Drawn in Blood

  Sloane understood exactly what Derek was saying, and what he wasn’t. “This sucks.”

  “I know.” He cupped the nape of her neck, stroking her skin with his thumb. “Trust me,” he urged quietly. “I won’t go after anyone you care about—not unless they’ve done something that deserves going after. Fair enough?”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  Reluctantly, she nodded. “I’m not happy. I realize you’re more than a little suspicious of Leo, Phil, Wallace, and Ben, and that you’re investigating the hell out of them. On the other hand, I know it has to be done. But not by me. I know I’m way too close to be objective. And I do trust you. So I’ll let you take the lead on this one—as long as you keep me in the loop.” A wry smile. “After all, you are the lead case agent. And I’m a good team player.”

  Derek framed her face between his palms. “I love you.”

  “I know,” Sloane murmured, understanding the depth of what he was saying. No matter what happened or who was guilty of what, the two of them couldn’t let it affect what they had. Not this time.

  She wrapped her fingers around his. “I love you, too.”

  It was late Sunday night, and Sloane was draped across Derek, sound asleep, when Derek’s cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.

  He reached over with his free arm, moving gingerly so as not to disturb Sloane, and flipped open the phone. “You have something for me?” A pause. “No surprise. He’s definitely got that kind of cash. Now find out who he sold them to. I want the answer tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Derek arrived at his desk at seven a.m. As a rule, he took Monday mornings in stride, but on this particular Monday, he did not want to be there—not after the weekend he’d just spent with Sloane. But life and reality had a way of intruding.

  Five minutes later, his phone rang. “Parker,” he answered.

  “Good. You’re in.” Rich knew that most of C-6 started later, since their surveillance took place during the wee hours of the morning, when the drug dealing, gambling houses, and brothels were in full swing. But Derek’s days as an Army Ranger still woke him up at five-thirty a.m., like clockwork. As a former marine, Rich knew the drill. “I thought I saw you pass by.”

  “It’s just me and my coffee. What’s up?”

  “I just hung up with the Hong Kong police. I’ve got some interesting info to discuss with you on the Rothberg provenance.”

  “And I’ve got part of what you need. I’m on my way.”

  Derek grabbed his cup and headed down to the other end of the floor, striding into Rich’s cubicle. “You work fast.”

  “Hey, it’s dinnertime in Hong Kong. I’ve been on the phone since midnight.”

  Derek whistled. “Compared to you, I’m a slacker.”

  “Hardly. I slept all day yesterday. I knew what kind of night it would be.” Rich glanced up, gestured for Derek to have a seat. “How’s Sloane?”

  “Better. I finally got her to relax this weekend. But she’ll go stir-crazy if she’s stuck in today. So my guess is she’s back out there, chasing down leads—by herself, since she refuses to have full-time security on her.”

  “I get the feeling she’s pretty good at taking care of herself,” Rich noted drily.

  “Most of the time. But if any more of her leads put her in Xiao Long’s line of fire, I’m assigning her full-time security whether she likes it or not.” Derek’s tone was as unyielding as his words. “Anyway, speaking of leads, I’ve got a major one for you. The street gun dealer who’s the middleman for your subgun sale is Tommy Nguyen. He’s American-born Vietnamese, known for brokering risky, high-priced deals. He does a lot of business with Chinese gangs. Apparently, it was his guys who stole those four MP5Ks from an upstate New York police department. They delivered the subguns straight to Nguyen, who moved them fast to a Chinese gang. They paid top dollar for them. My informant will be calling me this morning to let me know which gang it is. That’ll tell us who’s working with your Albanian art thieves.”

  “Thanks for jumping on this so quickly.” Rich was clearly relieved. “Let me know the minute you hear anything.”

  “I’ll track you down wherever you are.”

  “Probably right here at my desk, on the phone.” Rich pulled out his legal-size pad of paper, on which he’d scribbled tons of information. “Now for you. As I said, I just hung up with the Hong Kong police. They confirmed that the shady art dealers our Dutch collector did business with were Chinese. More specifically, they were linked to the Fong Triad.”

