“You look prettier every time I see you,” he claimed. “Which reminds me, your father tells me your boyfriend’s moving in. That means your cottage needs a makeover. Give me a call and I’ll make it happen.”
“Thank you, Leo,” Sloane replied, her gratitude visible and sincere. Leo was an interior designer, and a good one. He was in high demand. And since neither she nor Derek had a flair for decorating, she’d be thrilled for Leo to take over. “That’s a really kind offer. And, boy, do I need it. So does Derek. He’s been making some not-so-subtle comments about moving into a ‘chick pad.’ I’m sure he’d appreciate a few masculine touches.”
“Of course he would.”
After that, the rest of the men said their hellos as well.
Phil Leary, a certified financial adviser and CPA, and the number cruncher of the art group, was normally quiet. Tonight he was downright subdued, and he kept swallowing, as if there was something caught in his throat.
“I’d be happy to help you select a few art pieces.” Wallace Johnson, who’d been sitting out this hand, slid forward on the sofa and picked up his bottle of beer to polish it off. He owned two art galleries; one in Manhattan, and one in East Hampton, near his suburban estate. “Some modern paintings would complement Leo’s work nicely.”
Wallace was the odd duck of the group. Unlike the others, who came from middle-class backgrounds, Wallace hailed from a wealthy family. His speech and demeanor carried a touch of a patrician air, as did his taste in gourmet food, fine wine, and an elegant lifestyle. But the class difference never intruded on the long-standing friendship he had with these men, or with their business partnership.
Art was their common bond. In Wallace’s case, it was his passion, and always had been. But owning the galleries was his second career, one he’d started the April before last, and under tragic circumstances. He’d been an investment banker for over thirty years—until tragedy had rocked his world. His and his wife Beatrice’s five-year-old daughter had been killed by a hit-and-run driver, one whose identity the police had never uncovered. It had destroyed his career, his marriage, his entire being. Little Sophie had been his heart and his soul. He hadn’t been the same since he’d lost her.
He hid his grief well. But every once in a while, Sloane would see the overwhelming emptiness in his eyes. It was heartbreaking.
“Paintings from your gallery would be wonderful,” she told him warmly. “Between you and Leo, the cottage will get a makeover worthy of Architectural Digest. Derek will be overjoyed—and spoiled rotten.”
“Yeah, we don’t want that to happen,” her father muttered. “I expect him to spoil you, not the other way around.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that.” Sloane was listening, but her attention was on Wallace. She frowned as he rose, grimacing before he made his way over to the table of refreshments.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“More or less.” His voice, which Sloane had noticed was hoarse, rasped as he spoke. “Fighting a cold or the flu.” He put half a roast beef sandwich on a paper plate, then leaned past the tray to grab a Sam Adams from the ice bucket. It was as if the food was for show, when all he really wanted was the beer. Which was odd, because Wallace didn’t usually drink much at the poker games. Fine wine was his thing, not beer.
He must have noticed the puzzlement on Sloane’s face as he turned away, because he drily added, “Your father’s wine collection is sadly lacking. So I’m settling for this to ward off the chills.”
Wallace was wearing a turtleneck on an autumn night that was relatively warm. And his forehead was dotted with beads of perspiration. Maybe he had a fever, or else he was as unnerved as the others.
“Go sit down,” she urged, playing along with his charade. “You need more than half a roast beef sandwich if you want to fight off the flu. I’ll bring you a plate.” She did just that, her frown deepening as Wallace coughed and rubbed his throat before sinking down heavily onto the sofa. “Maybe you should go home to bed.”
“Nonsense.” He waved away her suggestion, putting the bottle of beer to his lips and taking a healthy swallow. “The game will take my mind off the annoyance of catching a cold. Besides, the aspirin Rosalyn gave me before she left are starting to kick in.”
“Left?” Sloane’s brows rose in supposed surprise. “Where did she go? I wanted to check on her.”
