by Andrea Kane
“I’ll take the den,” Sloane announced. “Wallace’s leather wingback chair is in there; he’s had it forever. His brandy’s also in there. So are his books and his photo albums. It’s the most personal room in the house, other than Sophie’s.”
“Then the media room’s mine,” Derek said. “It’s fully wood-paneled. And, with all the electronic components in there, it would be easy to conceal a doorway.”
The three of them scattered, each taking a flashlight with them to minimize the number of lights they had to turn on, but maximize the illuminated areas they were searching.
Sloane walked into the den and swept the room with her flashlight. The wingback chair was kitty-cornered on the left at the front of the room, flanked by small wooden side tables. There was an enormous bookcase that covered the full extent of the far wall. But the shelves were constructed of solid mahogany. They weighed a ton, and Sloane doubted that she’d find a spring-activated secret panel, like in the old movies, that would allow her access by pressing the correct shelf.
The rear left side of the room had a fireplace. Beside it was a sideboard, and a full liquor cabinet to accompany it. Again, heavy as a rock, and not a practical spot to conceal a door for a man who wanted frequent access to a gallery of stolen paintings.
Sloane crossed over to the right wall. There was a bay window spanning most of it, so that area was out. But there was a space between where the window ended and the adjacent wall where the bookcase began. The only thing filling that spot was a low table, which contained a vase of daisies, a photo album, and a framed picture of Sophie, smiling at her nursery school graduation.
Gently, Sloane tugged at the table. It moved easily, so easily that it surprised her. She looked more closely and saw that the table was made out of plywood, painted to match the rest of the red-brown furniture, but light as a feather.
She lifted it out of the way and stepped into the barely noticeable corner, which was hidden by the depth of the bookcase. She aimed her flashlight at the three-foot section of the now-exposed wall.
The outline of the door was clear. So was the dead bolt that stood between Sloane and her goal.
“Guys,” she called out. “I’ve got something.”
The sound of thudding footsteps came from two different directions. An instant later, both Derek and Rich appeared, shining their flashlights around the room.
“Over here,” Sloane instructed.
They joined her, and Derek gave a triumphant grunt. “This is it. Sloane, your instincts come through again.”
“Except I have no clue how to get past that dead bolt.”
“The old-fashioned way.” Derek walked over to the fireplace, picked up one of the heavy andirons, and carried it back to use as a battering ram. He began whacking at the lock. The door shuddered with each strike. It took time and patience, but at last the wood around the lock began to give—more, a little more—until finally it gave out.
Derek shoved open the door and groped on the inside wall until he found a light switch. He flipped it on, revealing a long, winding staircase. “Let’s go.”
They trekked down the stairs, Derek leading the way.
At the foot of the stairs was another light switch. Derek flipped this one on, too, just as all three of them reached the base of the stairs.
The room was flooded by a soft, iridescent light, revealing the entirety of Wallace’s private sanctum—and all of its contents.
“Holy shit,” Derek blurted out, staring around at the wealth of paintings covering the walls.
It was a full, private, and very personal art gallery.
There were over two dozen paintings, some of them incredibly valuable—masterpieces by Renoir or Cassatt—others far less pricey, whose signatures labeled them as up-and-coming artists, plus a few Hamptons locals.
Every painting depicted a little girl, ranging in age between two and six. Each child emanated joy and exuberance—some of them running through fields, others picking flowers, splashing in the ocean, or chasing butterflies.
All of them celebrating life.
The gallery Wallace had created was devoid of furnishings, with the exception of a wingback chair in the dead center of the room with a small end table beside it. On the table were a bottle of bourbon, a lowball glass, and a neatly stacked pile of snapshots. The leather chair was identical to the one upstairs, with the additional feature of being able to swivel 360 degrees—obviously to allow Wallace full viewing options.
There was one bare spot on the far wall directly across from the staircase, clearly awaiting the painting that would put the crowning touch on Wallace’s collection. Once it was hung in its place of honor, the tribute would be complete.
Wordlessly, Sloane scanned the room, her gaze lingering on certain paintings. Then, she picked up the snapshots and sifted through them, feeling tears sting behind her eyes. They were all photos of Sophie. They all captured her at different moments, in different settings.
But they all captured her sense of pure joy.
Raising her head, Sloane walked over to one painting that reminded her so much of one of the photos in her hand. It was a Cassatt, and the little girl in it was laughing, frolicking outdoors, eyes bright with wonder. Her hair was streaming out all around her as she dashed about with all the delight and innocence of childhood. God, she looked so much like Sophie. The same golden brown hair and dancing eyes. The same exuberance. Alive, vital, filled with a love of life and the promise of tomorrow.
A promise she’d been deprived of. Just as her father had been deprived of sharing it with her.
Rich was already across the room, examining the paintings. “Astonishing masterpieces,” he murmured. “There’s a work by Bouguereau, one by Rembrandt…unbelievable. The value of the paintings in this room—I can only begin to imagine.” He walked over to the one empty space on the wall. “This is obviously meant for the final painting in Johnson’s private gallery,” he concluded, half to himself. “I wonder which one he has in mind. Which work of art would belong here? Johnson wouldn’t settle for anything less than the perfect choice.”