  “Interesting.” Derek’s forehead creased in thought. “That triad was thriving in the nineties. It’s lower profile now. But it’s still alive and kicking. Any proof they were in possession of the Rothberg?”

  “Yup. That’s one of the questions I was waiting for an answer on. Thanks to defecting triad members who are now confidential informants for the police department, we have positive evidence that Dead or Alive was in the hands of the Fong Triad before it was sold to the Dutch collector. And it gets better. I was hoping for a name, any name, the police could give us. That would be the starting point we needed to fill in the holes in the provenance.”

  “If they gave you a name, I’ll fly out to Hong Kong tonight.” Derek was perched at the edge of his chair.

  “I was ready to do the same thing. But there’s no need. Seems we caught a lucky break. The name they had was Zhang Ming, now Daniel Zhang. He’s a former member of the Fong Triad, who was personally involved in the purchase of Dead or Alive. Evidently, he immigrated to the U.S. and turned his life around.”

  “Where in the U.S.?” Derek demanded.

  “Right here in Queens,” Rich supplied. “He’s working as a youth counselor in the Chinese-American community in Flushing. And before you ask, yes, he’ll talk to us. We can go over there and meet with him this afternoon.”

  “Yes.” Derek curled his fingers into a triumphant fist and punched the air. “That’s the most promising lead we’ve gotten since the Burbanks’ break-in.”

  “I thought you’d react that way. So, how does two o’clock work for you?”

  “I’ll make it work.” Derek was about to thank Rich, when his own cell phone rang. He glanced down at it and saw the familiar number of his informant’s throwaway phone. “With any luck, this is the answer you’re waiting for.” He flipped open the phone. “What have you got?” A long, stunned silence. “You’re sure?” Another silence. “Okay. Keep your ears open.”

  He snapped his cell phone shut, shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s a smaller world than we thought,” he told Rich drily. “The guy who bought the subguns from Nguyen was Jin Huang.”

  Rich gave him a quizzical look. “Who’s Jin Huang?”

  “Xiao Long’s enforcer.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. My informant’s description matches Jin to a tee. And the timing’s right, too. Xiao had Jin buy the subguns a few days before the Campbells’ house was hit. Seems our Dai Lo has bigger fish to fry than even I imagined.” Derek’s mind was racing. “This whole operation is out of Xiao’s league. Someone’s definitely backing him. My guess is that the backer is a wealthy, prominent triad leader, and Xiao is shipping the stolen paintings to him in China.”

  “So it’s likely that the same triad leader is behind the European museum heists. He hired the Black Eagles, and has now decided to take his operation to the U.S., with Xiao Long facilitating things.”

  Derek nodded. “Xiao’s got a full-blown New York art-crime scheme going, stealing paintings from wealthy Manhattan residents. So why not expand it to the big time? With the backing of his Dragon Head back in China, they can score big by setting up targets for the Albanians. Come to think of it, Matthew Burbank described two Mediterranean thugs in Xiao’s entourage the night of their ‘chance’ encounter in Chinatown. That’s strong confirmation that Xiao is working with the Albanians.”

  “Suddenly it appears we’ve got one complex case here—not two sepa
rate, overlapping ones.” Rich’s tone and demeanor was as intense as Derek’s. “Talking to Daniel Zhang just became our top priority. Our answers could all be linked to the Fong Triad.”

  Sloane was already halfway to Manhattan when her cell phone rang.

  It was her mother.

  “Where are you?” Rosalyn asked. She sounded even more forceful than usual.

  “In the car, en route to the city. I’ve got the rest of your list to check out.”

  “Don’t bother. Come straight here.”

  Sloane stiffened. “Are you okay? Is Dad?”

  “We’re both fine. This is about the break-in.”

  “Did you find out something new?”

  “I’ll tell you everything when you get here.” A pause, as Rosalyn’s maternal instinct kicked in. “Should you be driving?”

  “Yes,” Sloane replied firmly. “I’m off the Percocet, and my arm is more than capable of joining the other on the steering wheel. If you want to worry about an arm, worry about yours. You take lousy care of yourself.”

