Drawn in Blood

Andrea Kane

Drawn in Blood

To Mischief Mini, whom we all adore. Thank you

for bringing a new and renewed love into our

hearts and our home. You are truly a blessing.

Contents

The front door of the apartment was open a crack.

The evening rush hour had come and gone, but the…

Matthew Burbank was pacing the floor of the waiting room…

Dressed in white coveral s, the team of Albanian gunmen kept…

Xiao Long, or “Little Dragon,” as his street name translated…

The poker game was in ful swing when Sloane walked…

The Kunsthal e München was a rectangular building of concrete and…

The one thing Derek hadn’t approached Tony with was how…

Something was bugging Rich Wil iams.

Rosalyn was in a hurry. Business tote in one hand,…

Xiao Long had gotten involved with the triads when he…

Matthew Burbank was pacing by the front door when Sloane…

An hour later, Sloane and her father were seated across…

Sloane ran the hounds an extra half-mile that night to…

The total worth of multimil ionaire Theodore Campbel ’s private art col ection…

Cindy’s debut was a smashing success.

Sloane’s arrow whizzed through the air and struck the bul ’s-eye…

Leo Fox had enjoyed a variety of women in his…

Peggy Sun took a few steps back to scrutinize her…

Derek was in the living room with the hounds. He…

It was midmorning when Rich strode down one of C-6’s…

The brown sedan cruised slowly down the street. It was…

Derek arrived at his desk at seven a.m. As a…

Daniel Zhang was expecting them.

Wal ace’s taste in restaurants was impeccable.

Derek’s reaction to Sloane and Jeff’s report was not what…

Jeff and Sloane arrived at the women’s shelter the next…

Leo was a wreck.

Derek started with Ben Martino.

Phil had thought through everything long and hard.

Xiao Long’s gaze bore into Leary’s and Martino’s backs as…

Derek left the cottage at dawn the next morning, heading…

Phil’s wake was held that Friday at the Thomas Mackie…

There was no doubt that Johnny Liu had members of…

Ben was slumped over his desk, head lol ed to one…

Ben crawled out of the bathroom and back to his…

Sloane rested her head on Derek’s shoulder.

Sloane and Derek drove into the Field Office together the…

The package Johnny Liu had described arrived twenty minutes later.

It was dark.

“I’d forgotten how much paperwork has to be done after…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Andrea Kane

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

The front door of the apartment was open a crack. That meant Matthew was home.

General y, Rosalyn Burbank preferred being the first one through the door at night. It gave her time to unwind, to transition from work to home. To savor a glass of wine and a hot shower before starting to think about dinner.

But tonight she was just as happy her husband had beaten her to their Upper East Side apartment. The two of them needed to talk.

Something was weighing on her husband’s mind, and had been for weeks. She’d waited for him to approach her and broach the subject. He hadn’t. That was way out of character. Matthew wasn’t big on secrets. Neither was Rosalyn. It was probably one of the reasons their marriage had endured for thirty-three years. And what made this situation worse was that whatever Matthew was keeping from her was significant. He wasn’t himself. He was quiet and pensive, and he tossed and turned al night, every night.

Rosalyn was real y starting to worry.

Tonight she planned to clear the air.

“Matthew?” She elbowed the front door open the rest of the way and stepped inside, shutting it behind her. “It’s me. You forgot to close the door behind you again. Not the smartest idea. One day, someone’s going to—”

She never finished her sentence.

She heard the footsteps rush up behind her a split second before a pair of strong arms grabbed her. A rag was stuffed in her mouth, and a rough sack was pul ed over her head.

Instinctively, Rosalyn fought back. Enveloped by darkness, she struggled like a wild animal, even when she was backhanded so hard that her head snapped around and she lost her footing, nearly toppling to the floor. She managed to stay upright, regained her balance, and swung out blindly with her fist.

Her knuckles connected with what felt like her attacker’s jaw, and she heard his grunt of stunned surprise.

She took advantage of the moment, delivering a second punch, hoping to do some serious damage. But this time she missed and her attacker grabbed her arms, pinning them behind her and anchoring them so her movements were restricted. She stil didn’t cave, but continued to battle him with sharp defensive jerks of her body and as many clumsy kicks as she could manage.

When her knee connected with his groin, she knew she’d gone too far.

He swore viciously, then barked out a terse, unintel igible command in another language—some Asian tongue. Pounding footsteps ensued, and a second intruder burst out from wherever in the apartment he’d been. The two men started arguing in a guttural Chinese dialect. An instant later, Rosalyn was dragged through the foyer and into another room—

Matthew’s office, if her sense of direction wasn’t completely off. There, she was shoved into a chair, her wrists were bound behind her, and her ankles were tied together on the floor.

