FBI: Drawn In Blood Part 26

Cindy slid on a pair of high-heeled shoes and gave a weary sigh.

She was exhausted. A week of c.o.c.ktail parties. A week of being "on" every evening. And a week of manipulating Wallace to fall even more in love with her.

Peggy had her hands full, too, working 'round the clock on her forgeries so that both the handpicked originals and their identically created fakes could be s.h.i.+pped to China.

The plan was coming together nicely. Xiao Long was putting the information Cindy provided to good use. There'd already been two burglaries since the steady stream of c.o.c.ktail parties had begun.

Both burglaries took place at the private homes of some of the wealthy guests who'd attended the parties, and who'd discussed their art collections with Cindy after hiring her to redesign their manors.

Cindy chose her victims carefully. Never the host and hostess's place. Never a couple who spent an extensively long time alone with her. And never a couple whose collections weren't valuable enough to be worth the trouble.

Leo was both an a.s.set and a pain in the a.s.s. His talent was undeniable, as was his reputation as a world-cla.s.s decorator. The newly acquired clients practically drooled when they managed to hire Cindy and Leo as a collaborative team.

On the flip side, he never went away. He always had projects to go over with her, or personal conversations he had to have with Wallace for just a few minutes-which always turned into a half hour. Cindy needed time alone with Wallace. It was imperative to solidify his feelings for her.

Sighing, she rose and zipped up her dress. Tonight she'd invite Wallace in for an after-party drink.

She'd let things progress-gradually. Depending on how avid Wallace was and how much headway she'd made, she might accept his invitation for a weekend in the Hamptons this week or next.

The odd part was she was actually looking forward to sleeping with him.

Rich went to see Derek the minute his last meeting with the members of the art partners.h.i.+p was finished.

"Okay, so the results are in," he announced, sitting down across from Derek's desk.

"And?"

"And we've got an interesting potpourri of reactions. They're all nervous wrecks, especially since Rosalyn Burbank's bodyguard was pulled out of the river with a fatal stab wound in his back. That's to be expected. But there's definitely something going on beneath the surface. I'm still convinced it doesn't relate to a dirty deal or a switcheroo on the Rothberg. But the integrity of the players involved-that's another story."

With that, Rich pulled out his notes. "Burbank is the one I have the least problems with. He wasn't surprised by the fact that Xiao Long's criminal activities might be tied to a Chinese triad. He agreed that it would explain Xiao's determination to keep his murdering Cai Wen quiet-to protect whoever he's working for. Burbank himself offered up the theory that in the final hour, Cai Wen probably tried to squeeze Xiao for more money, which got him killed."

"What about Fong? Had Burbank heard of him? Had any dealings with him?"

Rich shook his head. "He drew a blank. And he wasn't lying. The name Henry Fong meant nothing to him. Neither did Daniel Zhang or Zhang Ming."

"So he has no idea where Dead or Alive went after Xiao Long stole it." Derek shot Rich a quizzical look. "You didn't get into Lucy's story, did you? Because I promised Sloane we'd keep her out of this. As it is, I put security on both her and Zhang. If Xiao is tied to the Fong Triad, and if he sees either Lucy or Zhang as a threat, he won't hesitate to eliminate them."

"Lucy's name never came up. All I said was that the Rothberg was stolen from whomever Xiao Long got it for, after which it was sold to Zhang. That's all that Burbank, or any of his partners, needs to know."

"Good. What about the others?"

"Ah, the others. Leo Fox was flying on so much caffeine that he was practically on the ceiling. He kept waiting for me to bring up the file you found him rifling at Sloane's. Of course I didn't. It's better to keep him squirming. He didn't react to any of the names I ran by him, either. But he's sitting on something. I'm just not sure whether it relates to Xiao Long or to his partners. He's definitely the Dear Abby of the group. So if anyone has secrets, he knows them."

Rich turned the page and continued. "Phil Leary's an interesting fellow. His professional books are impeccable, but when I brought up how erratic his personal financial statements are, he fell all over himself. After that, he was a basket case. He looked dazed and clueless when I brought up the Fong Triad and Zhang, and when I brought the interview to a close, he spilled his coffee in a race to get out the door. Whatever he does or doesn't know, his actions are certainly consistent with your findings that he's a compulsive gambler."

"Not just compulsive. An addict," Derek corrected. "I verified the extent of his problem through a half-dozen sources. And, yeah, he's loyal to his partners, but you and I both know that addicts sacrifice a lot more than just friends to support their habit. I'm on the verge of finding out his bookie's name. Once I do, I'll get the sc.u.mbag to talk, even if I have to throw his a.s.s in jail."

"Sounds like a plan. With regard to Leary, I'm tapped out at my end."

"Fair enough. What about Johnson and Martino?"

"That's where things get more intriguing. Both Johnson and Martino reacted when I mentioned Xiao Long's name. I found that to be fascinating, considering they're the only two partners who weren't in Hong Kong when Cai Wen was murdered. That's why we didn't bother showing them our sketch. And since Xiao is under FBI investigation, we never mentioned his name before now.

