Drawn in Blood

by Andrea Kane

  The exchange would be made there. And the ship and its new cargo would be in international waters before noon.

  The haul was a fine initiation of their American enterprise.

  Wallace opened his midtown gallery earlier than usual that day. He’d stayed at his Hamptons estate last night. But he’d never gone to sleep. Instead, he’d sat up all night, staring at the paintings he so loved, and drinking his cognac.

  He’d gotten a phone call on his private, unlisted line just before midnight. He knew who it was. And he knew he had to answer—for good or for bad.

  This time it was for good.

  There was another Renoir about to become available. And not just any Renoir. One that he’d coveted forever. It literally took his breath away, and infused a semblance of life back into his soul.

  He had to have that painting.

  But, stolen or not, the asking price was $900,000—10 percent of the $9 million it would be worth hanging in a museum or at a collector’s estate.

  He had only a week to come up with the money. That would mean liquidating a substantial chunk of his assets. And with his art partnership under such close scrutiny by the FBI, it was bound to raise red flags.

  There had to be another way. He’d racked his brain all night, trying to come up with an answer. But it always came back to the same thing—the only way to bring in a large sum of money without arousing suspicion was to sell at least four or five of his more valuable paintings. That was called business, and no one could question its legitimacy.

  As he drove into Manhattan, the sun barely peeking up over the horizon, a solution occurred to him. True, he’d dropped off the radar of the financial industry the day he’d left investment banking. Many of his former colleagues had forgotten he ever existed. But others had stayed in touch—especially those who were fellow patrons of the arts. He saw them at the Met, at MoMA, and at art auctions at both Sotheby’s and Christie’s. They all knew of Sophie’s tragic death and how hard Wallace had taken his enormous personal loss. And they sympathized with—if not understood—his need to leave the demanding world of high finance and to reinvest his sizable assets in the less stressful arena of acquiring and overseeing his own art galleries.

  In their minds, he was a semiretired rich guy with no dependents and very few financial obligations. That would work in his favor. There was no way he could compromise his reputation by going to them and asking for monetary assistance. But he could certainly invite them to an exhibit at his Manhattan gallery, and then let nature take its course.

  A philanthropic gesture; a festive wine-and-cheese hour; and a beautiful, talented, and charismatic woman—one who reminded him so much of…

  No. He couldn’t go there now. He had to think of the gala scenario he’d just conjured up.

  All the components added up to money. Lots of it.

  The more Wallace mulled over the idea, the more he liked it.

  He would introduce Cindy Liu to the highbrow world she was so eager to meet. And he’d do it by hosting a party at his gallery.

  Cindy wasn’t surprised when she received the phone call. She was gratified that Wallace Johnson had taken the bait so quickly. It was the first step toward success. Her A Sook was going to be so pleased.

  She was looking forward to the lunch later today that Wallace had invited her to, so they could compare schedules and select a date for her debut party.

  This enemy of her uncle’s was turning out to be an easy mark.

  Rich was almost finished packing his bag and making final arrangements for his flight to Munich, when the phone rang.

  It was Jane Brennan, coordinator of the art-theft program at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.

  The news she had for Rich was startling. He listened carefully, taking notes as he did.

  This heist was a shocker. Not the method, but the venue. Right here in the States. Rich had seen these Eurasian art-theft rings blast their way through art-rich countries in Europe, Asia, and Scandinavia.

  But striking on American soil was an anomaly.

  To begin with, traveling here would be a major risk. They’d have to be well funded and extremely well paid, not to mention armed with detailed plans, to make this daring act worth their while. There was no way they could pull this off on their own. Someone would have to be masterminding it.

  An improbable scenario—one that made Rich suspect that the Armonk heist was a copycat crime. Well executed and grisly, but a copycat nonetheless.

  On the other hand, the method, the timing, the Slavic accents, the violence, and most of all, the end goal—it was either one hell of a copycat or it was the real deal. And if it was the latter, he was operating with a whole new set of rules.

