by Andrea Kane
One of those long-standing shops was the Richtner Gallery—a pricey, upscale art gallery that had been located on Main Street in Westhampton for years. The works displayed there varied from paintings by up-and-coming local artists to paintings created by well-known modernists, to paintings considered to be one-of-a-kind masterpieces with seven-figure price tags.
There was no doubt that this gallery was the perfect location for the Black Eagles’ next trial run. And closing time was the perfect hour.
Seven P.M. The browsers were gone. The joggers were home. The dusk was turning to darkness.
Karl Richtner, who’d owned the gallery since it had opened its doors fifteen years ago, was shutting down for the night.
He locked up his register, made sure all the paintings were properly displayed for the morning browsers, and told his assistant to go home.
She gathered up her purse and coat, and headed with him to the front door. As always, Richtner took out his key ring, ready to activate the burglar alarm and lock the door behind them.
It never happened that night.
The four masked gunmen slammed inside, striking Richtner’s forehead with the heavy glass door and nearly knocking him down. He staggered backward, just as his assistant reached for the alarm pad.
“Don’t,” the leader commanded in his accented English, pointing his MP5K at her. “Or I splatter your guts on the floor.”
Both the assistant and Richtner froze.
The leader signaled for his team to get moving.
On his command, two of the other gunmen strode forward, dragged their captives behind the counter, and shoved them to the floor, where they stuffed rags in their mouths and immobilized them with Flex-Cufs. The last gunman rushed by, immediately starting to remove the most valuable paintings from the walls and easels, readying them for transit. A minute later, the rest of the team joined him.
They muttered instructions to one another to expedite the process. It took no time to finish amassing what they wanted. They wrapped the specifically chosen paintings in blankets and made their exit through the back door. The van was waiting, motor running. They stashed their cushioned prizes in the trunk. Then, they jumped inside the vehicle and took off, en route to the docks off Montauk Point.
If this heist was typical of hitting an American target, this U.S. stint was going to yield the easiest cash they’d ever made.
Derek was still at his desk, reading through Rich’s interviews with each of Matthew’s partners, and combining the information there with the data he’d assembled during the day.
He had all the basics on the four men. But those were facts you could read on a résumé or find on the Internet—birth dates, schools attended, degrees earned, jobs held. He’d accessed some public records, learned how much each man had paid for his house or apartment. Nothing suspicious there. He’d found out if and when they’d been married, divorced, or started a family. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. He’d gotten his hands on any police records connected with them. The only ones that had surfaced were the tragic hit-and-run accident in April 2006 that had claimed the life of Wallace Johnson’s five-year-old daughter, and Ben Martino’s DWI misdemeanor, which Rich had already mentioned. The DWI had occurred in December 2004, after a holiday party. Martino had been stopped for weaving between lanes on the West Side Highway. He’d paid a five-hundred-dollar fine and lost his license for six months. Fortunately, no one had been hurt in the incident. But if Martino had a drinking problem, it was worth remembering.
Derek tucked the knowledge away for potential use.
That was it for topical info. Ben Martino’s clothing manufacturing company had been passed on to him by his father, and was obviously surviving the shrinking New York garment center. Phil Leary and Leo Fox didn’t have so much as a parking ticket. Both their businesses had been around for years. And Wallace Johnson was an upright citizen from a wealthy family, whose art galleries were new but well frequented, and he’d become virtually reclusive since his daughter’s death.
Derek had called in a few favors and was waiting for feedback on whether any of their businesses were on shaky ground, or any of their family members were ill or in trouble. He’d love to get specific financial information for all four men, both personal and professional, including bank records showing any abrupt deposits or withdrawals. Phone records would be nice, too, as well as credit card receipts. But he couldn’t get any of those without a court order—and the evidence he had wasn’t strong enough to go for one. Plus, he was reluctant to go that route anyway, since it might alert his suspects to the fact that they were under investigation for more than just the Rothberg sale.
Besides, if any of them was responsible for giving Xiao Long what he needed, it was very possible that no money had exchanged hands. Xiao was a pro. These guys were rank amateurs. One “visit” by Jin Huang, along with a threat to them or their families, and they’d probably cave.
Derek wanted to speak to Rich, to tell him about this latest development and get his opinion on it. Rich had interviewed each of Burbank’s partners, and while none of those interviews had set off warning bells, maybe this new piece of information would jog something in that intuitive mind of his. Maybe he could even think of a good reason to call each of the partners in again, now that they knew Matthew was cooperating with the Bureau, and that Rosalyn had been kidnapped and nearly killed. Maybe they’d be prompted by fear for their own lives. Rich could chat with them, the way he had with Matthew, only this time as an ally—one who was trying to keep them safe—rather than as a threat. Maybe he could finagle the guilty party into letting something slip. No one was better at playing people than Rich.
Derek was grasping, and he knew it. But Sloane wasn’t about to give him anything to go on, and he had to get what he needed without arousing the suspicions of Matthew’s four partners.
