trapping it between her left shoulder and wrist.

  The blade toppled from his grasp and clattered to the ground.

  Sloane slammed her right elbow into his nose. He gave a hoarse shout of pain and swore in Fukienese. She ignored both. Still holding his arm immobilized, she grabbed the back of his neck with her right hand, jerking him down and smashing her knee into his groin.

  He made an agonized sound. She released him, and he doubled over and staggered back. As he straightened, she drew her knee up to her chest and shot her leg straight out, connecting squarely with the center of his torso.

  He flew backward from the impact, crashing to the concrete.

  Sloane seized her opportunity. She rushed over, bent down, and snatched up the blade. Turning, she raced back to her car and jumped inside. She floored the gas, swerving around the miserable bastard as he half limped, half crawled toward the woods and escape. Never glancing back, she sp
ed the rest of the way home.

  It was only when she was inside the garage, the car ignition turned off, and the garage door safely down that she became aware of the searing pain in her arm. Reflexively, she glanced down—and went rigid as she saw the stream of blood trickling down her arm to her hand, coating her palm and fingers in that sickly shade of red she remembered all too well.

  For one paralyzed instant she just sat there, horrifying memories flashing through her mind, waves of nausea rolling over her.

  Dizzy and lightheaded, she began to gag, then to retch uncontrollably. Drenched in sweat, she scrambled out of the car and reached for the nearby trash container.

  She vomited until there was nothing left inside her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Derek was in the living room with the hounds. He saw Sloane’s headlights cut the darkness as her car tore down the driveway, taking the curves at a breakneck speed.

  By the time the garage door went up, Derek was on his feet, heading for the side entrance. Moe, Larry, and Curly were on his heels, their shrill barks telling him they could sense something was very wrong.

  He yanked open the door. The automatic light over Sloane’s car was on, illuminating the darkened garage. The door on the driver’s side of her car was ajar. And Sloane was bending over the trash can, her shoulders heaving violently as she threw up.

  Derek was down the steps in an instant. It wasn’t until he got closer that the sickeningly familiar smell of blood invaded his nostrils. Simultaneously, he saw the thin stream of red dripping down Sloane’s forearm, trickling down her wrist and hand, and sliding off her fingers onto the concrete floor. The splotches quickly increased in number.

  His gut clenched.

  He was beside Sloane in a heartbeat. She looked up dazedly as he reached for her, not really seeing him or even being fully aware of his presence. She was in shock, her face sheet white, her eyes huge and haunted.

  Derek knew she was going to pass out even before he caught her.

  When Sloane opened her eyes, she was lying supine on the sofa, her head propped up on cushions. The first thing she saw was the three hounds clustered around her, their expressive little faces filled with distress.

  Recall took an instant.

  Shards of pain jolted her memory.

  She lurched upward, her gaze darting to her right arm, even as Derek eased her back into a reclining position.

  “Sh-h-h, it’s okay,” he said in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “I’ve got it under control.”

  Sloane saw that he had. Her arm was elevated, resting on two sofa cushions, and Derek was using towels to apply direct pressure to the wound. The bleeding had definitely slowed down. There was a small pail with two wash-cloths floating in it sitting on the floor. The water was a nauseating shade of red.

  None of it mattered. There was just one thing Sloane cared about.

  “My hand?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Not even a scratch,” Derek assured her. His tone was soothing, but he looked like hell. “It was just coated with the blood from your arm.” He slid his hand behind her neck and raised her head slightly so she could inspect it herself—just as he had after washing off enough blood to determine the full extent of her injury. “See for yourself.”

  She stared at her hand, turning it palm up, bending and flexing each finger, and feeling a surge of relief that defied words. “Thank God,” she whispered. Her gaze flickered briefly over the towels, then lifted back to Derek’s. “How bad is my arm?”

  “It looks like a flesh wound. But we’re bandaging it and getting you to the hospital.” He leaned over her, scrutinizing her face. “Are you up to the ride if I carry you to the car?”

  Sloane gave him a wan smile. “You don’t have to carry me.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “Yes. I’m up for it.” She paused. “Can we take your car? Mine’s got blood on the seat and the steering wheel…”

  “We’ll take my car,” Derek interjected. He rose, pointing at the towels. “Hold those against your arm while I get bandages.” Waiting until she complied, he turned to leave the room.

  “Derek?”

  He stopped, giving her a questioning look.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

  His jaw was set so tightly, it looked like it might snap. “Oh, I’m going to ask you lots of questions. But first I want to make sure you’re all right. Because after that, and after I hear what you have to say, I have a feeling I might want to kill you myself.”

  Sloane leaned back weakly. “If the hospital doesn’t give me some hard-core painkillers, I might just let you.” She removed her left hand from the towels just long enough to scratch the hounds’ ears. “Don’t worry, you three. I’m fine.” She kissed the tops of their little brown heads, then reached across herself again to continue applying pressure to the wound.

