“Are you heading over to Leo’s studio now?”
“Right after you promise me you’ll be careful. You should know that I also put extra security on you.”
“Over and above what you’ve already provided—why?”
“Because it’s probable that you and your mother are Liu’s ultimate targets when it comes to punishing your father. You’re both what means the most to him. I’m not taking any chances—especially since I’m sure Xiao’s still keeping an eye on you and will be alerted by his punk kids the minute you walk into Wallace’s gallery. Wallace is back in the city, by the way. He and Cindy drove in from the Hamptons a few hours ago. They’re each at work. So you can catch Wallace alone.”
Sloane was quiet for a moment. “Even if I don’t tell him about Sophie, the rest of this is going to tear him up. Not just Cindy’s betrayal, but that Meili was pregnant with his child, that her father disowned her when he found out, and that she committed suicide. Wallace was deeply in love with her. And he knows nothing about her life since the day she ended their affair.”
“If it’s too much for you, I can talk to him,” Derek offered.
“Thanks, but no. This is something I have to do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Ben was slumped over his desk, head lolled to one side.
One eye cracked open. The whiskey bottle was almost empty. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t reach it anyway. His arms wouldn’t work. None of him would work. Except his goddamned mind. Dulled to the point of unconsciousness, it still refused to shut up.
Murderer. He was a murderer. Directly. Indirectly. He was killing the people he loved.
Flashes of memory. Blanks he couldn’t fill in. Images he’d never forget.
Is this how Phil had felt when the spray of bullets tore through him? No. Phil hadn’t had time to remember anything. No cherished memories. No moments of joy. Unlike Ben, Phil had never harmed anyone but himself. His soul had been free of guilt, and yet Ben had deprived him of the precious flashbacks that defined his life. So what had Phil felt? Pain. Sharp, life-draining pain. Then, death.
All Ben’s fault.
And Sophie. Beautiful, little Sophie. With the purest of souls, and not enough years behind her to have begun forming the priceless memories she deserved. At the very start of her young life. Gone in an instant. Had she been afraid? In pain? Had she called out for her daddy? Or had death come quickly?
If the gates of heaven were strewn with stars, then Sophie was the brightest star in the sky.
The daisies. Had he picked the daisies? Was it the eleventh yet? Or had it slipped by while he was inside a bottle? He’d never missed that date, not since the first one. He couldn’t see the calendar, couldn’t remember what day, what month, what year it was.
Dear God, why couldn’t he just die? Hell could be no worse than this.
“Martino.”
He heard the voice, but it was muted and very far away.
“Martino.” This time it was accompanied by thick hands around his neck, and a powerful jerk, yanking him up. “I come for money.”
The face swam in front of Ben’s drunken gaze. Jin Huang.
“No money,” he croaked out. “No girls. No work. No money.”
Jin Huang’s emotionless gaze flickered across the factory floor below. It was unnaturally still. No workers. No activity. No production.
No surprise. Xiao Long had pulled his girls from Martino’s place the day the government found out Martino was employing illegals.
“Take whatever you want,” Ben muttered into the desk. “Take it all. There’s nothing left.”
“Xiao Long not happy.”
“Tell him he’s welcome to kill me. I wish he would.”
“Good idea. He’d enjoy. But maybe he not come in time. Maybe you kill you first,” Jin Huang replied, his words as stilted as his English. “Or maybe Johnson kill you. Xiao. You. Johnson. All have reasons. No matter what, you die. Soon.”
Sloane felt physically ill as she opened the door to Wallace’s gallery and stepped inside to the tinkling of the bell.
Talking to her father had been a cinch compared to what she had to do now. And talking to Ben hadn’t happened. He’d been so out of it when she called, she’d given up and agreed to let her father try getting through to him.
But Wallace. Poor Wallace. This was going to be one of the hardest conversations Sloane had ever had.
Thankfully, his gallery was quiet, with just two or three patrons browsing around. One of Wallace’s assistants was helping them. When he saw Sloane, he held up his index finger in a “one minute” gesture, then excused himself from his potential customer and went into the back office.
