Drawn in Blood (43 page)

Cindy is scoping out homes to rob, the Black Eagles are carrying out the crimes, and Peggy is forging copies of the stolen paintings. It’s al being shipped to China, and Johnny Liu is sel ing them and making a huge profit. My guess from what I’ve learned hearing my dad talk about the art dealing world? Liu is sel ing the forgeries on the open market, and the originals to private col ectors—quietly and secretly.”

“Getting paid twice, along with the security of knowing that the valuable original wil never see the light of day. And even if it does, and it’s identified, there’l be no trail leading back to him.” Derek let out an admiring whistle. “Smart plan. Smarter analysis. Great work.”

A half smile. “I aim to please.” The smile vanished. “The one thing I’m missing, which is the most important part, is how to turn this theory into enough probable cause to get our warrant to search Cindy’s place. But I’m working on it.”

She glanced around, tensing as she realized they were nearing their destination. “As for your question about Wal ace, I’m not looking forward to what we might find at his house. But I’l deal with it. There’s no choice. Although I stil can’t figure out his motive. Liquidating his assets to buy stolen paintings? It just doesn’t fit.”

“I can’t disagree with you.” Derek turned onto Wal ace’s street. “I’m hoping we’l find answers.”

They maneuvered down the long winding driveway, Rich directly behind them. As Sloane had predicted, Wal ace’s BMW wasn’t in the driveway or the garage.

Stil , they gave a procedural knock on the front door.

“FBI,” Derek cal ed out. “We have a warrant to search your house.” A pause, then a second knock, this one louder than the first. “Johnson, it’s Agent Derek Parker of the FBI. If you’re in there, open the door.”

No movement or reply.

Derek gave Sloane a terse nod.

She took out her parents’ key and opened the door. The rhythmic, warning beeps of the burglar alarm sounded, and Sloane punched in the code her mother had given her. The beeping stopped, tel ing them that there’d be no tripping the alarm.

The foyer was dark.

Rich flipped on the light just inside the door. Automatical y, Derek pul ed out his pistol, raising it in a defensive motion.

“He’s not home,” Sloane stated tonelessly. “And he wouldn’t know how to hold a gun, much less fire it.”

“It’s procedure, Sloane,” Derek replied. “You know that as wel as I do. This manor is way too big to assume no one’s here just because the car is missing and Wal ace didn’t answer the door. As soon as we’re sure al ’s clear, I’l holster my weapon.”

Sloane nodded.

“Rich, you and Sloane start looking around,” Derek instructed. “I’l cover you.”

They made their way through the foyer and stepped down into the sunken living room. Sloane paused, reaching over to slide up the light dimmer until the room was il uminated enough to make out everything in it.

The first object they saw was the painting of the little Chinese girl. Wal ace had put it on an easel just inside the room, so the eye would be drawn directly to it.

“That’s beautiful,” Sloane murmured, approaching the painting and studying the innocent quality of the little girl.

“It should be,” Rich responded drily, walking up close to the painting and studying the details of its design and frame. “It’s a costly painting, created by a highly successful Chinese artist. It was stolen from a private col ector in Beijing six months ago.”

Sloane’s head jerked toward Rich. “Stolen?”

He nodded. “So we’ve already got grounds for Wal ace’s arrest.”

“What we’ve got is grounds for that second search warrant,” Sloane corrected him. “Wal ace didn’t steal or buy this painting. He told me that Cindy gave it to him as a thank-you gift from her and her uncle.”

Derek had already flipped open his phone. “I’l cal Jeff and have him get started on the warrant right away. I don’t want to give Cindy Liu an extra minute to clear out any evidence she’s hiding at her apartment. If we can tie this stolen painting to Johnny Liu, it wil be a real coup.”

“It’l get you the warrant. But it won’t get you Liu,” Rich apprised him. “He’l deny knowing it was stolen property when he bought it. He’s probably already fabricated a paper trail to make the provenance as murky as possible.”

“Plus, he’d never send us here if he knew we’d find something to use against him or his niece,” Sloane added. “But right now, I’l settle for the warrant.”

“You’l have it.” Derek cal ed Jeff and set the wheels in motion.