  Rich hung up with Jane and abandoned his packing. The Armonk police were at the victims’ estate, interviewing them in quiet seclusion, far from the media’s eye. Theodore and Leona Campbell were in shock, as was the entire staff. But the Campbells were acutely traumatized, having just experienced the horror of watching masked killers hold guns to their children’s heads after murdering their butler and terrorizing their staff.

  It was time for Rich to get the information he needed to see what the Art Crime Team was up against.

  Sloane spent a fair amount of time poking around, asking questions that she hoped would shed light on her suspicions that something was out of whack with regard to the burglary at her parents’ apartment.

  Armed with few facts and lots of supposition, she went down to the FBI’s New York Field Office.

  After going through security and being escorted up to the twenty-second floor, she made her way over to Derek’s desk.

  “Well, hi.” He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head. “When they called from downstairs to say you were here to see me, I was surprised. You took off like a bullet this morning. I figured you didn’t want to shatter last night’s afterglow by announcing you were driving to Chinatown to take on Xiao Long single-handedly.”

  “Very funny.” Sloane sank down in the chair beside his desk. “Derek, there’s a weird discrepancy in the break-in at my parents’ place—besides the obvious. I sat up all night, poring over the abridged case file you gave me, concentrating on the details of Xiao Long’s other burglaries. Something just didn’t sit right. Then it dawned on me. We know that Eric Hu’s employees were never in my parents’ apartment, so Hu had no way of giving Xiao Long a heads-up on the layout of the place or what items were kept where. That includes the location of my father’s office, and more particularly, his files.”

  “Right.” Derek was no longer lounging in his chair. He was sitting up, listening intently to what Sloane had to say.

  “According to the police report, the Red Dragons were inside the building for under twenty minutes—just three of which were before my mother showed up. That’s twenty minutes, soup to nuts, with no input from Eric Hu’s crew. No video surveillance. No electronic photos. Nothing. Let’s put aside the dubious fact that, in three minutes, they ducked the doorman, got upstairs, and somehow unlocked the door. There were no scratch marks, no signs of forced entry. The NYPD’s theory is that they found a way, other than through Eric Hu, to make duplicate keys. How? Which of those kids is sophisticated enough to copy keys? And, if they didn’t do it, who made the copies?”

  Sloane stopped just long enough to catch her breath. “Like I said, let’s put that part on hold. The reason I raced out this morning was to meet my mother at the apartment.”

  “How is she?”

  “Stubborn and difficult about accepting help, as usual. But physically on the mend. Anyway, I had her relive exactly what happened to her on the night of the robbery, from the moment she walked through the front door. Based on what she said, it’s clear that all three Red Dragons were already in my father’s office and in full swing when she got home.”

  “All that in three minutes—yeah, I’d say that timing’s pretty tight,” Derek agreed. “But we can’t state for sure that it’s impossible.�
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  “That’s because you haven’t heard everything. Derek, I’ve seen my father’s filing system. First of all, he has over a dozen file cabinets. They’re all putty-colored, all unlabeled on the outside, and all organized in a unique way that works for him—grouped by art genre and project status, not alphabetical or chronological order. Finding the cabinet with the Rothberg files in it would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Yet Xiao’s thugs zeroed right in on it—again, with no photos or video surveillance from Eric Hu. For all we know, they’d already emptied the contents of the Rothberg file, left that threatening fortune cookie, and were trashing the place for good measure when my mother interrupted them.”

  “What makes you so sure they zeroed in on the right file cabinet?”

  “The timing. When my mother got home, they had to be finishing up in the office. There’s no other way they could have pulled off everything else they did and been out of the apartment seventeen minutes later. It’s virtually impossible. According to my mother, no other visible part of the apartment had been disturbed when she arrived. The living room, with the entertainment system and my dad’s paintings and artifacts, was intact. The kitchen and breakfast nook looked perfectly normal, too—not even the silverware drawer had been overturned. Also, my mother’s diamond stud wasn’t on the foyer floor where my father found it, which suggests that the bedroom hadn’t been rifled yet either.”

