Drawn in Blood

by Andrea Kane

  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-shirt, Derek hung out near Martino’s manufacturing factory on East Broadway 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 glass 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 godfather. 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 assured 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 shifting to China big-time.”

  “It’s their cheap labor,” Martino muttered, glancing through the glass 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 relationship 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.

  “Hey.” Jeff recognized Derek’s cell phone number. “What’s up?”

  “A lot. Most of which I’m still putting together. But get this. Ben Martino is hiring his workers from the Sih Fu Employment Agency.”

  Jeff whistled. “There’s your tie to Xiao. Rent-an-illegal.”

  “More like rent an illegal today, get squeezed and threatened tomorrow.”

  “Threatened with what—violence? Bringing down the business?”

  “Or something bigger. I’m on my way to Johnson’s gallery. I’m sure he’s expecting me, since Martino probably called him the minute I walked out the door. Could you do a little digging for me?”

  “Not a problem. I’ll find out how long Martino and Xiao have been doing business, and how the relationship got started. Also if Johnson is part of the equation. And speaking of digging, Rich and I have both talked to our contacts at the Hong Kong police. There’s no record of a suicide involving a woman in her early to mid-twenties matching Meili’s description—not as Meili Somebody or Jane Doe.”

  “So someone’s covering it up.”

  “That’s our take. We’re pushing to find out who. I’m also putting some of our informants out on the streets to see if Xiao Long’s name is linked to a girl named Meili. He’s been running his gang here since the mid-nineties, slowly growing his empire. Now we’re pretty sure it’s triad-funded. In which case, he’d be tight enough with the right people to find out if the Rothberg he’d killed for had been ripped off and sold to Henry Fong.”

  “Or resold to Fong,” Derek amended. “If the Fong Triad is the one Xiao’s working with, this Meili could have gone to Zhang because she knew Fong would want his stolen painting back. But you’re right. We’ve got to follow up on this Meili lead. She’s our tie to the Rothberg, and to whomever Xiao gave it to.”

  “And whoever that is is now funding Xiao and the Black Eagles.”

  “Right.” Derek glanced up as a group of pedestrians crossed the street. “I gotta go. Let me know what you dig up on Martino and Xiao’s employment agency. I’ll see what I can find out from Johnson. I know this case seems like a giant can of worms. But my gut still tells me it’s all part of one big puzzle. We’ve just got to get our hands on the right pieces, and then figure out how they fit together.”

  Derek was right about Ben grabbing his cell phone the instant Derek left.

  But he was wrong about who Ben called.

  His first call was to Xiao Long. He had to warn him that the FBI was piecing things together, or Xiao would send that big ape Jin Huang over to break his legs. Or worse—do it himself. Jin Huang was a hefty, menacing guy. But Xiao called the shots. And he had an icy coldness about him that was eerily terrifying. It was as if the man had no soul.

  Ben wasn’t pushing him any more than he had to. Besides, he’d find out about Derek Parker’s visit anyway; Xiao Long had eyes everywhere. Better the news should come directly from him.

  Xiao wasn’t happy. But he wasn’t surprised either. In broken English, he told Ben to go on as usual, keep his mouth shut, and leave the rest to him.

  Ben didn’t even want to know what that meant.

  His second call was to Phil. He’d never wanted to make this call, but the time had come. His choices were nil. And he was just drunk enough to get it all out before he changed his mind.

  Almost all of it.

  “Phil, I need your help,” he began, the minute his friend answered.

  “You’re drunk,” Phil replied.

  “And getting drunker by the minute. Listen to me. You’re the numbers genius. I don’t know where else to turn. I’m being squeezed, and I can’t get out of it.”

  Phil gave an ironic laugh.

  Ben didn’t even hear it. “I’ve been getting my workers from the same Asian employment agency for years. A couple of years ago it was taken over by another company. Their prices were great, so I stuck with them. Then I found out why they were so cheap. Without my knowing it, they’d been sending me illegals. When I tried to break off the relationship, they tripled their prices and threatened to tip off the cops if I opened my mouth. They’ve been upping the prices ever since. I’ve sold off everything I can. I’m about to go bankrupt.”

  “You’ve got company. I’m in a major financial hole. So if you’re looking for a loan, there’s no way…”

  “I don’t want a loan. I want a solution. Because it gets worse. Sloane’s boyfriend just left the factory. Besides mentioning my DWI and asking questions about Wallace and me not being there when you sold the Rothberg, he spotted the agency’s business cards on my desk. He must know they’re dirty. So I’m going bankrupt for nothing. I’ll end up in jail or dead on the street anyway.”

