FBI: Drawn In Blood Part 28

He might recognize him.

Or he might not.

Even if he'd clearly seen Xiao as he left the crime scene, the murder had happened fourteen years ago. People's appearances changed. The only reason Matthew had recognized Xiao Long that night in Chinatown was because Xiao had planted himself in Matthew's face for the sole purpose of being recognized. Otherwise, they might have walked right by each other and never batted a lash.

And if Phil didn't recognize Xiao Long, and if this plan of his really did work, it would be a G.o.d-send. It would free Ben from both financial and physical demise. No more debt. No more terror of being dismembered by Jin Huang. And it would mean a pretty penny for Phil, as well.

On that thought, his decision was made.

G.o.d help him if it was the wrong one.

Peggy waited until she heard Wallace leave before she came downstairs to talk to Cindy.

"It looks like we've both been busy tonight," Peggy commented drily, noting Cindy rearranging her clothes and combing her fingers through her hair.

Cindy gave a faint smile. "Things are definitely heating up on all fronts. I got two new projects tonight. I met a charming couple from Bronxville who collect Pica.s.so and Matisse. And I agreed to accompany Wallace to his East Hampton estate this weekend. So I've got more commissioned jobs than I know what to do with, Xiao Long has another profitable target to hit, and Wallace is so captivated by me he can't even see straight." She finished b.u.t.toning the top of her blouse. "He's more like an ardent teenager than a middle-aged man."

Observing the sparkle in Cindy's eyes and the high color on her cheeks, Peggy said, "This game with Wallace is becoming less of an act and more of a reality. You're starting to care for the man."

Cindy's fingers paused on her collar. "I find him attractive and intelligent. I doubt any woman would object to the gifts, adoration, and attention he's lavishing on me. And truthfully, I feel a little sorry for him. I know what he did to Meili, and I don't blame my A Sook for despising and wanting to ruin him. But in all fairness, it was she who dumped him. Wallace has no idea how hard she took their break-up, or that she found out she was pregnant after it was over. I believe he would have taken care of her and the baby. He's an honorable man. And losing his five-year-old daughter-isn't that punishment enough?"

"He didn't just lose her," Peggy amended quietly. "She was killed. By an anonymous. .h.i.t-and-run driver. Three months after Meili took her own life. Do you really believe that was a coincidence?"

Cindy's fingers faltered for a moment, and then continued smoothing her hair off her face. "Of course not. I'm not a fool. I know my A Sook. It's an eye for an eye. But we've never spoken about Sophie's death. I never intend to ask him outright. Because, frankly, I don't want to hear the answer."

"It was easier when Wallace Johnson was a faceless name, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Cindy nodded. "Now he's a flesh-and-blood human being. But I'll do what I have to. I gave my word. It's my A Sook's dying wish."

"I know." Peggy dropped the subject. "When I said we were both busy tonight, I meant it. The Renoir is complete. I finished it while you were at the c.o.c.ktail party."

"Excellent. I'm sure it's a flawless duplicate. They always are." Cindy hurried to the stairs. "I can't wait to see it."

"Do you want me to make the arrangements?"

Cindy paused on the first step, considering the situation from every angle. "Not yet," she decided.

"I'll call my A Sook and give him an update. It has to be his decision. With the FBI sniffing around, he might want to wait until Xiao gets his hands on all the outstanding paintings, and then send the entire shipment together. On the other hand, he might want the original Renoir out of the U.S. right away. Everything has to be timed just so. The piece de resistance is coming up fast."

Outside the Jaspar Museum of Art on Crosby Street in Soho, the Albanian art student shot a few additional pictures with her still camera. She'd already taken a ton of digital photos inside the museum, and written notes to accompany each photo.

Soon her a.s.signment would be complete.

Phil met Ben at two a.m. outside a hole-in-the-wall gambling dive in Chinatown.

"That was fast," Phil commented, looking very pleased. "Four hours after your phone call. Evidently, your employment company owner is eager to do business."

Once again, Ben opened his mouth to tell Phil the truth. He probably would have gone through with it this time. They were already walking into the lobby, and he doubted Phil would turn back. But an Asian teenager with a scar on his face approached them and wordlessly beckoned them to follow.

The back room was dimly lit and consisted of a few round tables, all of which were empty, save one.

