by Andrea Kane
Wallace would have approached her, but she approached him first.
“Excuse me,” she said in English. “But I understand you’re an American art collector. I have a valuable painting here I’d be interested in selling. It’s a Rothberg.” She held out the painting, which Wallace recognized as one of Rothberg’s earlier works. It wasn’t worth a fortune now—but it could be in the future.
That is, if it was genuine.
Wallace doubted that was the case. This had to be a con. Had Wallace not seen the desperation in the young woman’s eyes, he would have walked away. But he did. So he’d suggested she wait in the lobby while he went up and spoke to his partners to see if they were interested.
Of course they were interested, even though they, too, were certain this was a hoax.
It turned out not to be. Matthew had the painting authenticated, and it was indeed a genuine Rothberg.
The group had argued. Wallace didn’t agree with the strategy they came up with. It might be legal, but it was damned unethical. They were going to lowball the young woman. They saw a chance to make a killing on someone who had no idea of the painting’s worth but was clearly hungry for cash.
Wallace was outnumbered, and the offer was made.
Meili knew they were offering her tens of thousands of dollars less than the value of the painting. She’d told them so in no uncertain terms. And Matthew and Ben had told her to go home and think about it.
She’d called the next day to say she’d gotten a better offer. And that was that.
Except that Wallace couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He’d called her the next day at the phone number she’d given them. And after hearing his apology over the group’s behavior, she’d grudgingly accepted his dinner invitation.
If there was such a thing as instant, head-over-heels love, this had been it. There’d been an instant chemistry between them, and a gravitation to fill the very different, yet equally real, emotional holes in each of their lives.
They’d spent a good part of Wallace’s trip together, as well as his next trip, and the next, and the next. He had taken things very slowly. Meili was young. He knew very little about her, nor she about him. They purposely kept it that way, right down to not exchanging last names. It made the whole relationship more magical, more isolated from the rest of the world.
None of it mattered anyway. All that mattered was the solace and the joy they brought each other.
She had told him merely that she was an only child, a budding artist, and that she’d left home to build her career. Other than two paintings she’d hocked for cash—including the one that had resulted in their meeting, she was living hand to mouth, working fervently on her painting. In return, he’d told her that he was an investment banker who had frequent business dealings in Hong Kong.
And he’d told her one other thing, right up front. He’d told her that he was married. He couldn’t live with himself if he hadn’t. She’d accepted it. She knew he was hers only when he was here. She didn’t care. She just wanted him. And, God help him, he wanted her.
Right or wrong, they’d gotten involved. Wallace had told her their meeting was pure fate. Meili had teasingly informed him that it had been pure manipulation—genius on her part. Desperate to sell the Rothberg, she’d spent long hours scrutinizing Hong Kong’s upscale art galleries. She’d seen Wallace visit three or four of them on several occasions. Recognizing that he was an affluent art collector, she’d bribed his driver to tell her what hotel Wallace was staying at.
She’d arrived ahead of him, and waited in the lobby with her painting and high hopes.
Wallace had chuckled at her creative ingenuity. So that was how she knew who and where he was. But it had still brought her into his life. And he’d treasured every moment they shared.
That was a million years ago.
Yet, with the exception of Sophie, for whom he felt a paternal love that was in a class by itself, Meili was the last person who’d made him feel alive, vital, and needed. Their affair had lasted three years, and it had ended because he was a stupid, insensitive fool. Countless times he’d thought of going back and trying to undo what he’d done. But what was the point? Even if he ended his marriage, he had a beloved daughter who needed him. And Meili refused to leave Hong Kong. Ultimately, there could be no future for them. It was up to Wallace to let her move on, make a life for herself, and find a man who could truly commit to her.
For so long, he had missed her. Whatever fragments of a marriage he and Beatrice still had had shattered when Sophie died, and their divorce was finalized six months later. If he hadn’t been a totally broken man who had nothing left inside him to give, he might have flown back to China to see if he could find Meili and make things right.
But he was an empty shell, capable of nothing except burying himself in the memories of his precious daughter. So his thoughts of Meili faded into the past.
Studying Cindy now, Wallace was still amazed by the remarkable resemblance she bore to Meili, both in appearance and in mannerisms. Had Meili not been an only child, the two of them could be sisters. True, the similarities were purely physical. Their personalities, ambitions, and sophistication were day and night. Still, there was something in Cindy’s eyes, in her gestures, in the way her face lit up when she was excited, that was a stirring reminder of Meili.
Interestingly, the differences Cindy encompassed were as compelling as the similarities. Her poise, her sophistication, and her professional drive—they created an equality for him that had never been there with Meili. Plus, now he was divorced, with no marriage to save.
“Mr. Johnson?” Peggy’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you all right?”
Wallace regained his composure as quickly as possible. “Yes, of course. I was just thinking how proud of Cindy her uncle will be.”
“I agree.” Peggy nodded. “He expects great things of her. And with your help, I know she won’t disappoint him.”
