Drawn in Blood

by Andrea Kane

  “Your points are well taken. But…”

  “Think about it. The accident happened on Eighty-ninth Street, near Sophie’s school. That’s a busy residential neighborhood. Ben would have swerved all over the road. Cars would have been bashed in. Pedestrians would have been injured or killed. And Ben would have ended up crashing into a tree or causing a pileup at the intersection of Eighty-ninth and Park. The cops and PIs who investigated the accident were convinced that the hit-and-run driver was fleeing from something or racing to something. He was purposeful, deliberate. So much so that not one of the dozen witnesses interviewed managed to identify his vehicle as anything but a white Mercedes sedan. They didn’t catch the model, or make out even a few letters or numbers off his license plate. The driver was too quick and too focused.” Again, Sloane pointed at the photos. “Does that man look like he’s either of those?”

  Wallace shut his eyes and sucked in his breath. He was clearly desperate to believe her.

  “Coincidentally, Leo just told me he got a delivery about the same time you did.” Sloane went for her trump card. “It was from a courier service. Inside was a handwritten letter from his fiancée. The envelope it came in was addressed to Leo and was postmarked June 23, 2007—their scheduled wedding day. It had clearly been stolen from his mailbox. In the letter, she begged his forgiveness and understanding. It seems that some Asian thugs had just left her condo, having held guns to her two children’s heads, threatening to kill them. She was informed that the only way her children would remain alive and unharmed is if she packed her bags immediately, took her children, and moved away. Her orders were to disappear and to never contact Leo again. If she did, or if Leo discovered her whereabouts and tried to contact her, her children would die. She had no choice but to run. But I don’t need to tell you what her leaving Leo standing at the altar did to him.”

  “No, you don’t,” Wallace replied, still hovering between shock, anger, and pain.

  “There’s more. Evidently, Liu is having Xiao Long track down Amalie. Because there’s a cryptic Post-it attached to the letter, telling Leo as much, and informing him that once Amalie’s been found, he’ll have the luxury of watching her die.”

  Wallace swore, squeezing his eyes shut.

  Sloane gripped his arm. “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Liu has ordered Xiao to destroy every member of your group. His timing is based on circumstances, some of which I can’t share with you, some of which I don’t even understand. But I will tell you that Phil’s bookie was paid off by Xiao—and now Phil is dead. Ben’s employment agency was purchased by Xiao in March 2006—and Ben is about to self-destruct. My mother was kidnapped and almost killed, and I was attacked at knifepoint. And you? You’ve had your soul torn out. Sophie died a few months after Meili committed suicide. Cindy—who’s a dead ringer for Meili—came into your life less than a month ago. Now, these photos of Ben arrive. Don’t you see the pattern?”

  Slowly, Wallace nodded. “I see the pattern. I see what Liu is doing. But all that proves is that he’s trying to destroy us. It doesn’t prove that Ben wasn’t driving the car that killed Sophie.”

  “There’s only one person who can confirm my theory—Ben. I’m heading over to his factory now.” Carefully, she slipped the photos and news clipping back into the manila envelope. “I assume I can borrow these?”

  “There’s no need. I’m going with you.” Wallace grabbed his sport coat. “Whatever the truth is, I have to hear it directly from Ben.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ben crawled out of the bathroom and back to his desk. That was the third time he’d been sick in the past hour. This time he’d stayed inside the toilet stall forever, kneeling on the floor, his head against the cool wall. He was just too damned weary to get up. Besides, there was nothing to get up for.

  Finally, his legs had started to cramp. He’d crept out of the stall, dunked his head under the faucet to drench his face and head with cold water, then grabbed a wad of paper towels to dry himself off. His hair was still wet and his shirt was sticking to his body. He didn’t give a damn.

  Now, he dropped heavily into his chair and let the chill permeate his body. Maybe if he stayed cold, he wouldn’t puke again.

  He opened his top drawer and pulled out a stale pack of peppermint Life-Savers, popping one in his mouth. A sucking candy. It was the first solid food he’d had since yesterday. Or was it the day before? He’d lost count.

