On the other hand, Leary was a logical choice. He might be a walking financial disaster personally, but professionally he was sharp as a tack. And he was Martino’s accountant.
Armed with a slew of questions and a gut feeling he was getting closer to the truth, Derek left his car in a parking garage and walked the three blocks to Leary’s office.
He slowed down as he reached the building, his brows drawing together as he saw the bustle of activity going on outside. A bunch of spectators were standing around on the sidewalk, and there were two NYPD cars blocking traffic. As Derek watched, a body bag was carried out, transferred to the back of an Emergency Medical Services vehicle, and driven off.
He jostled his way through the crowd and up to the entranceway, where a cop was posted to keep everyone out.
“FBI,” Derek said quietly, displaying his ID to the officer.
The cop stepped aside so Derek could enter.
“What floor?” Derek asked.
“Twelfth.”
Leary’s floor.
“Thanks.” Derek opened the door and made his way through the lobby.
He rode the elevator up, then strode down the hall to where all the activity was taking place.
The yellow tape sealing off Leary’s office told Derek it was the crime scene.
There were three or four NYPD detectives at work, and CSI was inside, gathering evidence and examining the room with a fine-tooth comb.
“Special Agent Parker, FBI.” Derek flashed his ID to the first detective he ran into. “What’s going on?”
The detective glanced at Derek’s ID and blinked in surprise. “Detective Hill, Midtown North,” he identified himself. “Why was the FBI called in? It looks like we’ve got a routine homicide here.”
“Not so routine.” A second detective corrected his partner as he ducked out from under the tape and stepped into the hall. “The victim was pummeled with bullets. The spray pattern identifies the weapon as an automatic.” He turned to Derek. “Agent Parker, you said? I’m Detective Kramer.”
“Kramer.” Derek shook his hand. “I’m not here to step on your toes. It’s likely this homicide is part of an FBI investigation. If not, the case is all yours.”
“I’m not worried.” As a seasoned NYPD detective, Kramer waved away Derek’s clarification. “The victim’s name was Philip Leary. An accountant and financial adviser. Looks like he was working all night—or planned to. According to the M.E., the time of death was between three and five a.m. The whole thing must have happened in seconds. The victim barely had time to look up. His door was kicked in. The killers opened fire from the doorway, probably using silencers. Based on the angles of penetration, there were two shooters. And one of them was a psycho besides being a killer. He choked the victim with a piano wire, so hard it sliced open his neck. And he did it posthumously.”
Derek recognized the calling card. “Was anything taken?” he asked.
“Not that we can tell so far. We’ve only been on the scene for an hour. The call came into the precinct at six-ten. A couple of guys from the early morning cleaning crew found him. They were smart enough not to touch anything.” Kramer’s forehead creased in thought. “Personally, I’d love to know why two guys with automatic weapons would murder an average accountant, and then choke the hell out of him afterward.”
“Yeah, so would I.”
It was midmorning when Derek called Sloane. He knew she didn’t normally listen to the local news, but he wanted to get to her just in case.
She was in the backyard, doing major damage to her archery target while racking her brain trying to think of ways to find Meili’s American lover, when her phone rang.
She was fully aware of where Derek was, and with whom, as well as what he hoped to accomplish. Quickly, she put down her archery equipment and flipped open her phone.
“Hi. Any news?” she asked.
“Where are you?” Derek answered her question with one of his own.
Something about Derek’s tone formed a knot in Sloane’s stomach. “In the backyard. On the archery course. Why?”
“Because I have some tough news. I wanted to make sure you were alone when I shared it with you. Especially since you’ll want to be the one who tells your father.”
“Okay.”
Derek didn’t try to sugarcoat it. There was no way to cushion this kind of blow.
“Phil Leary was killed last night in his office. Some time between three and five a.m., a couple of guys kicked in his office door and shot him with automatic weapons. After that, he was choked with a piano wire. I’ve been with the Midtown North detectives and my squad the whole morning.”
