Drawn in Blood

by Andrea Kane

  Inside SSA Tony Sanchez’s office, a closed-door meeting was going on.

  Tony, Derek, and Rich Williams were gathered around Tony’s desk, reviewing the various pieces of the C-6 case against Xiao Long, and how it might factor into the shady provenance surrounding the genuine Rothberg.

  “All nine of the recent burglaries on the Upper East Side are tied to Xiao Long,” Derek told Rich. “One break-in every two or three weeks. He’s got a great scheme going. A nephew of his, Eric Hu, a bright kid who graduated from MIT a few years ago, has a start-up computer support company—oh, and an addiction to crack, which is an easy get for Xiao Long. Turns out Hu’s company serviced the computer systems of eight of the nine burglarized apartments. Also turns out all the owners of those apartments are affluent, with lots of expensive jewelry, electronic equipment, and artwork.”

  “Hu’s computer support team scopes out the apartments and their owners’ routines,” Rich surmised. “They take note of where all the valuables are, and where the lady of the house keeps her jewelry. They probably take pictures with their cell phones. That way, Xiao Long’s guys know just where to go to get as much as they can, as fast as they can.”

  “Right.” Tony tapped his pen against his leg. “We’ve been onto this part of Xiao Long’s business for almost six months—since he started it. He’s coming up in the world. He used to deal in just gambling, drugs, and prostitutes. Now he’s graduated to fencing top-dollar goods.”

  “And finding willing buyers for the artwork,” Rich noted. “Keeping that under the radar is easy, unless any of the pieces are collectors’ items or famous masterpieces. Which, judging from the partial list you rattled by me, they’re primarily not.” A glance at Derek. “You said eight of the nine burglaries fit the profile. The ninth, I assume, is Matthew Burbank’s apartment.”

  Derek gave a tight nod. “Burbank’s not rich. He is an art dealer, so it stands to reason that he has a few decent pieces in his place. But Eric Hu never set foot in that apartment, and his company never serviced Burbank’s computers. So how would they know?”

  “Let’s play devil’s advocate. Let’s say they read or overheard something that made them think Burbank had more than he did, and that they tipped off Xiao Long, who had his gang break in and rob the place.”

  “Fine. So they saw the Monet and ripped it off. Makes sense. Monet’s famous, even though you said it wasn’t one of his well-known works. But they’re not connoisseurs. So they grabbed it, along with a bunch of other pieces that had more sentimental than actual value. In addition to that…” For the tenth time, Derek studied the list of stolen items the cops provided. “We’re talking standard household stuff—a flat-screen TV, a couple laptops, a set of silverware, a pair of diamond studs, and a gold necklace. Nothing close to the haul they got from the other thefts. And what bugs me most is that the rest of what they took smacks of camouflage—a DVD player they could get for seventy-five bucks at Best Buy, a hundred-dollar men’s watch they could buy on the Internet for less, and a whole slew of knickknacks. They spent more time trashing the place than robbing it.”

  “You think they were looking for something else.”

  “Yeah. And I think they were disguising that search as a burglary. Why else would our wiretap catch Xiao Long getting word about finalizing a deal with an old art dealer on East Eighty-second?”

  “Could be payback for anything,” Rich suggested.

  “Right,” Derek returned drily. “And it could be coincidence that the very next morning you had an appointment to interview Burbank about a dirty art deal.”

  “Which we have no reason to believe he was involved in.” Rich pursed his lips. “Look, Derek, I understand how frustrated you are. But I haven’t found the connection you’re looking for. The painting Burbank sold was genuine. As for a link between Burbank and Xiao Long, when I slipped in Xiao Long’s name during the Hong Kong portion of our interview, there wasn’t a flicker of recognition. Burbank’s a lousy actor, and I’m a great reader of body language. I’d know if he was hiding something.”

  “Unless he doesn’t know what he’s hiding.”

  Rich shrugged. “We can speculate all day. All I can say is that, if Burbank’s sale of Dead or Alive to Cai Wen, or if Cai Wen’s murder itself, is in any way tied to your investigation of Xiao Long, I can’t see it. Then again, a killer and a thief isn’t about to leave a sales receipt. So the gaping hole in our provenance certainly leaves room for a variety of possibilities.”