When he returned, Wallace was with him. He was tan and relaxed, looking happier than Sloane had seen him in ages.
She was about to blow all that newfound joy to bits.
“Sloane, this is a pleasant surprise,” he greeted her. “Are you ready to select some paintings for the cottage?”
“I wish that’s why I was here,” Sloane replied soberly. “Unfortunately, it’s not. Can we please talk privately?”
Wallace’s smile vanished, and his forehead creased in concern. “Is it Ben? Did something happen over the weekend?”
“No, nothing like that.” Sloane’s gaze flickered to the rear of the gallery. “Is your office empty?”
“Yes. Come in. Let’s talk there.”
Once they were inside the office with the door shut, Wallace gestured for Sloane to take a seat. “What can I offer you—coffee? Water? Soda?”
Sloane glanced over at the small fridge in the corner. “Water would be great, thank you.” Requesting the water served two purposes. To ease the mounting tension. And to give her something to keep her hydrated so she didn’t pass out during what promised to be a long, draining conversation.
Wallace got out two bottles and handed one to Sloane.
He uncapped his and stood beside his large teak desk, watching her.
“I think you should sit down,” Sloane suggested.
An odd expression crossed his face, a mixture of apprehension and worry. “All right.” He walked around and sat down behind the desk. “This sounds very serious.”
“It is. And I wish more than you could ever imagine that I didn’t have to tell you this.”
“Go on.”
“It concerns Meili.”
Wallace started. Clearly, it was the last thing he’d expected. “Your father told you about Meili?”
“He didn’t have to. I found out about her from her closest friend. The friend is here in New York, recovering in a women’s shelter from an abusive marriage.” Sloane pulled out the photo of Lucy and Meili and handed it to Wallace.
He studied it for a long time, his gaze growing soft and faraway. “Meili. Beautiful and unique.” His head came up. “You said her friend is in New York. Is Meili here as well?”
“No.” Sloane uncapped her water and took a fortifying gulp.
Something in Sloane’s tone must have served as a warning, because Wallace tensed. “She’s still in Hong Kong then,” he decided aloud. “What did her friend tell you?”
“About your relationship. About what happened once it ended. Everything except your name, which Meili never revealed. I only learned it was you Meili’s friend was describing this past Friday. At Phil’s wake. After I met Cindy. I dragged the background story out of my father. He didn’t want to tell me. But the situation was critical, far more than even he knew. He still doesn’t know everything. You had to hear it first.”
“What situation?” Wallace demanded. “Why is it critical? And what is it about Meili that I have to hear?”
Sloane steeled herself. “There’s no easy way to say this. Meili is dead. She died three weeks after she broke things off with you.”
Wallace winced, lowering his gaze to stare at the floor. “How?”
“Suicide.” Sloane made it as short and devoid of details as possible.
“Suici
de?” Wallace’s head snapped up. “Impossible. Meili was a survivor. Strong and independent. She’d never take her own life. You must have the wrong woman or the wrong story.”
“I wish that were so. But it’s not. Wallace, Meili was pregnant,” Sloane told him quietly. “It was your child. She didn’t realize it until after she’d sent you away.”
“Pregnant…oh dear Lord.” Wallace’s water bottle struck the desk with a thud. “And she didn’t even contact me…”
“She was too proud to contact you. She went to her father. But he turned her away. The shame and dishonor were too much for her.”
“So she killed herself.” Wallace’s voice was choked. He was also still clearly in shock. “She killed herself and our child. All because I wasn’t there for her.”
“Wallace, you couldn’t have known—”
“How?” he interrupted, not even hearing Sloane’s words.
“How what?”
“How did she kill herself? Pills? Drowning? How?”
Sloane gritted her teeth. “She slit her wrists.”
Wallace shuddered, and his Adam’s apple began furiously going up and down as he choked back emotion. “Sloane, I’d like to be alone now.”