So any interactions either Martino or Johnson had with him had to be under different circ.u.mstances, probably right here in the U.S."

Derek was all ears. "Did you get the feeling they were in this together or separately?"

"Not sure."

"Under what contexts did each of them react?"

"Martino wasn't totally sober. When I asked him about Fong and Zhang, he claimed not to know them. But then he went on to slur a bunch of stuff about being sick to death of all this Chinese organized crime. That's when I slipped in Xiao's name. He started shaking and sweating, and looking around like he'd kill for a drink. So I dropped the bomb that Xiao Long was the one who stole the Rothberg and killed Cai Wen. I thought he was going to either vomit or pa.s.s out at my feet. He def- initely knows the guy. Does that a.s.sociation relate to the Rothberg? It's possible. As for Zhang and the triad, I'll run Martino's name by Daniel Zhang and see what he says. Either way, Martino warrants further investigation."

"He's at the top of my list." Derek's hands balled into fists. "What about Johnson?"

"Wallace Johnson is a complicated man. Smart. Polished. Quite adept at keeping a poker face. But he made no secret of the fact that he was displeased about holding our follow-up interview, or discussing the ongoing art thefts at all."

"Any reaction to Fong's or Zhang's name?"

"He said he vaguely knew of the Fong Triad, that he'd heard of them during his numerous business trips to China. But he added that he'd never met any of the members personally, Zhang included. I doubt he's lying. He's too shrewd not to know I could easily check out his story with Zhang. Then I dropped Xiao Long's name. Despite his best attempts to cover up his reaction, he was taken aback.

He asked me if Xiao was suspected of being part of the Fong Triad. I evaded the question, but told him that Xiao had killed Cai Wen and stolen the Rothberg. Again, he tried to take it all in stride, but he was thrown for a loop. It could be personal. Maybe Xiao screwed him over in an art deal."

"Maybe. Or maybe Johnson and/or Martino are involved in something illegal."

"Yeah." Rich blew out a breath. "Between this information, and the recent home invasions and art thefts, we certainly have our work cut out for us."

"You've done your job with Burbank and his partners. The next step's mine." Derek picked up the reports he'd been reading when Rich came in, then tossed them across his desk in disgust. "Three d.a.m.ned break-ins in one week. All at affluent homes. And even though Xiao Long organized them, these robberies were definitely not committed by the Red Dragons. Windows smashed to gain entry.

Burglar alarms ignored. Home owners all present, with no attempts made by the intruders to wait for the houses to be empty. All residents held at gunpoint and restrained with Flex-Cufs. Thieves who wore masks, spoke with accents, and were in and out by the time the cops arrived-in under ten minutes, according to the victims. And nothing taken except valuable paintings. Your Black Eagles strike again. With one charming addition, courtesy of Xiao Long."

"Yeah, the empty fortune cookie left at each home." Rich scowled. "This burglary ring is not only practicing for their piece de resistance, they're taunting us, demonstrating our ineffectiveness at stopping them."

"Xiao Long knows we've linked him to the Albanians. But he's flaunting our lack of proof."

"We'll get some," Rich vowed. "We'll nail our triad, and connect them to the Albanians and to Xiao Long."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

Derek started with Ben Martino.

His gut instinct had always been that Martino was the weakest link. So Derek had decided to save his visit to Wallace Johnson for later, and see if he could rattle Martino and get some information.

He waited until two o'clock. That meant lunchtime was over, and Martino had doubtless had his share of drinks, and then some. The consequence of that would be lowered defenses and a looser tongue.

Wearing jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, Derek hung out near Martino's manufacturing factory on East Broad-way until a delivery boy finally exited the building.

Derek approached him, jerking his thumb in the direction of the factory. "Hey, I have to see Martino about an order for my company. Is he in there now?"

"Yeah," the teenager replied, barely breaking stride or glancing up. "He's in the front office."

"Thanks." Derek had his answer. He also had the very thing he'd hoped for going for him-the element of surprise.

He headed inside.

Ben Martino was right where the delivery boy had said. Through the office's gla.s.s pane, Derek could see him standing up and throwing papers around on his desk. He was in a visibly agitated state, and pretty loaded, too, judging from the uncapped, half-empty bottle of whiskey on his desk that he was taking repeated swigs from.

Derek gave a brief knock and walked in.

"What?" Martino snapped, not abandoning his paper-hurling, not even glancing up.

"Mr. Martino, I'd like a few minutes of your time."

Now, Martino's head snapped up. He gazed at Derek through glazed, bloodshot eyes. "Do I know you?" he asked in a slightly slurred voice.

"Special Agent Derek Parker," Derek replied.

It took a minute. "Sloane's boyfriend. Right." Martino shook Derek's hand. His palm was shaking and sweaty, and his expression reminded Derek of a nervous rabbit at the wrong end of a shotgun.

"I'm here in my official capacity." Derek wasted no time, getting to the point and utilizing the intimidation factor. "I'm sure Matthew Burbank told you I'm working the Chinese organized-crime angle of the Rothberg case."