  “That’s conjecture,” Derek pointed out. “The Dragons could have dropped the earring when they fled.”

  “Maybe. But even if they’d already ransacked the bedroom, that doesn’t explain how they took care of the kitchen and living room—yanking apart an entire entertainment unit, and making off with its contents and the rest of their haul—in under seventeen minutes. Not unless the office was a done deal.” Sloane gave an emphatic shake of her head. “And let’s not forget that those seventeen minutes also included an unexpected battle with my mother. She fought them like a tigress. They had to drag her into my father’s office and tie her up, then knock her out. Add that to the mix, and there’s no way. Not even the Flash could have pulled it off in such record time. The only explanation is that those guys knew exactly where every room and every thing was—including the Rothberg file. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

  “And you’d be right,” Derek replied, his brows knit in concentration. “Because you’re timing it only to the end of the robbery when they reached your parents’ front door. After that, they still had to haul out a flat-screen TV, a painting, and a bunch of bulky art pieces, and get them downstairs and out the delivery entrance. I agree. Something here is off.”

  “They had help.” Sloane met Derek’s gaze. “It’s the only answer that makes sense. Someone scoped out the place for them. Whoever it was gave them the same access and the same information that Eric Hu provided for the other robberies, and then some. The question is, who?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Cindy’s debut was a smashing success.

  Nearly everyone Wallace invited dropped by and ended up staying for a while. Many of them brought guests—dates, friends, or colleagues—who were interested in meeting this rising architectural star who could transform their homes into unique residences that would be the talk of the town.

  All the attendees had one thing in common—they had considerable wealth to spare.

  When the party first began, Wallace stood beside Cindy near the doorway, welcoming his guests and introducing them to Ms. Liu. It took about twenty minutes for Cindy to take over her own introductions, and about twenty more before she was swarmed by interested patrons scrutinizing her portfolio of completed projects, while she gave out her business cards hand over fist.

  Wallace’s initial work was done.

  With that knowledge, he turned his attention to his own situation. He began mingling among the guests, and was both relieved and gratified to see how many of them were clustered around and admiring the more valuable paintings he’d displayed. A number of guests stopped him to ask detailed questions, frankly informing him that they were in the process of deciding which painting or paintings to buy.

  Considering how successful the evening was turning out to be—and how busy—Wallace was glad he’d asked both of his handpicked assistants to help out. The front desk was filled with the welcome sight of American Express cards and leather-bound checkbooks. Fine art sold well even in tough economic times, especially when there were bargains to be had.

  “You’ve done a wonderful job of introducing Cindy to prospective clients. I’m very appreciative. I’m sure Mr. Liu will be, too.”

  Wallace turned to see Peggy Sun standing beside him. He’d met the attractive fortyish woman just before tonight’s party and was impressed by her knowledge of art and her loyalty to Cindy. Having spent a fair amount of time in China, plus having done business with Johnny Liu for years, Wallace understood his culturally established values, including Peggy’s role in Cindy’s life, even now that Cindy was an adult. After all these years, and given the Lius’ commitment to honor and tradition, Peggy was still looking out for Cindy, acting as her friend and constant companion. So it was only natural that she’d be by Cindy’s side at an important event such as this.

  “No appreciation is necessary,” Wallace assured Peggy. “All I did was provide the venue, the invitations, and the refreshments. Cindy’s doing all the rest herself.” He smiled, gesturing in Cindy’s direction.

  Oblivious to the scrutiny, Cindy was drawing a rough pencil sketch on the back of a cocktail napkin for the wife of a former colleague and current racquetball partner of Wallace’s. Cindy’s enthusiasm was contagious, and her-soon-to-be client was listening intently, her whole face aglow.

