Drawn in Blood

by Andrea Kane

  A minority interest in an Italian leather goods manufacturer? For a fleeting instant, Cindy wondered if her A Sook knew about Wallace’s gift to her, and its source. If so, he was probably amused.

  “I’ll bring it with me on the first day of my new project,” she declared. “Once my clients see it, they’ll have to hire me. They’ll assume that anyone who can afford something this exclusive and pricey must be earning a fortune—which could only mean that her work is superb.”

  “And they’d be right to be impressed. But not about your wealth. About your talent and you. You’re a very special woman, Cindy.”

  This was going even better than she’d hoped.

  She leaned forward. “I’m glad you’ll be escorting me to all those cocktail parties. Frankly, I find this sudden notoriety a little overwhelming.”

  “You shouldn’t. But not to worry. We’ll tackle the parties together.”

  “You’re very kind.” Cindy paused, as if weighing her words. This next part of the conversation was crucial. She had to handle it just right, or things could fall apart very quickly and very prematurely.

  “I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” she said, “but I feel as if we’re far more than casual friends. So I’m going to risk overstepping my bounds. My A Sook told me about your daughter’s tragic death. I’m so terribly sorry. A loss like that…I can’t even imagine how devastating it must be. I want you to know my heart goes out to you.”

  The expression that crossed Wallace’s face was so tragic that Cindy almost felt guilty for bringing up the subject.

  “If I’m violating your privacy…” she heard herself say.

  “No.” Wallace shook his head. “You’re not violating anything, nor are you being intrusive.” A veil of tears moistened his eyes. “Losing Sophie was crippling. It still is. Talking about it is something I seldom do, but not because it makes the pain any worse. Mostly because there are no words to say, and no one I care to say them to.” He met her gaze. “I’ve been dead inside for a very long time. I know I’ll never fully recover. Part of me died with Sophie, and that part is gone forever. But the rest…” He drew in a breath. “Truthfully, I thought all of me might be dead. That’s why meeting you has been such a breath of fresh air. For the first time in ages, I feel a tad of hope, a possibility that someday I might have the impetus to get out of bed in the morning.”

  “I’m glad.” Cindy’s conscience couldn’t take any more. Neither could her stomach. She understood all the reasons why she was doing what she was doing. But theory and reality weren’t the same.

  She was tough. But apparently not as tough as she thought. She couldn’t pursue this subject. If she wanted to accomplish what her A Sook wanted her to, she’d have to accomplish it without discussion of Sophie. A five-year-old girl being killed by a hit-and-run driver was not something she could rub in Wallace’s face, whether or not his anguish satisfied her A Sook’s sense of equity.

  “I hope I’m not scaring you off,” Wallace said in a rueful tone, clearly interpreting her silence as a sign that he was pushing too hard too soon. “I have no expectations. I try to take life a day at a time; it’s the only way I’ve survived. But if I’m overwhelming you, please let me know. You’re young, you’re vibrant, you’re beautiful, and you’re talented. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, and the whole world at your feet. You deserve to share that life with a circle of people, particularly a man, who can offer you that same anticipation and exuberance. I have no delusions that I’d ever be able to rally enough to be that man. But, selfishly, I enjoy your company, and I find your energy infectious. So if you’re willing, I’m very happy to just enjoy this time together, and take things as they come.”

  “That works perfectly for me,” Cindy replied, feeling on more comfortable ground. “My own life is so up in the air, and everything is happening so quickly, that I’m not in any position to plan long-term relationships. I enjoy your company as well—and I think you underestimate your assets. You’re self-assured, you have an aura of success, and you’re distinguished and handsome. Those qualities hold equally as much impact as youth and enthusiasm. So I agree, let’s just let things unfold as they’re meant to.” An impish grin. “I realize that being spontaneous is contrary to both our natures. We’re planners. We like being in control. From what I hear, playing the role of a free spirit has its merits.”

