Drawn in Blood (11 page)

That done, Fred walked over to the Starbucks on East Eightieth and York to get a cup of coffee.

The pedestrian traffic was typical y congested on a weekday morning. Fred bought his coffee and stepped outside, nudging his way through the crowd to cross over and head back to his car. He stopped at the corner, waiting on the sidewalk for the light to change. He didn’t notice the stocky Asian man who came up behind him. His mind was running through the day’s schedule.

The light changed. The pedestrians began to cross.

That’s when Fred felt the searing pain of the switchblade as it plunged straight into his back.

The rest happened quickly. The Asian man moved before Fred could cry out, before his legs buckled under him, before the blood soaked through his suit. He grabbed Fred’s arm and shoved him into a waiting sedan, his motions that of a col eague who was helping his associate grab his ride before the driver was forced to move on or be pounded by traffic.

The sedan pul ed away and drove off.

No one noticed the incident, or thought it anything but business as usual.

No one knew that Fred Mil er bled to death in the sedan, or that his lifeless body was dumped in the East River.

Rosalyn was in a hurry. Business tote in one hand, file folder in the other, she was skimming through her notes as she left her apartment and made her way over to the Explorer. As usual, her mind was in a dozen places at once. She didn’t wait for Fred to come around and help her in. She never did. She was far too impatient. She simply yanked open the back door, placed her tote on the seat, and slid in after it.

“Good morning, Fred,” she greeted him, never glancing up as she shut the door and continued reading her notes. “Please find a way to get around this traffic. I’ve got to be in midtown in twenty minutes, rush hour or not.”

Her driver muttered a good morning along with a grunt of acknowledgment, and pressed the button that activated the automatic door locks. Then, he pul ed into the stream of traffic.

It wasn’t until a chunk of time had passed that Rosalyn got the niggling feeling they’d been driving for way too long. Her head came up, and she blinked when she saw where they were.

“Fred? What are you doing? We’re in Harlem, practical y in the Bronx.” She leaned forward as she spoke, searching the rearview mirror to see Fred and hear his explanation.

The flat, emotionless gaze that looked back at her did
not
belong to Fred. Nor did he say a word.

Rosalyn froze. “Who are you? What do you want?”

The menacing Asian man stil didn’t answer. He just continued driving over the Wil is Avenue Bridge into the Bronx.

Rosalyn wasn’t stupid. She knew this wasn’t a case of a mix-up in drivers. This had been planned. And it was linked to the murderer who was threatening Matthew.

Alarmed as she was, she forced herself to outwardly keep her cool. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded. “And why? What do you plan on doing this time?” The driver veered off into a lousy section of the Bronx. “Your husband has visitor on the way,” he stated. “FBI. More questions. Burbank weak. He talk. Stupid. Dangerous. We warned. He not listen. We punish. You die.”

Die?
So much for Rosalyn keeping her cool.

“You’re wrong,” she responded, confused and desperate. “The FBI’s not coming by. And, even if they do, Matthew wouldn’t say a word. He didn’t last time. He won’t this time.”

“No trust. Too many talks between him and FBI. No more.”

The finality in his tone was absolute. There was no reasoning with this animal.

That did it. Rosalyn lunged forward, scrambling to climb into the front seat and wrestle away control of the steering wheel. As she did, she spotted the long, open switchblade on the passenger seat, and shuddered. The knife was covered with blood. She forced her gaze away, trying to climb over the center console, groping and clawing at the driver’s thick arm to break his concentration and yank his hand off the wheel.

He grabbed hers instead, bending her forearm sideways until blinding pain shot through her and she could hear the crunching sound of bones. She cried out, struggling to escape his grasp.

“Stay in back,” he ordered, shoving her off the console. “You can die quick. Or you can die slow. Your choice.” He released her arm, sending her sprawling into the back.

Rosalyn slid back into her seat. Her arm was throbbing horribly. Her life was on the line. And she had no idea how to save it.

Fate intervened.

The Explorer approached a red light. Her intended kil er accelerated to run it. As he did, the wail of an ambulance siren reached their ears. An instant later, the emergency vehicle appeared and sped through the intersection.

Rosalyn’s abductor slammed on the brakes, swearing in Chinese. He and Rosalyn both lurched forward.

