FBI: Drawn In Blood Part 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE.

The package Johnny Liu had described arrived twenty minutes later.

With Sloane and Rich peering over his shoulder, Derek tore it open. Inside were spreadsheet printouts detailing specific a.s.sets that Wallace had liquidated and their selling price, and matching receipts doc.u.menting monetary deposits made to a numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands.

A copy of the original account application confirmed that the numbered account, along with all transactions connected to it, belonged to Wallace.

"Bribery goes a long way," Sloane commented, trying to keep her tone light.

"It sure does. All it takes is one greedy bank employee to bypa.s.s the veil of secrecy. Or a bank manager desperate to keep his biggest customer-a customer who's threatening to withdraw all his money to force the bank manager's hand." Rich reached across the desk to grab Derek's phone and used it to notify the a.s.sistant U.S. attorney that they were armed with the grounds they needed and on their way to secure their search warrant. "Did someone from the Nineteenth Precinct drop off the key to Johnson's place?" he asked Sloane.

Sloane held it up.

"Good. Then let's pick up the warrant and get on the road. As it is, we'll be fighting rush-hour traffic."

"We'll have to take two cars," Derek informed him. "My SWAT gear fills my entire trunk, and my backseat is loaded with boxes of personal stuff I've been meaning to clean out."

"Not a problem. My trunk's jammed, too, between my firearms bag, vest, shotgun, and MP5, plus all the changes of clothes I keep in there for undercover work."

Derek's brows shot up. "You still carry a Remington and MP5?"

Rich's lips twitched. "I may be a decade older than you, and no longer on SWAT, but I'm in better shape than you are," he retorted. "I was doing Major Theft and Enhanced SWAT when you were still in high school using Clearasil. Oh, and remember, I'm a former marine. You're just a former Army Ranger-what we call a marine wannabe."

"My mistake." Derek snapped off a mock salute. "Didn't mean to insult your abilities. Although when we have more time, I plan to challenge you over that snide remark. Loser buys dinner, drinks, and cigars."

"Make that two steak dinners, drinks, and cigars. You already owe me one. I'll be glad to relieve you of another. So bring your wallet and you're on." Humor faded as Rich's mind returned to the matter at hand. "Time to head out. I'll follow you and Sloane."

"That's a given." Derek couldn't help it. Rich had set himself up for this one. "Rangers lead the way."

A half hour later, with the sun setting behind them, the two cars were en route to East Hampton, search warrant in hand.

As Derek drove, Sloane contemplated the intriguing pattern that had emerged during her research.

There was a distinct correlation between the dates of Cindy's recent c.o.c.ktail party appearances and the equally recent burglaries carried out by the Albanian art-theft team. In addition, every one of the burglary victims had been a guest at the c.o.c.ktail party Cindy had attended just before their homes were burglarized, and, from the specifics Sloane had acquired from the follow-up calls she'd just made, they had spent time chatting with Cindy about potential renovations to their homes and the existing layouts.

Interestingly, not one of the hosts and hostesses' apartments had been robbed, even though there was a wealth of valuable paintings in each of their homes. Cindy was far too smart to be so obvious.

Timetables were lining up. Sequences of events were making more and more sense. And ultimate connections, and conclusions, were being drawn.

"You're awfully quiet," Derek commented. "Are you concentrating on your notes, or worrying about what we'll find at Wallace's place?"

Sloane looked up. "Honestly? I've laid out what I think is an ingenious addition to Johnny Liu's plan. I'll give you the details later, and the bottom line now. Short and sweet-Cindy is scoping out homes to rob, the Black Eagles are carrying out the crimes, and Peggy is forging copies of the stolen paintings. It's all being shipped to China, and Johnny Liu is selling them and making a huge profit. My guess from what I've learned hearing my dad talk about the art dealing world? Liu is selling the forgeries on the open market, and the originals to private collectors-quietly and secretly."

"Getting paid twice, along with the security of knowing that the valuable original will never see the light of day. And even if it does, and it's identified, there'll be no trail leading back to him." Derek let out an admiring whistle. "Smart plan. Smarter a.n.a.lysis. Great work."

A half smile. "I aim to please." The smile vanished. "The one thing I'm missing, which is the most important part, is how to turn this theory into enough probable cause to get our warrant to search Cindy's place. But I'm working on it."

She glanced around, tensing as she realized they were nearing their destination. "As for your question about Wallace, I'm not looking forward to what we might find at his house. But I'll deal with it.

There's no choice. Although I still can't figure out his motive. Liquidating his a.s.sets to buy stolen paintings? It just doesn't fit."

"I can't disagree with you." Derek turned onto Wallace's street. "I'm hoping we'll find answers."

They maneuvered down the long winding driveway, Rich directly behind them. As Sloane had predicted, Wallace's BMW wasn't in the driveway or the garage.

Still, they gave a procedural knock on the front door.

"FBI," Derek called out. "We have a warrant to search your house." A pause, then a second knock, this one louder than the first. "Johnson, it's Agent Derek Parker of the FBI. If you're in there, open the door."