  “Did he actually say he saw the business cards or knew the agency is crooked? Or are you just overreacting because you’re wasted?”

  “I don’t know…I don’t know.” Ben dropped his head to his hands. “But I’m not kidding about being dead on the street. If Parker keeps poking around, the crooked bastards I’m dealing with are going to kill me. Without batting an eye, they’ll cut me into little pieces, toss me in a Dumpster, and go out for noodles.”

  “Slow down, Ben. Get a grip. And let me think.” A long, drawn-out pause. “Actually, I might have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Give me a little time to work this through. I’ll call you back in a couple hours. I might just have the answer to both our problems. Now go drink some coffee and sober up.”

  Ben flipped his phone shut. He should be relieved. And on some level, he was. But the answer to all his problems? Not a prayer. There were some things that could never be fixed.

  He didn’t need coffee. He needed absolution.

  Derek left Johnson’s gallery an hour later. The man was smooth. Derek might have learned nothing if Jeff hadn’t called right after the meeting, as Derek was wolfing down two hot dogs. But now he had two solid links.

  It wasn’t the whole picture.

  But it was enough to convince him that it was time Sloane knew what he was up to.

  Sloane let herself into the cottage, automatically squatting down to greet the hounds as they came tearing around the corner, leaping and yipping with pleasure. It had been a fine evening for them. Derek had come home early and romped with them in the den for a good half hour before taking them out for a jog. Now, Sloane was home, also earlier than usual, which meant another round of attention. Life was good.

  “Hey, you.” Derek walked out of the bedroom, wearing only a pair of jeans, a towel wrapped around his neck. His hair was still damp from the shower he’d taken. He leaned down and kissed Sloane hello, holding her for just a minute before letting go.

  “Okay, that shoots my first theory to hell,” Sloane commented. “When you called and asked me to come home early, I was half expecting a candlelight dinner, or at least another lovemaking tour of the house. But that kiss and the look on your face tell me it’s neither.”

  A rueful smile. “I only wish.” He gestured toward the living room. “We need to talk.”

  Sloane followed him, a wary expression on her face. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “You’re going to like it even less once I’m finished,” Derek replied as they sank down on the sofa. “Just hear me out, think objectively like the professional you are, and leave our feelings for each other out of it.”

  “In other words, you did something to protect me, and never said a word.”

  “Sort of, yes. But it wasn’t only about protecting you. It was about working this case and getting answers to the anomalies that have been bugging me.”

  Sloane eyed him shrewdly. “Those anomalies don’t happen to be my father’s partners, do they? Because I thought we’d put to rest any involvement on their part once Anna came forward wi
th her information.”

  “You did. I didn’t. There were too many questions still unanswered.”

  “And now you’ve answered them?”

  “In part. Enough so that I felt it was time to come to you and fill you in. It’s still very much a work in progress.”

  Sloane folded her hands in her lap. “Is Rich in on your theory? Is that the reason he questioned my father and each of his partners again? Because I was told those interviews pertained to any knowledge they might have of the Fong Triad.”

  “It was. I just asked Rich to throw in a few extra questions, mentioning Xiao Long’s name and an implication of his involvement in this case—just to gauge their reactions.”

  “And?”

  “And both Johnson and Martino reacted. Odd, considering they weren’t in Hong Kong when their partners sold the Rothberg and Cai Wen was killed. When Rich told them the name of the killer, they were visibly taken aback. The name Xiao Long struck a chord. So I paid each of them a visit today.”

  Sloane listened silently as Derek relayed his entire conversation with Ben to her. He omitted nothing, including Ben’s drunken state, his defensiveness about his relationship with Wallace, and his agitated reaction to Derek’s reference to hiring illegal workers. Derek concluded with the business cards, the fact that Xiao Long owned the employment agency, and the probability that he was squeezing Ben.

  Then came Wallace, who, during his interview with Derek, claimed that he was appalled by the whole idea of his art partnership inadvertently dealing with organized crime, and who’d fervently said he wished he’d been in Hong Kong during the Rothberg transaction, since he was the one most likely to smell a rat.

  Afterward, Jeff’s phone call revealed the interesting fact that both the computer systems at Wallace’s galleries were serviced by none other than Eric Hu’s company. Further, Hu had been referred to Wallace by an art appraiser who—surprise, surprise—worked for Xiao Long.

  Sloane was quiet when Derek finished, her gaze lowered as she fidgeted with her hands.

  “Sloane?” Derek prompted.