Drawn in Blood (8 page)

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 al 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 kil ed; maybe even the last ones to see him alive.”

“We didn’t kil 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 kil er. You know what he’s capable of. Who knows if he’l go away? Who knows if he’s acting alone?” Matthew went very stil . “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 tel s 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 fil ed with gang-run casinos and brothels. That tel s me he’s got power in dangerous circles. He doesn’t sound like an arbitrary kil er 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 automatical y come to mind.”

“But now it has. And you wouldn’t pul 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 kil er 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 stil 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’l 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 real y going on here? First, that whole gung ho reaction to having Leo and Wal ace 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 tel me you’re suddenly desperate to play house. Especial y under these circumstances. So why now? How is leaving the city going to help? You’l be an hour plus away from us.”

“And in close proximity to Derek. In a place that distinctly separates work and play. We’l 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, hopeful y, it’l 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’l 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.”

MUNICH, GERMANY

The Kunsthal e München was a rectangular building of concrete and glass, the perfect venue to exhibit modern masterpieces.

Near Barer Strasse, the area was fil ed with art gal eries. But the three men who were casual y pushing a twin-size baby strol er weren’t interested in window shopping. They strol ed toward the museum entrance, pausing to bend over the strol er, as if trying to appease two fussing infants.

Al 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 hal was practical y 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 tal est 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 yel ed 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.

Al three gunmen opened fire. Their bul ets hammered the guards and annihilated the tops 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 fol owed was abrupt and eerie. The wal s behind each case were splattered with blood, bul et 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 bul ets, leaving them dead in rivers of their own blood.

The tal est 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 al 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-Mil er-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 Wil iams 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.

“Al 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 al the owners of those apartments are affluent, with lots of expensive jewelry, electronic equipment, and artwork.”

“Hu’s computer support team scopes out the apartments and their owners’ routines,” Rich surmised. “They take note of where al the valuables are, and where the lady of the house keeps her jewelry. They probably take pictures with their cel phones. That way, Xiao Long’s guys know just where to go to get as much as they can, as fast as they can.”

“Right.” Tony tapped his pen against his leg. “We’ve been onto this part of Xiao Long’s business for almost six months—since he started it. He’s coming up in the world. He used to deal in just gambling, drugs, and prostitutes. Now he’s graduated to fencing top-dol ar goods.”

“And finding wil ing buyers for the artwork,” Rich noted. “Keeping that under the radar is easy, unless any of the pieces are col ectors’ items or famous masterpieces. Which, judging from the partial list you rattled by me, they’re primarily not.” A glance at Derek. “You said eight of the nine burglaries fit the profile. The ninth, I assume, is Matthew Burbank’s apartment.”

Derek gave a tight nod. “Burbank’s not rich. He is an art dealer, so it stands to reason that he has a few decent pieces in his place. But Eric Hu never set foot in that apartment, and his company never serviced Burbank’s computers. So how would they know?”

“Let’s play devil’s advocate. Let’s say they read or overheard something that made them think Burbank had more than he did, and that they tipped off Xiao Long, who had his gang break in and rob the place.”

“Fine. So they saw the Monet and ripped it off. Makes sense. Monet’s famous, even though you said it wasn’t one of his wel -known works. But they’re not connoisseurs. So they grabbed it, along with a bunch of other pieces that had more sentimental than actual value. In addition to that…” For the tenth time, Derek studied the list of stolen items the cops provided. “We’re talking standard household stuff—a flat-screen TV, a couple laptops, a set of silverware, a pair of diamond studs, and a gold necklace. Nothing close to the haul they got from the other thefts. And what bugs me most is that the rest of what they took smacks of camouflage—a DVD player they could get for seventy-five bucks at Best Buy, a hundred-dol ar men’s watch they could buy on the Internet for less, and a whole slew of knickknacks. They spent more time trashing the place than robbing it.”

“You think they were looking for something else.”

“Yeah. And I think they were disguising that search as a burglary. Why else would our wiretap catch Xiao Long getting word about finalizing a deal with an old art dealer on East Eighty-second?”

“Could be payback for anything,” Rich suggested.

“Right,” Derek returned drily. “And it could be coincidence that the very next morning you had an appointment to interview Burbank about a dirty art deal.”

“Which we have no reason to believe he was involved in.” Rich pursed his lips. “Look, Derek, I understand how frustrated you are. But I haven’t found the connection you’re looking for. The painting Burbank sold was genuine. As for a link between Burbank and Xiao Long, when I slipped in Xiao Long’s name during the Hong Kong portion of our interview, there wasn’t a flicker of recognition. Burbank’s a lousy actor, and I’m a great reader of body language. I’d know if he was hiding something.”

“Unless he doesn’t know what he’s hiding.”

Rich shrugged. “We can speculate al day. Al I can say is that, if Burbank’s sale of
Dead or Alive
to Cai Wen, or if Cai Wen’s murder itself, is in any way tied to your investigation of Xiao Long, I can’t see it. Then again, a kil er and a thief isn’t about to leave a sales receipt. So the gaping hole in our provenance certainly leaves room for a variety of possibilities.”

“Al the more reason to keep digging into Burbank’s art investment group and the timing of their sale. Please, Rich. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

“Fine,” Rich agreed, eyeing Derek quizzical y as he spoke. “I’l review each of their interviews. But, just to clarify, are you leaning toward Burbank being a pawn or a criminal?

I’m getting mixed signals.”

“That’s because Derek’s giving them off.” Tony leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on his desk. “Rich, would you excuse us for a minute?”

“Not a problem. Actual y, I’ve got to run anyway.” Rich got to his feet. “I’m waiting for a cal from Interpol.”

“That museum heist in Munich earlier today?” Tony asked.

“Yup. Bloody and profitable. Five dead guards. And a haul including a Van Gogh worth about forty mil ion.” Tony whistled. “You’ve got your hands ful .”

“Always.” Rich headed for the door. “I’l let you know if I find anything in those interviews.”

“Thanks,” Derek replied.

He waited until he and Tony were alone. Then, he got right into it. “You want to discuss my objectivity where it comes to this case.”

“Do you blame me?”

“Not a bit. And you’re right. I’ve got a personal stake in this. But my loyalty is to Sloane, not her father. Which is al the more reason I want to get at the truth—whatever it is.