Meanwhile, Rich was still tied up on that Armonk art theft. Derek had dropped by his cubicle several times, only to hear Rich on the phone with the Armonk police or Interpol, as they tried to assess whether the Albanian art-crime ring that had hit the European museums was the same one that had robbed Theodore Campbell’s home and killed his butler.
One more try, Derek thought, getting to his feet. If Rich was still buried in his case, the questions about Matthew Burbank’s partners would have to wait until morning.
“Hey,” Rich greeted Derek as he appeared in the entrance to his cubicle. “I know you’ve been pacing around here all day trying to talk to me. Sorry. This Armonk theft and homicide has too many similarities to the string of European museum heists. And if the Black Eagles are here, we have a national and an international open can of worms.” He shoved aside the interview notes he’d taken when he’d spoken to the Campbells. “What’s up?”
“Nothing as global as what you’re working on. But important nonetheless.” Derek explained the theory that Sloane had come to him with and the way their analysis had played out.
“Interesting.” Rich leaned back in his chair, propping one leg on top of the opposite knee. “I take it that you and Sloane differ on who your prime suspects are.”
“No.” Derek shook his head. “What we really differ on is our willingness to pursue those prime suspects. Sloane’s too close to the situation. Her personal feelings are tripping her up. So while she’s talking to her parents’ neighbors and apartment employees, I’m digging up everything I can on the likely candidates.”
“Matthew Burbank’s partners.”
“Exactly.”
“But you don’t want them to realize you’re investigating them.” A corner of Rich’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “So you’re turning to me to bail you out.”
Derek blew out a breath. “It’s a lot to ask, I know. And believe me, I’d do it myself if I could. But I have no basis for requesting interviews with them without tipping my hand. In your case, it’s different. You’re not focused on Asian organized crime; you’re focused on an art crime they’re smack in the middle of. All of
them must be freaked out by Rosalyn’s close call. Kidnapping and attempted murder are a lot more terrifying than an apartment break-in. You can capitalize on that fear. Call and say that since all the violence is obviously tied to the Rothberg, you’re worried for the safety of every man in the partnership. Tell them you’re trying to protect them and that the only way to do that is to solve the case and get the bad guys. Ask them to help you fill in holes on the provenance of both the fake and the authentic Rothberg. Or ask for their help in piecing together some additional background info on the gallery owner they bought the painting from—I’m not particular about the reason you provide. But I need your instincts, and your skill at getting people to let things slip they never intended to say.”
“I appreciate the compliment. But this is still going to require some fancy footwork to pull off.”
“It’s not a compliment; it’s a fact. If anyone can make this work, it’s you.” With a twinge of guilt, Derek glanced at the files piled on Rich’s desk. “I realize how time-stressed you are, and how intricate this case is you’re working on.”
“True.” Rich’s deadpan expression never changed. “Which means that if I help you, you’ll owe me one.”
“Name it.”
“Steaks and beer. And a cigar, if I’m successful. My steakhouse choice. Your credit card.”
“Done.” Derek flashed him a grin. “With pleasure.”
“Don’t say that. When it comes to steak, I eat like a horse. You’ll be broke for a month.”
“I’ll risk it.”
Rich was still chuckling when his phone rang. He leaned forward and scooped up the receiver, putting it to his ear. “Major Theft. Williams.” He paused. “What?” Abruptly, he straightened, snatching up a pad and pen and scribbling something down. “No, that’s enough for now. I’ll get the rest when I get there. Where should we meet?” A pause. “I’m on my way.” He hung up, jumped to his feet, and grabbed his jacket all at the same time. “An art gallery in the Hamptons was just hit,” he told Derek. “No one was killed, but the MO sounds like it might be the same guys who hit the Campbells’ place. Sorry, Derek, the calls to Burbank’s partners will have to wait. I’m out of here.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Leo Fox had enjoyed a variety of women in his life. He wasn’t the type to settle down. There was too much excitement in the discovery and exploration of fresh relationships. New faces, new interests, new sex. To commit to one person forever would be like relinquishing all the colors of the rainbow for the monotony of one single hue. It was unimaginable.
Until the May before last, when he’d met Amalie.
Whoever had coined the expression “the earth moved” understood Leo’s reaction the instant he laid eyes on Amalie. He’d spotted her browsing in his design studio, running her fingers over a velvet tapestry in a delicate caress. Her beauty wasn’t the kind that turned men’s heads. It was the kind Leo felt in his soul.
He’d introduced himself, gazed into her eyes, and fallen in love.
The extraordinary part was so had she.
It had been like a fairy tale, one Leo never wanted to end. Amalie and her two wonderful, precocious children had moved to New York six years earlier, following a messy divorce. She’d never expected to feel such a strong bond with another man. Yet this bond was even stronger than her first.
By the end of that month, Leo and Amalie were planning their June wedding. Leo couldn’t wait to begin their new life together. He’d stood at the altar that day, heart pounding with love and anticipation.
Amalie had never showed up.
Leo had panicked. He’d called her over and over—at home, on her cell. Both numbers were disconnected. He’d notified the police. They’d found nothing amiss. She’d sold her condo a week earlier—perfectly normal for a woman about to be married. To the cops, it appeared she’d simply vacated early. But to Leo, it was unthinkable. Instead of her things and her children’s things being moved to Leo’s place, they’d simply been packed and taken. Vanished, along with Amalie.