  The door to his office swung open. He didn’t bother glancing up. With any luck, it was Xiao Long, here to blow his brains out. It was exactly what he wanted, but he was too spineless to do it for himself.

  Jin Huang had said something about that when he’d been here earlier. Something in response to Ben’s plea that Xiao put an end to all this and just kill him.

  He’d enjoy. Jin Huang’s taunt drifted through Ben’s groggy mind. But maybe he not come in time. Maybe you kill you first. Or maybe Johnson kill you…Johnson kill you…Johnson kill you…

  Abruptly, the implication of Jin Huang’s prediction struck home.

  He didn’t have time to react. Wallace was standing in front of him, with a deadly expression that told Ben all he needed to know.

  “Shit,” he muttered, dropping his head in his hands and starting to tremble. Bile rose up in his throat. “He sent them to you. That son of a bitch sent them to you. Why? Why? Just to twist the knife in your gut? To kill you altogether? Because it’s not me he’s punishing. I’m already dead.”

  Sloane had followed Wallace in. Now she went around to the side of Ben’s desk, spoke to him quietly. “So you know about the photos?”

  His head came up when he heard her voice. “How could I not? They’ve been shoved in my face a dozen times. And each time, another piece of my soul gets eaten away.” Ben forced himself to look at Wallace. “Go ahead. Do what you have to. God knows, I deserve it.”

  Wallace’s breath was coming fast, and his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides. Exerting this self-control was clearly the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  “If it comes down to it, I will,” he answered, his steely tone rife with suppressed rage. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands. But not until I get some answers.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” Ben spread his hands wide, palms up in helplessness. “I don’t remember anything. I didn’t then. I don’t now. All I know is that I must be the lowest form of scum on earth.”

  “Ben, listen to me.” Sloane touched his sleeve, intervening before the scene turned far uglier than she believed was necessary. “I need to know if you’re sober right now.”

  “Unfortunately, sober enough. I donated a day’s supply of booze to the toilet, and stuck my head under a faucet of cold water.”

  “Good. Then I want you to tell me everything you remember about the morning Sophie died. Every single detail.”

  “Why? The photos say it all. Certainly more than I can.”

  “No, they don’t. They only say you’re in your car, after it clearly was in a violent accident. What memories do you have about that morning before the hit-and-run? Do you remember getting into your car, or what your destination was?”

  A hard shake of his head. “I’ve spent two and a half years racking my brain. I remember the night before. I’d just been given a new monthly rate by Xiao Long’s employment agency. I was frantic. He’d doubled prices since he bought the agency from its previous owner the month before. I couldn’t make the payments. So I called him. He said that we should discuss terms, that he’d review my previous contract and sit down with me in the morning. I agreed. I met him at six a.m. so we could talk alone.”

  “Where?” Sloane asked.

  “Some sleazy dive in Chinatown that Xiao owns. I think it was off Mott Street, south of Canal. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry. All I cared about was that no one was around except him and me.”

  “So you two talked.”

  “Not that it did any good, but yes. He was nauseatingly solicitou
s—buying me drinks, explaining how the cost of labor had gone up since my previous contract with the old owner. But in the end, nothing changed.”

  “In other words, he said he wasn’t budging on the rates.”

  “I don’t know what the hell he said. I can’t remember that part. But it turned out to be moot. The next day, he showed me those vile photos. We both knew he had me. I’d pay anything to keep him from sending them to Wallace. So the rates, and the threats, remained the same.”

  Wallace’s jaw was working furiously. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sloane held up her hand to silence him.

  “Let’s back up,” she instructed Ben. “You met Xiao at six a.m. He’d reviewed your contracts, but brought nothing new to the table. Clearly, he’d decided he wasn’t bringing down his rates. So what was the point of the meeting?”

  “To make me feel like an even bigger ass? Who knows? Does it matter? With the ammunition he wound up getting to use against me, any chance I had of negotiating a compromise was over.”