“I understand. But I can’t leave yet. There’s more.”
“More?” He stared at her. “How much more can there be?”
“Quite a bit.” Sloane was gripping the water bottle so tightly, the plastic was buckling. “Meili’s family name was Liu. Johnny Liu was her father.”
This time, Wallace jerked backward as if he’d been punched. “What?”
“Johnny Liu. Meili was his only child. That explains her strong resemblance to Cindy. They were cousins. And Wallace, Meili left a suicide note. Her father knows everything—your name, the way your art investment group offered her an absurdly low price for the second Rothberg, the bet you guys made during your poker game, the fact that Meili ended your relationship when you told her about it—everything.”
Wallace had gone so still and was staring so intently into space that Sloane wondered if he was absorbing all her information.
When he spoke, she realized he was, and that he’d been processing everything she’d said and all the ramifications associated with it.
“If Liu’s known all this time, he must despise me. I don’t blame him. I’m not sure I don’t despise myself. But the pretense he’s kept up…”
“It was planned. Liu has spent these past few years obsessed with getting revenge.”
“All our business dealings, the favor he asked of me when it came to Cindy…” A painful pause. “Cindy’s appearance in my life isn’t a coincidence. And the relationship is all a facade. Liu wanted to rub my nose in her resemblance to Meili, and then make sure I relived our break-up as painfully as possible.”
“Cindy and her uncle are very close,” Sloane confirmed softly. “I haven’t confronted her, but my guess is you’re right.”
“I am. The way she said good-bye to me today seemed oddly final, considering we’d just spent the weekend together. And in the car, she apologized for how her priorities would affect us. I assumed she meant her being a workaholic. I told her that I understood, that I’d been there. She averted her gaze and said she doubted that. Now it all makes sense. And that exquisite painting she gave me of the little Chinese girl—she said it was a heartfelt thank-you gift from her uncle and herself. I assumed it was meant to be a tribute to Sophie. Now I know it wasn’t. It was a reminder of Liu’s loss, a way of taunting me about my own, rubbing salt in wounds that will never heal. My precious Sophie. And the unborn child I never even knew existed…”
Sloane saw where this was headed. Wallace’s thoughts were turning in the exact direction she’d feared. Soon he’d come to the logical conclusion about Sophie’s death that would send him into a murderous rage. She had to tell him the truth. She had no choice.
“Wallace, this is even bigger than you realize,” she began. “Liu isn’t just a wealthy entrepreneur. He’s head of the Liu Jian Triad. He has loyal members helping him with this plot to avenge Meili’s death. And that plot doesn’t just involve you, although you’re his prime target. All your partners are on his victim list. He’s slowly destroying each of them because of the slimy way the group did business with Meili, topped off by that ludicrous bet you all made. He’s going for everyone’s jugular—especially yours. Which brings me to Sophie…”
Sloane was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. She was tempted to ignore it, but given the precarious state of the investigation, she couldn’t.
“I have to take this,” she apologized to Wallace.
Vaguely, he nodded. His mind had already returned to processing mode.
“Hello?” Sloane said into the phone.
“Sloane? Thank God you answered. I just got it. It’s a year and a half later, and I just got it. They made sure I got it. I read it three times. Then I saw the Post-it they attached. They’re going to kill her. I’m sick to my stomach. And I don’t know who to call—the police, the FBI. Tell me what to do.”
It was Leo. His voice was tear-clogged. And he was distraught to the point of hysteria.
“Leo, calm down,” Sloane directed. “You’re not making sense. What is it you just got and read, and what Post-it was attached? Who’s going to kill who, and how do you know the information is authentic?” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Something’s happened at Leo’s end. I need a few minutes.”
“Take them. I need time to think, anyway.” Wallace crossed over and left the office. He looked ill.
Sloane was just finishing up with Leo, assuring him she’d take immediate action with regard to his situation, when Wallace stormed back into the office. He was positively shaking with rage, out of control in a way Sloane had never seen him.
