“Stop it,” Sloane commanded, meaning every single word. “You didn’t steal Meili’s money. She was gone. And if she’d been alive, she would have gladly given it to save you. You needed help. You’re getting it here. You won’t ever make the same mistakes again.”
“No, I won’t,” Lucy said emphatically. She wrapped her blanket more tightly around her trembling shoulders. But she managed to meet Sloane’s gaze, and there was a tiny flicker of pride in her eyes. “No more drugs. Four months now.”
“You should be very proud of yourself, Lucy. You’re traveling a long, hard road. But you’re making it. You’re strong. Meili would be so proud of you. I know I am. And I meant what I said yesterday. If you ever need anything—to talk, to find your way once you’ve left the shelter—call me. I’ll help in any way I can.”
Lucy just stared. “I gave you everything I know. Still you’d help me? Why?”
“Because you’re a good person.”
“So are you.” Lucy reached under her blanket, rummaging in the pocket of her pants until she found what she was looking for. “Maybe this will help,” she said, extracting a folded photo and handing it to Sloane. “It was taken a few months before Meili died. I’ve carried it with me ever since.”
Sloane glanced down and smoothed out the lines of the photograph. It was Lucy and a smiling, dark-haired girl with the very love and joy on her face that Lucy had alluded to. “Meili?” Sloane confirmed.
“Yes. Stop these men from hurting other women. It will make me very happy. Meili, too—happiness and peace.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to make that happen,” Sloane vowed, rising to her feet. “You have my word. And when I see you again to return this photo, I’ll tell you all about what I’ve done, and you’ll know you helped protect others.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Leo was a wreck.
It had been almost a week since Derek had caught him hastily reassembling Sloane’s FBI file. And while he’d perceived no overt changes in either Sloane’s or Derek’s behavior toward him, he knew the incident hadn’t been ignored or forgotten.
If Derek hadn’t been suspicious before, he sure as hell was now. Thanks to his own carelessness, Leo was probably right up there at the top of Special Agent Parker’s suspect list.
What had possessed him to go through Sloane’s file? What he was looking for wouldn’t be in there, even if the FBI had compiled full dossiers on each of them. He was a stupid, blind fool, searching for answers that didn’t exist.
Even so, if the FBI suspected them of anything more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time and keeping quiet about it out of fear…he had to know what that something was, and how deeply and personally each of them was involved.
The tinkle of a bell and the sound of a door shutting at the front of his studio nearly made him leap in the air. His head snapped around in that direction.
He sagged with relief when he saw Phil walking toward him—until he saw the panicky look on Phil’s face. Then, the relief vanished.
“What’s wrong?” Leo demanded. “Did Derek Parker contact you?”
“Derek Parker?” Phil stared blankly at him, oblivious to everything except his own stark fear. “Why would he contact me?” Awareness penetrated his agitated state. “Are you still obsessing over that stupid file he saw you putting back together? What could he think—that you’re clumsy? You are. That you’re nosy? You’re that, too.”
“Or he could think I was searching for incriminating evidence that could land our asses in jail.”
Phil gave an impatient wave of his hand. “You’ve been watching too many spy movies. The FBI is finished with us. Besides, if that file contained anything that pointed in our direction, do you think Sloane would have been stupid enough to leave it in plain sight when she knew you’d be alone in the cottage?” Shifting nervously, Phil wiped beads of perspiration off his forehead. “Leave it alone, Leo. There’s enough going on without you inventing more.”
“Obviously.” Leo turned his attention to his friend. “You look like death warmed over. Is your bookie on your back again?”
“He’s not just on my back.” Phil drew a shaky breath. “He’s threatening me. He says he has friends who could hurt me if I don’t pay him by next week.”
“Why is he pushing so hard? I just loaned you ten thousand dollars to give him. That should be more than enough of a down payment to calm him down.”
Silence.
“Wasn’t it?” Leo asked.
“No.” Phil was sweating again. “That was a drop in the bucket. You have no idea how much I owe him.”
