“That’s what we thought. We soon found out otherwise.” Matthew drew a ragged breath. “The office door was open. We let ourselves in. Cai Wen was lying on the floor. Half his head had been blown away, and blood was everywhere. There was never any doubt he was dead. And the only ones at the scene were the three of us—all Americans. We had to get away—fast. We had families, lives to protect. So we took off. We agreed never to discuss it again.”
Sloane was processing this nightmare as quickly as she could. “Obviously something happened to reverse your decision.”
“The FBI
happened. Several months ago, two copies of Rothberg’s Dead or Alive appeared on the U.S. art scene—both presumably authentic. One was up for auction at Sotheby’s. The other showed up in Christie’s catalog before they learned about the discrepancy and pulled it.”
“I remember reading about this in the paper,” Sloane said, her eyes narrowing. “Although I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I had no idea any of this affected you. I take it the Christie’s painting was the forgery.”
“Right. The Sotheby’s painting was authenticated.”
“And which was the painting you sold?”
“You tell me. There are gaping holes in the provenance of both paintings. They changed hands numerous times. Receipts are missing, sales went undocumented. That’s all too typical in my business. So I have no idea if the painting we sold to Cai Wen was genuine. Or if that’s what got him killed. I only know that we believed our painting was authentic and that we had nothing to do with the murder.” Matthew rubbed the back of his neck. “The FBI’s investigation is coming to a head. Each of the guys in my partnership is being interviewed by an agent with the Art Crime Team. I’m up first. Tomorrow.”
“Do they know about the murder?”
“Murders are rare in Hong Kong—then and now. So I doubt it slipped by them. Whether they suspect us of being involved, I don’t know.”
Sloane placed her hand over her father’s. “Tell them the truth.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Sloane’s forehead creased. “You’re not going to be prosecuted for a murder that took place in Hong Kong. Plus, you didn’t do it.”
“But I know who did.”
Sloane went very still. “You’d better explain.”
“I don’t know his name. But I saw his face—clearly. We all did. It was early evening. The sun was just starting to set. There was more than enough light. Like I said, we thought Cai Wen had turned over the painting to a buyer he’d already secured. It turned out the buyer was a killer.” A pause. “It also turned out he was smart. When news of the forgery got out, he did his homework.”
“Which led him to you.”
“Right.”
“So he knows your investment group sold Cai Wen the painting.”
“He also knows we saw him take it—and under what circumstances. That’s why he had your mother’s and my apartment broken into tonight. It was a threat to keep my mouth shut.” Matthew fumbled in his trench coat’s pocket, pulled out the empty file folder and the fortune cookie, complete with message. “He left me these.”
Sloane glanced over all the items, concentrating on the ominous fortune that had been placed inside the cookie. “What about the rest of your friends? Did they get similar threats?”
“Doubtful. I haven’t gotten any frantic phone calls since I saw them a few hours ago. But that doesn’t surprise me. Even though the killer’s aware that the art investment group had a handful of members, the signature on the bill of sale between us and Cai Wen was mine. Lucky me. I chose that particular opportunity to sign as a member of the partnership.”
“So you’re the only one he could trace.”
“I think so. And it gets worse.” Matthew turned toward his daughter, his eyes filled with fear. “Sloane, he doesn’t just know my name on paper. He saw my face that night. I was never sure. But I am now.”
That was the last thing Sloane wanted to hear. “How?”
“When I met with the guys earlier this evening, it was to coordinate our stories. We had dinner in Chinatown. I stepped outside the restaurant for a cigarette while Ben and Phil were settling the check. A black Mercedes pulled up to the curb where I was standing. The man who got out—it was him. It might be fourteen years later, but I’ll never forget that face. He looks older, but otherwise unchanged. It was definitely him. He had a bodyguard with him, and he met up with two Mediterranean guys who looked like bouncers. But his choice of meeting places was no coincidence. He knew I was there. He’d arranged a ‘chance encounter’ so I could see him, and he could emphasize what I was about to find at home. He was less than five feet away before he raised his head and looked me in the eye. I had no time to think, much less duck back inside the restaurant. Besides, I couldn’t move. It’s like I was frozen in place. Which gave me plenty of time to stare at him. And he definitely knew who I was.”
“Maybe he recognized you from a photo that appeared in one of the articles you’ve written over the years—”
“He remembered me, Sloane,” Matthew interrupted her. “Not from some random photo. From that night. I saw the look in his eyes. It was stark recognition. Only he wasn’t shocked. I was. And he witnessed the full extent of my shock. That was the nail in my coffin. If I’d only had time to hide my reaction…but I didn’t. He realized I could identify him. He’s a killer. I’m a threat. What do you think that adds up to?”
“A dangerous situation.” Sloane raked her fingers through her hair. “Did he speak to you?”
“Not a word. He just stood there for maybe thirty seconds, watching me. Then he passed by with his goons, and they walked into another restaurant. He was like some kind of pack animal letting me know he was about to tear out my throat. And it’s not just me I’m worried about—not anymore. I’m terrified for your mother, for you. Sloane, I don’t know what to do.” Matthew leaned forward, holding his head with unsteady hands.