She didn’t miss a beat or pause to regain her bearings. Manual y, she pressed open her door lock, yanked the handle, and flung open the door. She hit the ground running, heading for the first crowd of people she saw—a bunch of teenage boys shooting hoops.

Hands trembling, she unhinged the gate and rushed inside, slamming the gate as if it were some kind of protective wal .

The basketbal game stopped. A half-dozen tal , muscled teens turned in her direction. A half-dozen pairs of wary eyes stared at her. She twisted around, peering back at the street and the unmoving Explorer. The driver had leaped out and dashed around to the open rear door. Suspicious passersby, recognizing a stranger on their turf, were already pausing on the sidewalk to scrutinize him. He scanned the area for a minute. Then, he slammed the rear door shut, ran back around to the driver’s side, got in, and gunned the engine, disappearing around the corner.

Rosalyn sank down on the cracked and broken ground, leaning her head against the fence and trembling from head to toe. The pain in her arm was so sharp, she could scarcely breathe.

“Hey, lady, you al right?”

She looked up and gazed blankly at the sweaty teenager holding a basketbal , who had come over when he saw her col apse.

“Al right?” Her laugh was hol ow.

“You on something?” he asked, seeing her glazed expression.

Oh, how she wished she were. “No.” She managed to shake her head, simultaneously reaching for her tote bag and remembering it was stil in the car with her file. “A hospital…I need a hospital. My arm…” She winced. “My cel phone’s gone. Could you…?” Her voice trailed off.

“Here.” He groped in his pocket and pul ed out a cel phone. “Use mine.”

Kindness and charity stil existed, and thank heaven for it.

“Thank you,” Rosalyn said grateful y, reaching out with her good arm and taking the phone. “Thank you so much.” Matthew Burbank was reading the morning paper and drinking a mug of coffee when the doorbel of the apartment gave a quick ring.

He folded the newspaper and set it down with his mug, rising to head over and answer the door. It had to be Sloane. Roz had left a little while ago for a breakfast meeting.

Anyone but her or Sloane would have been announced by the doorman.

Reflexively, he peeked through the peephole. His hand, already on the door handle, froze.

There was a distinguished-looking silver-haired man in a suit standing outside—one he recognized right away. It was Special Agent Richard Wil iams, the FBI agent from the Art Crime Team who’d interviewed him about the Rothberg.

What the hel was he doing here?

Fighting a surge of panic, Matthew inhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. When he felt sufficiently composed, he opened the door. “Agent Wil iams. This is a surprise.” Wil iams’s brows rose quizzical y. “Is it a bad time?”

“No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“Wel , don’t blame your doorman. I showed him my ID, and he let me up without a formal announcement. I hope that’s al right.”

“Yes…of course…it’s fine.” It occurred to Matthew that Special Agent Wil iams was stil standing in the hal way. Hastily, he moved aside and gestured for him to enter. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you.” Wil iams stepped into the foyer. “I noticed your bodyguard hanging out outside the building. A very formidable-looking fel ow. I’m sure he’l scare off any additional, or returning, intruders.”

Matthew swal owed hard to keep down his coffee. How did Wil iams know about the bodyguards? And what did he mean by “returning intruders”?

“My wife hasn’t been herself since the burglary,” he tried, realizing that lying about the security guy could do nothing but hurt him. “Knowing we have some kind of protection puts her mind at ease.”

“Of course.” Wil iams seemed to buy the explanation. He glanced around. “Is your wife home now?”

“No. She’s at a client meeting.”

“I see. In any case, I had some business on the Upper East Side, so I took the liberty of dropping by here afterward.” He reached into the inside pocket of his sport jacket and extracted a note pad and pen. “I reviewed al the interviews I conducted regarding the provenance of
Dead or Alive,
and a few loose ends presented themselves. I’l just need to ask you a couple of additional questions.”

“No problem.” Heart pounding, Matthew showed Wil iams into the den and gestured at the settee. “Make yourself comfortable.” Even as he extended the invitation, he could hear the unsteadiness in his own voice, feel sweat dripping down his spine. “Can I offer you anything—coffee, tea?”

