He was paralyzed with shock and worry.
He’d walked into a Chinatown restaurant to meet his partners, men who also happened to be his oldest friends. It wasn’t a social dinner. It was a strategy session. All their necks were on the line—even the two of them who hadn’t been at the crime scene—and it had been crucial that they nail down the details of the story they’d be giving to the FBI during their individual interrogations. No hesitations. No deviations. It was the only way.
Matthew had arrived late and on edge.
But he’d left panicked, punched in the gut with the very basis for this meeting, and sucked into a memory he’d long since buried—or had tried to. Suddenly, the past was the present. No. Worse. Because now what he feared for was his life.
He’d stepped out for a smoke. The Mercedes had pulled up to the curb, parking directly in front of the Cadillac Escalade, not fifteen feet from where Matthew stood. Two Mediterranean guys, who looked like thugs and were built like linebackers, had gotten out of the Escalade and waited on the sidewalk as the driver of the Mercedes, burly and Asian, hurried around to open the back door for his passenger.
The man had emerged, emanating power, despite being dwarfed in size by the linebackers. He’d greeted them with a nod, waited for his driver—who was clearly a bodyguard—to be glued to his side, and then led the way, keeping his head down as he walked.
He raised it just as he reached Matthew. He stopped. A long moment of eye contact. The recognition had been mutual and indisputable.
It was more than enough to tell Matthew he was living on borrowed time.
He was barely aware of greeting the doorman at his building or entering the high-rise on York Avenue and Eighty-second Street. On autopilot, he summoned the elevator, then rode upstairs as he berated himself for being a prisoner to his own stupidity.
The elevator doors slid open, and he headed toward the apartment. Never had he needed a drink more than he did right now.
He unlocked the front door and flipped on the light as he stepped inside. His gaze swept the living area, and he froze in his tracks.
The place was trashed, furniture shoved aside, empty recesses left where the flat-screen TV and entertainment center had been. Kitchen drawers were dumped upside down, minus all the unique Art Deco silverware they’d contained. Two handcrafted sculptures that Matthew had bartered for in Thailand were missing, as was the Monet that had hung over the sofa, and the one-of-a-kind ivory chess set he’d bought in India. And one of Rosalyn’s diamond stud earrings was lying in the corner, clearly having been dropped. That meant they’d been in their bedroom and cleaned out her jewelry box.
None of that meant jack. It was the other painting. That’s why they’d come. The rest was just bonus. They’d broken in because of the painting.
Not the Monet. It was one of his lesser known works, not one of his masterpieces. But the Rothberg. Not the painting itself, but its paperwork. That was what was invaluable. And timely. Especially after Matthew’s encounter tonight.
He flung down the portfolio he’d been holding and raced to his office—where he’d find his answer.
He found a lot more than that.
Rosalyn was crumpled on her side in a corner of the room. She was bound to a toppled chair—hands and feet—and her head was half-covered by a cloth sack. One of the heavy wooden bookends he kept on his mantle lay beside her. A pool of blood was oozing from inside the sack, staining the Oriental rug beneath his wife’s head. She wasn’t moving. Her unnatural stillness was terrifying.
“Roz.” Wild with panic, Matthew dashed over, squatting down and easing the sack off her head, dreading what he’d find.
She was breathing. He released his own breath when he saw that. Thank God. She was alive. The shallow rise and fall of her breasts confirmed it. So did the thready but definite pulse at her wrist.
To hell with the Rothberg.
He pulled the rag out of her mouth and untied her wrists and ankles, scrutinizing her as he did. There were nasty gashes just above her ear where the blood was seeping from. Whoever had done this had struck her at least twice with the bookend. Hard.
“Roz!” Matthew gripped her shoulders and shook her, realizing he was being an ass. He shouldn’t be jarring her, shouldn’t be wasting precious seconds before calling 911. But he needed a sign, any sign—a word, a flicker of recognition—anything that told him she was okay.
He got both.
After his second “Roz! Honey, can you hear me?” she cracked open her eyes.
“Matthew?” she managed, blinking up at him. She stirred, then moaned, sinking back into the carpet and squeezing her eyes shut at the pain.
“Don’t talk. Don’t move. I’ll get help. It’ll be okay.” Matthew knew he was reassuring himself more than his wife, who’d slipped back into unconsciousness.
Groping in his jacket pocket, he snatched his cell phone and punched in 911.
“This is Matthew Burbank,” he announced the instant the emergency operator answered. “I live at 500 East Eighty-second, at the corner of York. Apartment 9B. My home’s been broken into. My wife is hurt. I need an ambulance—fast.” His gaze was darting around, taking in the wreck of his office as he spoke. “She was struck on the head. At least twice. I don’t know how bad it is. She’s bleeding, but she’s alive. Please…hurry.” Dazed, he supplied the other customary answers, then hung up.
He forced himself to scan the room, taking in the ransacked drawers of his myriad file cabinets. Even though he didn’t label the cabinets themselves, he had a system, and he knew which cabinets were which. So he knew exactly where to direct his scrutiny. The cabinet that was thoroughly trashed, with a specific drawer pulled out to the max, was the one holding his pre-electronic business records of promising modern artists.
Neatly placed across the open drawer was a now-empty file folder. No surprise as to which one. A. Rothberg’s Dead or Alive was printed on the tab. And resting on top of the folder like some kind of menacing paperweight was a fortune cookie. He picked it up. The fortune was sticking out from inside the cookie. Matthew eased it free.