  Derek finished the bandaging process in record time and scooped Sloane up in his arms, along with the warm fleece blanket he’d wrapped her in. Sloane would never admit it, but the truth was she was very happy to be carried to the car. She was still dizzy and nauseous, and the trembling wouldn’t stop. From past experience, she recognized the signs of shock, combined with the adrenaline drop following her combat with Xiao’s punk. She leaned back in the passenger’s seat, her head cradled by the headrest, and tried to do some slow, deep breathing to ease the symptoms.

  Just as Derek started the car, she remembered something, and her head angled toward him. “The switchblade is in my car. It’s a rubber-handled automatic, maybe eight inches long, with a four-inch blade. I don’t know if the prints are too smudged to make out, other than mine. But C-6 can use it any way they need to.”

  “How generous,” Derek said wryly. “And so cooperative, too.”

  “Better late than never.”

  He shot her a sideways look. “You stopped long enough to retrieve the weapon?”

  “I didn’t want him grabbing it. So I did.”

  Derek released the emergency brake. “We’ll talk later. You look like you’re about to faint again.”

  She felt like it.

  “Here. Drink this.” Before Derek shifted into reverse, he handed her a can of cranberry juice and a straw he’d grabbed on the way out. “Just sip. It’ll help.”

  She took the can gratefully. “Thank you—for everything.”

  “Don’t thank me. I still might kill you.” He grunted as he backed out of the two-car garage, then headed down the driveway. “I must be crazy to be in love with you.”

  “Probably.” Sloane smiled faintly, taking a sip of juice. “But I’m glad you are. I was counting on it tipping the scales in my favor when you decided whether or not to kill me.”

  “I wouldn’t get too cocky. I doubt I’ll feel so magnanimous once I know you’re okay, and once you’ve told me what happened and why.” Derek shook his head as Sloane opened her mouth to fill him in. “Not now. Just drink your juice and rest. We’ll talk later.”

  “A reprieve. Thanks.” Sloane leaned back against the headrest again, shock slowly transforming to weariness. “I’m really beat. If it wasn’t for the pain, I’d be nodding off.”

  It was the last thing she said before they reached the hospital.

  She never felt Derek take the can of juice out of her hand and put it in the cup holder. She was out for the count.

  Sloane hated hospitals. Particularly the ER. Nightmarish memories besieged her the minute she inhaled that antiseptic hospital smell. Fortunately, this visit was short.

  Derek filled out the paperwork, and the wait wasn’t nearly as long as it could have been. The doctor who treated her administered a local anesthetic. Then, he cleaned out the three-inch gash, stitched it up, and bandaged it.

  “You were lucky,” he informed her. “It’s a nasty wound, but it only penetrated the flesh. All blood vessels, muscles, and tendons are intact. I’m going to give you a tetanus shot, just to be on the safe side. I’m also goin
g to prescribe an antibiotic to prevent infection, and Percocet for the pain. Make sure to change the bandage daily, and keep it dry for the first three days. I’ll remove the sutures in ten days, so make an appointment. And call immediately if you have any major bleeding or swelling.”

  “I will. Thank you, Doctor.” Sloane waited while he administered the shot and wrote the prescription. Then, she slid off the table and onto her feet, so relieved that her hand wasn’t affected that the pain in her forearm seemed insignificant.

  “And get some rest,” the doctor added.

  “She will,” Derek assured him. He guided Sloane out, signed whatever release papers were necessary, and picked up the two prescriptions.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in the car and on their way home.

  The silence was more ominous than the impending fight.

  “Are we waiting until we get home to get into it?” Sloane asked. “Because we’ve got a twenty-minute drive, and I’d just as soon start the explosion now.”

  “You’ve already been through one ordeal tonight,” Derek replied curtly. “I figured the second could wait until morning.”

  “That won’t work. By morning, you’ll have to file a report and make some decisions. As for me, I’m tired, but I’m fine. The Percocet is starting to work, so the pain is dulling. But that also means I’ll be dulling along with it. So let me fill you in now, while I’m still coherent. You can kill me later, after the narcotics kick in.”

  “Fine. Go for it.”

  Sloane started from the beginning. Her morning visit to her parents. The interviewing of those on their list. The sense that she was being followed. The confirmation that she was, and by whom. The way she’d made sure he knew what she was doing, and why.

  Finally, with no apology in her voice, she told Derek about the way she’d baited the Red Dragon kid. Her ruse. Her invented role as an insurance investigator. Her talk with the other victims of Xiao’s burglaries, based on the fact that they all had works of art stolen. Her pretense about going to the NYPD with some alleged information that she’d fabricated. And the subsequent knife attack by Xiao’s punk in the deserted section of woods right down the road.