“She’s at a publishing dinner,” Matthew supplied. “You tried to talk her out of going, remember?”
“I remember. I thought I’d won that argument.”
“You know your mother better than that. She was getting cabin fever.” A pointed glance, reminding Sloane not to refer to the security guard she’d hired—or anything else that might clue his friends in to figuring out she was in the loop. “Her doctor gave her the green light, if that makes you feel better.”
“Okay, you got me.” Sloane had planned this from the start. It was why she’d come at the tail end of their game, rather than earlier. She could accomplish everything she needed to, then take off. “Mom told me she was going to that dinner. She also told me you’d have plenty of company, since the poker game was here tonight. And, since I’d cleared my work schedule to play Mother Hen, and since Mom wasn’t going to be here to put up with it, I couldn’t resist dropping by to play a few hands—just like old times.”
“You mean trying to clean us out—just like old times,” Phil amended.
Sloane grinned. “Well, something has to pay for redecorating and accessorizing the cottage. And, by the way, not trying—succeeding in cleaning you out.”
“Back then, we let you cheat,” Ben informed her. “Not anymore. Not since you grew up and started using the strategies we taught you against us. Now it’s every man—and woman—for himself.”
“Sounds fair.” Sloane nodded, already walking toward the kitchen. “Finish your hand. I’ll grab more beers from the fridge. And then, with all due respect, you can kiss your money good-bye.”
An hour later, the group disbanded.
The men yanked on their jackets and left, looking far more on edge about Sloane standing in the living room waiting for Matthew than they did about the cash they’d lost to her at the poker table.
“Aren’t you heading home, too?” Phil turned in the doorway to ask, striving for nonchalance and failing. “It’s late. And it’s a long drive to that rural part of New Jersey you live in.”
“Not to worry.” Sloane strove for nonchalance, too. “I’m staying at Derek’s apartment in the city tonight.” A quick glance at her watch. “Actually, I promised to meet him for a drink in a half hour—a drink I also promised to pay for, since I knew I’d win.” She gave Phil an easy smile. “I just need to talk to my father for a minute. He’s the only one who’ll tell me how my mother really feels. She tells me only what she wants me to hear.”
“I understand.” The way Phil’s features relaxed told Sloane he believed her. “Then I’ll let you two talk. And don’t be a stranger.”
“Yeah, but don’t join the game either,” Leo chimed in as he followed Phil out the door. “I’ve got a mortgage to pay.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I expect to hear from you. Between Wallace and me, we’ll make a cozy home for you and your guy.”
“I’m counting on it. Thank you both. Oh, and Wallace”—Sloane stepped into the hall to speak to him—“I assume you’re not driving out to the Hamptons tonight. Not with that flu coming on.”
“No,” he replied. “I’m staying at my place in the city.” A tight smile. “I always do after our poker games—and the inferior alcohol that goes along with them.”
“Good. Take care of yourself.”
Sloane stepped back inside and shut the door, more convinced than ever that there wasn’t a shot in hell these men had fooled the FBI agent who’d interviewed them.
“Did you get what you wanted?” Matthew demanded. “Do you believe everyone here is innocent?”
Sloane turned to face her father. “I never doubted their
innocence. Their acting ability? Now that’s another matter entirely.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I walked into a freaked-out meeting of the Knights of the Round Table. Things rapidly deteriorated the longer I stayed. And that’s given the fact that you told them I’m clueless about everything except the burglary.”
Her father began nervously gathering up empty beer bottles. “So you don’t think the FBI bought our story.”
“No way. Every one of those guys is a mess.” Sloane raked a hand through her hair. “I wish you’d let me talk to Derek.”
“We’ve been over this before. The answer’s still no. Look, Sloane, not one of us has been contacted again by that Special Agent Williams. So he must have accepted our story and assumed we were just nervous about being interviewed by the FBI.” Matthew continued cleaning up, tossing dirty paper plates into a large trash bag. “We’re no longer on their radar. Period.”
