FBI: Drawn In Blood Part 8

As precise as Leary's financial records were, that's how thorough Burbank's files were. He kept every item of provenance available on the paintings-from photos to newspaper clippings to certificates of authenticity. He also kept duplicate receipts-not just on the buys but also on the sales.

He'd produced all that with regard to the Rothberg purchase. What he hadn't produced was a duplicate receipt for the sale. In fact, he'd produced nothing on the sale whatsoever, allowing Leary's financial records to stand alone as proof.

Normally, that would be fine, since the buyer would have all the original paperwork. But if what Leary said was true, the absence of a thick file-or any file-on the sale was an anomaly for Burbank. Add to that the fact that their buyer had turned up murdered the day after the transaction, and all sorts of new questions were raised.

Was it possible that Burbank's group had switched the genuine Rothberg for a fake, and then, when Cai Wen figured it out and confronted them, they'd killed him? Nope. Despite the gaping holes in the provenance of both the genuine and the fake Rothberg, the paper trail of the fake didn't begin until 1997, when it was sold at an absurdly low price by an amateur collector-now nowhere to be found-to a gallery in Macao. In contrast, Burbank's art investment group had conducted their transaction with Cai Wen in October 1995.

The next potential scenario was that Burbank, Fox, and Leary had tried to screw Cai Wen, or vice versa, and they'd wound up killing him.

Anything was possible, but if those three men were murderers, then Rich would eat his hat. Aside from Ben Martino's misdemeanor DWI, none of them had a police record. None of them had brought a lawyer to the interview-not even Matthew Burbank, who had Sloane as free legal counsel. None of them was shrewd enough to realize that having total recall and providing near-identical details of a sale that happened fourteen years ago screamed rehea.r.s.ed. And none of them was the hotheaded type.

They'd been total wrecks about being questioned by the FBI over a case of art fraud. If they'd killed a man, they would have pa.s.sed out at Rich's feet.

Still, there was that discrepancy over Burbank not producing a file on the Rothberg sale.

Rich pulled out his paperwork on Burbank's interview to double-check. Yup. Memory had served him correctly. Not only hadn't Burbank produced the comprehensive file Leary had alluded to, he'd never mentioned, much less emphasized, his thorough file-keeping system. And he'd certainly never broached the subject of a duplicate receipt.

This warranted further investigation-along with the proper venue and the element of surprise. It was the only way to catch Burbank off guard, throw him into a panic, and corner him into producing his other files.

Rich picked up the phone and dialed Derek's number.

It was Derek's second call of the morning.

Both calls had sucked.

The first one came before dawn, when Jeff called to report that something weird was going on with Xiao Long. He hadn't been seen in Chinatown for the past two nights, nor had C-6 reported any comings or goings from his house in Long Island or his hangouts in the city. He hadn't made or received any phone calls. It was as if he'd dropped out of sight. And that couldn't mean anything good.

Derek's stomach had clenched as he closed his cell and glanced at Sloane sleeping next to him. The timing of Xiao Long's disappearance sucked. It made Derek only more suspicious that whatever was going on was somehow linked to the Bureau's investigation of a connection between Xiao Long and Matthew Burbank.

So much for phone call one.

Derek had just finished his morning workout, during which he'd managed to convince himself that Xiao Long could just as easily be sick in bed as he could be hiding out, planning something sinister or letting the heat die down, when Rich's call came in.

Afterward, Derek wrapped a towel around his neck and sank down on the bed. He had to think-and he didn't have a lot of time to do it in. Sloane was out running with the hounds. She'd be back in a few minutes. And by the time she walked in, Derek had to have a plan to keep her busy and out of contact with her parents-at least for the morning.

In other words, he had to manipulate her.

With a muttered oath, Derek tossed the towel into the hamper and went to take a quick shower.

It took very little arm-twisting to persuade Leo Fox to push up their original appointment next week and to drive out to the cottage that morning. He seemed to be chomping at the bit to transform the place into the perfect love nest for Derek and Sloane. As for Sloane, her morning schedule was light, and after the intensity of the last two nights, Derek had no trouble convincing her that he did want to leave his mark on what was now their home-or why. Getting Leo there ASAP seemed like the most natural reaction in the world.