  “It matters. Xiao Long doesn’t waste time. He always has an agenda. You said he bought you drinks. A little odd at the crack of dawn.”

  Ben’s laugh was hollow. “Maybe. But with the state of mind I was in, booze sounded good at any hour.”

  “What kind of drinks were they?”

  “Some traditional three-flower Chinese liquor called Sanhua Jiu. It was so strong, so bitter and nasty, I could barely choke it down. But Xiao Long made it sound like some kind of ritual. And I sure as hell didn’t want to offend the guy. So I drank it—two shots, in fact. I passed out right on the table. That’s why I don’t know what I did or where I went.”

  “Who served you the drinks?”

  “One of Xiao’s girls. She was there when I came in. She must have been finishing up her late-night shift.”

  “I’m sure she was. I’m also sure she followed instructions—two rounds of Sanhua Jiu spiked with God knows what.”

  “Huh?” Ben looked utterly lost.

  “Xiao Long set you up, Ben. I suspected it the minute I saw those photos. And everything you just said confirms my theory. You didn’t kill Sophie. Xiao Long did.” Sloane went on to tell Ben the deductions she’d made at Wallace’s gallery—and why, including the whole story about Johnny Liu and Meili. She even took the time to fill him in on what was going on with Leo.

  “With regard to you, let’s add one more thing to the mix,” she concluded. “You were in Chinatown at six a.m. You had a meeting there. You had two hard-core shots of booze. You passed out. I’d say you were out of commission for a good couple of hours. But your car was in a nearby parking lot. And your keys were probably right there in your jacket pocket. How incredibly convenient for Xiao. Think about it. Even if you passed out before seven, there’s no way you could have come to, sobered up, and made it from downtown to the Upper East Side in time to hit the car Sophie was carpooling in. She was officially gone at seven-twenty. The accident happened a little after seven. Ben…” Sloane took both his hands in hers. “You weren’t driving that car. You didn’t kill Sophie. Xiao just made you believe you had so he could blackmail you.”

  Shock, disbelief, pain, realization—they all registered on Ben’s face simultaneously. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” He stared at Sloane, unable to absorb what he was hearing. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” she responded without hesitation. “You had nothing to do with Sophie’s death. You were a victim of a different kind, thanks to Xiao Long.”

  “I’m innocent?” Ben needed one final word of affirmation.

  “Completely.”

  He drew a long, ragged breath, as the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you, Sloane. With every fiber of my being, I thank you.”

  With that, Ben turned to Wallace, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry. I should have come to you. I should have told you. But you were dying inside. And I was paralyzed with guilt and consumed with pain. I loved Sophie as if she were my own. The thought that I could have hurt her, taken her life…but, thank the Lord, I didn’t. I didn’t.”

  He rose, walked around the desk to where Wallace was standing with tears trickling down his own cheeks.

  “I was a coward,” Ben choked out. “A pathetic, drunken coward. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m not even going to ask for it. But you can’t know what it means to me that I can mourn Sophie as she deserves to be mourned, offer her the tribute she deserves, knowing that I have the right. That I wasn’t the one who robbed her of life. That I…” He broke down completely, bowing his head and openly sobbing.

  The well-bred, always self-contained Wallace Johnson stepped forward and grabbed his friend, hugging him tightly as they both continued to weep.

  “You have my forgiveness,” Wallace managed. “Do I have yours?”

  “For what?”

  “For doubting you. For believing those photos. For believing you could ever hurt Sophie and not remember. Not rush to her side. I’m sorry, Ben. From the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry.”

  Watching the scene unfolding before her, Sloane felt her own eyes grow damp. It was impossible to witness this emotional exchange without being affected.

  “That son of a bitch,” Ben burst out, pulling away. “That fucking son of a bitch. Him and his boss. Destroying people because of a bet? Because of a suicide you couldn’t have prevented, since you knew nothing about Meili’s pregnancy or her state of mind? What kind of monster does that?”