“A messenger service was here,” he announced, ignoring the phone in her hand. “They delivered these.”
He opened the manila envelope, pulled out the contents, and flung what turned out to be some photos and a newspaper clipping across the desk at Sloane.
She glanced down at them and froze.
The photos were of Ben. Passed out drunk at the wheel of his white Mercedes. His front fender was badly dented. Blood was splattered all over the front grill and hood of the car.
The date stamp on the photos was April 11, 2006. And the newspaper clipping was Sophie’s obituary, dated a few days later.
The nightmare had just exploded into a hellish reality.
“Leo, I’ve got to go,” Sloane said into the phone. “Don’t touch the letter, the Post-it, or the envelope again. I’ll have someone at the FBI pick them up. The Evidence Response Team will check for fingerprints. But we both know who’s responsible. I’ll call you back.”
She snapped her phone shut and reached for the photos, holding them gingerly at the very edges in case there were prints to pull off. But there wouldn’t be. Any more than there’d be prints on Leo’s letter.
“Ben killed my child,” Wallace said tonelessly. “Ben. Sophie’s godfather. My lifelong friend. He helped make her birth possible. He was there the day she was born. He was there the day she died. He stood by my side at the funeral. He puts daisies on her grave every month. She adored him. He killed her. Then he drove away. He didn’t even stay to help her or to see if she was alive. He didn’t turn himself in. He didn’t come to me. He ran and hid, passed out in a drunken stupor. And when he came to…”
“Wallace,” Sloane tried. “Johnny Liu is the one who arranged…”
“I know who sent me these pictures,” Wallace snapped. “I’m not an idiot. But that’s irrelevant.” His index finger jabbed at the images. “Ben killed Sophie. The evidence is staring us in the face. I’m sure Liu’s been blackmailing him. None of that matters. My friend killed my little girl.”
“No. He didn’t.” Sloane gave a hard shake of her head as she finished scrutinizing the photos. “Wallace, this is a setup. Ben didn’t kill Sophie. Xiao Long did.”
br /> That name made Wallace go very still. “What the hell does Xiao Long have to do with this?”
“He’s Liu’s henchman, a valued member of his triad. He’s loyal to his Dragon Head. And he’s the instrument Liu’s using to carry out his vendetta.”
A spark of realization flashed in Wallace’s eyes, and Sloane could see his wheels turning. What he was thinking, she wasn’t sure. Nor did she have time to ponder it.
“But it’s Ben who’s behind the wheel,” Wallace maintained. “The car is definitely his. I recognize the Saint Jude medal hanging from his rearview mirror. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t speak to how Xiao pulled it off. Only Ben can. But I can tell you that these photos have been doctored. Look. Ben is posed. He’s completely unconscious, literally drooling. His head is propped against the headrest, yet his hands are on the wheel.”
Wallace was staring at the photos. Sloane didn’t know if he was buying her explanation. But at least he was hearing her. She was thankful for that.
“See the background here behind the car?” she pressed on, pointing. “The sun is barely up. That means these photos were taken at the approximate time Sophie was killed. There’s no way Ben would have been cognizant enough to drive. But even if he had been, he’d be out of control, physically and mentally. He could never have made the rational decision to speed off after plowing into the car Sophie was in. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Your points are well taken. But…”
“Think about it. The accident happened on Eighty-ninth Street, near Sophie’s school. That’s a busy residential neighborhood. Ben would have swerved all over the road. Cars would have been bashed in. Pedestrians would have been injured or killed. And Ben would have ended up crashing into a tree or causing a pileup at the intersection of Eighty-ninth and Park. The cops and PIs who investigated the accident were convinced that the hit-and-run driver was fleeing from something or racing to something. He was purposeful, deliberate. So much so that not one of the dozen witnesses interviewed managed to identify his vehicle as anything but a white Mercedes sedan. They didn’t catch the model, or make out even a few letters or numbers off his license plate. The driver was too quick and too focused.” Again, Sloane pointed at the photos. “Does that man look like he’s either of those?”