Drawn in Blood (27 page)

“Aluminum,” Sloane supplied.

“Yes.” Anna nodded adamantly. “I don’t understand what it was or what he did. They told me to shut up. I was so scared. Then they let me go, unlocked the door, and went away.”

“Did you report this to the police?” Sloane asked.

Anna shook her head. “I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know the men. They took nothing but forty dol ars. No credit cards. No checkbook. I could give police no information to catch them. I was so happy they didn’t hurt me. So I told no one but my husband.”

She swal owed. “Then today I come back to work. Your mother and father were out. I let myself in. I use the key your mother gave me. I see little pieces on it. Like…” She waved her arm in frustration. “Like bread dough, only not white. My children play with it when they make things.”

“Clay,” Sloane fil ed in. She turned to her mother. “They used a key-impression kit. They made a copy of your key. That’s how they broke in here.”

“That’s why I cal ed you.”

“Anna,” Sloane pressed. “Can you tel me what these men looked like? Did you see their faces?”

“For a few minutes, yes. Both of them from an Asian country. The one who held me was very big and strong. He was wearing a jacket. The other not. He was younger and skinny, with a cap on his head. He had a picture of a dragon on his arm. Red. But not paint.”

“A tattoo.”

Another nod. “A tattoo. Yes.”

Sloane could see how distraught Anna was, so she spoke very gently. “If I got a special police artist to work with you, do you think you could describe the men wel enough for him to draw pictures?”

“I can try.” Tears fil ed Anna’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I never thought…”

“It’s not your fault.” Sloane reached over and covered Anna’s hand with hers. “You didn’t know. Besides, we owe you our thanks. You’ve just helped us figure out something very important.”

“That’s right,” Rosalyn chimed in. “Mr. Burbank and I are very grateful to you for showing me your key. We’re also terribly sorry about what happened to you.”

“Me? What about you? You were in hospital. Now you have a broken arm. Those men almost kil ed you. It’s my fault.”

“No, Anna,” Sloane corrected. “It’s the other way around. You were a victim because of my family. Those men hunted you down so they could copy your key to my parents’

apartment. If anything, it’s
our
fault that
you
were assaulted.” Squeezing Anna’s hand, she rose. “I’m cal ing Derek,” she told her mother. “Then we’l al go down to the Field Office and have a sketch artist do his thing. From Anna’s description, I’l bet the skinny guy is the one who sliced up my arm. He probably also made a dry run at the apartment beforehand to scope out Dad’s office and take some pictures, so they’d know which file cabinets were where.”

“Yes, and the strong one might be the SOB who almost snapped off my arm and planned to do the same thing to my neck,” Rosalyn replied, already in motion.

“I was thinking the same thing. Thanks for cal ing me, Mom. You’ve got great instincts. And before I forget, cal a locksmith and have your door re-keyed.” A twinkle lit Rosalyn’s eyes. “I already thought of that. Who do you think you inherited your smarts from?” Sloane arched a brow. “I plead the fifth.” She flipped open her cel phone. Al she could think about was one thing. Thank goodness for this development. Now Derek could cal off his dogs.

Ben, Wal ace, Leo, and Phil were off the hook.

Daniel Zhang was expecting them.

He met Rich and Derek in a room at the Flushing youth group organization where he’d just finished a class for Chinese-American teens who were recently out of rehab and trying to live drug-free lives.

“Agent Wil iams. Agent Parker.” Zhang shook each of their hands, speaking in perfect, barely accented English. He was slight, in his midthirties, with an open, friendly demeanor and a kind face. But his eyes were old, conveying the difficulty of his past. “Please, sit down.” He walked over to the circle of chairs he’d set up for class and pul ed three of them to the front of the room.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Rich began as they sat down. “Do you prefer Zhang Ming, or Daniel Zhang?”

“Daniel is fine.” Zhang gave him a half smile. “I’ve been in the States for a long time now. Plus, it puts the kids I work with at ease, since most of them have English names.”

“Fine…Daniel,” Rich repeated. “You and I spoke only briefly on the phone. But you understand what we need from you.”