After that, Sloane, Rich, and Derek made their way through the seven-thousand-square-foot manor, room by room. The starkness of each room revealed a man whose emptiness had consumed him. The furniture was minimal, the accents nil. Any remaining space that was richly decorated and highlighted with complementary colors was clearly the work of Beatrice’s elite European interior designer, and had been done ages ago.

The one bedroom that emanated personal warmth and a sense of light and life was, without question, Sophie’s. Painted a soft pastel pink, it had ruffled white curtains at the windows and a matching bedspread on the four-poster bed. The bed and one entire wal was fil ed with dol s and stuffed animals, and the dresser held a DVD player, a color TV, and a lineup of Disney and other family-oriented DVDs. The way the room was arranged, the exact lineup of toys and movies, told Sloane that, other than keeping the room immaculate, Wal ace hadn’t changed a thing since Sophie’s death.

She felt a lump in her throat as she turned away.

“Let’s move on” was al she said.

Exploring the multitude of rooms took an inordinate amount of time. But even though the doors were shut, none of them was locked, not even Wal ace’s bedroom, which was masculine but minimal—a place to sleep but not to live.

They checked the basement, which would be an obvious choice, but it was nothing more than a storage room. Ditto with the attic. They checked the wine cel ar, which was stocked only with bottles of fine wine. They even checked the garage, which had two additional pricey sedans in it, but no paintings.

“Do you think Liu was lying?” Sloane asked.

“No.” Rich shook his head. “There’d be no point. Besides, if Johnson’s col ection is not only hidden but also extensive, I haven’t seen a room yet that would fit the bil as a gal ery.”

“So it’s time to play
Nancy Drew: The Hidden Staircase
,” Sloane murmured. “I’d suggest we start looking for places in the main section of the house that might lead to an inconspicuous stairway. Maybe an area with wood panels, where a doorway made of the same wood would blend in and go unnoticed.”

“There are wood panels in the breakfast room, the den, and the media room,” Derek reported.

“Fine. Let’s each of us take one of those rooms and explore it inch by inch.” Rich jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “I’l take the breakfast room. It forms an L-shape with the kitchen, but it juts out to the rear, so it’s not visible to arriving guests. It’s also a place where Wal ace would probably spend time when he was here—reading the paper, eating his meals.”

“I’l take the den,” Sloane announced. “Wal ace’s leather wingback chair is in there; he’s had it forever. His brandy’s also in there. So are his books and his photo albums. It’s the most personal room in the house, other than Sophie’s.”

“Then the media room’s mine,” Derek said. “It’s ful y wood-paneled. And, with al the electronic components in there, it would be easy to conceal a doorway.” The three of them scattered, each taking a flashlight with them to minimize the number of lights they had to turn on, but maximize the il uminated areas they were searching.

Sloane walked into the den and swept the room with her flashlight. The wingback chair was kitty-cornered on the left at the front of the room, flanked by smal wooden side tables. There was an enormous bookcase that covered the ful extent of the far wal . But the shelves were constructed of solid mahogany. They weighed a ton, and Sloane doubted that she’d find a spring-activated secret panel, like in the old movies, that would al ow her access by pressing the correct shelf.

The rear left side of the room had a fireplace. Beside it was a sideboard, and a ful liquor cabinet to accompany it. Again, heavy as a rock, and not a practical spot to conceal a door for a man who wanted frequent access to a gal ery of stolen paintings.

Sloane crossed over to the right wal . There was a bay window spanning most of it, so that area was out. But there was a space between where the window ended and the adjacent wal where the bookcase began. The only thing fil ing that spot was a low table, which contained a vase of daisies, a photo album, and a framed picture of Sophie, smiling at her nursery school graduation.

Gently, Sloane tugged at the table. It moved easily, so easily that it surprised her. She looked more closely and saw that the table was made out of plywood, painted to match the rest of the red-brown furniture, but light as a feather.

She lifted it out of the way and stepped into the barely noticeable corner, which was hidden by the depth of the bookcase. She aimed her flashlight at the three-foot section of the now-exposed wal .

The outline of the door was clear. So was the dead bolt that stood between Sloane and her goal.

“Guys,” she cal ed out. “I’ve got something.”

The sound of thudding footsteps came from two different directions. An instant later, both Derek and Rich appeared, shining their flashlights around the room.

“Over here,” Sloane instructed.