“Well, I’m about to. Give me the grand total.”
More silence.
“Phil?” Leo prompted.
“A hundred and twenty-five.”
“Thousand?” Leo gasped. “You owe that Albanian crook a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars?” He slapped his hands on his desk. “Are you out of your mind? None of us has that kind of money lying around. Not even Wallace—not anymore. Plus, you, better than anyone, knows that a withdrawal of that size would have the FBI in our faces in a minute.”
Phil sank down on a chair, lowering his head into his hands. “Leo, I don’t think he’s bluffing. He said his boss is a big shot in an organized-crime group. God knows what they’d do to me. And if you think a huge bank withdrawal would put the FBI on high alert, imagine how they’d react to my being worked over by the Albanian mob.”
“Fine. Okay. I hear you.” Leo’s mind was racing, searching for solutions. “Let me talk to Wallace. He’s going to a bunch of cocktail parties with Cindy Liu. I’ll be there, too. So will a crowd of rich guests. Maybe if Wallace and I put our heads together, we can come up with something.”
Phil’s head came up, and a flicker of hope lit his eyes. “When are you going to these parties?”
“They started last week. I’ve got a half dozen more this week and next. Stall your bookie. I’ll come up with something.” Leo sighed. “I always do.”
“Thanks. I can’t tell you how—”
“Save it,” Leo interrupted. “After this, I’m dragging you down to a twelve-step program. You’re a gambling addict. It’s time to confront it once and for all.”
“I know.” Phil nodded, resigned and utterly depleted. “You won’t have to drag me. I’ll go.”
“And I’ll go with you. I won’t leave until I’m sure you’re sticking it out.” Leo glanced over as his cell phone rang. “Now go home and get some rest,” he advised, reaching for the phone. “You’re about to keel over. Hello,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Mr. Fox?”
“Yes.”
“This is Special Agent Williams. New information on the Rothberg provenance has just come to light. I’d appreciate your coming down to the Field Office so we can discuss it.”
Leo felt his heart drop to his feet. “What new information?” he asked, wildly beckoning Phil to come back to the front of the studio.
“We’ll go over the details when you’re here. How does ten o’clock tomorrow morning sound?”
How did it sound? Like an order, not a request. “Ten o’clock is fine. Will all my partners be present?”
“I’ll be interviewing you one at a time. It’s easier to keep my facts straight that way. I appreciate your cooperation. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten a.m.”
Click.
White-faced, Leo stared down at his cell as he snapped it shut.
“Was that the FBI?” Phil asked in a tight voice.
“None other.” Leo’s breath was coming in a nervous, uneven rhythm. “Agent Williams wants to reinterview us. All of us. But individually. It seems he has new information on the Rothberg provenance.”
“Why individually? And what could he possibly have?”
“I don’t know,” Leo snapped. “But we’re back on his radar again. And that means trouble, any way you slice it.”
Just as Phil opened his mouth to reply, his cell phone rang.
He an
d Leo stared at each other, then at the phone as Phil fished it out of his pocket.
They both knew who was calling.
Cindy slid on a pair of high-heeled shoes and gave a weary sigh.
She was exhausted. A week of cocktail parties. A week of being “on” every evening. And a week of manipulating Wallace to fall even more in love with her.
Peggy had her hands full, too, working ’round the clock on her forgeries so that both the handpicked originals and their identically created fakes could be shipped to China.
The plan was coming together nicely. Xiao Long was putting the information Cindy provided to good use. There’d already been two burglaries since the steady stream of cocktail parties had begun. Both burglaries took place at the private homes of some of the wealthy guests who’d attended the parties, and who’d discussed their art collections with Cindy after hiring her to redesign their manors.
Cindy chose her victims carefully. Never the host and hostess’s place. Never a couple who spent an extensively long time alone with her. And never a couple whose collections weren’t valuable enough to be worth the trouble.