“I do. However, first, I want
you
to understand that it’s been years since I had any contact with the Fong Triad, or any triad.” It was clear that Zhang wanted to clarify who he’d become, not only to avoid problems with the FBI but also because of the pride he felt for his transition. “My life is very different now.
I’m
very different now. I was lucky enough to get a fresh start. I want to share that good fortune with the kids I help. Most of them are at crucial turning points in their lives. They need hope, direction, and the knowledge that someone is there for them—someone who’s been where they are and made the kind of changes I made. Someone who’l offer them the emotional support necessary to make those same changes.”

“What you’re doing is commendable,” Derek replied. Despite his impatience to get the answers they sought, he felt a surge of genuine admiration for this man. “Let me assure you, we have no interest in interfering in your life or making any trouble for you. Al we want is the information Special Agent Wil iams requested when you spoke.”

“About the painting I bought for my Dragon Head.” Zhang gave a be-mused shake of his head. “The girl who sold it to me said it was a Rothberg, that it was worth hundreds of thousands of U.S. dol ars, and she was only asking fifty thousand for it. She seemed pretty desperate, and since I had no idea what a Rothberg was, I assumed the offer was a scam.

But my Dragon Head told me that Aaron Rothberg was a gifted artist, and that if the painting was genuine, it was as valuable as she claimed. He borrowed the painting and had it authenticated. It was real. So he gave me the money and told me to complete the transaction.”

“Which you did,” Derek ascertained.

Zhang nodded. “I met her at her friend’s apartment and bought the painting. It was months later, when Fong and I heard there was a murder attached to it, that we unloaded the painting—fast. The Dutch guy who bought it didn’t care about its history. He just wanted it, either to keep or to sel . Fong got top dol ar for it. And that was that.”

“Tel us about the girl who sold it to you,” Derek asked, leaning forward.

Zhang sighed. “If I’d been the person then that I am now, she’d be one of the kids I helped. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. Straight black hair—long, past her shoulders. Petite. Pretty. And, as I said, desperate. My guess would be she was a runaway. She was way too classy to have spent her life on the streets. Her friend Lucy was another story. She was older—maybe twenty—and definitely a drug user. Her pupils were the size of saucers and she looked wrung out. Her apartment was the size of a shoebox—the rats in the hal were bigger than the room. Both girls looked as if they hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks.”

“You said her friend’s name was Lucy. What about the sel er herself—what was her name?”

“She never gave it to me. Neither did Lucy. I didn’t know her name until later.”

“So you spoke to Lucy again.”

“Oh, yes. It was a good five years later. She came looking for me out of nowhere. She was in even worse shape than the last time—gaunt, so drugged up she could barely see straight, and with some ugly welts on her face. It was obvious someone was beating her. She was panicked and desperate to get out of Hong Kong. She said she’d scored a huge sum of money, and begged me to arrange transport for her to America. She was so frantic, I felt sorry for her. So I spoke to my Dragon Head. He agreed to make the arrangements—for twenty thousand dol ars. She turned the money over, in cash, without a word of negotiation or protest. Fong got her on a ship to New York. After that, she was on her own.”

“Where does a poverty-stricken drug addict get twenty thousand dol ars?” Rich muttered to himself. “That amount of cash sure as hel didn’t come from sex or drugs.”

“That’s for sure,” Zhang agreed. “Al I know is that she swore to me she hadn’t stolen it. Back then, it didn’t matter. I made a deal. I got a cut. I walked away.”

“And that was the end of it?”

“In Hong Kong, yes. That was the last I saw of her. But I’m almost positive I saw her about a month ago.”

“In New York?” Derek asked, his head snapping up.

Another nod. “In a battered women’s shelter in Chinatown. I was there to bring a young girl back to her family in Flushing, where she could heal after being beaten by her drunken boyfriend. While I was there, I saw a woman I’m almost positive was Lucy. She’s obviously been through hel . It’s only been about three years since I saw her, so she can’t be more than twenty-eight or thirty. But she looks a decade older than that. She was swol en, covered with bruises, and shivering under a blanket in the corner. I tried to approach her, but she shrunk away from me like a terrified, wounded animal. So I backed off.” Zhang’s brows drew together in concentration. “But her eyes, her features…it was Lucy. I said her name, and she startled. I think she recognized me, too, although she was too dazed to figure out from where. But I could swear I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes.” Derek whipped out a pad. “Give us the name and address of this shelter.”

