Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

One of those long-standing shops was the Richtner Gallery—a pricey, upscale art gallery that had been located on Main Street in Westhampton for years. The works displayed there varied from paintings by up-and-coming local artists to paintings created by well-known modernists, to paintings considered to be one-of-a-kind masterpieces with seven-figure price tags.

There was no doubt that this gallery was the perfect location for the Black Eagles’ next trial run. And closing time was the perfect hour.

Seven P.M. The browsers were gone. The joggers were home. The dusk was turning to darkness.

Karl Richtner, who’d owned the gallery since it had opened its doors fifteen years ago, was shutting down for the night.

He locked up his register, made sure all the paintings were properly displayed for the morning browsers, and told his assistant to go home.

She gathered up her purse and coat, and headed with him to the front door. As always, Richtner took out his key ring, ready to activate the burglar alarm and lock the door behind them.

It never happened that night.

The four masked gunmen slammed inside, striking Richtner’s forehead with the heavy glass door and nearly knocking him down. He staggered backward, just as his assistant reached for the alarm pad.

“Don’t,” the leader commanded in his accented English, pointing his MP5K at her. “Or I splatter your guts on the floor.”

Both the assistant and Richtner froze.

The leader signaled for his team to get moving.

On his command, two of the other gunmen strode forward, dragged their captives behind the counter, and shoved them to the floor, where they stuffed rags in their mouths and immobilized them with Flex-Cufs. The last gunman rushed by, immediately starting to remove the most valuable paintings from the walls and easels, readying them for transit. A minute later, the rest of the team joined him.

They muttered instructions to one another to expedite the process. It took no time to finish amassing what they wanted. They wrapped the specifically chosen paintings in blankets and made their exit through the back door. The van was waiting, motor running. They stashed their cushioned prizes in the trunk. Then, they jumped inside the vehicle and took off, en route to the docks off Montauk Point.

If this heist was typical of hitting an American target, this U.S. stint was going to yield the easiest cash they’d ever made.

Derek was still at his desk, reading through Rich’s interviews with each of Matthew’s partners, and combining the information there with the data he’d assembled during the day.

He had all the basics on the four men. But those were facts you could read on a résumé or find on the Internet—birth dates, schools attended, degrees earned, jobs held. He’d accessed some public records, learned how much each man had paid for his house or apartment. Nothing suspicious there. He’d found out if and when they’d been married, divorced, or started a family. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. He’d gotten his hands on any police records connected with them. The only ones that had surfaced were the tragic hit-and-run accident in April 2006 that had claimed the life of Wallace Johnson’s five-year-old daughter, and Ben Martino’s DWI misdemeanor, which Rich had already mentioned. The DWI had occurred in December 2004, after a holiday party. Martino had been stopped for weaving between lanes on the West Side Highway. He’d paid a five-hundred-dollar fine and lost his license for six months. Fortunately, no one had been hurt in the incident. But if Martino had a drinking problem, it was worth remembering.

Derek tucked the knowledge away for potential use.

That was it for topical info. Ben Martino’s clothing manufacturing company had been passed on to him by his father, and was obviously surviving the shrinking New York garment center. Phil Leary and Leo Fox didn’t have so much as a parking ticket. Both their businesses had been around for years. And Wallace Johnson was an upright citizen from a wealthy family, whose art galleries were new but well frequented, and he’d become virtually reclusive since his daughter’s death.

Derek had called in a few favors and was waiting for feedback on whether any of their businesses were on shaky ground, or any of their family members were ill or in trouble. He’d love to get specific financial information for all four men, both personal and professional, including bank records showing any abrupt deposits or withdrawals. Phone records would be nice, too, as well as credit card receipts. But he couldn’t get any of those without a court order—and the evidence he had wasn’t strong enough to go for one. Plus, he was reluctant to go that route anyway, since it might alert his suspects to the fact that they were under investigation for more than just the Rothberg sale.

Besides, if any of them was responsible for giving Xiao Long what he needed, it was very possible that no money had exchanged hands. Xiao was a pro. These guys were rank amateurs. One “visit” by Jin Huang, along with a threat to them or their families, and they’d probably cave.

Derek wanted to speak to Rich, to tell him about this latest development and get his opinion on it. Rich had interviewed each of Burbank’s partners, and while none of those interviews had set off warning bells, maybe this new piece of information would jog something in that intuitive mind of his. Maybe he could even think of a good reason to call each of the partners in again, now that they knew Matthew was cooperating with the Bureau, and that Rosalyn had been kidnapped and nearly killed. Maybe they’d be prompted by fear for their own lives. Rich could chat with them, the way he had with Matthew, only this time as an ally—one who was trying to keep them safe—rather than as a threat. Maybe he could finagle the guilty party into letting something slip. No one was better at playing people than Rich.

Derek was grasping, and he knew it. But Sloane wasn’t about to give him anything to go on, and he had to get what he needed without arousing the suspicions of Matthew’s four partners.

Meanwhile, Rich was still tied up on that Armonk art theft. Derek had dropped by his cubicle several times, only to hear Rich on the phone with the Armonk police or Interpol, as they tried to assess whether the Albanian art-crime ring that had hit the European museums was the same one that had robbed Theodore Campbell’s home and killed his butler.

One more try, Derek thought, getting to his feet. If Rich was still buried in his case, the questions about Matthew Burbank’s partners would have to wait until morning.

“Hey,” Rich greeted Derek as he appeared in the entrance to his cubicle. “I know you’ve been pacing around here all day trying to talk to me. Sorry. This Armonk theft and homicide has too many similarities to the string of European museum heists. And if the Black Eagles are here, we have a national and an international open can of worms.” He shoved aside the interview notes he’d taken when he’d spoken to the Campbells. “What’s up?”

“Nothing as global as what you’re working on. But important nonetheless.” Derek explained the theory that Sloane had come to him with and the way their analysis had played out.

“Interesting.” Rich leaned back in his chair, propping one leg on top of the opposite knee. “I take it that you and Sloane differ on who your prime suspects are.”

“No.” Derek shook his head. “What we really differ on is our willingness to pursue those prime suspects. Sloane’s too close to the situation. Her personal feelings are tripping her up. So while she’s talking to her parents’ neighbors and apartment employees, I’m digging up everything I can on the likely candidates.”

“Matthew Burbank’s partners.”

“Exactly.”