He’d produced all that with regard to the Rothber
g purchase. What he hadn’t produced was a duplicate receipt for the sale. In fact, he’d produced nothing on the sale whatsoever, allowing Leary’s financial records to stand alone as proof.
Normally, that would be fine, since the buyer would have all the original paperwork. But if what Leary said was true, the absence of a thick file—or any file—on the sale was an anomaly for Burbank. Add to that the fact that their buyer had turned up murdered the day after the transaction, and all sorts of new questions were raised.
Was it possible that Burbank’s group had switched the genuine Rothberg for a fake, and then, when Cai Wen figured it out and confronted them, they’d killed him? Nope. Despite the gaping holes in the provenance of both the genuine and the fake Rothberg, the paper trail of the fake didn’t begin until 1997, when it was sold at an absurdly low price by an amateur collector—now nowhere to be found—to a gallery in Macao. In contrast, Burbank’s art investment group had conducted their transaction with Cai Wen in October 1995.
The next potential scenario was that Burbank, Fox, and Leary had tried to screw Cai Wen, or vice versa, and they’d wound up killing him.
Anything was possible, but if those three men were murderers, then Rich would eat his hat. Aside from Ben Martino’s misdemeanor DWI, none of them had a police record. None of them had brought a lawyer to the interview—not even Matthew Burbank, who had Sloane as free legal counsel. None of them was shrewd enough to realize that having total recall and providing near-identical details of a sale that happened fourteen years ago screamed rehearsed. And none of them was the hotheaded type.
They’d been total wrecks about being questioned by the FBI over a case of art fraud. If they’d killed a man, they would have passed out at Rich’s feet.
Still, there was that discrepancy over Burbank not producing a file on the Rothberg sale.
Rich pulled out his paperwork on Burbank’s interview to double-check. Yup. Memory had served him correctly. Not only hadn’t Burbank produced the comprehensive file Leary had alluded to, he’d never mentioned, much less emphasized, his thorough file-keeping system. And he’d certainly never broached the subject of a duplicate receipt.
This warranted further investigation—along with the proper venue and the element of surprise. It was the only way to catch Burbank off guard, throw him into a panic, and corner him into producing his other files.
Rich picked up the phone and dialed Derek’s number.
It was Derek’s second call of the morning.
Both calls had sucked.
The first one came before dawn, when Jeff called to report that something weird was going on with Xiao Long. He hadn’t been seen in Chinatown for the past two nights, nor had C-6 reported any comings or goings from his house in Long Island or his hangouts in the city. He hadn’t made or received any phone calls. It was as if he’d dropped out of sight. And that couldn’t mean anything good.
Derek’s stomach had clenched as he closed his cell and glanced at Sloane sleeping next to him. The timing of Xiao Long’s disappearance sucked. It made Derek only more suspicious that whatever was going on was somehow linked to the Bureau’s investigation of a connection between Xiao Long and Matthew Burbank.
So much for phone call one.
Derek had just finished his morning workout, during which he’d managed to convince himself that Xiao Long could just as easily be sick in bed as he could be hiding out, planning something sinister or letting the heat die down, when Rich’s call came in.
Afterward, Derek wrapped a towel around his neck and sank down on the bed. He had to think—and he didn’t have a lot of time to do it in. Sloane was out running with the hounds. She’d be back in a few minutes. And by the time she walked in, Derek had to have a plan to keep her busy and out of contact with her parents—at least for the morning.
In other words, he had to manipulate her.
With a muttered oath, Derek tossed the towel into the hamper and went to take a quick shower.
It took very little arm-twisting to persuade Leo Fox to push up their original appointment next week and to drive out to the cottage that morning. He seemed to be chomping at the bit to transform the place into the perfect love nest for Derek and Sloane. As for Sloane, her morning schedule was light, and after the intensity of the last two nights, Derek had no trouble convincing her that he did want to leave his mark on what was now their home—or why. Getting Leo there ASAP seemed like the most natural reaction in the world.
And Derek felt like the biggest SOB arranging it.
Leo arrived armed with stacks of fabric samples, decorating catalogs, and a burst of fanfare.
He was an average-size man with a long, thin face, a sallow complexion, and a shock of black hair. He reminded Derek of Bert from Sesame Street, except more expensively dressed and without the scowl. Leo was all smiles, carrying in his wares, tentatively greeting the hounds—although he drew the line at letting them sniff his samples—and pumping Derek’s hand when Sloane introduced them.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, scrutinizing Derek as subtly as he could—but not so subtly as to escape Derek’s notice. “Let me start out by telling you what a lucky man you are. I’ve known Sloane since she was a precocious little girl who climbed trees and roughhoused with the boys because the girls didn’t play hard enough. She was, and is, beautiful, smart, and afraid of nothing. I hope you can keep up.”
Derek found himself grinning as he pictured a miniature Sloane beating the crap out of the boys. “I can try.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake.” Sloane rolled her eyes. “Derek is a former Army Ranger, Leo. He’s been an FBI agent for a dozen years, and he’s worked every kind of grisly violent crime you can imagine. Believe me, he can keep up. His morning workouts alone would kill me.”
“And your Krav Maga?” Leo inquired politely.
Sloane’s lips twitched. “That would kill him.”
“So you’re evenly matched.” The decorator beamed.