Drawn in Blood (35 page)

“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 Hil , Midtown North,” he identified himself. “Why was the FBI cal ed 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 hal . “The victim was pummeled with bul ets. 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 al 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 al 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 kil ers 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 kil er. He choked the victim with a piano wire, so hard it sliced open his neck. And he did it posthumously.” Derek recognized the cal ing card. “Was anything taken?” he asked.

“Not that we can tel so far. We’ve only been on the scene for an hour. The cal 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. “Personal y, I’d love to know why
two
guys with automatic weapons would murder an average accountant, and then choke the hel out of him afterward.”

“Yeah, so would I.”

It was midmorning when Derek cal ed Sloane. He knew she didn’t normal y 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 ful y aware of where Derek was, and with whom, as wel 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. Especial y since you’l want to be the one who tel s your father.”

“Okay.”

Derek didn’t try to sugarcoat it. There was no way to cushion this kind of blow.

“Phil Leary was kil ed 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?”

“Al 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 dol ars. 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 al over it.”

“That sounds a little too tidy,” Sloane managed, her voice quivering a bit. “Motive, means, and opportunity, al 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 wil ing to talk, once he realized how bad his ass was on the line.”

“And?”

“And the case is now official y 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 al being targeted by Xiao. But why? Nut job or not, this can’t al be a plot to shut them up about what they saw in Hong Kong. It doesn’t make sense, especial y after fourteen years have passed.”

“Agreed.” Derek paused. “Are you okay?”

“I’l 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 cal your father. Tel him only the facts. That Phil was kil ed. 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 tel me why Xiao wanted Phil dead.”

“Cal 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’l give you more than enough time to gril Ben, and me the chance to tel 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 final y 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 al 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 wel ?”

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 stil be alive. I got him kil ed.” 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 pul ed 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 cal a lawyer if you’d like.” Martino’s response was an ironic laugh. “What lawyer—my own? He handles wil s, real estate—not criminal cases. Sloane? She works with you. Besides, once she knows about this, she’l never speak to me again. Neither wil her father. He’l 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 hel .”

Phil’s wake was held that Friday at the Thomas Mackie Funeral Home in Rockvil e Centre, Long Island. He had grown up there, his family was there, and his two grown children had made al 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 stil 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 kil ers. He knew—from Ben himself—that Ben was under investigation for hiring il egals, and that Xiao Long owned the employment agency he dealt with. He also knew that the FBI had upped the security on al 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 al 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 stil 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. Al 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 tel s me time is running out.” Wal ace and Cindy were en route to the Hamptons for their weekend alone. Part of Wal ace wanted to block out the reality of Phil’s murder. Stil 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 al .

Cindy was very understanding. She was even supportive. She could have waited in the car. But she agreed to go in with Wal ace and offer him the comfort of her presence.

He felt humbled and grateful as he pul ed off the Southern State Parkway and headed toward Rockvil e 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 diagonal y, then slammed on the brakes and turned off the ignition, taking up two parking spaces. He practical y fel out of the car.