Drawn in Blood

  “Which you did,” Derek ascertained.

  Zhang nodded. “I met her at her friend’s apartment and bought the painting. It was months later, when Fong and I heard there was a murder attached to it, that we unloaded the painting—fast. The Dutch guy who bought it didn’t care about its history. He just wanted it, either to keep or to sell. Fong got top dollar for it. And that was that.”

  “Tell us about the girl who sold it to you,” Derek asked, leaning forward.

  Zhang sighed. “If I’d been the person then that I am now, she’d be one of the kids I helped. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Straight black hair—long, past her shoulders. Petite. Pretty. And, as I said, desperate. My guess would be she was a runaway. She was way too classy to have spent her life on the streets. Her friend Lucy was another story. She was older—maybe twenty—and definitely a drug user. Her pupils were the size of saucers and she looked wrung out. Her apartment was the size of a shoebox—the rats in the hall were bigger than the room. Both girls looked as if they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks.”

  “You said her friend’s name was Lucy. What about the seller herself—what was her name?”

  “She never gave it to me. Neither did Lucy. I didn’t know her name until later.”

  “So you spoke to Lucy again.”

  “Oh, yes. It was a good five years later. She came looking for me out of nowhere. She was in even worse shape than the last time—gaunt, so drugged up she could barely see straight, and with some ugly welts on her face. It was obvious someone was beating her. She was panicked and desperate to get out of Hong Kong. She said she’d scored a huge sum of money, and begged me to arrange transport for her to America. She was so frantic, I felt sorry for her. So I spoke to my Dragon Head. He agreed to make the arrangements—for twenty thousand dollars. She turned the money over, in cash, without a word of negotiation or protest. Fong got her on a ship to New York. After that, she was on her own.”

  “Where does a poverty-stricken drug addict get twenty thousand dollars?” Rich muttered to himself. “That amount of cash sure as hell didn’t come from sex or drugs.”

  “That’s for sure,” Zhang agreed. “All I know is that she swore to me she hadn’t stolen it. Back then, it didn’t matter. I made a deal. I got a cut. I walked away.”

  “And that was the end of it?”

  “In Hong Kong, yes. That was the last I saw of her. But I’m almost positive I saw her about a month ago.”

  “In New York?” Derek asked, his head snapping up.

  Another nod. “In a battered women’s shelter in Chinatown. I was there to bring a young girl back to her family in Flushing, where she could heal after being beaten by her drunken boyfriend. While I was there, I saw a woman I’m almost positive was Lucy. She’s obviously been through hell. It’s only been about three years since I saw her, so she can’t be more than twenty-eight or thirty. But she looks a decade older than that. She was swollen, covered with bruises, and shivering under a blanket in the corner. I tried to approach her, but she shrunk away from me like a terrified, wounded animal. So I backed off.” Zhang’s brows drew together in concentration. “But her eyes, her features…it was Lucy. I said her name, and she startled. I think she recognized me, too, although she was too dazed to figure out from where. But I could swear I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes.”

  Derek whipped out a pad. “Give us the name and address of this shelter.”

  Zhang supplied Derek with the information. “If you find her, my only suggestion is to have a woman question her. She’s visibly terrified of men, no doubt with good reason. If you two march in and approach her, you’ll scare her off and lose any chance of learning what you need to know.”

  “I was thinking along the very same lines.” Derek was already mentally laying out a plan. “We’ll have a female reach out to her—one who’s specifically trained to get through to people who are reluctant or unwilling to respond. The professional I have in mind is Caucasian, so I’ll have a Chinese agent go with her when she pokes around in Chinatown. That’ll avoid any potential cultural problems. But once the two of them are inside the shelter, my male agent will stay back, and let her do the work.”

  “Lucy’s English is weak,” Zhang warned him.

  “My female investigator speaks fluent Mandarin. Communication won’t be a problem. Believe me, if anyone can get through to this poor, battered Lucy, the pro I have in mind can.”