"Yes, he did. So did that other agent-Williams. He asked me all about some triad leaders in Hong Kong. I didn't know what the heck he was talking about. I'm not exactly an expert on what goes on in China."

"Good point. Now that I think about it, you weren't even there when your partners sold Dead or Alive to Cai Wen-or after the transaction, when he was killed and the painting was stolen."

Martino shook his head. "My father had just had a stroke. I was here in New York with him." An awkward laugh. "I sure missed all the excitement."

"You sure did. You and Wallace Johnson. He was away on a business trip when the ugly mess went down." Derek went out on a limb and feigned knowledge he didn't have. "But he did check in on you when he returned-you and your father."

Sure enough, Martino nodded. "He was concerned. He dropped by the hospital."

"Very considerate." A quizzical look. "Are you two close friends?"

Martino swallowed so hard his Adam's apple visibly rose and fell. "We're all good friends. We have been since college."

"True. But I get the feeling that you and Johnson have a unique bond."

"We do...We did...We don't talk about it anymore." Although Martino was stumbling on his words, he was clearly providing a lot more information than he would have if he were sober. "Wallace desperately wanted a child. No one understood that better than me. My family, my kids and grandkids -they mean everything. But Wallace and Beatrice had a rough time conceiving. I introduced them to a specialist. He performed a procedure. It worked. When Sophie was born, Wallace made me her G.o.dfather. She was the sun, the moon, and the stars to him." Tears glittered in Martino's eyes, and, disregarding Derek's presence, he took a gulp from his whiskey bottle. "I'm sure you know she was killed in a hit-and-run accident."

"Yes, I did. She was only five. That's a tragedy no parent should have to bear. I'm sure you rallied around Johnson, gave him your time and emotional support."

"I tried. We all did. But Wallace has never been the same." Martino took another drink, then deposited the bottle, now two-thirds empty, onto his desk.

Derek's gaze followed its path. "Do you always drink during the workday?"

"What?" Martino started, and then a flush crept up his neck as he struggled to switch gears. "In case you missed it, the garment center's dying. I've got a business I'm fighting to keep alive-one my father started years ago. So, yeah, I have a couple drinks now and then to calm my nerves."

"A couple?" Derek arched a pointed brow at the near-empty bottle. "I'd say you have a lot more than that."

"Fine," Martino snapped. "I drink. I doubt that comes as a big surprise to you."

"You're right. It doesn't. Based on your police record, you lost your license for six months after a DWI back in 2004. And the bars in midtown have been seeing quite a lot of you these days."

Martino turned a sickly shade of green. "So I have an on-again, off-again drinking problem."

"It's certainly on-again these days," Derek observed.

"I just told you, I'm under a lot of pressure." There was no doubt that Martino was unraveling-fast. "Why are you here? Am I being accused of something because of my drinking? Because I haven't gotten behind the wheel of a car after having even one drink-not in years."

"You're not being accused of anything," Derek a.s.sured him, making a mental note of Martino's paranoia about his drinking. "I was just acknowledging the challenge you face. Especially since the garment industry is s.h.i.+fting to China big-time."

"It's their cheap labor," Martino muttered, glancing through the gla.s.s window that overlooked the floor of his factory. "It's hard to come by here."

"Especially when the workers you hire are legal," Derek probed with a pointed statement, having followed Martino's stare and noting the rows of Asian women hard at work on their sewing machines. "You seem to have that problem well covered. A factory full of hard workers, who probably command little more than minimum wage."

"It's a win-win situation," Martino responded quickly. "They work hard, and, you're right, it doesn't cost me an arm and a leg to keep them. But their pay is more than fair. There isn't exactly a slew of job opportunities waiting for them. Most of them can't speak a word of English."

"Really. So how do you find them?"

Martino was sweating. He shot a sidelong look at the whiskey bottle, clearly itching to take another drink. "The usual. Word of mouth. Referrals. Employment agencies."

Interesting that employment agencies was the last thing Martino had mentioned-and he'd done so with great reluctance. He was looking at the whiskey bottle again, this time his gaze flickering nervously to its base.

Derek's gaze followed suit. Currently acting as a coaster for Martino's whiskey bottle were a couple of business cards. They were identical, both with the words sih fu employment agency printed on them, along with some other information Derek couldn't make out, half of which was in English, half in Chinese.

Sih Fu Employment Agency. That name rang a bell. And for good reason.

Xiao Long owned it.

One thing was for sure. Xiao never formed a business relations.h.i.+p that didn't earn him a hefty profit. So there had to be more to this arrangement than met the eye. Xiao had to be bleeding Martino dry, using either the threat of having Martino's bones broken by Jin Huang, or the threat of an anonymous tip being made to the cops that Ben Martino was hiring illegals.

Either way, Martino was screwed.

And either way, it was no coincidence that Xiao Long had chosen him as a victim, any more than it was a coincidence that Xiao was involved with Wallace Johnson in some capacity as well.

There was an underlying pattern here, one that Derek was determined to unravel.

Next stop, Wallace Johnson.

Derek was heading toward Johnson's midtown art gallery when he flipped open his cell phone and called Jeff on speed dial.