“Oh God.” Sloane sank down on the grass. “Do we know who ordered the hit?”
“All signs point to that bookie of Phil’s I was trying to hunt down. Name’s Ardian Sava. As it turns out, he’s part of an Albanian crime syndicate in the Bronx. With regard to specific evidence linking him to the murder, Phil’s gambling records were found in a locked drawer in his desk. The numbers showed he owed Sava over a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. There was a scribbled note in Phil’s pocket, written in Sava’s hand, threatening Phil if he didn’t pay up. And there was a money clip just inside the office door, which, it turns out, belonged to Sava. He must have dropped it when he and his friend broke in. It had his fingerprints all over it.”
“That sounds a little too tidy,” Sloane managed, her voice quivering a bit. “Motive, means, and opportunity, all neatly at the crime scene.”
“Yeah, isn’t it? Anyway, we tracked Sava down. He was in his apartment, asleep. It took him a good five minutes to figure out what we were talking about. When he did, he freaked out and started shouting in half-Albanian, half-English, that he was innocent and that he was being framed. The cops brought him in for questioning. He was more than willing to talk, once he realized how bad his ass was on the line.”
“And?”
“And the case is now officially ours. Take a guess who paid Sava off to make sure Phil’s gambling debts multiplied big-time by giving him more bad tips than good—and on the good ones, shaving the point spread so that Phil’s losses far exceeded his wins?”
“Xiao Long,” Sloane replied woodenly.
“You got it. Not that I needed the proof. The whole posthumous choking with a piano string until the victim’s neck is sliced open is Xiao’s trademark. He doesn’t get his hands dirty too often. But when he does, he loves his job. And he takes great pride in letting us know it.”
“The man’s a sociopath.”
“No arguments there.”
Sloane lowered her head, rubbing her temples with one hand while she processed everything she’d just learned. “Derek, this is a vendetta, pure and simple. My father and his partners are all being targeted by Xiao. But why? Nut job or not, this can’t all be a plot to shut them up about what they saw in Hong Kong. It doesn’t make sense, especially after fourteen years have passed.”
“Agreed.” Derek paused. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” Sloane wasn’t about to give in to her personal feelings. Not now. “How do you want me to handle this?”
“Give me a half hour. Then call your father. Tell him only the facts. That Phil was killed. That Phil’s bookie is in custody. And that we’re investigating the murder. Your dad can notify his partners.”
“Why a half hour?”
“Because I’m on my way over to Martino’s factory. I want to be the one who breaks the news to him—face-to-face. I plan on finding out every detail about the meeting he and Phil had with Xiao Long. Martino’s going to tell me why Xiao wanted Phil dead.”
“Call me when you’re done.” Sloane had already jumped to her feet and was gathering up her archery equipment. “I’m driving into the city. That’ll give you more than enough time to grill Ben, and me the chance to tell my dad about Phil in person. This news is going to hit him hard.”
Martino was walking the factory floor when Derek strode in
.
He didn’t see Derek right away. He was pointing something out to one of his Chinese employees at her sewing machine. She seemed to have understood his gestures, because she nodded and went back to work. Martino turned, and Derek got his first good look at him.
He looked like death warmed over. Bloodshot eyes, disheveled clothing—probably the same clothes he was wearing last night—and a haggard expression. He was a trifle unsteady on his feet, but definitely not staggering drunk.
His expression turned even sicker when he spotted Derek, who motioned for him to join him in the front office.
It took Martino a few minutes to make his way up front. But when he finally did, he glanced nervously at Derek and shut the door behind him.
“You’re back,” he said, his gaze flickering to the newly opened bottle of whiskey on his desk. “Did you come up with more questions for me overnight?”
“I didn’t have to. They came up on their own.” Derek jerked his thumb in the direction of Martino’s gaze. “Go ahead. Get it. This is one drink you’re going to need.”