“It’s probably a moot point,” Derek reminded Rich. “I doubt he and Johnny Liu are doing any more business, so Johnson won’t be getting that final painting after all.”
“True.” Rich continued to closely scrutinize the paintings. “I recognize several of these masterpieces as being among those stolen by the Black Eagles at the recent museum heists in Spain and Germany. The Cassatt over here and that Miró belong to the Museo de Arte Moderno. And the portrait of the little girl in a field of wildflowers is a Renoir that was displayed at the Kunsthalle in Munich.”
“What I recognize is that we have our motive,” Sloane stated, trying to separate emotion from fact. She recognized that Wallace had bought stolen paintings, knowing full well that it was a crime. On the other hand, she understood why he’d done it. She could only begin to imagine the pain that was still tearing him up inside.
“This gallery is a father’s ultimate memorial for his daughter,” she determined aloud. “A five-year-old innocent child whose murder was ordered by the very man who orchestrated the selling of these paintings to Wallace. Liu was using Xiao Long as a conduit to prolong Wallace’s agony and to keep alive the paralyzing pain of Sophie’s death—probably in the hopes of driving Wallace over the edge.”
“And having the perfect ammunition to blackmail him with,” Derek added. “Wallace had to be terrified of going to jail, more terrified of what Xiao would do to him if he opened his mouth, and most terrified of losing his link to the paintings that were his obsession.”
“Now we know why Johnson flipped out when I mentioned Xiao Long’s name in connection with the Rothberg.” Rich dropped another puzzle piece into place. “He was learning that the same man he’d been buying valuable stolen paintings from was the killer who Burbank, Fox, and Leary had seen in Kowloon and was now threatening their lives. That realization must have blown his mind.”
With a
shudder, Sloane turned away. “This whole plot makes me sick.”
“Liu’s a bastard. That doesn’t change the fact that Wallace is guilty of buying and harboring stolen property,” Derek replied quietly. “We have no choice but to arrest him.”
“I’m not arguing,” Sloane returned.
“And we’d better move fast,” Rich informed them. “Remember, once Sloane talked to Johnson, he figured out that Liu was behind the sale of the paintings and that he means to bring him down at all costs. If Johnson is as smart as I think he is, he’s going to get this merchandise out of here as soon as possible.”
“And hide it where?” Sloane asked, spreading her hands wide. “There must be thirty paintings here.”
“I have no idea what his plan is. I only know we’ve got to get him into custody before he or the evidence disappears.” Rich’s brows drew together, and he glanced quizzically at Sloane. “Didn’t you say he was at a museum reception tonight?”
“Yes.” Sloane nodded. “At the Jaspar Museum of Art—on Crosby Street in Soho.”
“We can grab him there,” Derek concluded. “Rich, call the Major Theft Squad from your car. Work out whatever details you have to. I’ll call C-6 and have them seal off this manor until ERT can catalog and take the stolen pieces into evidence. When I talk to my squad, I’ll also check on the status of the warrant to search Cindy Liu’s place.”
Rich nodded. “Agreed.”
Derek was already climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Let’s move.”
CHAPTER FORTY
LONG ISLAND CTY
QUEENS, NEW YORK
It was dark.
The business day had ended hours ago.
The team’s targeted industrial area was empty except for a few delivery trucks parked behind fenced-in loading docks and surrounded by tall razor-wire fences.
With its close proximity to Manhattan, Long Island City had been bustling with activity just hours ago. Now, it was deserted.
The beat-up white van turned off its lights and crept toward the rear of the two-story industrial building with a painted metal sign that read ALL-CITY SECURITY, INC. The driver pulled into a spot that was sandwiched between two trucks. It couldn’t be more ideal. Ensured concealment. An unlit area. Close proximity to their target. A clear path to get away.
Now, they’d wait. It wouldn’t be long. As their ongoing surveillance had shown, the younger guy, maybe in his early twenties, was a nicotine addict.
Sure enough, not fifteen minutes later, the metal door swung open and the kid stepped out. He reached down for the brick he kept alongside the concrete wall and wedged it between the doorjamb and the door. He double-checked to make sure the brick was secure so the door couldn’t lock behind him. Satisfied, he strolled into the cool night air, lighting up his cigarette.
It took a drag or two, but he began to visibly relax. Twice, he succumbed to a hacking cough, cursing under his breath. It didn’t seem to deter him. He returned to his smoke, totally unaware that the four men in the hidden van were watching him with keen interest.
“He smokes so much he’s going to die of cancer,” the driver said wryly to the others, speaking in Albanian.
They chuckled.
With that, the leader, who was in the front passenger seat, motioned to one of his men in the rear to get out of the van and get started.
The designated member of the team followed orders, exiting the van behind one of the trucks and walking nonchalantly toward the building. He placed a cigarette between his lips, simultaneously fumbling in his pocket for a pack of matches. Coming up empty, he scanned the area and pretended to catch his first glimpse of the smoker just outside the back entrance.
