Sloane fell silent. She’d never seen her father like this. It’s not that he was a rock. He wasn’t. But he’d always been the positive force in the family, the extraverted optimist. Even though her mother was the family powerhouse—‘the Barracuda,’ as she was known in the publishing world—there was a quality about her father that made him her mother’s stabilizing foundation. Sloane felt the same way. She’d inherited her aggressive nature from her mother, and it was her father who made things right. He loved life, and life loved him. To see him fall apart this way—albeit for a very real and terrifying reason—made Sloane feel ill. Ill and responsible for finding a solution to this ordeal.
For a long moment, she desperately tried to separate the daughter in her from the professional. It was a pretty tall order. Life-threatening danger was part of her world, not theirs. She was a trained FBI agent. She was also an expert in Krav Maga—“contact combat,” as it translated into English—a self-defense technique so forceful and effective that it was used by the Israeli Defense Forces. Plus, she was thirty-one years old. Her parents were in their late fifties. She was young, strong, and vital—mentally, physically, and psychologically.
And her parents?
They were regular people with regular lives. They’d lived and worked in Manhattan. Two years ago, they’d tried retirement. They’d bought a condo in Florida and taken up golf. That lifestyle didn’t last long. They’d both missed the New York scene. So they’d moved back.
To this.
“Sloane?” her father prompted, seeking something she wasn’t sure she could provide.
She stared straight ahead, keeping her emotion well in check. “You and Mom are going to need protection.”
“Your mother doesn’t know anything about this. She thinks the break-in was just a random burglary.”
“Then it’s time you told her. It’s her life, too. This isn’t a secret you can keep anymore.”
“I shouldn’t have kept it at all. I just wanted to forget.”
“Yes, well, forgetting doesn’t work. Neither does hiding things from law enforcement. The cops are questioning Mom about the break-in. The Bureau is investigating the art theft. How long do you think it’s going to take before they connect the two?”
“There’s no reason they ever should—unless you tell them.” Her father’s barb found its mark. “As far as the FBI knows, my investment group and I are persons of interest. Nothing more. I already told you there are huge gaps in the provenance of Dead or Alive. Anyone who’s smart enough to kill and whose actions are so deliberate is smart enough to destroy any paper trail that leads to him. That leaves things wide open, with no proof of what we saw. We’re not even sure if we sold a fake or an original. How much more guilty can we look?”
“So when the FBI interviews you, you plan to leave out the part about witnessing the murder. Oh,” she added, holding up the file and fortune cookie. “And now you’re withholding physical evidence.”
“It’s the only way. Especially after what happened tonight. If I open my mouth, I’ll be the subject of an investigation, and our family will be the target of a murderer. I won’t do it. Robberies happen every day of the week. No one’s going to connect the break-in to the Rothberg. It’s not like I owned the painting.” Matthew paused, looking like a cornered rat. “Did I do the right thing by calling you? Or are you going to go to the FBI? They’re your former employer. I’m your father. My future—our whole family’s future—is in your hands.”
There it was, pure and simple, laid out in the most basic way possible.
She’d tried. She’d failed. The whole situation sucked. But, in the end, there was no choice to make.
She had to protect her family.
“I have contacts in the private security sector. I’ll call them.”
Stark relief flashed across Matthew’s face. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Gut instinct tells me I’m not doing you any favors. But I won’t betray you. Let’s just hope my instincts are wrong, and we’re not making things worse.” Sloane paused, drawing a sharp breath. “In any case, like I said, I have contacts. They’ll keep an eye on the apartment—and more important, on you and Mom.”
“And you?”
“I can take care of myself. Besides, I doubt any criminal would mess with me. Your murderer’s research must have revealed my credentials—and my connection to the FBI. The last thing he’d want is to open that door. Things might get ugly.”
“You’re tough, Sloane, but you have your vulnerabilities,” Matthew reminded her quietly.
Automatically, Sloane glanced down at her right hand. The sight wasn’t pretty. The scars from the knife assault, and the three successive surgeries performed
to save her life and her hand, were still prominent.
Her injury was her Achilles’ heel. Everyone who knew her knew that.
“The murderer doesn’t have me in his sights,” she told her father. “He has you. As for Mom, the good news is that she didn’t see your killer’s hired hands. So I’m less worried about her—unless they decide to use her as leverage against you. That’s why I want bodyguards on you both.” Sloane flipped open her cell phone. “I’ll make arrangements right away. After that, I want to go inside and see Mom. Oh, and I’ll spend the next few days in the city, so I can be close by and keep an eye on you.”
“What are you going to tell Derek?” Her father asked the million-dollar question.
A heartbeat of a pause. “Whatever the cops tell me. Nothing more.”
CHAPTER FOUR