“I’m all right.” It was a bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. “What’s this about?”
“Did you have a productive meeting last night?”
Martino started. “What?”
“Your meeting with Xiao Long. Did it go well?”
Martino’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but nothing came out.
“I sure hope so,” Derek continued. “Because the price was steep.”
“Price? What price?”
Derek stared him down. “Your partner, Phil Leary, was shot dead last night.”
Martino sagged backward, every drop of color draining from his face. “Phil’s…dead?”
“Very. Whoever did it was thorough. They used submachine guns.”
“Oh my God.” In a trancelike state, Martino reached over and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, tipping it back and gulping at it. When that didn’t help, he stumbled behind his desk and dropped into the chair, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God,” he repeated over and over. Tears seeped down his cheeks and between his fingers. “I was just with him…” he managed. “When…?”
“Some time between when the two of you finished arguing outside the gambling parlor and five a.m.” Derek couldn’t help but feel sorry for Martino. He was a scared, weak man, and any guilt on his part stemmed from that fear and weakness. But he had a heart. He cared about his friends. And he was crumpling before Derek’s eyes like a demolished building.
“It happened in his office,” Derek continued. “Apparently, he went there directly from your meeting with Xiao.”
“He was probably afraid to go home.” Martino was babbling aloud, half to himself. “I knew he might recognize Xiao Long…but I so hoped…and I never expected Xiao to confront…but if I’d known Phil’s plan sounded like blackmail…” Martino broke off, choking back a sob. “I should have told him. I knew he needed money. But he was also trying to help me. I should have told him. If I had, he might have walked away. He might still be alive. I got him killed.”
Derek was trying to assimilate the bits and pieces Martino was spewing. “In other words, you never told Leary that Xiao Long was the person you were meeting with, or that he owns the employment agency you get your help from.”
“I tried. I couldn’t. But I told myself it’s been fourteen years. I hoped. And I prayed.”
“That Leary wouldn’t recognize him,” Derek supplied.
A shaky nod.
Derek pulled up a chair. “I need to know the whole story. Why Leary went with you. What this plan of his was. What happened between the two of you and Xiao Long. Everything.” Studying the top of Martino’s bowed head, Derek added, “You can call a lawyer if you’d like.”
Martino’s response was an ironic laugh. “What lawyer—my own? He handles wills, real estate—not criminal cases. Sloane? She works with you. Besides, once she knows about this, she’ll never speak to me again. Neither will her father. He’ll hate me. And I don’t blame him.”
Slowly, Martino raised his head, and the raw pain on his face was almost too agonizing to see. “I don’t want a lawyer. What I want is never to have been born. You can’t give that to me. No one can. So ask me whatever you want to. Any way you slice it, I’m going to hell.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Phil’s wake was held that Friday at the Thomas Mackie Funeral Home in Rockville Centre, Long Island. He had grown up there, his family was there, and his two grown children had made all the arrangements. He was to be buried at a local cemetery beside his wife, who’d passed away ten years ago after a long bout with cancer.
Given the circumstances of Phil’s death, it was a closed casket, and the attendees were markedly solemn. Many of them were still in shock.
Matthew and Rosalyn were already there when Sloane and Derek arrived.
Sloane went over and squeezed her father’s arm, blinking back her own tears. She’d spent a lot of time with her father these past few days, comforting him and explaining as much as she could—which wasn’t much. He knew that Phil’s bookie was in custody and that a search was being conducted for the killers. He knew—from Ben himself—that Ben was under investigation for hiring illegals, and that Xiao Long owned the employment agency he dealt with. He also knew that the FBI had upped the security on all the remaining partners in his art investment group.
Matthew wasn’t stupid. With or without further in-depth explanation, he knew that Phil’s death had something to do with Xiao Long and that the whole group of them were in danger.
The partners hadn’t talked, except by phone, since the murder. Each of them needed to grieve alone, and in his own way. The wake was the first time they’d all be together since Phil’s death.