  “I’m your mother. Not the other way around. No lectures. Just drive to our place.”

  Sloane was both puzzled and uneasy as she stepped out of the elevator and headed down to her parents’ apartment. Her mother was in full powerhouse mode. And whatever new information was causing her energy surge was critical, or she wouldn’t have practically ordered Sloane to drop her investigation and come over ASAP.

  “Good. You’re here,” she greeted her daughter, having whipped open the door when she heard the approaching footsteps.

  “As summoned.” Sloane slipped off her coat and walked into the foyer. She called out a quick hello to Special Agent Carter, who was having a cup of coffee in the breakfast nook. She was about to ask her mother if her father was home when the vroom of a vacuum cleaner interrupted her.

  Turning, she spotted Anna, her parents’ cleaning woman, manipulating the upright around the living room.

  Anna had been in the Burbanks’ employ for as long as Sloane could remember, coming every Monday morning since she’d immigrated to the U.S. from Poland, until the Burbanks moved to Florida. She was very good at her job and was treated with the utmost respect by the Burbanks. As a result, she’d been happy to come back when they’d returned to New York.

  “Did you want to talk privately?” Sloane murmured to her mother.

  “Definitely not.” Rosalyn was already steering Sloane toward the living room. “In fact, I’m not going to be talking at all. Anna,” she called over the noise of the vacuum. “Sloane’s here.”

  Anna looked up, and turned off the vacuum immediately. She gave Sloane a warm, if nervous, smile of greeting.

  “Hi, Anna. How are you?” At this point, Sloane was so baffled, she hardly knew what to say.

  “Fine, thank you,” Anna replied, her Polish accent still prominent, but her English drastically improved from years ago. “How are you?” She frowned, spotting Sloane’s injury. “You got hurt, too?”

  “Yes, but I’m fine now.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Rosalyn instructed. She turned to Sloane as they did. “Anna’s been on vacation for the past two weeks. She went home to Poland to visit her family. Today is her first day back.”

  “That must have been a wonderful trip,” Sloane responded.

  Anna nodded. “It was. But now I find out about your parents being robbed, and your mother being hurt. I feel terrible.” A nervous pause. “And responsible.”

  “Responsible?” Sloane’s antenna shot up. “Why?”

  The poor cleaning woman looked positively green. “The week before I left for Poland, I was at McDonald’s. I went to the ladies’ room. Two men came in, locked the door, and grabbed me. One of them held me. The other took my purse. He emptied it out on the countertop. I saw him take the money out of my wallet. Then he turned his back on me. I couldn’t see what he was doing anymore. I thought maybe he was taking my credit cards. But he had something with him he was using. All I saw was that it was little”—Anna made a rectangular shape with her fingers—“and silver—like foil you cover food with.”

  “Aluminum,” Sloane supplied.

  “Yes.” Anna nodded adamantly. “I don’t understand what it was or what he did. They told me to shut up. I was so scared. Then they let me go, unlocked the door, and went away.”

  “Did you report this to the police?” Sloane asked.

  Anna shook her head. “I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know the men. They took nothing but forty dollars. No credit cards. No checkbook. I could give police no information to catch them. I was so happy they didn’t hurt me. So I told no one but my husband.”

  She swallowed. “Then today I come back to work. Your mother and father were out. I let myself in. I use the key your mother gave me. I see little pieces on it. Like…” She waved her arm in frustration. “Like bread dough, only not white. My children play with it when they make things.”

  “Clay,” Sloane filled in. She turned to her mother. “They used a key-impression kit. They made a copy of your key. That’s how they broke in here.”

  “That’s why I called you.”

  “Anna,” Sloane pressed. “Can you tell me what these men looked like? Did you see their faces?”

  “For a few minutes, yes. Both of them from an Asian country. The one who held me was very big and strong. He was wearing a jacket. The other not. He was younger and skinny, with a cap on his head. He had a picture of a dragon on his arm. Red. But not paint.”

  “A tattoo.”

  Another nod. “A tattoo. Yes.”

  Sloane could see how distraught Anna was, so she spoke very gently. “If I got a special police artist to work with you, do you think you could describe the men well enough for him to draw pictures?”