  “All the more reason to keep digging into Burbank’s art investment group and the timing of their sale. Please, Rich. I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  “Fine,” Rich agreed, eyeing Derek quizzically as he spoke. “I’ll review each of their interviews. But, just to clarify, are you leaning toward Burbank being a pawn or a criminal? I’m getting mixed signals.”

  “That’s because Derek’s giving them off.” Tony leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on his desk. “Rich, would you excuse us for a minute?”

  “Not a problem. Actually, I’ve got to run anyway.” Rich got to his feet. “I’m waiting for a call from Interpol.”

  “That museum heist in Munich earlier today?” Tony asked.

  “Yup. Bloody and profitable. Five dead guards. And a haul including a Van Gogh worth about forty million.”

  Tony whistled. “You’ve got your hands full.”

  “Always.” Rich headed for the door. “I’ll let you know if I find anything in those interviews.”

  “Thanks,” Derek replied.

  He waited until he and Tony were alone. Then, he got right into it. “You want to discuss my objectivity where it comes to this case.”

  “Do you blame me?”

  “Not a bit. And you’re right. I’ve got a personal stake in this. But my loyalty is to Sloane, not her father. Which is all the more reason I want to get at the truth—whatever it is. Sloane believes her father’s innocent of whatever wrongdoing he presented to her, be it real or fabricated. She also believes he’s in danger. She’s hired security to watch both her parents. I checked that out. And if Burbank’s lying, if he is involved with the Red Dragons, then it’s not just him and his wife who are in danger. It’s Sloane, too. So I might not be objective, but I’ve got a hell of an incentive. Which makes me the best lead agent on this case.”

  Tony contemplated Derek’s argument, then nodded. “If I didn’t know Sloane so well professionally, I’d say your argument’s thin. I’d say she’s an attorney acting in the best interests of her client, and that that client happens to be her father—which gives her twice the motivation to protect him from prosecution if he committed murder. But I do know Sloane. I mentored her during her hostage negotiation training in Quantico. I know how ethical she is. And, coming from me, that’s objective. I’m not the one who’s in love with her. So, fine, you’re the lead agent on the case. Now solve it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The one thing Derek hadn’t approached Tony with was how much of the FBI’s need-to-know policy still applied to Sloane. She wasn’t currently a Bureau employee, but she had been and she would be again. She also consulted for them on a case-by-case basis, and had retained all her old contacts.

  Talk about a gray area.

  Derek leaned back against the cushion of the living room sofa in Sloane’s cottage, and contemplated that delicate matter, rolling his goblet of merlot between his palms.

  Being here alone felt more comfortable than he’d expected. Not that he was really alone, he noted with a grin, glancing down at the three hounds who were sprawled around him, snoozing. He’d picked them up, along with the last of his bags, around six and driven straight to the cottage. Sloane was finishing up with a midtown client, dropping by her parents’ apartment, and then heading home.

  That had given Derek time to grab a snack, run the hounds, and do a little unpacking. Now he was relaxing with a glass of wine and a couple of takeout menus. Even though he was still mulling over the day’s events, he coul
d do so in a quieter, less frenetic manner while deciding between Chinese and Thai food. Sloane loved both.

  Half and half, he decided. An eclectic Asian meal for their first night officially living together.

  Asian. How ironic.

  The telephone rang, and Derek reached over to get it. “Hello?”

  There was a long, awkward pause at the other end of the receiver before a man’s guarded voice replied, “Hello. This must be Derek.”

  “It is. And you are…?”

  “Leo Fox.” The guardedness remained as he identified himself, and Derek knew just why. He was well aware of who Leo Fox was.

  “Yes, Mr. Fox, what can I do for you?” Derek had no intention of tipping his hand.

  “I don’t know if Sloane’s mentioned me,” Leo continued tentatively. “I’m a friend of her father’s. I’m also an interior designer.”

  “Oh, sure, of course. You’re the magician who’s going to transform this cottage so it doesn’t scream out only feminine and canine.”