“Nothing, thank you.” Wil iams lowered himself to the settee, perching at the very edge of the cushion. “I’l take up only a few minutes of your time. Also, this wil be much less stressful for you than coming down to the Field Office. A quick chat in your own den is a lot more pleasant than a conversation in an interviewing room. Then there’s the convenience factor. Your office and your files are just a few rooms away.”

Matthew started. “Why? Is there something in them you need to see?”

“You tel me.” Wil iams’s expression never changed. “According to your partners, you keep extensive files on the sale of al your paintings, including duplicate sales receipts. Yet I don’t remember your producing any of those items at our last meeting. I assume it was an oversight. Would you mind if I took a look at that file now?”

“I gave you a stack of material on
Dead or Alive
when I came down to your Field Office.”

“True. But al that was related to the buy, not the sale.”

“I thought Phil showed you the financial records that…”

“He did. I’m not asking for financial records. I’m asking for the file. Or, at the very least, the duplicate receipt. You do have that, don’t you?” Matthew was drowning, and he knew it. “I gave you al the material I had. It’s possible the receipt for that particular painting was misfiled. We’re talking about precomputer times.”

“Right.” Wil iams nodded, getting to his feet. “That’s why I thought the proximity to your office would help. You can show me your filing system. And maybe we can locate that missing receipt.”

Silence.

“You don’t have it, do you?” Wil iams asked with quiet assurance.

It was clear that Wil iams already knew the answer to that question. So al Matthew could do was to try the human error approach and hope it worked.

“Honestly? No. I forgot to get one from Cai Wen. I realized it right after we completed the transaction. I felt like an idiot. So I never mentioned it to my partners.” Wil iams stil didn’t avert his gaze. “I can understand your embarrassment. So rather than leave empty-handed, why didn’t you go back later and get the receipt? Or, if Cai Wen wasn’t available, why didn’t you ask him to mail you a duplicate, which you could have signed?”

“I guess I never thought of it.”

“I find that very hard to believe. From everything I heard from your partners, you’re a meticulous record-keeper. Unless, of course, that one time you were off your game? Maybe something happened that threw you enough to forget about the receipt and to get out of Dodge ASAP? Maybe that same something made you forget to mention any of this to me during our interview?”

That was it. The dam broke.

“I didn’t kil Cai Wen,” Matthew blurted out. “I just forgot to get the damned receipt. So if you came here to accuse me of something—”

“I didn’t,” Wil iams interrupted. “Although I am curious about how you knew Cai Wen was murdered. It didn’t exactly make it to the U.S. newspapers.”

“I…” Matthew’s heart was pounding so hard, he was afraid it would explode from his chest. “We didn’t leave Hong Kong until the next day. You saw that on our passports. I must have heard or read something…”

“And conveniently forgot to mention it when we spoke? Not likely. Oh, and for the record, Cai Wen wasn’t kil ed until the next day—the day you left Hong Kong. So you would have had to either be at the murder scene or sitting at the Hong Kong police station to have heard about the homicide before boarding that plane. Would you care to revise your story?”

“I didn’t kil him. I’m not a murderer. I didn’t…”

“Are you covering for one of your partners?” Wil iams continued to dril away. “Did Leo Fox or Phil Leary kil Cai Wen?” Matthew’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. He gritted his teeth and fought to think straight. “I want my lawyer here,” he managed at last.

“No problem.” Wil iams gestured toward the phone. “Give your daughter a cal . I’m sure she’l drop whatever she’s doing and rush over. Oh, would you mind finding out if she’s in the city or at her place in New Jersey? Because if she’s got an hour-plus drive, I’l take you up on that cup of coffee.” Leo Fox had just decided that chili red would be the perfect accent for the spare bedroom he was converting into a smal home gym for Derek when the telephone rang.

“I’l get that,” Sloane told them. Scooting across the hal to the master bedroom, she chuckled as she heard Leo explain to Derek that the chili red would “pop” and energize his workout.

Her humor was short-lived.

“Hi, Dad,” she greeted, having noted the cal er ID and knowing her mother was at a breakfast meeting. “Everything okay?”

“No.” Her father sounded even worse than he had the night he’d cal ed to tel her about the break-in. “I need you to come to the apartment right away.”