Xiao Long was wearing a jacket, no tie. His hands were folded on the table, and his face, cloaked by shadows, was expressionless.

Ben shot Phil a sideways glance. No reaction. Good.

"Sit," Xiao said without preamble. "Martino said you take care of money and that you have business deal. Describe."

Phil and Ben each pulled back a chair and sat.

"It's very simple," Phil explained. "You're right. I handle the money. Ben handles the day-to-day business. In checking our books, I saw that, each month, he's been paying you more and more for your workers. That's hurting the business. So I came to the factory to see why. I figured out the girls are all illegals. That's a big problem. ICE is conducting major investigations to crack down on illegals. And they're taking action. Not just deporting the girls. Putting the employers in jail."

Xiao barely blinked. "You are employers. Your crime."

"Partly." Phil didn't dispute Xiao's claim. "There's no doubt we're at risk. But so are you. You hire the help. My partner rents them. We could all go to jail. I doubt any of us wants that."

"You bring solution?"

"Yes. I'm not just a certified accountant. I'm also a certified financial planner. It's like a business adviser. I'm good at protecting my clients and increasing their profits. You could become one of those clients. I know lots of people. Rich people. I'd send you to all the right customers. Customers who need many hard workers. Customers who don't need their workers to speak English. Customers who pay top dollar and don't ask questions. And I could fix your financial records so everything looks legal. You'd make a fortune. And you'd make it fast."

Again, no change in expression. "And you get?"

"To start with, a fifty-thousand-dollar consulting fee, to be renegotiated based on your profits. And a receipt saying that all Ben's and my company debts have been paid in full. Of course, you'd keep charging us for our workers, so everything looks legal. But you'd reduce your rate-a lot. We'd call it a bulk discount."

Phil stopped, waiting for a reaction.

"Fifty thousand," Xiao Long said thoughtfully. "You very confident."

"I'm very good at what I do."

"So am I." Xiao pushed back his chair and rose. "I think. You hear from me."

"Fair enough." Phil stood up as well. Ben was already on his feet, eager to get the h.e.l.l out of there.

As Phil reached out to shake Xiao's hand, the teenager who'd showed them in opened the door to escort them out.

A shaft of light flashed across Xiao's face.

Phil's hand paused, and his brows drew together. "Have we met? You look familiar."

A hint of a smile. "Not met. Seen. Ask any of your partners. Ask Burbank."

All the color drained from Phil's face, and his arm fell limply to his side. "Oh my G.o.d."

Xiao's smile didn't waver. "Also, word to the wise. Fifty thousand not nearly enough to pay Ardian Sava. You owe lot more. Albanians no like to wait for money. Good-bye, Mr. Leary."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.

Xiao Long's gaze bore into Leary's and Martino's backs as they walked rigidly out of the back room.

He was livid. Even so, the white-faced shock that had registered on Leary's face had been worth the wasted time he'd spent listening to Leary's bulls.h.i.t and looking at that pathetic, drunken partner of his who hadn't even had the guts to tell Leary who he was meeting with.

Xiao had taken care of that forgotten detail himself.

He might as well enjoy the results.

With that goal, Xiao made his way out of the back room and slipped into a far, dark corner of the gambling parlor. Silently, he watched Leary and Martino make their exit. Sweat was pouring down Leary's face and neck. The back of his shirt was drenched. And Martino looked like a chicken about to get its neck wrung.

Martino's neck would come later.

But Leary-he was another story. He'd just made Xiao Long angry. Very angry. Xiao, who was next in line to head the Liu Jian Triad. Xiao, who had more power than Leary could begin to imagine.

Xiao, whose brains and ambition were second to none, save his Dragon Head.

No one squeezed him for money. No one issued ultimatums, not to him. Especially not some stupid, ego-inflated accountant with a gambling problem and no backbone.

This meeting changed everything. Xiao would push up one element of the timetable. Revise the order he'd planned for the executions. The Dragon Head would agree. Leary's mental torture was complete. The final blow had been dealt when Xiao let him know that Sava was in his pocket. Now, Leary had outlived his usefulness. It was time for him to endure an agonizing death.

Xiao felt the familiar surge of adrenaline and excitement.

This was what he'd been waiting for.

He retraced his steps into the back room and made the phone call.