“You’re burying your head in the sand. FBI investigations take months, sometimes years. If they’d figured out what happened with the real and the fake Rothbergs, the story would be out. The media would be all over it. This one’s juicy. A man was murdered. And, according to the provenance, you guys were the last ones to do business with him before he was killed; maybe even the last ones to see him alive.”
“We didn’t kill Cai Wen. They can’t charge us with anything.”
“Oh, come on, Dad.” Sloane walked over and planted herself in his face. “You’re not naive. You know that the law isn’t always fair, or right. Besides, this is about more than your innocence. It’s about protecting you from the real killer. You know what he’s capable of. Who knows if he’ll go away? Who knows if he’s acting alone?”
Matthew went very still. “Why? Did you find out something? Is he part of some crime ring?”
“I’m not sure,” Sloane answered honestly. “But I do know that he stole a valuable painting. I know that he traveled from Hong Kong to here, that he owns a Mercedes, and that he has the contacts to track you down. That tells me he’s got money. He also has a bodyguard, hangs out with thugs, and arranged for your chance encounter to happen in an area of Chinatown that’s filled with gang-run casinos and brothels. That tells me he’s got power in dangerous circles. He doesn’t sound like an arbitrary killer to me.”
“I never thought he was. But you’re not talking about just a group of thugs. You’re talking about Asian organized crime.”
“Yes, I am.”
Sloane watched the color drain from her father’s face.
“You didn’t go down this path before,” he said, his voice unsteady.
“It didn’t automatically come to mind.”
“But now it has. And you wouldn’t pull it out of thin air. Which means Derek told you something.”
“Nothing concrete. He can’t discuss Bureau business. But I can sense he’s worried. And that worries me. Because if he knows more than we do about whoever broke into this apartment, my guess is that it involves C-6. Mom said the intruders were speaking some Chinese dialect. It doesn’t take a genius to put together the pieces. And if Asian organized crime is involved, that’s even worse than our original idea that you were just being warned off by Cai Wen’s killer and whoever hired him.”
Matthew’s jaw was working. “You think we walked into an even bigger hornet’s nest.”
“Yes, I do.” Sloane wasn’t going to sugarcoat this, not with so much at stake. “Which brings me to my next point. Derek is pressuring me about the move. I’ve been putting him off. I think I should stop, and let him move into the cottage with me.”
Her father did a double take. “Why? If some organized crime group is after me, why would you choose now to move out of the city? I’m having a hard enough time containing your mother and convincing her she’s in danger. Even after I told her the whole story, she still thinks she’s invincible.”
“I have the best security team there is watching both of you. And I’m moving back to New Jersey, not California. I’ll drop by constantly.” Sloane gave a firm nod. “I’ve been away from home way too much. And it’s the right time for Derek and me to go forward with our plans.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “What’s really going on here? First, that whole gung ho reaction to having Leo and Wallace redecorate the cottage. Now, this uncharacteristic urgency to get Derek moved in, when you’ve been waffling about that decision for a month. You’re in no hurry to forfeit your independence, so don’t tell me you’re suddenly desperate to play house. Especially under these circumstances. So why now? How is leaving the city going to help? You’ll be an hour plus away from us.”
“And in close proximity to Derek. In a place that distinctly separates work and play. We’ll be living like a real couple. We can talk about our jobs at the end of each day and not have the blurred lines we have now. It’s an important step in our relationship. And, hopefully, it’ll make it easier for me to figure out what you’re up against.”
“You’re going to spy on Derek?”
“No.” Sloane’s reply was adamant. “Nor am I going to manipulate him. Number one, I swore I’d never compromise our relationship again—which doing either of those things would. And number two, he’s way too smart for games. He’d see right through me. I’m simply going to take this official, personal step—one I’m excited about taking, even if I am a little scared—and hope that it also provides an atmosphere where Derek is more likely to let me in.”
“And if he won’t?”