“I doubt Cindy could disappoint anyone.” Even as Wallace spoke, he felt a twinge of something he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
It might be the nostalgia. It might be the extraordinary likeness to Meili.
On the other hand, it might be something more.
Ben sat on the bar stool, shoulders slumped, tie and dress shirt damp and disheveled. Outside, horns honked, taxis whizzed by, and cars crammed the intersections trying to navigate their way through Manhattan. It was hard to believe that rush hour had ended hours ago.
Some things stayed the same. Some things changed.
It had been a half hour, and Ben was already craving his next drink. Four years of sobriety shot to hell. This whole fiasco had pushed him over the edge and off the wagon.
The situation sucked. And he was a prisoner to it.
Even the booze wasn’t enough. He was drowning. And he no longer gave a damn.
If it weren’t for his children and grandchildren, he’d just let the riptide take him under. He’d sink into oblivion, let go of life, of guilt, of debt. It would put an end to the agony.
“What can I get you?” The bartender walked over, drying a glass and giving Ben a questioning look.
“Scotch. Straight. Make it a double.”
“Tough day?” the bartender asked.
The truth in the question almost made Ben laugh. “Yeah.”
“One double scotch, coming up.” The bartender turned away to do his job. At least the guy caught on. Ben didn’t want to talk about his problems. He wanted to drown them in liquor.
Behind him, the front door swung open. Ben didn’t need to turn around. He recognized the heavy tread all too well.
“Martino.” Jin Huang loomed beside him, not even bothering to sit. “Have money?”
With a nod, Ben half swiveled on the stool and handed over the envelope. “Here.”
Jin counted the bills, after which his brick-wall body stiffened. “Two thousand short.”
“I know. Tell Xiao he’ll have it as
soon as I do.”
A strong hand clamped down on Ben’s arm. “Not good enough.”
“Neither is business,” Ben replied tonelessly. “The whole garment center is going down the toilet, in case you haven’t noticed.” His glance flickered to Jin Huang’s grip on his arm. “If you plan to kill me, you’d be doing me a favor.”
“That’s why killing is later. Telling secret is now.”
Ben squeezed his eyes shut, more sickened by the latter than the former. But then, Jin Huang knew that. Xiao Long had made sure of it. “Don’t. Please. Give me a little more time. I’ll get the money.”
Jin’s black eyes scrutinized him, flat and emotionless. “A week. No more.”
“Fine. A week.”
“And not two thousand. Twenty-five hundred. You pay interest. Plus next week’s money—all of it.”
Ben nodded, utter desolation pervading him. “I know the drill. I’ll meet you here with everything I owe Xiao.”
“You better.”
By the time the bartender put the double scotch on the counter in front of Ben, Jin Huang was gone.
Ben polished off his drink in a few gulps and slammed the glass down on the counter. “Give me another. And keep them coming.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sloane’s arrow whizzed through the air and struck the bull’s-eye about a half inch from dead center.
Not good enough. Just like everything else that was going on.
Lowering her bow to the grass, Sloane did a few stretches, trying to ease the tension in her body. The late day run hadn’t done it. The hour of archery practice hadn’t done it. Nothing was going to do it.
She wiped a towel across her face, drying off the perspiration. Then, she guzzled down half a bottle of water. The sun was about to dip behind the horizon, totally eclipsing any daylight. It was time to go inside, take a shower, and review her notes.
Gathering up her archery gear, she headed back, glancing at her watch as she did.
Six-fifteen p.m.
This day had been endless. Everything was hanging in a menacing state of limbo. Fred Miller’s body still hadn’t been recovered, despite the FBI and the NYPD’s valiant efforts to find him. Ticking inside Sloane’s head like a time bomb was the fear that Xiao Long would make another attempt on one of her parents’ lives—and succeed, FBI presence or not. And the rest of her father’s partners? She didn’t know whether to worry for them or about them.
The unnerving prospect that one of her father’s oldest and closest friends had provided Xiao Long with entry to the Burbanks’ apartment—it actually made Sloane sick to her stomach. She’d felt guilt-ridden that the thought had even crossed her mind when her mother was reenacting the break-in with her. But when Derek had voiced the possibility last night—that had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Rather than expanding on the conversation they’d started in the Field Office earlier that day, they’d spent the entire night hashing out the likelihood that one of the art partners had aided and abetted a criminal.
Sloane hadn’t slept a wink after that. And if she had to be honest with herself, it wasn’t because of the heated case Derek made. It was because of her own niggling worry that he might be right.
She’d made a valiant attempt to prove otherwise, rattling off every possible name she could think of, from neighbors Xiao might have duped, to building employees he might have paid off, to everyone affiliated with the construction and sales of the individual apartments, to employees working in the coop office. The list was endless.
But Derek wasn’t buying. The bottom line was that whoever had helped the Dragon kids break into the Burbanks’ apartment didn’t just unlock the door or merely know the layout of the apartment, including which room was Matthew’s office.
They knew precisely where the Rothberg file was.
In a sea of unlabeled file cabinets, they knew just where to go and how to get what they needed, fast, trashing the place afterward as a cover-up.