  Leo chuckled, his relief so acute that Derek almost pitied him. “So Sloane did tell you about my offer. I was afraid she’d think I’d just made it out of obligation, given how far back her father and I go. I wanted her to know it wasn’t lip service. I really do want to help you two settle in as a couple.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, and gratefully accept. Sloane’s got great taste, but this place is designed for her, not us.”

  “Of course. You need to feel comfortable, make it so you can call the cottage home.” A pause. “I remember the layout of the house, but I haven’t been there in years. Nor have I seen the decor since Sloane moved in. I’d like to set up an appointment to drive out there when both you and Sloane are home. I can look the place over and also talk to you, get to know who you are, so I can give the right flavor to my design, and the right blend of your tastes and Sloane’s.”

  Derek felt his lips quirk. “Makes sense. The only problem is Sloane’s not home yet. But I expect her soon. Can she give you a call tomorrow? That’ll give us a chance to coordinate our schedules before she sets up an appointment with you to visit the cottage and work your magic.”

  “Of course.” At this point, Leo sounded almost relaxed. “I’ll be in my office all day tomorrow. I’m really looking forward to this project.”

  “So am I.” As he spoke, Derek heard the faint crunching sound of tires on gravel from outside. Sloane must be home. “Thank you again, Mr. Fox.”

  “Please—Leo.”

  “Leo,” Derek amended. “I’ll talk to Sloane tonight.”

  “Excellent. You have a nice evening.”

  “Same to you.” Derek hung up the phone just as the hounds heard Sloane’s key in the door and sprang to life, jumping off the sofa and scrambling toward the front hall.

  Derek rose as well, setting down his glass of wine and watching as Sloane came in, dropped her briefcase and coat, and squatted down to greet the three elated dachshunds.

  No matter what else was going on—even if his workday had been a nightmare, if he was dead on his feet, or if he was under massive pressure; even when the two of them weren’t on speaking terms, when she frustrated the hell out of him, or when they were so at odds he wanted to punch a hole in the wall—she always had the same effect on him. One look at her and he wanted her.

  “Hi, my little jumping beans,” she was saying to the hounds now, affectionately scratching their ears. “What a wonderful welcome.”

  “I can provide an equally wonderful welcome,” Derek offered, his tone half teasing, half seductive. As he spoke, he made his way over to her. “I’m just afraid of getting mowed down if I try to beat these three to the door.”

  Sloane rose, her eyes glinting and a warm flush starting to tinge her cheeks. The fire between them was mutual. And she was just as attuned to him as he was to her. “Be daring. From you, I’m up for a different type of welcome home.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Derek wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against him. “And I like the sound of the word ‘home.’ It feels right.”

  “You feel right, too.” Sloane slid her hands under his sweater, hiking it up as she did.

  Derek yanked it off and tossed it aside, then helped Sloane unbutton her blouse, which he dragged off with her blazer.

  “Which room should we initiate first?” he asked, unhooking her bra and letting it drop to the floor.

  “That’s a tough one.” She wriggled out of her slacks, kicked them aside, and stood there in only a thong. “I think we’ve already initiated them all—several times over.”

  “Then how about right here?” He lifted her onto the hall table, shedding the rest of his clothes, and stripping off her thong in a few hot, fast motions. He moved between her legs, pushing her thighs apart, and wedging himself between them.

  “Here is good.” Sloane’s voice was breathless, and her eyes held that familiar, smoky hunger that drove him crazy. She leaned forward and reached for him. “In fact, here is great.” Her words ended in an aroused whimper, as Derek reached under her, gripping her bottom and lifting her against him.

  “No foreplay?” she managed, wrapping her arms around his neck and rubbing her body against his.

  “Not this time.” He angled her, his erection nudging her, pushing slightly inside to see how ready she was.

  She was more than ready for him.

  He thrust all the way in and then some, simultaneously taking her mouth in an all-consuming kiss. His tongue mimicked the motions of his hips, plunging, stroking, retreating, again and again, and she held on, meeting him kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke.