  Cindy’s last comment had the desired effect, and an odd expression flickered across Wallace’s face. “Sometimes you remind me so much of that woman I mentioned to you. And I assure you, that’s a high compliment. She was unique, beautiful, and a free spirit, as you mentioned. Only in her case, it came naturally.”

  “Was this woman significant in your life?”

  “For a long time, yes. But we were very different. We eventually went our separate ways. It was best that way.”

  Best for whom? Cindy asked herself, picturing Meili as the joyful girl she remembered, and reminding herself that this man was the reason she’d taken her own life.

  That reminder was enough to strengthen her resolve. That, and the fact that avenging Meili’s death was one of her beloved A Sook’s dying wishes.

  Cindy would continue her charade to its rightful conclusion.

  That night was a sleepless one for Derek.

  He’d let Leo walk out without a confrontation. What good would accusing the man have done? At this stage, it made more sense to let things slide than to open Pandora’s box. Derek would do that when he had the evidence to back up his suspicions that some or all of Matthew’s art-partnership members were involved in something shady.

  But tonight, he’d pretended to accept Leo’s stammered explanation about looking for a missing sketch when he upset Sloane’s file.

  Both men knew Derek wasn’t buying it for a minute.

  But neither of them pursued it. Instead, Leo had gathered up his decorating books and swatches, brightly announced that he’d be in touch soon, and blown out of there.

  What in the hell had he been searching for?

  Any way you sliced it, rummaging through Sloane’s file smacked of the kind of desperation innocent men don’t possess.

  Which only added to Derek’s guilt about not sharing his suspicions with Sloane. But how could he? He was in no stronger of a position than he’d been in before. What could he add—that he’d come home to find Leo cleaning up papers from a file he claimed to have knocked over? Describing Leo’s flustered reaction wouldn’t help. Sloane would only remind Derek how intimidating Leo perceived him to be, and how very badly he wanted to impress Derek and create the perfect love nest for them.

  No. Derek couldn’t say anything to Sloane. Not yet. But tonight’s little escapade made him even more certain that something was going on with these guys, something they wanted to keep hidden.

  He wasn’t giving up until he figured out what it was.

  At a little after nine in the morning, Sloane and Jeff arrived at the battered women’s shelter in Chinatown.

  As planned, Sloane let Jeff take the lead as they walked through the front door and sought out the woman who was in charge. Jeff showed her his Bureau ID, informing her in Mandarin that they were with the FBI and needed to see a resident named Lucy. The woman started, and closely examined his ID. Then she introduced herself as Mrs. Chin, and asked if he knew Lucy’s last name. Fully prepared for that question, Jeff told her he didn’t, but he rattled off a full description of the Lucy in question. Still, Mrs. Chin was very leery and very protective. She asked several more questions of Jeff, all of which Sloane understood, none of which she responded to. When Mrs. Chin sent curious glances her way, Sloane bowed her head and kept her mouth shut, showing overt respect and awareness that she was the outsider, and that it was not her place to intrude on this community, not without permission.

  Jeff assured Mrs. Chin that their interest in Lucy was strictly to get information that would help others in trouble. They had no intentions of revealing her identity or her whereabouts to an
yone, most significantly to the husband whose abuse had resulted in her being there. Last, he urged Sloane forward and told the administrator that his partner was fluent in Mandarin, had traveled extensively in China, and that, Caucasian or not, she’d been selected to accompany him here out of consideration for Lucy, to alleviate any fears she might have by speaking to her woman-to-woman.

  His final statement caused a definite thawing in Mrs. Chin’s attitude. “I’m not sure Lucy will talk to you,” she said to Sloane in Mandarin. “She’s been badly traumatized, and speaks to only a chosen few.”

  Sloane nodded. “I understand,” she replied, also in Mandarin. “But I’d like to try. I’m not unfamiliar with situations where men have taken advantage of their strength and brutalized women.”

  “Very well.” Sloane’s candor and empathy caused the woman to agree. “Come with me.”

