There were three or four NYPD detectives at work, and CSI was inside, gathering evidence and examining the room with a fine-tooth comb.
“Special Agent Parker, FBI.” Derek flashed his ID to the first detective he ran into. “What’s going on?”
The detective glanced at Derek’s ID and blinked in surprise. “Detective Hill, Midtown North,” he identified himself. “Why was the FBI called in? It looks like we’ve got a routine homicide here.”
“Not so routine.” A second detective corrected his partner as he ducked out from under the tape and stepped into the hall. “The victim was pummeled with bullets. The spray pattern identifies the weapon as an automatic.” He turned to Derek. “Agent Parker, you said? I’m Detective Kramer.”
“Kramer.” Derek shook his hand. “I’m not here to step on your toes. It’s likely this homicide is part of an FBI investigation. If not, the case is all yours.”
“I’m not worried.” As a seasoned NYPD detective, Kramer waved away Derek’s clarification. “The victim’s name was Philip Leary. An accountant and financial adviser. Looks like he was working all night—or planned to. According to the M.E., the time of death was between three and five a.m. The whole thing must have happened in seconds. The victim barely had time to look up. His door was kicked in. The killers opened fire from the doorway, probably using silencers. Based on the angles of penetration, there were two shooters. And one of them was a psycho besides being a killer. He choked the victim with a piano wire, so hard it sliced open his neck. And he did it posthumously.”
Derek recognized the calling card. “Was anything taken?” he asked.
“Not that we can tell so far. We’ve only been on the scene for an hour. The call came into the precinct at six-ten. A couple of guys from the early morning cleaning crew found him. They were smart enough not to touch anything.” Kramer’s forehead creased in thought. “Personally, I’d love to know why two guys with automatic weapons would murder an average accountant, and then choke the hell out of him afterward.”
“Yeah, so would I.”
It was midmorning when Derek called Sloane. He knew she didn’t normally listen to the local news, but he wanted to get to her just in case.
She was in the backyard, doing major damage to her archery target while racking her brain trying to think of ways to find Meili’s American lover, when her phone rang.
She was fully aware of where Derek was, and with whom, as well as what he hoped to accomplish. Quickly, she put down her archery equipment and flipped open her phone.
“Hi. Any news?” she asked.
“Where are you?” Derek answered her question with one of his own.
Something about Derek’s tone formed a knot in Sloane’s stomach. “In the backyard. On the archery course. Why?”
“Because I have some tough news. I wanted to make sure you were alone when I shared it with you. Especially since you’ll want to be the one who tells your father.”
“Okay.”
Derek didn’t try to sugarcoat it. There was no way to cushion this kind of blow.
“Phil Leary was killed last night in his office. Some time between three and five a.m., a couple of guys kicked in his office door and shot him with automatic weapons. After that, he was choked with a piano wire. I’ve been with the Midtown North detectives and my squad the whole morning.”
“Oh God.” Sloane sank down on the grass. “Do we know who ordered the hit?”
“All signs point to that bookie of Phil’s I was trying to hunt down. Name’s Ardian Sava. As it turns out, he’s part of an Albanian crime syndicate in the Bronx. With regard to specific evidence linking him to the murder, Phil’s gambling records were found in a locked drawer in his desk. The numbers showed he owed Sava over a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. There was a scribbled note in Phil’s pocket, written in Sava’s hand, threatening Phil if he didn’t pay up. And there was a money clip just inside the office door, which, it turns out, belonged to Sava. He must have dropped it when he and his friend broke in. It had his fingerprints all over it.”
“That sounds a little too tidy,” Sloane managed, her voice quivering a bit. “Motive, means, and opportunity, all neatly at the crime scene.”
“Yeah, isn’t it? Anyway, we tracked Sava down. He was in his apartment, asleep. It took him a good five minutes to figure out what we were talking about. When he did, he freaked out and started shouting in half-Albanian, half-English, that he was innocent and that he was being framed. The cops brought him in for questioning. He was more than willing to talk, once he realized how bad his ass was on the line.”
“And?”
“And the case is now officially ours. Take a guess who paid Sava off to make sure Phil’s gambling debts multiplied big-time by giving him more bad tips than good—and on the good ones, shaving the point spread so that Phil’s losses far exceeded his wins?”
“Xiao Long,” Sloane replied woodenly.
“You got it. Not that I needed the proof. The whole posthumous choking with a piano string until the victim’s neck is sliced open is Xiao’s trademark. He doesn’t get his hands dirty too often. But when he does, he loves his job. And he takes great pride in letting us know it.”
“The man’s a sociopath.”
“No arguments there.”
Sloane lowered her head, rubbing her temples with one hand while she processed everything she’d just learned. “Derek, this is a vendetta, pure and simple. My father and his partners are all being targeted by Xiao. But why? Nut job or not, this can’t all be a plot to shut them up about what they saw in Hong Kong. It doesn’t make sense, especially after fourteen years have passed.”