Zhang supplied Derek with the information. “If you find her, my only suggestion is to have a woman question her. She’s visibly terrified of men, no doubt with good reason. If you two march in and approach her, you’l scare her off and lose any chance of learning what you need to know.”

“I was thinking along the very same lines.” Derek was already mental y laying out a plan. “We’l have a female reach out to her—one who’s specifical y trained to get through to people who are reluctant or unwil ing to respond. The professional I have in mind is Caucasian, so I’l have a Chinese agent go with her when she pokes around in Chinatown. That’l avoid any potential cultural problems. But once the two of them are inside the shelter, my male agent wil stay back, and let her do the work.”

“Lucy’s English is weak,” Zhang warned him.

“My female investigator speaks fluent Mandarin. Communication won’t be a problem. Believe me, if anyone can get through to this poor, battered Lucy, the pro I have in mind can.”

“You want to send Sloane in there,” Rich stated as soon as they’d left the youth center, armed with Daniel’s offer to assist in any additional way he could.

“You bet I do. She’s the best crisis negotiator I’ve ever seen. She knows how to get through to people. This is right up her al ey.”

“Not to mention it’l keep her mind off your investigation of her father’s partners,” Rich added with a shrewd sidelong glance.

Derek blew out a breath. “Look, Rich. I realize things on that front changed right before we left for Queens.”

“Ah, you mean when the Burbanks’ maid came in and told us her story—the one that proves none of Matthew Burbank’s partners helped Xiao Long break into the Burbanks’

apartment.”

“Yes, right,” Derek answered impatiently. “But that’s the only fact that changed. I never thought these guys were hardened criminals. I thought they were involved in a cover-up. I stil do. I also think it somehow links back to Xiao Long. Cal it far-fetched. Cal it gut instinct. Either way, I’m going to keep digging into al four men—and, yeah, Burbank, too. I’m asking you to fol ow through with our original plan and reinterview them. Truthful y, it’s going to be easier now. Since the Burbanks’ maid told us what happened, Sloane is going to assume her father and his friends are off the hook. She won’t be worried that I’m stil investigating them. I don’t know if that investigation wil link directly to the Rothberg theft. It might not. In which case, it wil become my problem, not yours. And if it turns out I’m wrong and they’re as clean as a whistle, there’l be no harm done—except to my relationship with Sloane. But I’m wil ing to take that risk. Because if I’m right, and if that cover-up is tied to Xiao Long, Sloane is stil in danger. Significant danger. I know Xiao Long. He’d carve someone up like a pumpkin, and then go out to breakfast.”

“I hear you. And I’l fol ow through using the angle of new details on the Rothberg and conduct a fol ow-up interview with each of the art partners. Now that we have the Fong information, it’l be a natural step to ask if any of them are familiar with the triad members or the people involved in the transaction. I’l also add a healthy dose of concern for their safety, given the attack on Rosalyn Burbank. Believe me, the way I’m going to handle it, Sloane won’t get suspicious.”

“Thanks, Rich.”

“No problem. I’m counting on that steak dinner.”

There was a team meeting first thing the next morning in Tony’s office.

Squad members from both C-6 and C-7 were present, as were Rich and Sloane. Everyone was brought up to speed on the MP5K sales, the Black Eagles–Red Dragons connection, and the short-term possession of
Dead or Alive
by the Fong Triad.

The sketches of the two men Anna had described were produced, and her story was recounted. Everyone was advised that Rosalyn Burbank had verified that the solid, thickset man in Anna’s sketch was the same man who’d abducted her—a man Derek and C-6 had already identified from the initial sketch Rosalyn had provided as Jin Huang.

Last, Sloane described her knife attack, and confirmed that her assailant was the other punk in Anna’s sketches.

An investigative plan was laid out: Sloane and Jeff would go to the battered women’s shelter in Chinatown and see if Lucy was stil there, and if she wasn’t, start tracing her whereabouts. With Derek at the helm, C-6 and C-7 would dig into Xiao Long’s link to the Black Eagles. And Rich would continue to investigate the various art thefts, Rothberg included, and see what he could come up with.

Very casual y, he mentioned his plan to cal in the art-partnership members to see if they knew anything about the Fong Triad and their purchasing any valuable paintings. Also, if they’d ever dealt with Daniel Zhang—or even heard his name.