Leo was the next to arrive. He was pale and grim, with dark circles under his eyes. He went over to Matthew, and the two men hugged in mutual sorrow. Then, Leo went wordlessly over to pay his respects to the family.
Watching everyone’s suffering, hearing the quiet weeping that accompanied the loss of a loved one, Sloane felt more tears dampen her lashes. Maybe if she’d solved this damned case by now, Phil would still be alive. Maybe if she’d put together just a few more pieces…
“Don’t even go there,” Derek murmured in her ear. “There’s nothing you could have done to prevent this. All we can do is try to stop it from going any further, and bring the right people to justice.”
“I know,” Sloane replied. “But we’d better hurry up and do that. Because my gut tells me time is running out.”
Wallace and Cindy were en route to the Hamptons for their weekend alone. Part of Wallace wanted to block out the reality of Phil’s murder. Still in shock and denial, he wanted nothing more than to escape to the Hamptons with Cindy and make the world go away. But there was no way that he could do that without stopping first to pay his respects to his longtime friend. Much as he cared for Cindy and as much as he tried to squelch his pain, he was sick to his stomach about Phil’s murder. And scared to death about its ramifications. A forty-year friendship among five men. Slowly being destroyed, along with the decent men who composed it.
God help him.
God help them all.
Cindy was very understanding. She was even supportive. She could have waited in the car. But she agreed to go in with Wallace and offer him the comfort of her presence.
He felt humbled and grateful as he pulled off the Southern State Parkway and headed toward Rockville Centre. Losing a close friend was painful enough. Grieving alone would have been even more painful. He knew. He’d done it before.
He’d just parked his car and was opening the door for Cindy when Ben’s sedan came careening around the corner and zigzagged into the parking lot. He swerved diagonally, then slammed on the brakes and turned off the ignition, taking up two parking spaces. He practically fell out of the car.
As soon as Wallace saw the drunken state Ben was in, he rushed forward, trying to head his friend off b
efore he caused a scene.
“Ben, wait.” He grabbed his arm. “You can’t go in there in this condition…”
“I’ve got to see Phil,” Ben slurred, shaking off Wallace’s grasp, “before it’s too late.” He was up the stairs and inside the funeral home before Wallace could stop him.
“Phil!” he bellowed, shoving his way into the room. “I need to talk to you. I need to explain. You’re my friend. I have to make you understand.”
“Ben, for the love of God.” Matthew clenched the sleeve of Ben’s rumpled jacket, blocking his path as Ben struggled to get past. “This is a wake. Phil’s wake. It’s not the time for you to bare your soul at the top of your lungs.”
Ben gazed at Matthew as if he were some nebulous object. “I can’t talk to you now,” he announced. “I have to find Phil.”
“Phil!” he shouted again, oblivious to the sea of shocked faces staring in his direction. “Remember the cockroach races in college? The all-night cram sessions that got me a C in accounting? I was flunking the course. I would’ve failed. You made sure I passed. I won’t fail you either. I’m here. I’ll fix things. You have to let me fix things…”
By this time, Leo had crossed over and reached them. He met Matthew’s frazzled stare and grabbed Ben’s other arm. “Come on, Ben,” Leo said in a soothing tone. “There are a lot of people visiting Phil right now. Let’s sit down somewhere and wait.”
“But I have to…”
“You will—soon,” Matthew assured him, following Leo’s lead by speaking in a low, calming voice, while helping Leo guide Ben into the director’s office. “You’ll talk to him in just a few minutes.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Sloane, as if asking for her assistance in righting the situation.
Sloane stepped forward immediately. “Please forgive Ben’s unfortunate outburst,” she said respectfully, addressing Phil’s family, but making certain the rest of the guests heard her as well. “You know how close he and Phil were, ever since college. He’s taking Phil’s death very hard. I know he meant no disrespect. I apologize on his behalf.”