  “You want to send Sloane in there,” Rich stated as soon as they’d left the youth center, armed with Daniel’s offer to assist in any additional way he could.

  “You bet I do. She’s the best crisis negotiator I’ve ever seen. She knows how to get through to people. This is right up her alley.”

  “Not to mention it’ll keep her mind off your investigation of her father’s partners,” Rich added with a shrewd sidelong glance.

  Derek blew out a breath. “Look, Rich. I realize things on that front changed right before we left for Queens.”

  “Ah, you mean when the Burbanks’ maid came in and told us her story—the one that proves none of Matthew Burbank’s partners helped Xiao Long break into the Burbanks’ apartment.”

  “Yes, right,” Derek answered impatiently. “But that’s the only fact that changed. I never thought these guys were hardened criminals. I thought they were involved in a cover-up. I still do. I also think it somehow links back to Xiao Long. Call it far-fetched. Call it gut instinct. Either way, I’m going to keep digging into all four men—and, yeah, Burbank, too. I’m asking you to follow through with our original plan and reinterview them. Truthfully, it’s going to be easier now. Since the Burbanks’ maid told us what happened, Sloane is going to assume her father and his friends are off the hook. She won’t be worried that I’m still investigating them. I don’t know if that investigation will link directly to the Rothberg theft. It might not. In which case, it will become my problem, not yours. And if it turns out I’m wrong and they’re as clean as a whistle, there’ll be no harm done—except to my relationship with Sloane. But I’m willing to take that risk. Because if I’m right, and if that cover-up is tied to Xiao Long, Sloane is still in danger. Significant danger. I know Xiao Long. He’d carve someone up like a pumpkin, and then go out to breakfast.”

  “I hear you. And I’ll follow through using the angle of new details on the Rothberg and conduct a follow-up interview with each of the art partners. Now that we have the Fong information, it’ll be a natural step to ask if any of them are familiar with the triad members or the people involved in the transaction. I’ll also add a healthy dose of concern for their safety, given the attack on Rosalyn Burbank. Believe me, the way I’m going to handle it, Sloane won’t get suspicious.”

  “Thanks, Rich.”

  “No problem. I’m counting on that steak dinner.”

  There was a team meeting first thing the next morning in Tony’s office.

  Squad members from both C-6 and C-7 were present, as were Rich and Sloane. Everyone was brought up to speed on the MP5K sales, the Black Eagles–Red Dragons connection, and the short-term possession of Dead or Alive by the Fong Triad.

  The sketches of the two men Anna had described were produced, and her story was recounted. Everyone was advised that Rosalyn Burbank had verified that the solid, thickset man in Anna’s sketch was the same man who’d abducted her—a man Derek and C-6 had already identified from the initial sketch Rosalyn had provided as Jin Huang.

  Last, Sloane described her knife attack, and confirmed that her assailant was the other punk in Anna’s sketches.

  An investigative plan was laid out: Sloane and Jeff would go to the battered women’s shelter in Chinatown and see if Lucy was still there, and if she wasn’t, start tracing her whereabouts. With Derek at the helm, C-6 and C-7 would dig into Xiao Long’s link to the Black Eagles. And Rich would continue to investigate the various art thefts, Rothberg included, and see what he could come up with.

  Very casually, he mention
ed his plan to call in the art-partnership members to see if they knew anything about the Fong Triad and their purchasing any valuable paintings. Also, if they’d ever dealt with Daniel Zhang—or even heard his name.

  Sloane accepted Rich’s announcement without surprise or concern. What he was describing was standard operating procedure.

  Once again, Derek felt like a bastard. But he just couldn’t let this one go—even if it meant betraying his promise to Sloane. He didn’t want to keep his suspicions from her. But as of now, they had no concrete basis, and he knew that the very idea he believed otherwise—and was acting on that belief—would tear her apart. There was plenty of time to do that later—if necessary. And if it wasn’t, he’d tell her anyway, fully aware that it could put a permanent chink in their relationship.