They joined her, and Derek gave a triumphant grunt. “This is it. Sloane, your instincts come through again.”

“Except I have no clue how to get past that dead bolt.”

“The old-fashioned way.” Derek walked over to the fireplace, picked up one of the heavy andirons, and carried it back to use as a battering ram. He began whacking at the lock. The door shuddered with each strike. It took time and patience, but at last the wood around the lock began to give—more, a little more—until final y it gave out.

Derek shoved open the door and groped on the inside wal until he found a light switch. He flipped it on, revealing a long, winding staircase. “Let’s go.” They trekked down the stairs, Derek leading the way.

At the foot of the stairs was another light switch. Derek flipped this one on, too, just as al three of them reached the base of the stairs.

The room was flooded by a soft, iridescent light, revealing the entirety of Wal ace’s private sanctum—and al of its contents.

“Holy shit,” Derek blurted out, staring around at the wealth of paintings covering the wal s.

It was a ful , private, and very personal art gal ery.

There were over two dozen paintings, some of them incredibly valuable—masterpieces by Renoir or Cassatt—others far less pricey, whose signatures labeled them as up-and-coming artists, plus a few Hamptons locals.

Every painting depicted a little girl, ranging in age between two and six. Each child emanated joy and exuberance—some of them running through fields, others picking flowers, splashing in the ocean, or chasing butterflies.

Al of them celebrating life.

The gal ery Wal ace had created was devoid of furnishings, with the exception of a wingback chair in the dead center of the room with a smal end table beside it. On the table were a bottle of bourbon, a lowbal glass, and a neatly stacked pile of snapshots. The leather chair was identical to the one upstairs, with the additional feature of being able to swivel 360 degrees—obviously to al ow Wal ace ful viewing options.

There was one bare spot on the far wal directly across from the staircase, clearly awaiting the painting that would put the crowning touch on Wal ace’s col ection. Once it was hung in its place of honor, the tribute would be complete.

Wordlessly, Sloane scanned the room, her gaze lingering on certain paintings. Then, she picked up the snapshots and sifted through them, feeling tears sting behind her eyes.

They were al photos of Sophie. They al captured her at different moments, in different settings.

But they al captured her sense of pure joy.

Raising her head, Sloane walked over to one painting that reminded her so much of one of the photos in her hand. It was a Cassatt, and the little girl in it was laughing, frolicking outdoors, eyes bright with wonder. Her hair was streaming out al around her as she dashed about with al the delight and innocence of childhood. God, she looked so much like Sophie.

The same golden brown hair and dancing eyes. The same exuberance. Alive, vital, fil ed with a love of life and the promise of tomorrow.

A promise she’d been deprived of. Just as her father had been deprived of sharing it with her.

Rich was already across the room, examining the paintings. “Astonishing masterpieces,” he murmured. “There’s a work by Bouguereau, one by Rembrandt…unbelievable. The value of the paintings in this room—I can only begin to imagine.” He walked over to the one empty space on the wal . “This is obviously meant for the final painting in Johnson’s private gal ery,” he concluded, half to himself. “I wonder which one he has in mind. Which work of art would belong here? Johnson wouldn’t settle for anything less than the perfect choice.”

“It’s probably a moot point,” Derek reminded Rich. “I doubt he and Johnny Liu are doing any more business, so Johnson won’t be getting that final painting after al .”

“True.” Rich continued to closely scrutinize the paintings. “I recognize several of these masterpieces as being among those stolen by the Black Eagles at the recent museum heists in Spain and Germany. The Cassatt over here and that Miró belong to the Museo de Arte Moderno. And the portrait of the little girl in a field of wildflowers is a Renoir that was displayed at the Kunsthal e in Munich.”

“What I recognize is that we have our motive,” Sloane stated, trying to separate emotion from fact. She recognized that Wal ace had bought stolen paintings, knowing ful wel that it was a crime. On the other hand, she understood why he’d done it. She could only begin to imagine the pain that was stil tearing him up inside.

“This gal ery is a father’s ultimate memorial for his daughter,” she determined aloud. “A five-year-old innocent child whose murder was ordered by the very man who orchestrated the sel ing of these paintings to Wal ace. Liu was using Xiao Long as a conduit to prolong Wal ace’s agony and to keep alive the paralyzing pain of Sophie’s death—