She tried to let out a scream but only succeeded in gagging on the rag that was crammed in her mouth. The garbled sound that emerged was muffled by the burlap sack.

Before she could try again, a heavy, solid object struck her head, and pain exploded through her skul .

She saw stars and heard herself whimper. Pinpoints of light flashed behind her eyes. The voices…just two? No, maybe three. Male voices. Al speaking in the same rapid Chinese. Dazed, she found herself wishing she’d joined Matthew and Sloane al those years ago when they’d taken their trips to the Far East. Then maybe she could have deciphered what was being said. As it was, al she could make out was the urgency of their tones, mixed with the sound of slamming drawers and what was probably a lifetime of possessions being hauled off.

With her tongue, she managed to maneuver the rag to one side—far enough so she could scream.

That was a mistake.

A drawer thudded to the floor. A whiz of motion. And then another blow that connected solidly with the side of her head.

This one was too much.

Blinding pain. Then, dark silence.

It had started to drizzle when Matthew got out of the taxi and paid the driver—a cold autumn drizzle that left you feeling chil ed inside and out.

Matthew didn’t notice it.

He didn’t notice anything.

He was paralyzed with shock and worry.

He’d walked into a Chinatown restaurant to meet his partners, men who also happened to be his oldest friends. It wasn’t a social dinner. It was a strategy session.
All
their necks were on the line—even the two of them who hadn’t been at the crime scene—and it had been crucial that they nail down the details of the story they’d be giving to the FBI during their individual interrogations. No hesitations. No deviations. It was the only way.

Matthew had arrived late and on edge.

But he’d left panicked, punched in the gut with the very basis for this meeting, and sucked into a memory he’d long since buried—or had tried to. Suddenly, the past was the present. No. Worse. Because now what he feared for was his life.

He’d stepped out for a smoke. The Mercedes had pul ed up to the curb, parking directly in front of the Cadil ac Escalade, not fifteen feet from where Matthew stood. Two Mediterranean guys, who looked like thugs and were built like linebackers, had gotten out of the Escalade and waited on the sidewalk as the driver of the Mercedes, burly and Asian, hurried around to open the back door for his passenger.

The man had emerged, emanating power, despite being dwarfed in size by the linebackers. He’d greeted them with a nod, waited for his driver—who was clearly a bodyguard

—to be glued to his side, and then led the way, keeping his head down as he walked.

He raised it just as he reached Matthew. He stopped. A long moment of eye contact. The recognition had been mutual and indisputable.

It was more than enough to tel Matthew he was living on borrowed time.

He was barely aware of greeting the doorman at his building or entering the high-rise on York Avenue and Eighty-second Street. On autopilot, he summoned the elevator, then rode upstairs as he berated himself for being a prisoner to his own stupidity.

The elevator doors slid open, and he headed toward the apartment. Never had he needed a drink more than he did right now.

He unlocked the front door and flipped on the light as he stepped inside. His gaze swept the living area, and he froze in his tracks.

The place was trashed, furniture shoved aside, empty recesses left where the flat-screen TV and entertainment center had been. Kitchen drawers were dumped upside down, minus al the unique Art Deco silverware they’d contained. Two handcrafted sculptures that Matthew had bartered for in Thailand were missing, as was the Monet that had hung over the sofa, and the one-of-a-kind ivory chess set he’d bought in India. And one of Rosalyn’s diamond stud earrings was lying in the corner, clearly having been dropped. That meant they’d been in their bedroom and cleaned out her jewelry box.

None of that meant jack. It was the other painting. That’s why they’d come. The rest was just bonus. They’d broken in because of the painting.

Not the Monet. It was one of his lesser known works, not one of his masterpieces. But the Rothberg. Not the painting itself, but its paperwork.
That
was what was invaluable.

And timely. Especial y after Matthew’s encounter tonight.

He flung down the portfolio he’d been holding and raced to his office—where he’d find his answer.

He found a lot more than that.

Rosalyn was crumpled on her side in a corner of the room. She was bound to a toppled chair—hands and feet—and her head was half-covered by a cloth sack. One of the heavy wooden bookends he kept on his mantle lay beside her. A pool of blood was oozing from inside the sack, staining the Oriental rug beneath his wife’s head. She wasn’t moving.

Her unnatural stil ness was terrifying.

“Roz.” Wild with panic, Matthew dashed over, squatting down and easing the sack off her head, dreading what he’d find.

She was breathing. He released his own breath when he saw that. Thank God. She was alive. The shal ow rise and fal of her breasts confirmed it. So did the thready but definite pulse at her wrist.

To hel with the Rothberg.

He pul ed the rag out of her mouth and untied her wrists and ankles, scrutinizing her as he did. There were nasty gashes just above her ear where the blood was seeping from.