Drawn in Blood (7 page)

He studied the new addition to his private gal ery with deep gratification. His life was a facade, the world simply a stage upon which to enact the charade.

This room was his only sanctuary.

The clock in the upstairs hal way chimed six-thirty.

Reluctantly, he rose, setting down his martini glass and taking in the exquisite painting for one long moment. Yes, acquiring this one had been worth the risk.

He climbed the stairs, flipped off the light, and shut and locked the door. This room was off-limits to everyone—family, friends, and col eagues alike.

He shrugged into his jacket and headed for the garage. He was just opening the door to his Jaguar when he sensed someone behind him.

He barely had time to turn when a foot slammed into his stomach. The impact sent him sprawling to the concrete floor. He lay there, groaning, doubled up with pain, and gazed up at his attacker.

The dark, emotionless eyes that stared into his belonged to the same brawny Asian man who’d been here earlier in the week. The threat he’d issued then had been menacingly clear. He’d shattered an antique mirror, sending shards of glass scattering al over the hal . With a gloved hand, he’d picked up the longest piece and held it to Wal ace’s throat. “FBI.

You say nothing,” he’d warned in broken English.

“I won’t,” Wal ace had gasped. “I have nothing to tel them.”

“Good.”

He was gone as quickly as he’d come.

Now he pinned Wal ace to the ground, one knee planted squarely across his throat, squeezing his windpipe.

“I didn’t say a word,” Wal ace wheezed out. “I…swear…”

The dul -eyed thug leaned into him, increasing the pressure on Wal ace’s throat with his knee until Wal ace couldn’t drag air into his lungs, the other knee pressing into Wal ace’s bruised kidney. The agony was beyond bearing.

“I…can’t…breathe…” he managed. “You’re…kil ing…me…”

“No,” Jin Huang replied tonelessly. “This not kil . This not even pain. When I kil ,
then
pain. So bad you beg to die quick. But you die slow. Very slow. Tel friends tonight, don’t talk. Or everyone dies—slow.”

The poker game was in ful swing when Sloane walked in.

There had been a low, tense conversation going on among the men. It came to an abrupt halt the moment she entered the living room.

Sloane wasn’t surprised. It felt weird, given she’d known these men her entire life. But she got it. They weren’t sure how much her father had shared with her, even if he’d reassured them he’d said nothing. And she wasn’t a curious little girl anymore, or even a bal sy teenager. She was a grown woman, a former FBI agent, and a threat.

“Hi, al ,” she greeted them casual y, pretending she hadn’t noticed the lul in conversation. She plucked an apple out of the fruit bowl her mother had no doubt put out. The rest of the snacks were her father’s contribution—a platter of deli sandwiches from the Second Avenue deli, bowls of mixed nuts and chips, and, judging from the half-empty bottles on the card table, a couple six-packs of Sam Adams, plus one six-pack of O’Doul’s for Ben Martino, who was a recovering alcoholic. He had yet to break into the O’Doul’s, but the night was young.

No shocker that her apple was the first thing missing from the fruit bowl.

“Sloane.” Ben slapped down his cards and jumped up to give her a paternal hug. He was a demonstrative guy, not to mention a high-strung type A perpetual motion machine.

Sloane remembered visiting his clothing manufacturing company as a child and watching him pace back and forth, doing everything from overseeing the seamstresses to reworking the patterns himself. The only time he sat in one place was during these weekly poker games, and even then he fidgeted, tapped his foot, or perched at the edge of his seat like an eagle about to take flight. He looked like an eagle, too, with his beakish nose, sharp dark eyes, and close cap of gray-white hair.

“It’s great to see you,” he told her, tugging a lock of her hair the way he used to when she was a kid. “It’s been way too long.” Sloane smiled, struck by a wave of nostalgia. “Yes, it has.”

She’d seen her father’s friends occasional y these past few years, but never al together, and never at the card table. In fact, she hadn’t dropped in on the poker game since her days at the Manhattan D.A.’s Office. She’d left to join the FBI, gone down to Quantico for her new-agent training, and moved to Cleveland for her first Field Office assignment. By that time, her parents had moved to Florida. They’d only moved back four or five months ago, and she’d been too busy to visit them for more than a few hours at a time.

So, yes, it had been ages since she’d dropped in on the infamous poker game. But her memories of watching, learning, and ultimately sitting in for a few hands of Texas Hold

’Em were warm and fuzzy.

She hugged Ben back. Talk about hyper. He was normal y tightly strung, but tonight he was practical y vibrating. “How’s your new grandson?” she asked, hoping to ease the tension by bringing up his favorite subject: his family.

It worked, and Ben visibly relaxed—as much as he was capable of relaxing. “He’s great. He’s only four months old, and he’s cutting his first tooth. Personal y, I think he’s also trying to talk. A real genius.”

“Gurgling isn’t talking, Ben,” Leo Fox informed him, striving for a touch of his customary levity. “Except in your case. You talk so fast, gurgling is easier to understand.” He winked at Sloane, and then averted his gaze, seemingly examining his cards before looking back at her.

Sloane noticed that his face and neck were flushed.

“You look prettier every time I see you,” he claimed. “Which reminds me, your father tel s me your boyfriend’s moving in. That means your cottage needs a makeover. Give me a cal and I’l 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 thril ed for Leo to take over. “That’s a real y 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 hel os as wel .

Phil Leary, a certified financial adviser and CPA, and the number cruncher of the art group, was normal y quiet. Tonight he was downright subdued, and he kept swal owing, as if there was something caught in his throat.

“I’d be happy to help you select a few art pieces.” Wal ace 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 gal eries; one in Manhattan, and one in East Hampton, near his suburban estate. “Some modern paintings would complement Leo’s work nicely.” Wal ace was the odd duck of the group. Unlike the others, who came from middle-class backgrounds, Wal ace 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 Wal ace’s case, it was his passion, and always had been. But owning the gal eries 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 kil ed 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 wel . But every once in a while, Sloane would see the overwhelming emptiness in his eyes. It was heartbreaking.

“Paintings from your gal ery would be wonderful,” she told him warmly. “Between you and Leo, the cottage wil get a makeover worthy of
Architectural Digest
. Derek wil 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’l be sure to tel him that.” Sloane was listening, but her attention was on Wal ace. She frowned as he rose, grimacing before he made his way over to the table of refreshments.

“Are you al 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 al he real y wanted was the beer. Which was odd, because Wal ace didn’t usual y 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 col ection is sadly lacking. So I’m settling for this to ward off the chil s.”

Wal ace 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’l bring you a plate.” She did just that, her frown deepening as Wal ace 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 swal ow. “The game wil 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. “Wel , 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’l grab more beers from the fridge. And then, with al 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. “Actual y, 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’l tel me how my mother
really
feels. She tel s me only what she wants me to hear.”

“I understand.” The way Phil’s features relaxed told Sloane he believed her. “Then I’l let you two talk. And don’t be a stranger.”

“Yeah, but don’t join the game either,” Leo chimed in as he fol owed Phil out the door. “I’ve got a mortgage to pay.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I expect to hear from you.

Between Wal ace and me, we’l make a cozy home for you and your guy.”

“I’m counting on it. Thank you both. Oh, and Wal ace”—Sloane stepped into the hal 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 hel 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 stil no. Look, Sloane, not one of us has been contacted again by that Special Agent Wil iams. 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.