And that meant someone who was familiar with Matthew’s filing system, or someone who at least knew where he kept all the paperwork relating to Dead or Alive.
At the top of that list of suspects were the four most logical choices: Ben Martino, Wallace Johnson, Leo Fox, and Phil Leary.
Sloane had actually winced when Derek said their names aloud, although she’d known it was coming. She’d argued vehemently, emphasizing her father’s long-term friendship, partnership, and trust with these men. To that, she added the ammo that if Matthew had been connected in any way, either to the art crime or to Xiao Long’s operation, all four of his partners’ butts would be on the line as well. So implicating Matthew in anything illegal would mean their own downfall.
But even as Sloane argued her case, she knew she was fighting with herself, not Derek. The fundamental basis for her reasoning was totally subjective. Friends turned on friends every day. And her argument was flimsy. If one of Matthew’s partners had cooperated in a scheme like this, he would have done so only under coercion—out of fear of retaliation from a man they knew to be a killer. And that was enough motivation for anyone, close friend or not.
The truth was Ben, Leo, Phil, and Wallace were the most likely suspects to have aided Xiao Long with the break-in. In the guilty party’s mind, it would just have involved providing Xiao with the necessary information. No one was supposed to get hurt. And no one could have anticipated that Rosalyn would interrupt the Dragon kids and wind up in the hospital.
Sloane had wrestled with this all night, wishing the pieces didn’t fit.
She tried not to remember how nervous the four men had been on the night of the poker game. She tried to forget how reluctant Phil had been to leave her alone with her father at the end of the evening. She tried to forget how overly generous Leo had been about redecorating her cottage, and how hard he’d pressed her to get started. She tried to forget the untouched bottles of O’Doul’s on the table, and how Ben had practically been vibrating with tension, talking a mile a minute. She tried to forget how sore Wallace had seemed when he stood up, how stiffly he’d moved, and how, with no signs of chills, he’d worn a heavy, perspiration-drenched turtleneck sweater on a warm autumn night—none of which added up to the onset of the flu.
She’d tried.
And she’d failed.
Derek had left for the office earlier than usual this morning. Sloane didn’t ask why. She didn’t need to. He wanted to get started running background checks on her father’s friends. She could have asked to take part in the investigation. Derek would have welcomed it, since Sloane could provide personal info on each of the men that wouldn’t be listed in anything official that Derek could scrounge up. At some point, she might have to volunteer her services for that. But not yet. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it—not until she’d explored her less likely but infinitely more tenable theories.
She’d explored little and accomplished nothing.
Her parents hadn’t been available to talk to. They, and their FBI bodyguards, had been out for the day. Her mother, once again undeterred by her broken arm, was at a digital publishing seminar, and her father was meeting with the owner of an art gallery to hammer out the final details of a purchase. Not only did Sloane need the two of them to help compile her list of everyone who had access to their apartment but she also had to get their okay to interrogate all those on the list.
They weren’t going to like this.
But they’d like the avenue Derek was pursuing even less—if she told them about it. For now, she had no intentions of doing that. It would only cause a lot of emotional pain, hopefully for no good reason.
Meanwhile, even after she got her parents’ permission, Sloane would have to tread very carefully when digging around their neighbors and apartment staff. These folks had all been interviewed by the NYPD right after the robbery and asked if they’d seen any suspicious-looking strangers hanging around the Burbanks’ apartment.
Sloane’s questions wouldn’t be so benign. No
matter how subtly she phrased them, the implication would be that she suspected one of the interviewees of being a potential accomplice to the burglary. And the reception to that would be a far cry from the one given to the police, when they were being approached as good Samaritans.
Given her parents’ unavailability, Sloane had spent the day making phone calls, finding and speaking with the architect who’d designed the building and the builder who’d constructed it, along with the real estate agent who’d sold the individual apartments. She’d also called the Manhattan Office of Land Records to determine which real estate documents, floor plans, and so on were public and which were not.
In short, she’d blown an entire day and learned nothing in the process.
Derek hadn’t called.
That could mean he was swamped with work. It could mean he had nothing to report.
Or it could mean he wanted to deliver whatever unwelcome news he’d dug up in person, so he could be there to soften the blow.
Sloane wasn’t sure she wanted to know which of those options was correct.
WESTHAMPTON
LONG ISLAND, NEW YORK
During the summer months, the Hamptons were hopping.
Specialty boutiques and cafés were filled with patrons. Yachts sailed the waters, polo matches and wine-tasting events were daily occurrences, and the beaches were jammed with sunbathers. At night, the clubs stayed open until the wee hours, and the wealthy and elite populated their summer cottages, which were, in fact, multimillion-dollar vacation homes.
When autumn arrived, everything changed.
The summer residents and vacationers returned to their regular lives and homes, and the Hamptons became less populated and more low-key. The trendy Westhampton shops, one of the summer’s major draws, became the destinations of year-round residents, many of whom were affluent enough to keep the shop owners well compensated, off-season or not.