  “A monster who can’t get away with this,” Sloane inserted in an adamant tone. “This or any of the other atrocities he’s guilty of. I’ve got to get over to the FBI Field Office. I want ERT to examine these photos and the news clipping. I need to bring Derek up to speed. Then, we’ll…”

  She was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. When she saw the caller ID, her heart sank.

  “Dad? What is it?”

  “Sloane, you’ve got to get over here now.” Matthew sounded shaken to the core. “The police are here. They have a warrant to search the apartment. They’re tearing my office apart. I heard them say something about the anonymous tip being good. That they’d found a valuable painting that was stolen during that string of neighborhood burglaries. And my phone rang thirty seconds ago. It was Xiao Long. He said he’ll have just enough time to kill your mother while I watch, before I went to jail. What’s happening? What should I do? Should I tell the cops about the phone call? Should I tell Special Agent Carter?”

  Dammit. Xiao Long had dropped all the bombs at once.

  “No,” Sloane said adamantly into the phone. “You know the drill. Don’t say a word to anyone. Not even Agent Carter. Just tell him I’m on my way. And give Mom the same instructions. No talking. Does she know about Xiao’s call?”

  “Yes. She’s right next to me.”

  “Good. Tell her to hang in there. I’m at Ben’s factory. I’m on my way.”

  En route to her parents’ apartment, Sloane made two phone calls.

  The first one was to Derek. She reached him, no problem, providing him with the lowdown, together with a few requests.

  The second call was to Detective Diane Yuen of the Nineteenth Precinct Burglary Squad.

  “Diane?” She was relieved as hell when her friend answered the phone. “You wanted me to keep you up-to-date. Well, I’m about to. But first, we have a problem. It’s urgent. And I need your help.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Sloane rested her head on Derek’s shoulder.

  It was midnight. The cottage’s living room was peaceful. The fire Derek had kindled was crackling rhythmically in the fireplace. And the hounds were enjoying the warmth, stretched out near the fireplace screen, snoozing.

  With a contented sigh, Sloane tucked her legs under her, curling up on the sofa. She reached for her glass of merlot and took a few sips. She’d earned it. Talk about a long, draining day.

  “Tired?” Derek murmured into her hair.

 
“From the insanity of the day, or the three hours we just spent in bed?”

  His chuckle brushed her ear. “Take your pick.”

  “Bonelessly, wonderfully tired from the latter. Wiped out from the former.”

  “Good answer.” He combed his fingers through her still-damp hair. They’d taken a leisurely, soapy shower together, and were now wrapped in terry-cloth robes. “This whole thing is coming to a head. My gut tells me it’s about to blast wide open.”

  “Mine, too. What I worry about is who’s going to get caught in the cross fire, and how bad the damage will be.” Sloane took another sip of wine, then placed her goblet on the coffee-table coaster. “I keep asking myself why. Why now? Why the urgency on Liu’s part? Why everything at once? He’s wiping out his enemies in one frenetic, simultaneous explosion, at the exact same time as he’s funding the Black Eagles to pull off big-profit, high-visibility art thefts. Why take the risk?”

  “Good question. I’m stumped by the same thing. Liu’s smart. He always keeps a low profile. He always acts with meticulous care. And he always keeps a major trump card hidden away—just in case. None of that seems to apply here. Other than acting through Xiao Long to keep his name clean, he’s going full force, guns ablazing. There’s got to be a reason. I’ve got my feelers out. I’ll find out what that reason is.”

  Sloane nodded. “Liu’s done his worst with all the men—except Wallace. He’s still exacting revenge on him, and he has been for two and a half years. First, he had Xiao kill Sophie. Then, he framed one of Wallace’s dearest friends for the crime. Next, he stayed in Wallace’s life as a supposed business colleague helping him get back on his feet. And now, he brought in his niece—a Meili look-alike—to emotionally torment Wallace and break his heart. He’s building up to some sick grand finale. But what? And how do we stop him? We have no jurisdiction in Hong Kong, and Liu’s influence runs deep and wide.”