  Love was a wonderful thing. Except when it wasn’t.

  Cindy took great pains getting dressed and ready for tonight’s dinner with Wallace. As Peggy had suggested, she wore her turquoise silk blouse, which clung ever so subtly to her delicate curves. She also donned a pair of Ralph Lauren black silk slacks and classic high-heeled pumps. Wallace was tall. It was important that the two of them fit together—physically as well as intellectually.

  She brushed her dark hair until it glistened, put on a minimal amount of makeup, and then dabbed some Magie Noire perfume behind her ears and on her wrists. She hesitated, then traced a tiny line of the captivating scent between her breasts. Magie Noire—French for “black magic.”

  What a fitting name for the evening she had in mind.

  Derek left the office early that night. Sloane and Jeff were putting the final touches on their plans for tomorrow’s visit to the battered women’s shelter. After that, Sloane had an occupational therapy appointment at HSS. It was just as well. Derek needed time to think, to assimilate his thoughts, and to deal with his guilt.

  Traffic was lighter than usual, and he got home in record time. As he pulled down the winding cottage driveway, he noticed there was a car parked at the foot of the driveway, near the garage. It took him a minute to recognize the red Lexus convertible and to remember that Sloane had told him she’d given Leo a key, since he’d be dropping by in the late afternoon to take some measurements and compare some color swatches.

  Great. Talk about rubbing Derek’s nose in guilt. It was the first night in weeks that he didn’t feel like probing one of Matthew’s partners for information. He just wanted to pour himself a glass of wine, go over the material he’d collected on the case—and, yes, on Matthew’s partners—and figure out if it was the Fong Triad that Xiao Long had his connections to, and if so, if it was Henry Fong himself who was subsidizing Xiao’s big-time art-theft crimes.

  Determined to urge Leo out the door ASAP, Derek let himself into the cottage through the garage door.

  Three things happened at once.

  The hounds came flying out of the den, racing around the corner, and barking joyously at Derek’s homecoming. A loud thud and a muttered curse emanated from the living room just as Derek appeared in its entranceway. And Leo Fox stumbled to his feet, red-faced and stuttering apologies as he collected papers off the carpet and shoved them back into the open file.

  Derek recognized the contents. They were Sloane’s copies of the police reports detailing the artwork stolen during the Upper East Side burglaries.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Wallace’s taste in restaurants was impeccable.

  Savoy had always been one of Cindy’s personal favorites. Nestled in downtown Soho, it had a lovely main dining room on the second level. The crackling fireplace and wood-accented windows, together with the privately arranged tables and accommodating staff, created an elegant ambiance that was both homey and intimate.

  It was precisely the scenario Cindy had anticipated for this all-important evening.

  Wallace himself looked impeccable, dressed in a classy but understated custom-made suit and silk tie. He was carrying a small shopping bag, and judging from the glossy white color and silver roped handles, whatever was inside it was for her. And his curious glance at the slim box under her arm told her this was going to be a race to see who got the honor of presenting their gift first.

  No contest. She was taking the lead here. It was a necessity to ensure that she accomplished the full impact of her presentation.

  Wallace had arranged to have them seated at a quiet corner table close to the fire. As soon as the maitre d’ brought them over to the table, settled them in, and discreetly left them alone, Cindy took the reins.

  “I have something for you,” she told Wallace. “It’s a special thank-you from my A Sook and me. I would have saved it for after dessert, but given its size—it’s not as if I could keep it hidden in my pocket.” She reached down and lifted the thin, square box from where she’d propped it against her chair. “I hope it touches your heart the way we thought it would.”

  With a pleased but quizzical look in his eyes, Wallace took the box and opened it, peeling back the layers of tissue paper and revealing the two-foot-by-two-foot bamboo picture frame and the canvas it held. His breath caught for a moment as he lifted it out and gazed at the master oil painting in his hands.