No movement or reply.

Derek gave Sloane a terse nod.

She took out her parents' key and opened the door. The rhythmic, warning beeps of the burglar alarm sounded, and Sloane punched in the code her mother had given her. The beeping stopped, telling them that there'd be no tripping the alarm.

The foyer was dark.

Rich flipped on the light just inside the door. Automatically, Derek pulled out his pistol, raising it in a defensive motion.

"He's not home," Sloane stated tonelessly. "And he wouldn't know how to hold a gun, much less fire it."

"It's procedure, Sloane," Derek replied. "You know that as well as I do. This manor is way too big to a.s.sume no one's here just because the car is missing and Wallace didn't answer the door. As soon as we're sure all's clear, I'll holster my weapon."

Sloane nodded.

"Rich, you and Sloane start looking around," Derek instructed. "I'll cover you."

They made their way through the foyer and stepped down into the sunken living room. Sloane paused, reaching over to slide up the light dimmer until the room was illuminated enough to make out everything in it.

The first object they saw was the painting of the little Chinese girl. Wallace had put it on an easel just inside the room, so the eye would be drawn directly to it.

"That's beautiful," Sloane murmured, approaching the painting and studying the innocent quality of the little girl.

"It should be," Rich responded drily, walking up close to the painting and studying the details of its design and frame. "It's a costly painting, created by a highly successful Chinese artist. It was stolen from a private collector in Beijing six months ago."

Sloane's head jerked toward Rich. "Stolen?"

He nodded. "So we've already got grounds for Wallace's arrest."

"What we've got is grounds for that second search warrant," Sloane corrected him. "Wallace didn't steal or buy this painting. He told me that Cindy gave it to him as a thank-you gift from her and her uncle."

Derek had already flipped open his phone. "I'll call Jeff and have him get started on the warrant right away. I don't want to give Cindy Liu an extra minute to clear out any evidence she's hiding at her apartment. If we can tie this stolen painting to Johnny Liu, it will be a real coup."

"It'll get you the warrant. But it won't get you Liu," Rich apprised him. "He'll deny knowing it was stolen property when he bought it. He's probably already fabricated a paper trail to make the provenance as murky as possible."

"Plus, he'd never send us here if he knew we'd find something to use against him or his niece,"

Sloane added. "But right now, I'll settle for the warrant."

"You'll have it." Derek called Jeff and set the wheels in motion.

After that, Sloane, Rich, and Derek made their way through the seven-thousand-square-foot manor, room by room. The starkness of each room revealed a man whose emptiness had consumed him.

The furniture was minimal, the accents nil. Any remaining s.p.a.ce that was richly decorated and highlighted with complementary colors was clearly the work of Beatrice's elite European interior designer, and had been done ages ago.

The one bedroom that emanated personal warmth and a sense of light and life was, without question, Sophie's. Painted a soft pastel pink, it had ruffled white curtains at the windows and a matching bedspread on the four-poster bed. The bed and one entire wall was filled with dolls and stuffed animals, and the dresser held a DVD player, a color TV, and a lineup of Disney and other family-oriented DVDs. The way the room was arranged, the exact lineup of toys and movies, told Sloane that, other than keeping the room immaculate, Wallace hadn't changed a thing since Sophie's death.

She felt a lump in her throat as she turned away.

"Let's move on" was all she said.

Exploring the mult.i.tude of rooms took an inordinate amount of time. But even though the doors were shut, none of them was locked, not even Wallace's bedroom, which was masculine but minimal-a place to sleep but not to live.

They checked the bas.e.m.e.nt, which would be an obvious choice, but it was nothing more than a storage room. Ditto with the attic. They checked the wine cellar, which was stocked only with bottles of fine wine. They even checked the garage, which had two additional pricey sedans in it, but no paintings.

"Do you think Liu was lying?" Sloane asked.

"No." Rich shook his head. "There'd be no point. Besides, if Johnson's collection is not only hidden but also extensive, I haven't seen a room yet that would fit the bill as a gallery."

"So it's time to play Nancy Drew: The Hidden Staircase," Sloane murmured. "I'd suggest we start looking for places in the main section of the house that might lead to an inconspicuous stairway.

Maybe an area with wood panels, where a doorway made of the same wood would blend in and go unnoticed."

"There are wood panels in the breakfast room, the den, and the media room," Derek reported.

"Fine. Let's each of us take one of those rooms and explore it inch by inch." Rich jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. "I'll take the breakfast room. It forms an L-shape with the kitchen, but it juts out to the rear, so it's not visible to arriving guests. It's also a place where Wallace would probably spend time when he was here-reading the paper, eating his meals."

"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 alb.u.ms. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 alb.u.m, 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 s.h.i.t," 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 Ca.s.satt-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 b.u.t.terflies.

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 bour-bon, a lowball gla.s.s, 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 hon- or, 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 Ca.s.satt, 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. G.o.d, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Ca.s.satt over here and that Miro 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."