Leo was both an asset and a pain in the ass. His talent was undeniable, as was his reputation as a world-class decorator. The newly acquired clients practically drooled when they managed to hire Cindy and Leo as a collaborative team.
On the flip side, he never went away. He always had projects to go over with her, or personal conversations he had to have with Wallace for just a few minutes—which always turned into a half hour. Cindy needed time alone with Wallace. It was imperative to solidify his feelings for her.
Sighing, she rose and zipped up her dress. Tonight she’d invite Wallace in for an after-party drink. She’d let things progress—gradually. Depending on how avid Wallace was and how much headway she’d made, she might accept his invitation for a weekend in the Hamptons this week or next.
The odd part was she was actually looking forward to sleeping with him.
Rich went to see Derek the minute his last meeting with the members of the art partnership was finished.
“Okay, so the results are in,” he announced, sitting down across from Derek’s desk.
“And?”
“And we’ve got an interesting potpourri of reactions. They’re all nervous wrecks, especially since Rosalyn Burbank’s bodyguard was pulled out of the river with a fatal stab wound in his back. That’s to be expected. But there’s definitely something going on beneath the surface. I’m still convinced it doesn’t relate to a dirty deal or a switcheroo on the Rothberg. But the integrity of the players involved—that’s another story.”
With that, Rich pulled out his notes. “Burbank is the one I have the least problems with. He wasn’t surprised by the fact that Xiao Long’s criminal activities might be tied to a Chinese triad. He agreed that it would explain Xiao’s determination to keep his murdering Cai Wen quiet—to protect whoever he’s working for. Burbank himself offered up the theory that in the final hour, Cai Wen probably tried to squeeze Xiao for more money, which got him killed.”
“What about Fong? Had Burbank heard of him? Had any dealings with him?”
Rich shook his head. “He drew a blank. And he wasn’t lying. The name Henry Fong meant nothing to him. Neither did Daniel Zhang or Zhang Ming.”
“So he has no idea where Dead or Alive went after Xiao Long stole it.” Derek shot Rich a quizzical look. “You didn’t get into Lucy’s story, did you? Because I promised Sloane we’d keep her out of this. As it is, I put security on both her and Zhang. If Xiao is tied to the Fong Triad, and if he sees either Lucy or Zhang as a threat, he won’t hesitate to eliminate them.”
“Lucy’s name never came up. All I said was that the Rothberg was stolen from whomever Xiao Long got it for, after which it was sold to Zhang. That’s all that Burbank, or any of his partners, needs to know.”
“Good. What about the others?”
“Ah, the others. Leo Fox was flying on so much caffeine that he was practically on the ceiling. He kept waiting for me to bring up the file you found him rifling at Sloane’s. Of course I didn’t. It’s better to keep him squirming. He didn’t react to any of the names I ran by him, either. But he’s sitting on something. I’m just not sure whether it relates to Xiao Long or to his partners. He’s definitely the Dear Abby of the group. So if anyone has secrets, he knows them.”
Rich turned the page and continued. “Phil Leary’s an interesting fellow. His professional books are impeccable, but when I brought up how erratic his personal financial statements are, he fell all over himself. After that, he was a basket case. He looked dazed and clueless when I brought up the Fong Triad and Zhang, and when I brought the interview to a close, he spilled his coffee in a race to get out the door. Whatever he does or doesn’t know, his actions are certainly consistent with your findings that he’s a compulsive gambler.”
“Not just compulsive. An addict,” Derek corrected. “I verified the extent of his problem through a half-dozen sources. And, yeah, he’s loyal to his partners, but you and I both know that addicts sacrifice a lot more than just friends to support their habit. I’m on the verge of finding out his bookie’s name. Once I do, I’ll get the scumbag to talk, even if I have to throw his ass in jail.”
“Sounds like a plan. With regard to Leary, I’m tapped out at my end.”
“Fair enough. What about Johnson and Martino?”