  The room in it was a muted shade of green, and dim lighting haloed the closed door. Standing there, with one hand on the doorknob, was the room’s sole occupant.

  The little Asian girl was about four years old. She was laughing, her other hand clapped over her mouth as if to keep the subject of her mirth private. Her hair was in two braids, a bright pink flower tucked behind each one. Her robe was a traditional Chinese silk with ornate trim at the wrists and neck. The way the pale aura captured and illuminated her, it was as if she was right there with you, her dark eyes dancing, the very essence of life emanating from her youth and beauty.

  The signature, in the painting’s lower right-hand corner, belonged to a well-known Chinese artist.

  Wallace swallowed twice before he spoke.

  “This is exquisite,” he finally managed. “I can’t tell you how moved I am.”

  “You don’t have to,” Cindy replied softly. “Your expression just did.”

  He raised his head. “‘Thank you’ doesn’t do justice to what I’m feeling right now. But it’s all I have. So thank you, to you and your uncle.” He reached across the table and took Cindy’s hand, half rising from his chair so he could bring her fingers to his lips.

  “You’re very welcome.” Cindy kept her gaze fixed on his. “It’s as much a gift for me, to see such appreciation for a fine work of art, as it is to you. I hope you’ll hang it in your home and think about me every time you look at it. That way, you’ll know how grateful I am for all you’ve done for my career—and for me.” She let her fingers linger in his hand for an extra moment, as her warm expression caressed his face. “Your support has made all the difference.”

  Reluctantly, Wallace released her hand, and sank back down into his chair. “All I did was open the door. Your talent took over from there. And I should warn you—even though we’re celebrating your first big project, a deluge of them is about to follow. I’ve received a dozen cocktail party invitations for the next two weeks alone. Every one of the invitations is for the two of us, and every one of them is from an eager perspective client. Between that, and the word of mouth you’ll receive on this first design project you’re undertaking, you’ll barely have time to sleep.”

  “How exciting!” Cindy lit up.

  “Does that mean I can accept the invitations on your behalf?”

  “Of course. I’m thrilled. It will give me the chance to line up new projects, and equally important, it will give us the chance to get to know each other better.”

  “Nothing would please me more.” Wallace carefully rewrapped the painting and set it aside, then handed Cindy the package he’d brought. “This is just something that made me think of you—a small congratulations gift. It pales in comparison to the painting—and to you.”

  Cindy lowered her lashes. She was
beginning to enjoy this game of romantic cat and mouse. “You’ve already given me my career start,” she murmured as she opened the bag. “That’s more than enough congratulations.” A soft laugh. “But I have to confess, I love presents.” She unwrapped the tissue paper, revealing a black, buttery-leather briefcase. It was classy yet high-styled, feminine and at the same time professional, with enough room for her sketches, portfolios, and even her laptop. It was clearly handmade by an Italian designer, and it had that wonderful new-leather smell that screamed success.

  “Wallace, it’s stunning,” she murmured, taking it out and inspecting it, then opening it up and running her fingers over the soft suede interior. “And it’s so very—me.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” He smiled, leaning back in his chair and squinting, as if picturing her walking down the streets of Manhattan, carrying his gift in her hand. “I have a minority interest in an Italian leather goods manufacturer. The overseas reps were in New York for Market Week, and I got the chance to see their new designs. This was the showstopper. The moment I saw it, I knew. It won’t even be available until next season. You’re the very first person to have one, which is fitting.”

  A minority interest in an Italian leather goods manufacturer? For a fleeting instant, Cindy wondered if her A Sook knew about Wallace’s gift to her, and its source. If so, he was probably amused.

  “I’ll bring it with me on the first day of my new project,” she declared. “Once my clients see it, they’ll have to hire me. They’ll assume that anyone who can afford something this exclusive and pricey must be earning a fortune—which could only mean that her work is superb.”