  It was over before either of them could think of prolonging it. Sloane came in hard, racking spasms. Derek spurted into her, each clench of her body milking his, drawing out his orgasm as he instinctively timed it to match hers.

  An exquisite peak, and an equally exquisite plummet.

  With a soft moan, Sloane went limp, her head dropping forward until her forehead was resting against Derek’s chest.

  “Wow,” she said in broken pants. “Quite an initiation.”

  “Just a prelude.” Derek’s ability to speak wasn’t much better.

  “Your heart’s racing.”

  “Your legs are quivering” was his hoarse reply.

  She nodded against his damp skin. “I don’t think I can walk. Or stand.”

  “Then don’t.” He lifted her, his body still lodged inside hers, and carried her toward the living room. “We’ve got a lot more initiating to do.”

  It was hours later when they lay draped across each other in Sloane’s bed, replete with that utter, bone-melting peace that was the result of one of their marathon lovemaking sessions.

  “Did I miss any rooms?” Derek muttered into her hair.

  Sloane’s lips curved. “Definitely not. You were very thorough. We covered every room in the house—even the laundry room. Making love on a washer and dryer—that’s one I never thought of.”

  “You loved it. You came twice.”

  “No arguments. I’ll just never be able to think of it as a laundry room again. Guess you’ll be doing the wash from now on.”

  “Touché.” Derek chuckled.

  “I’m starved,” Sloane announced.

  “Me, too. I was about to order a combo dinner—Thai and Chinese—when you walked in. Once that happened, all I wanted was this.”

  “I don’t blame you. It was my first choice as well.”

  “But now that I’ve worn you out, you’d like some sustenance.”

  “Exactly.” Sloane eyed him with a wry expression. “And wipe that smug grin off your face. I gave as good as I got. You look like a train wreck.”

  “True.” Derek wasn’t the least bit put off. “I feel like I was hit by an eighteen-wheeler, even though it came in a very small and sexy package. As for the Thai and Chinese, I could eat everything on both menus.”

  Sloane sat up, squinting at the clock. “Well, we’d better hurry. We’ll get i
n just under the wire. The restaurants here close by nine. Ten if you’re lucky.” She gave Derek a playful poke as she reached for the phone. “Get used to the country, city boy. This isn’t Manhattan. No twenty-four/seven food.”

  “It’s worth the sacrifice. The perks are good.”

  Forty minutes later, Derek returned with their food. They ate in bed, right out of the cartons. The hounds, having been fed and taken out, were clustered around them, nibbling on their own treats.

  “If we make a ritual out of this initiation process, I’ll never have the strength to work,” Sloane commented between bites.

  “Right.” Derek was shoveling in mouthfuls of General Tsao’s chicken, having long since abandoned his slower and more cumbersome chopsticks in favor of a fork. “Like anything could keep you from working.”

  Sloane considered that, and nodded. “Good point. Although I kind of like being a part-time sex goddess. But, the rest of the time—watching soaps and reading Home and Garden wouldn’t do it for me.”

  The unlikely description was amusing. But it also made Derek remember a subject he was eager to broach.

  “Speaking of Home and Garden, Leo Fox called just before you got home. He asked if you’d call him back tomorrow. He wants to set up an appointment to come over and check out the cottage—and me.” Derek’s lips quirked again at the memory. “I think he’s trying to get a handle on my aura so he can do justice to our new, unified decor.”

  “That’s Leo,” Sloane acknowledged with a twinkle in her eye. “An artist through and through. But he is incredibly talented. You’ll like what he comes up with.” A pause as she tapped her fork against her lips. “Let’s see. He’ll probably start with a sign on the front door saying ‘Rangers Lead the Way.’ Then he’ll add a vintage G.I. Joe collection on the coffee table. Oh, and let’s not forget a wall-to-wall ruler on the floor of your half of the bedroom closet, to make sure your shoes are lined up just so and with equal space between pairs.”

  “Yeah, but how is he going to incorporate that with a bathroom overflowing with hair-care products, file cabinets that are about to explode at the seams, and a lifetime’s collection of bows and arrows that would put Robin Hood to shame and that takes up half the guest room?” Derek countered.