“That’s where things get more intriguing. Both Johnson and Martino reacted when I mentioned Xiao Long’s name. I found that to be fascinating, considering they’re the only two partners who weren’t in Hong Kong when Cai Wen was murdered. That’s why we didn’t bother showing them our sketch. And since Xiao is under FBI investigation, we never mentioned his name before now. So any interactions either Martino or Johnson had with him had to be under different circumstances, probably right here in the U.S.”
Derek was all ears. “Did you get the feeling they were in this together or separately?”
“Not sure.”
“Under what contexts did each of them react?”
“Martino wasn’t totally sober. When I asked him about Fong and Zhang, he claimed not to know them. But then he went on to slur a bunch of stuff about being sick to death of all this Chinese organized crime. That’s when I slipped in Xiao’s name. He started shaking and sweating, and looking around like he’d kill for a drink. So I dropped the bomb that Xiao Long was the one who stole the Rothberg and killed Cai Wen. I thought he was going to either vomit or pass out at my feet. He definitely knows the guy. Does that association relate to the Rothberg? It’s possible. As for Zhang and the triad, I’ll run Martino’s name by Daniel Zhang and see what he says. Either way, Martino warrants further investigation.”
“He’s at the top of my list.” Derek’s hands balled into fists. “What about Johnson?”
“Wallace Johnson is a complicated man. Smart. Polished. Quite adept at keeping a poker face. But he made no secret of the fact that he was displeased about holding our follow-up interview, or discussing the ongoing art thefts at all.”
“Any reaction to Fong’s or Zhang’s name?”
“He said he vaguely knew of the Fong Triad, that he’d heard of them during his numerous business trips to China. But he added that he’d never met any of the members personally, Zhang included. I doubt he’s lying. He’s too shrewd not to know I could easily check out his story with Zhang. Then I dropped Xiao Long’s name. Despite his best attempts to cover up his reaction, he was taken aback. He asked me if Xiao was suspected of being part of the Fong Triad. I evaded the question, but told him that Xiao had killed Cai Wen and stolen the Rothberg. Again, he tried to take it all in stride, but he was thrown for a loop. It could be personal. Maybe Xiao screwed him over in an art deal.”
“Maybe. Or maybe Johnson and/or Martino are involved in something illegal.”
“Yeah.” Rich blew out a breath. “Between this information, and the recent home invasions and art thefts, we certainly have our w
ork cut out for us.”
“You’ve done your job with Burbank and his partners. The next step’s mine.” Derek picked up the reports he’d been reading when Rich came in, then tossed them across his desk in disgust. “Three damned break-ins in one week. All at affluent homes. And even though Xiao Long organized them, these robberies were definitely not committed by the Red Dragons. Windows smashed to gain entry. Burglar alarms ignored. Home owners all present, with no attempts made by the intruders to wait for the houses to be empty. All residents held at gunpoint and restrained with Flex-Cufs. Thieves who wore masks, spoke with accents, and were in and out by the time the cops arrived—in under ten minutes, according to the victims. And nothing taken except valuable paintings. Your Black Eagles strike again. With one charming addition, courtesy of Xiao Long.”
“Yeah, the empty fortune cookie left at each home.” Rich scowled. “This burglary ring is not only practicing for their pièce de résistance, they’re taunting us, demonstrating our ineffectiveness at stopping them.”
“Xiao Long knows we’ve linked him to the Albanians. But he’s flaunting our lack of proof.”
“We’ll get some,” Rich vowed. “We’ll nail our triad, and connect them to the Albanians and to Xiao Long.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Derek started with Ben Martino.
His gut instinct had always been that Martino was the weakest link. So Derek had decided to save his visit to Wallace Johnson for later, and see if he could rattle Martino and get some information.
He waited until two o’clock. That meant lunchtime was over, and Martino had doubtless had his share of drinks, and then some. The consequence of that would be lowered defenses and a looser tongue.
Wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Derek hung out near Martino’s manufacturing factory on East Broadway until a delivery boy finally exited the building.
Derek approached him, jerking his thumb in the direction of the factory. “Hey, I have to see Martino about an order for my company. Is he in there now?”