A week later, Leo had received a “Dear John” e-mail from her. She confessed that her last marriage had scarred her too badly to attempt another. She’d struggled to overcome her fears, but at the last minute, she’d gotten cold feet. She’d begged his forgiveness and told him to move on with his life.
He’d e-mailed her back immediately. But the account had been canceled. And Leo had never heard from her again.
His heart had been shattered. He’d never fully recovered from his pain. And he had no interest in any other women. But he had to find life again.
So he poured himself into the two other things he cared about: interior design and his friends. His four closest friends knew not to mention Amalie’s name. But they also knew Leo. He had a joy for life, a heart of gold, and he needed to be needed. It wasn’t hard to give him that. He’d always been their universal confidant—the one they all came to with their problems, their big news—good or bad—and yes, their secrets. He had a reassuring quality about him that screamed empathy and compassion. He was an attentive listener, an excellent judge of character, and he was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. An intuitive interior designer. An equally intuitive friend.
Exactly what they all needed. Exactly what Leo needed.
Right now, his intuition was warning him that things were unraveling. Rosalyn’s kidnapping had sent them all into a panic. They were all looking over their shoulders, jumping at shadows. To top that off, each of his friends was a personal mess. Ben was drinking heavily again, Phil was on the phone with his bookie more than he was with his clients, Matthew was smoking a pack a day and watching Roz like a hawk, and Wallace was coming completely unglued.
At least until that party he’d hosted for Cindy Liu.
Leo had dropped by for a while, mostly to meet this fabulous young architect to determine if there was any potential for them to work together. If she was as good as Wallace claimed, then she’d be snatched up by an affluent crowd who were eager to embark on their pet residential projects—add-ons, renovations, or total interior overhauls. And along with a superb architect, Ms. Liu’s clients would need a top interior designer to complete the transitions they envisioned for their new living space.
That’s where he’d come in.
He’d arrived at Wallace’s gallery when the cocktail hour was in full swing. He’d glanced around the room, spied Cindy Liu—and stopped dead in his tracks. Talk about a blast from the past. She was the spitting image of that young woman Meili, who had been Wallace’s heart and soul. Older and more refined, of course, plus educated and business savvy.
Still, the resemblance was astounding. And the timing couldn’t be better. This was just what Wallace needed to distract him from the rapid downward spiral his life was taking. It might keep him from living in the past. It might even bring a modicum of happiness back into his life.
Leo scrutinized the expression on Wallace’s face as his gaze followed his protégé around the room. Wallace was watching Cindy. But he was seeing Meili. It was there in his eyes, in his body language. Wallace might not be aware of its intensity. But Leo was. And it was palpable.
Leo picked up Cindy’s business card while scanning her design samples. There was no missing her natural flair and talent. Not to mention her people skills, he noted, watching as she charmed and impressed all the guests. Yes, he could definitely foresee a long and lucrative business arrangement between himself and Ms. Liu.
And an equally long and promising personal relationship between her and Wallace.
This was good news. Three projects for Leo to work on. Approaching Cindy with his business plan. Using the time when he was redesigning Sloane’s cottage to make sure Derek was the right man for her, while making equally sure he wasn’t chasing down leads that would cause problems for the art partnership.
And urging things along for Wallace and Cindy. For Wallace’s sake. And for all their sakes.
Leo felt a great sense of purp
ose as he glanced at the phone number on Cindy Liu’s business card. His own happy ending might be lost forever. But it would give him great joy to see Wallace find his.
Sloane was at her parents’ apartment first thing in the morning.
They’d gotten her voice mail, so they were both there, waiting to hear what was on her mind. The FBI agent assigned to them that morning excused himself and went into the other room.
Over the muffins and coffee Sloane had picked up, she filled her parents in.
Matthew stopped chewing, and put down his piece of muffin. “You think one of our neighbors helped rob the apartment?”
“That’s not what I said.” Sloane took a fortifying sip of coffee. “I said that it’s virtually impossible for the thugs who broke in here to have done so without help. The other burglaries in the neighborhood were different. There was inside knowledge of the security systems. That’s not true in your case. So someone either used a key to let the thieves in, or gave them access to get in on their own.”
“Gave them access—you mean this person was just waiting inside our apartment and let them in?”
“Or gave them a key to get in on their own.” Sloane paused, choosing her words carefully. Not only did she not want to freak out her parents any more than she already had, but she also was limited in what she could tell them.
“The other red flag is the amount of time the thieves spent here, and how they spent it,” she said. “Based on the police report, they were only here about twenty minutes, and Mom walked in less than five minutes after they did.” Sloane turned to her mother. “According to your recollections, they went straight to Dad’s office. They found the Rothberg file pretty fast—no easy task, given his filing system. And they saved the rest—trashing his office, ripping off your valuables—until the end. So, other than your unexpected interruption, I’d say they had the whole burglary well planned and well timed.”