And Derek felt like the biggest SOB arranging it.

Leo arrived armed with stacks of fabric samples, decorating catalogs, and a burst of fanfare.

He was an average-size man with a long, thin face, a sallow complexion, and a shock of black hair.

He reminded Derek of Bert from Sesame Street, except more expensively dressed and without the scowl. Leo was all smiles, carrying in his wares, tentatively greeting the hounds-although he drew the line at letting them sniff his samples-and pumping Derek's hand when Sloane introduced them.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, scrutinizing Derek as subtly as he could-but not so subtly as to escape Derek's notice. "Let me start out by telling you what a lucky man you are. I've known Sloane since she was a precocious little girl who climbed trees and roughhoused with the boys because the girls didn't play hard enough. She was, and is, beautiful, smart, and afraid of nothing. I hope you can keep up."

Derek found himself grinning as he pictured a miniature Sloane beating the c.r.a.p out of the boys. "I can try."

"Oh, for pity's sake." Sloane rolled her eyes. "Derek is a former Army Ranger, Leo. He's been an FBI agent for a dozen years, and he's worked every kind of grisly violent crime you can imagine.

Believe me, he can keep up. His morning workouts alone would kill me."

"And your Krav Maga?" Leo inquired politely.

Sloane's lips twitched. "That would kill him."

"So you're evenly matched." The decorator beamed.

"We think so." Derek looped an arm around Sloane's shoulders. "As for knowing how lucky I am, I do. That's why I'm so eager to get settled. I want to solidify what I've got."

"Excellent. Then let's get right to it." Leo glanced around the hallway. "Where shall I set up?" he asked, indicating everything he'd brought along, which was currently perched on the hall table.

"How about the living room?" Sloane suggested. "There's lots of room there to spread out."

Leo glanced in the direction she indicated. "Perfect." He was already halfway to his destination.

Forget Bert. This guy was more like Road Runner, except as tightly wound as Wile E. Coyote right before he inevitably went over the cliff.

"I'll leave all this in here while we take our walk-through," Leo was continuing. "Sloane, give me a tour of the cottage as you've decorated it. Derek, I'll ask you some questions as we walk. By the time we sit down, I'll have a very good idea of what to show you."

And I'll have a very good idea of what you're about, Derek thought. Because there's a lot more to this visit than a decorating consultation.

Fred Miller had been working security for twenty years. He was a pro. He'd familiarized himself with every detail of Rosalyn Burbank's routine. He also checked in with her twice a day to ensure she kept him apprised of her schedule.

This morning, she had a business breakfast to attend. He'd be picking her up outside her apartment in his navy Ford Explorer.

He arrived half an hour early, as always. And, as always, he checked to make sure his counterpart, Matthew Burbank's security guard, was posted outside the building. Yup. Jake Lambert was right there. Jake handled the night s.h.i.+ft, which meant that Tom O'Hara would be arriving soon to relieve him.

As Fred pulled up to the building, he and Jake exchanged impersonal nods. The doorman spotted Fred immediately, and gestured that, per instructions, he could leave his car right out front.

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

The pedestrian traffic was typically 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 colleague who was helping his a.s.sociate grab his ride before the driver was forced to move on or be pounded by traffic.

The sedan pulled away and drove off.

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

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

CHAPTER TEN.

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 b.u.t.ton that activated the automatic door locks. Then, he pulled into the stream of traffic.

It wasn't until a chunk of time had pa.s.sed 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, practically 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 still didn't answer. He just continued driving over the Willis 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 pa.s.senger 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 killer 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. Manually, 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 wall.

The basketball game stopped. A half-dozen tall, 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 pa.s.sersby, 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 all right?"

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

"All right?" Her laugh was hollow.

"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 still in the car with her file. "A hospital...I need a hospital. My arm..." She winced. "My cell phone's gone. Could you...?" Her voice trailed off.

"Here." He groped in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. "Use mine."

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

"Thank you," Rosalyn said gratefully, 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 doorbell 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 Williams, the FBI agent from the Art Crime Team who'd interviewed him about the Rothberg.

What the h.e.l.l 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 Williams. This is a surprise."

Williams's brows rose quizzically. "Is it a bad time?"