“Then I’ll find another way to get inside information. Classified or not. Even if it means breaking the rules. And even if that means blowing my chances of getting back into the Bureau.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MUNICH, GERMANY
The Kunsthalle München was a rectangular building of concrete and glass, the perfect venue to exhibit modern masterpieces.
Near Barer Strasse, the area was filled with art galleries. But the three men who were casually pushing a twin-size baby stroller weren’t interested in window shopping. They strolled toward the museum entrance, pausing to bend over the stroller, as if trying to appease two fussing infants.
All that changed when they reached the main door.
Straightening, they yanked on their black masks and exploded into the museum, waving their submachine guns and shouting orders to the security guards in Slavic-accented German. They restrained them with Flex-Cufs and, holding them at gunpoint, forced the guards to accompany them upstairs.
They reached the third floor. The guard at the entrance to the main hall was practically asleep. From beneath half-lowered lids, he spotted his comrades walking toward him. Slowly, he came to his feet—and then froze. His eyes widened with fear as he focused on the MP5K now aimed directly at his heart.
The third gunman rushed forward and quickly disarmed him, pocketing the guard’s Glock inside his own inside jacket pocket. He then secured the guard’s hands with another set of Flex-Cufs.
Using their terrified captives as human shields, the gunmen headed down the corridor and toward their objective.
The outer exhibition room contained the Impressionists on their list: Renoir and Sisley. Using his wire cutters, the tallest gunman made quick work of the wires holding the paintings in place. He tucked the two paintings under one arm, snatching up his submachine gun and gripping it tightly in his other hand. He and his two accomplices shoved their hostages toward the inner room that contained the two most valuable paintings: the Van Gogh and the Seurat.
As they were about to enter the room, one of the captured guards yelled out, “Halt!” The three guards protecting the inner sanctum instantly hit the floor facedown, as they’d been trained to do in a hostage situation. Crouched behind metal and glass display cases marking the entrance to the exhibit, two other security guards began firing handguns at the masked thieves.
They were no match for the MP5Ks.
All three gunmen opened fire. Their bullets hammered the guards and annihilated the top
s of the display cases, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. Without pausing to assess the damage, they each loaded another clip into their weapons and continued firing.
The silence that followed was abrupt and eerie. The walls behind each case were splattered with blood, bullet holes, and glass fragments.
The leader motioned one of his accomplices to check the guards. The first guard was dead. A short burst of gunfire finished off the second. A quick wave signaled that the path was clear.
Without the slightest hesitation, the leader pounded the three prone guards with bullets, leaving them dead in rivers of their own blood.
The tallest gunman had been hit in the shoulder. Relieving him of the Renoir and the Sisley, the leader motioned for the other gunman to get the Van Gogh and the Seurat.
Less than two minutes later, their goal was achieved.
With the leader helping the injured gunman, and the third member of the team carrying all four paintings, they hurried downstairs, went through a fire exit in the rear of the museum, and rushed toward the waiting BMW.
The paintings were quickly wrapped in blankets. The sedan lurched from the curb, speeding down Gabelsbergerstrasse. The driver eased onto the Oskar-von-Miller-Ring, and around the center of Munich, en route to A-8 and the Austrian border.
Final destination: Budapest.
Inside SSA Tony Sanchez’s office, a closed-door meeting was going on.
Tony, Derek, and Rich Williams were gathered around Tony’s desk, reviewing the various pieces of the C-6 case against Xiao Long, and how it might factor into the shady provenance surrounding the genuine Rothberg.
“All nine of the recent burglaries on the Upper East Side are tied to Xiao Long,” Derek told Rich. “One break-in every two or three weeks. He’s got a great scheme going. A nephew of his, Eric Hu, a bright kid who graduated from MIT a few years ago, has a start-up computer support company—oh, and an addiction to crack, which is an easy get for Xiao Long. Turns out Hu’s company serviced the computer systems of eight of the nine burglarized apartments. Also turns out all the owners of those apartments are affluent, with lots of expensive jewelry, electronic equipment, and artwork.”