  She led them down a hall to what appeared to be a pleasant, if worn, living room, where a handful of Asian women were gathered. Some were sitting quietly; some were talking among themselves. A number of them were visibly bruised. Others had haunted expressions in their eyes that spoke volumes.

  Sloane’s heart went out to them.

  “Lucy?” Mrs. Chin had walked over to a corner of the room, where a disheveled Asian woman was crouched on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, trembling as if she were ice cold from the inside out.

  Mrs. Chin leaned forward, touching her arm gently and speaking in a soft, soothing voice. “There’s a woman here who’d like to talk to you.”

  Lucy’s head snapped up and her gaze found Sloane. “Why? And who’s the man with her? Did my husband send them?” She cringed against the wall. “I won’t go back.”

  “Lucy, you don’t have to go back.” Sloane stepped forward, speaking Mandarin in a comforting tone. She squatted down beside the shivering woman, but made no move to touch her. “I’m a friend. I work for the FBI. I’m just trying to find another friend of yours—one who might be in trouble. Your husband has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t know where you are, or that I’m talking to you. You’re safe.”

  “Safe?” Lucy looked up at her, white-faced, which only served to emphasize the yellowing bruises on her cheeks and throat. “I’ll never be safe. Not as long as he might find me. You’re American,” she blurted out, as that fact registered.

  “Yes, I am. And I’ve helped other women who’ve been hurt by men. Women of all different cultures and nationalities. I’ve never betrayed any of them. And I never will. So, yes, you’re safe.”

  “How do I know? Just because you say so?”

  “Because you’re in a warm and caring place. Because Mrs. Chin won’t let anyone through that door she doesn’t trust. And because I’m going to give Mrs. Chin my business card, so that if she ever feels you’re in danger, she can call me. I’ll make sure that that danger is taken care of so you can continue to feel safe. Does that sound fair?”

  Lucy was quiet for a moment. “What do I have to do in return?”

  “Just think about the fact that, by talking to me, you can help keep other people safe.” Sloane rose. “My partner and I will leave you now, and let you consider what I’ve said.” She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a business card. “This has my personal contact information on it. Mrs. Chin will have it, so you can call if you ever feel threatened.” As she spoke, Sloane handed the card to Mrs. Chin. “We’ll come back tomorrow. I hope you’ll decide to talk to us.”

  With that, Sloane gestured to Jeff that they should leave. “Thank you, Mrs. Chin,” she murmured. “We’ll be back in the morning.”

  “That was pretty impressive,” Jeff commented as they stepped outside.

  “What? My Mandarin or my technique?”

  “Both.” He grinned. “But I was talking about your technique—right down to your timing. Knowing how far to push, when to call it quits, and when to give her space by saying we’ll come back tomorrow. The way you handled that woman was amazing. She was in bad shape. I never thought she’d say a word to us. You’re a natural.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not just innate ability. It’s training. I was a crisis negotiator when I was with the Bureau. I was taught how to coax people who didn’t want to talk to open up. It takes trust and patience. Hopefully, those skills will pay off with Lucy.”

  “You’ve also worked cases with victimized women. I haven’t forgotten the one earlier this year with that goddess-obsessed psycho.”

  “Neither have I…although I try to.” A shudder. “So let’s not go there. Let’s just—” Abruptly Sloane broke off. An instant later, she casually opened her purse and began rummaging through it until she found and extracted her sunglasses. “The punk who attacked me with the knife,” she murmured to Jeff, as she slid on the sunglasses. “He’s diagonally across the street—at eleven o’clock—watching us.”

  “Xiao Long’s kid?” Jeff asked, intentionally keeping his gaze on Sloane and not turning to look in the direction she was referring to.

  She nodded. “I guess he’s reporting our activities to his boss.”

  “Let’s grab him before he does.” Jeff glanced at his watch. “Talk to me as we cross the street. We won’t pick up our pace until we’re closing in on him.”