Phil went straight to his office. He sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going home. G.o.d only knew who was waiting for him there.

He poured himself a drink and wiped the sweat off his neck and face with his sleeve. What the h.e.l.l had Ben been thinking? Dealing with Xiao Long, and not telling Phil-not even after he knew who Xiao really was? The animal wasn't just a bloodsucking mobster. He was a killer. A killer who was after their entire art investment partnership. Not to mention arranging a hit on Rosalyn Burbank and stabbing her bodyguard to death in the process.

Phil had to call the FBI-now. His gambling debt didn't matter. Nothing mattered. His life was on the line. Xiao Long knew Ardian Sava's name. That meant the slimy Albanian bookie was in his pocket. There was no way out.

He sat down behind his desk and picked up the telephone receiver.

He'd barely pressed the first b.u.t.ton when the door to his office was kicked open. Two armed men with stocking masks burst inside, submachine guns raised. Phil didn't have time to make a sound.

Both men opened fire instantly.

Phil's body jerked from the impact as the spray of bullets riddled through him.

His chair toppled backward, and he was left sprawled on the carpet, dead, blood oozing everywhere.

Removing the silencers from their weapons, the Albanian killers checked to be sure their target was dead. Then, they turned to his desk. They took what they needed, planted what they'd brought, and altered what needed to be altered.

Calmly, Xiao Long strolled into the office in their wake, and walked directly behind the desk. He stood over Leary's dead body, watching his blood ooze out and pool on the floor. An annoying, high-pitched beep echoed from the telephone receiver dangling from the desk. Xiao had no doubt that Leary's attempted phone call was being made to spill his guts to the FBI.

So much for that plan.

After pulling on his gloves, Xiao picked up the receiver and replaced it in its cradle.

Then, he reached in his pocket and yanked out the piano wire he carried with him. He squatted down and wrapped the wire around Leary's limp, blood-soaked neck. He pulled on the bamboo handles. Tight. So tight he felt as if he were killing the guy all over again.

He closed his eyes, savoring the sense of power for himself and retribution for his Dragon Head.

Long moments pa.s.sed. Having wrung every last drop of satisfaction from his victory, Xiao released Leary's neck, letting his body slump to the floor. Blood was spreading out everywhere.

Xiao rose and took a few steps backward. One of the Albanians took some quick digital photos and handed the camera to Xiao. He would share the photos with his Dragon Head immediately.

Then, he turned and walked away, giving a terse nod to the Black Eagles as he exited the room.

A minute later, they followed suit. Having carried out their orders, they left the scene-and what was left of Phil's body-shutting the office door behind them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

Derek left the cottage at dawn the next morning, heading straight to midtown Manhattan. He planned on marching into Phil Leary's office, unannounced and unyielding, and planting himself in the man's face until he got answers.

He and Sloane had been asleep when Derek's cell phone rang at two forty-five a.m. It was the members of Derek's C-6 team who were a.s.signed to surveillance that night. Ben Martino and Phil Leary had been spotted in Chinatown, exiting a gambling house that belonged to Xiao Long. Both men were visibly upset. They'd walked half a block, then halted, arguing vehemently. A short time later, Leary had stormed off, and Martino had trudged, head lowered, into a nearby bar.

This was one gambling casino Leary hadn't visited to place bets, Derek had thought grimly. He'd gone to help get Martino out of the hole he was in. Interesting that Martino had chosen Leary to run to. Derek had expected it would have been Johnson.

On the other hand, Leary was a logical choice. He might be a walking financial disaster personally, but professionally he was sharp as a tack. And he was Martino's accountant.

Armed with a slew of questions and a gut feeling he was getting closer to the truth, Derek left his car in a parking garage and walked the three blocks to Leary's office.

He slowed down as he reached the building, his brows drawing together as he saw the bustle of activity going on outside. A bunch of spectators were standing around on the sidewalk, and there were two NYPD cars blocking traffic. As Derek watched, a body bag was carried out, transferred to the back of an Emergency Medical Services vehicle, and driven off.

He jostled his way through the crowd and up to the entranceway, where a cop was posted to keep everyone out.

"FBI," Derek said quietly, displaying his ID to the officer.

The cop stepped aside so Derek could enter.

"What floor?" Derek asked.

"Twelfth."