  “She really is something,” Peggy agreed, following Wallace’s gaze. “Her love for her work, her way with people, and of course, her extraordinary talent—once she’s completed a few projects, and word of the results gets around, she’ll be bombarded with clients.” Peggy’s smile was filled with pride. “Cindy is a rare gem. Beautiful, intelligent, gifted, and overflowing with a love of life few people possess.”

  “I agree.” Wallace continued watching Cindy, listening to Peggy’s description as he did. Beautiful, intelligent, gifted, overflowing with a love of life…She might as well have been describing Meili.

  At that moment, Cindy laughed at something one of the guests had said, simultaneously tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

  That particular gesture…Wallace felt his chest constrict.

  Meili. She’d been a bright light in his life at a time that was anything but bright. He and Beatrice were clashing daily, fighting over their vastly different views of what being a parent meant. Given how long and hard they’d tried to conceive, Wallace wanted to make Sophie the center of their world. He’d assumed Beatrice would abandon everything—her weekends at the spa, her evenings out with her girlfriends, her marathon shopping sprees—to be a full-time mother. It never occurred to him that she’d turn out not to have a single maternal bone in her body.

  The situation had escalated to talk of divorce. At barely two years old, Sophie very much needed her mother. Wallace would have gladly traded places with Beatrice and raised their daughter. But it wasn’t feasible, not financially. Wallace earned several million dollars a year, and Beatrice earned nothing. She’d resigned from her job as a fashion buyer as soon as she married Wallace. That hadn’t bothered him—until now. He was fifty-four years old and way too entrenched in a career that made no allowances for throttling back. Beatrice was thirty-nine, six-plus years out of the fashion business—and therefore out of the game—with no motivation to return to the rat race, and equally little motivation to play in the sandbox with a toddler.

  Wallace tried to make up for Beatrice’s attitude toward their daughter in any way he could. But he traveled so often, and worked such long hours, that it made it very difficult. So he’d compensated by hiring the most qualified and loving nannies money could buy, and augmented that b
y spending every waking hour he was home with Sophie. Adult companionship, intimate or otherwise, was shelved. For a vital, passionate man like Wallace, it was a very lonely life.

  When he’d met Meili in Hong Kong, he was at his most vulnerable and lowest point. As it turned out, so was she. But to him, she was the epitome of joy—free-spirited, fiery, young, and full of life. She was also beautiful—petite, with fine, delicate features and an equally delicate figure. Looking back on it now, their love affair was like a real-life Pretty Woman. Except for two things.

  Thankfully, Meili’s pride would never allow her to resort to prostitution.

  And there’d been no Cinderella ending.

  The first time Wallace laid eyes on Meili was in the lobby of the Conrad Hong Kong hotel in July 2002. He and his art partners were there on business, the first time they’d returned to Hong Kong since the sale of Dead or Alive—even longer still since all five of them had been in this city together. Matthew, Leo, and Phil were apprehensive as hell about returning. But it couldn’t be helped. The group was negotiating the purchase of a valuable painting from an elite art gallery. The owner refused to make the sale unless he met with the entire partnership. The profit made it worth the trip. Besides, they were staying in Hong Kong’s affluent business and shopping district, nowhere near Kowloon, where Cai Wen’s office had been.

  As the established art connoisseur of the group, not to mention the investment banker with the most economic experience, Wallace made the preliminary visit to the gallery alone to view the painting and to meet with the gallery owner. While he was in the area, he stopped into a few other high-end galleries to check out the works being displayed.

  He returned to the hotel to see Meili sitting in the lobby.

  She clearly didn’t fit in with the wealthy business crowd who frequented the Conrad. She looked like a beautiful, misplaced waif, sitting on a plush chair, wearing a pseudosophisticated suit he suspected she’d bought secondhand, and trying to act natural—as if she belonged there. Sipping at a glass of wine, she kept one hand on the canvas of a painting she’d propped up against the chair.