He slid a large knife out of his other pocket, gripping it behind his back as he headed in the kid’s direction. Approaching him, he asked for a light in heavily accented English.
The kid was happy to oblige, pulling out a cheap disposable lighter. In one smooth motion, the intruder bent over to accept the light, reached behind his victim, and plunged the knife in his back. Before the kid could react, the killer slapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the inevitable cries of agony.
The struggle was over quickly. The young guy dropped to the ground, dead.
Without so much as a second glance, the killer bent down and ripped the key fob holding the victim’s car keys off his pants. He then signaled for his colleagues to join him.
The leader and one other team member jumped out of the van and headed toward the building, while the driver remained at the wheel, ready to take off the instant the job was done.
The three Black Eagles dragged the lifeless body into the building. Shutting the door with a loud clang, they rushed upstairs to the main command center where a technician was huddled over a bank of monitors.
The guy spun around, expecting to see his buddy back from his cigarette break. Instead, he was greeted by the business end of an MP5K.
“Where’s John?” the terrified technician stammered, his gaze darting around frantically for his smoker chum.
“Dead,” the leader replied calmly. “He died”—a quick mental search for the right English word—“unexpectedly. Now I ask you question. Tell me administrative password.”
The technician hesitated. The leader veered sharply to the left, aiming his subgun at a nearby chair. He blew its back to bits in a hail of gunfire, transforming the plastic molded chair into a stool. Ejecting the empty magazine and inserting a fully loaded one, he turned back to the technician and moved in, holding the barrel of the subgun so close to his face that the man’s nostrils burned from the smoking barrel and the hot, acrid smell of spent gunpowder.
“Password!” the leader shouted.
The technician needed no further convincing.
“‘Mortal Kombat,’” he blurted out instantly, his voice quaking with fear as he spelled the password. “The M and the K are capitals. The rest of the letters are small. It’s all one word: ‘MortalKombat’—no spaces.”
The leader smiled, motioning for the technician to move over and sit in the chair he had just blasted with gunfire. The second gunman forced the technician’s hands behind his back and secured them with Flex-Cufs. Then he rifled his pockets, confiscating his car keys.
At the same time, the third gunman sat down at the console, expertly navigating the menus and logging in to the administrative application. With a clear knowledge of how the alarm-monitoring software functioned, he located the museum’s account and quickly changed all the alarm dispatch codes from “immediate” to “call first.” With a chuckle, he replaced the series of phone numbers for key museum personnel that were listed in the system with Phil Leary’s office number and Ben Martino’s factory and home numbers.
That done, he placed the entire museum account on “test” for the next twenty-four hours. Everything he had completed would ensure that all alarm signals received from the museum would be ignored. No police. No fire department. Even if someone at the alarm-monitoring company tried to contact the museum, all they would reach was the disconnected number of a dead person or a drunk. As a final mocking gesture of what was about to take place, he changed the administrative password to “JOHNSON.”
“Finished,” he announced in Albanian, rising from the console and giving the thumbs-up sign to indicate the task was complete.
Nodding, the leader turned and opened fire with his subgun, obliterating what was left of the stool-chair along with its struggling occupant.
“Finished,” he echoed, smiling as he led the others back down the stairs, past the corpse, and out the rear entrance.
The van driver spotted them the instant they appeared.
He shifted the van into drive and eased out from between the trucks to pick up the team leader. In the meantime, the other two men raced through the lot, splitting up as they neared their arranged goals. Each one of them located one of the dead technicians’ cars, unlocked it, and climbed in. Seconds later, they turned over the motors.
/> “Done. No problems,” the leader was informing the driver in Albanian, as he settled himself in the van.
He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the two other cars pulling up behind them. “Go,” he commanded.
The three vehicles swerved out of the lot and through the streets of Long Island City, on their way to Manhattan.
The Jaspar Museum was the brainchild of billionaire venture capitalist Edward Jaspar. With Jaspar supplying the seed money, and the help of some affluent sponsors who were patrons of the arts, the new SoHo museum had been built on two adjoining properties on Crosby Street. Millions had been spent to create a small but effective space for exhibiting Jaspar’s eclectic art collection, as well as showcasing the talents of new, unique, and gifted artists.
Tonight was an invitation-only soirée intended to tap into Jaspar’s rich friends and raise additional funds for the museum’s aggressive expansion plans. In honor of the occasion, Jaspar had filled the museum with some of his most cherished artwork, including Innocence, which was the talk of the elite art crowd. Innocence had been painted by Christian Arlington, a newly discovered young American artist with incredible talent. His paintings were already commanding six figures. And Innocence was worth even more.
Unfortunately, Jaspar wasn’t willing to sell it.
Wallace Johnson sipped at his champagne, strolling through the connected exhibition rooms. He’d already stopped three times in the central viewing room to stare at Innocence. No one could appreciate or want it as much as he. He’d be willing to pay any amount Jaspar asked. But Jaspar had made it abundantly clear that this particular painting was not for sale.
The piece of art itself surpassed the description breathtaking. But that wasn’t the main reason Wallace wanted it.