  “I can try.” Tears filled Anna’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I never thought…”

  “It’s not your fault.” Sloane reached over and covered Anna’s hand with hers. “You didn’t know. Besides, we owe you our thanks. You’ve just helped us figure out something very important.”

  “That’s right,” Rosalyn chimed in. “Mr. Burbank and I are very grateful to you for showing me your key. We’re also terribly sorry about what happened to you.”

  “Me? What about you? You were in hospital. Now you have a broken arm. Those men almost killed you. It’s my fault.”

  “No, Anna,” Sloane corrected. “It’s the other way around. You were a victim because of my family. Those men hunted you down so they could copy your key to my parents’ apartment. If anything, it’s our fault that you were assaulted.” Squeezing Anna’s hand, she rose. “I’m calling Derek,” she told her mother. “Then we’ll all go down to the Field Office and have a sketch artist do his thing. From Anna’s description, I’ll bet the skinny guy is the one who sliced up my arm. He probably also made a dry run at the apartment beforehand to scope out Dad’s office and take some pictures, so they’d know which file cabinets were where.”

  “Yes, and the strong one might be the SOB who almost snapped off my arm and planned to do the same thing to my neck,” Rosalyn replied, already in motion.

  “I was thinking the same thing. Thanks for calling me, Mom. You’ve got great instincts. And before I forget, call a locksmith and have your door re-keyed.”

  A twinkle lit Rosalyn’s eyes. “I already thought of that. Who do you think you inherited your smarts from?”

  Sloane arched a brow. “I plead the fifth.” She flipped open her cell phone. All she could think about was one thing. Thank goodness for this development. Now Derek could call off his dogs.

  Ben, Wallace, Leo, and Phil were off the hook.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Daniel Zhang was expecting them.

  He met Rich and Derek in a room at the Flushing youth group organization where he’d just finished a class for Chinese-American teens who were recently out of rehab and trying to live drug-free lives.

  “Agent Williams. Agent Parker.” Zhang shook each of thei
r hands, speaking in perfect, barely accented English. He was slight, in his midthirties, with an open, friendly demeanor and a kind face. But his eyes were old, conveying the difficulty of his past. “Please, sit down.” He walked over to the circle of chairs he’d set up for class and pulled three of them to the front of the room.

  “Thank you for meeting with us,” Rich began as they sat down. “Do you prefer Zhang Ming, or Daniel Zhang?”

  “Daniel is fine.” Zhang gave him a half smile. “I’ve been in the States for a long time now. Plus, it puts the kids I work with at ease, since most of them have English names.”

  “Fine…Daniel,” Rich repeated. “You and I spoke only briefly on the phone. But you understand what we need from you.”

  “I do. However, first, I want you to understand that it’s been years since I had any contact with the Fong Triad, or any triad.” It was clear that Zhang wanted to clarify who he’d become, not only to avoid problems with the FBI but also because of the pride he felt for his transition. “My life is very different now. I’m very different now. I was lucky enough to get a fresh start. I want to share that good fortune with the kids I help. Most of them are at crucial turning points in their lives. They need hope, direction, and the knowledge that someone is there for them—someone who’s been where they are and made the kind of changes I made. Someone who’ll offer them the emotional support necessary to make those same changes.”

  “What you’re doing is commendable,” Derek replied. Despite his impatience to get the answers they sought, he felt a surge of genuine admiration for this man. “Let me assure you, we have no interest in interfering in your life or making any trouble for you. All we want is the information Special Agent Williams requested when you spoke.”

  “About the painting I bought for my Dragon Head.” Zhang gave a be-mused shake of his head. “The girl who sold it to me said it was a Rothberg, that it was worth hundreds of thousands of U.S. dollars, and she was only asking fifty thousand for it. She seemed pretty desperate, and since I had no idea what a Rothberg was, I assumed the offer was a scam. But my Dragon Head told me that Aaron Rothberg was a gifted artist, and that if the painting was genuine, it was as valuable as she claimed. He borrowed the painting and had it authenticated. It was real. So he gave me the money and told me to complete the transaction.”