That’s where he’d come in.
He’d arrived at Wallace’s gallery when the cocktail hour was in full swing. He’d glanced around the room, spied Cindy Liu—and stopped dead in his tracks. Talk about a blast from the past. She was the spitting image of that young woman Meili, who had been Wallace’s heart and soul. Older and more refined, of course, plus educated and business savvy.
Still, the resemblance was astounding. And the timing couldn’t be better. This was just what Wallace needed to distract him from the rapid downward spiral his life was taking. It might keep him from living in the past. It might even bring a modicum of happiness back into his life.
Leo scrutinized the expression on Wallace’s face as his gaze followed his protégé around the room. Wallace was watching Cindy. But he was seeing Meili. It was there in his eyes, in his body language. Wallace might not be aware of its intensity. But Leo was. And it was palpable.
Leo picked up Cindy’s business card while scanning her design samples. There was no missing her natural flair and talent. Not to mention her people skills, he noted, watching as she charmed and impressed all the guests. Yes, he could definitely foresee a long and lucrative business arrangement between himself and Ms. Liu.
And an equally long and promising personal relationship between her and Wallace.
This was good news. Three projects for Leo to work on. Approaching Cindy with his business plan. Using the time when he was redesigning Sloane’s cottage to make sure Derek was the right man for her, while making equally sure he wasn’t chasing down leads that would cause problems for the art partnership.
And urging things along for Wallace and Cindy. For Wallace’s sake. And for all their sakes.
Leo felt a great sense of purpose as he glanced at the phone number on Cindy Liu’s business card. His own happy ending might be lost forever. But it would give him great joy to see Wallace find his.
Sloane was at her parents’ apartment first thing in the morning.
They’d gotten her voice mail, so they were both there, waiting to hear what was on her mind. The FBI agent assigned to them that morning excused himself and went into the other room.
Over the muffins and coffee Sloane had picked up, she filled her parents in.
Matthew stopped chewing, and put down his piece of muffin. “You think one of our neighbors helped
rob the apartment?”
“That’s not what I said.” Sloane took a fortifying sip of coffee. “I said that it’s virtually impossible for the thugs who broke in here to have done so without help. The other burglaries in the neighborhood were different. There was inside knowledge of the security systems. That’s not true in your case. So someone either used a key to let the thieves in, or gave them access to get in on their own.”
“Gave them access—you mean this person was just waiting inside our apartment and let them in?”
“Or gave them a key to get in on their own.” Sloane paused, choosing her words carefully. Not only did she not want to freak out her parents any more than she already had, but she also was limited in what she could tell them.
“The other red flag is the amount of time the thieves spent here, and how they spent it,” she said. “Based on the police report, they were only here about twenty minutes, and Mom walked in less than five minutes after they did.” Sloane turned to her mother. “According to your recollections, they went straight to Dad’s office. They found the Rothberg file pretty fast—no easy task, given his filing system. And they saved the rest—trashing his office, ripping off your valuables—until the end. So, other than your unexpected interruption, I’d say they had the whole burglary well planned and well timed.”
Rosalyn Burbank’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s what our impromptu reenactment was all about. You’re saying that whoever helped the burglars knew the layout of the apartment, specifically where your father’s office is.”
“His office and his files, yes.” Sloane looked from one of her parents to the other. “I need you to compile a list of everyone—neighbors, building employees, acquaintances, you name it—who have a key to this place.”
With a muttered oath, Matthew reached for his pack of cigarettes and tapped it until he could extract one. “That murderer paid someone off so his thugs could get in here, steal my records, and threaten me.” Hands shaking, Matthew put the cigarette between his lips and lit it, inhaling deeply. “Hell, why stop there? What if that same someone was paid off to get their hands on your mother’s schedule? What if they found out when her day and night security guys changed shifts so they could slip in their muscle to kidnap and kill her?”
“Dad, you’re overreacting,” Sloane said in an even tone. Not that what he’d just said hadn’t occurred to her. It had. But Xiao Long had enough eyes and ears of his own to get that information. And, whenever possible, he’d much rather rely on his own Red Dragons than involve a stranger.
“Am I?” Matthew demanded.
“Yes. Gaining access to your apartment is one thing. Setting up a kidnapping and murder like the KGB is something entirely different. Let’s not blow things out of proportion.”
“Blow things out of proportion?” Matthew stared at his daughter, sheer panic in his eyes. “How much worse can things get?”
“Matthew, put out the cigarette,” Rosalyn said in a firm, no-nonsense tone. “Destroying your lungs isn’t going to make this go away.”
Sloane jumped on that. “I thought you were cutting down,” she grilled her father.
“I was. Until this nightmare started.” Matthew ignored his wife’s demand and took another long drag of his cigarette. “Does it really matter anymore? We live like prisoners, with FBI agents in our home and guarding us wherever we go. We’re still part of the Bureau’s investigation, one that you can’t talk about, but I’m sure it runs deeper than either your mother or I know. We’re dealing with a killer who almost murdered your mother, and who’ll do whatever he has to to protect himself. And now we’re hearing that someone we know is in on this, and had a hand in helping with the break-in. Hell, maybe for a little extra cash, they’ll let themselves into our apartment one night and finish us off.”
“Stop it, Dad.” Sloane yanked the cigarette out of his hand and stubbed it out, tossing the butt in the ashtray. “No one’s getting into this apartment, not with the FBI here. No one’s going to hurt you or Mom. And no one’s going to get away with this. I’ll make sure of that. Now please, start compiling that list. And you can leave out the apartment’s architect, builder, and real estate agent, along with the co-op office. The floor plans they have are generic, and none of them has a key to your apartment.”
“So you already got started on this,” Matthew said.