  “Better idea—why don’t we split up and close in on him from opposite directions?”

  “No dice. You’re not an agent, remember?”

  Sloane rolled her eyes. “Jeff…”

  “You know the rules, Sloane. It’s my way, or no way.”

  She gave up with a sigh. “Fine.”

  The two of them turned left and crossed the busy Chinatown intersection at the corner, then crossed to the opposite side of the street, heading straight for their target.

  He spotted them just as they picked up the pace.

  He saw Sloane coming at him first. Before she could blink, he was sprinting away, shoving through the crowd to escape.

  Jeff and Sloane broke into a run. They tore down one street and then another, weaving their way through the pedestrians. It didn’t help that Sloane was Caucasian and the kid she was pursuing was one of their own. Several produce vendors stepped directly in her path, and a few shopkeepers chose that exact second to step outside to pick up their newspapers or to smoke a cigarette, totally blocking her way.

  By the time Sloane broke through the human obstacle course, Jeff was a solid half block ahead of her.

  It didn’t matter. As she caught up with him, Jeff came to a grinding halt. Disgusted, he gazed up and down the cross street. “I lost him.”

  “I never had a chance. I was sabotaged from the get-go. Talk about being an outsider.” Sloane made a frustrated sound. “Jeff, I know it was him.”

  “No question about it. He matched the sketch to a tee. And the look on his face when he saw you closing in on him…yeah, it was him.” Jeff scowled, looking distinctly uneasy. “Xiao Long never shoves his gang in our face, not unless he wants to make a point or issue a threat.”

  Sloane got Jeff’s message loud and clear. “You don’t think it’s the Bureau Xiao is threatening.”

  “Nope. I think it’s you. And if he doesn’t like what he hears from his punk kid…” Jeff gave a hard shake of his head. “This isn’t good.”

  “You’re right. It’s not.” Sloane’s brows drew together in irritation. “And not because I’m intimidated. I’d love to be the one to lure the bastard out and expose him for the killer he is. But after this, I won’t get the chance. Not once you tell Derek.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Derek’s reaction to Sloane and Jeff’s report was not what Sloane had expected.

  All he did was sit silently at his desk, fingers interlaced behind his head, and listen to what they had to say.

  When they were finished, he unlinked his hands and leaned forward, scribbling down some notes on a piece of paper.

  “Jeff, type up the report and e-mail it to Tony and to me. Sloane, nice work at the shelter. Both of you go back
tomorrow as planned. With any luck, Sloane, you’ll get some solid information out of Lucy.” He rose. “Just so you know, Fred Miller’s body was pulled out of the East River an hour ago. No surprises. Estimated time of death is consistent with your mother’s kidnapping. Cause of death—one lethal stab wound to the back. Sloane, I’m putting full-time security on you until your involvement in this case is over. Right now, I’ve got a meeting with Tony.”

  Without another word, Derek headed off.

  Jeff and Sloane stared after him and then exchanged glances.

  “That was weird,” Jeff commented. “No explosions. No lectures. And he didn’t pull you off the case, or confine you to desk duty. He was almost eerily quiet. When do you think the volcano’s going to erupt?”

  “I don’t know.” Sloane was puzzled. She shared Jeff’s opinion that there was a lot more brewing beneath the surface than Derek had displayed. But she knew Derek better than anyone. The emotion he was repressing wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even frustration. It was something more.

  She broached the subject that night when they were getting ready for bed. It was the first time they’d been alone all day. The hounds were snoozing in a pile of blankets they’d arranged at the foot of the bed, and Derek was in his gym shorts, doing his nighttime push-ups.

  Sloane came out of the bathroom, pulling on one of Derek’s Colorado State T-shirts that she used as a nightshirt. Then, she slid between the sheets. “Do you want to talk about what happened today?” she asked, sitting up, arms wrapped around her knees.

  “Not particularly.” Derek reached his fiftieth push-up and rose.