Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

“Yesterday. You and Mom were unavailable, so I stuck with an impersonal list. I felt I should talk to you before I went any further. This is bound to be uncomfortable for you. No matter how tactful I am, I’m bound to piss off some people with my questions.”

“I don’t really give a damn.” Rosalyn had already stood up and used her good arm to grab a pad and pen. “I piss people off every day. And that’s just by doing my job. This is a lot more serious than negotiating a book deal. I was nearly killed. If our neighbors and the building staff can’t deal with your probing, then screw them.”

“I agree,” Matthew concurred instantly.

“Then that’s settled.” Rosalyn pulled her chair close to Matthew’s and put the pad and pen on the table in front of him. “It’s easier for you to write. We’ll break this down by categories: neighbors, service people, building staff. That’ll make it easier for Sloane.”

“That would be great, thanks.” Sloane noticed that her mother didn’t mention friends or acquaintances in her breakdown list. That meant she wasn’t even thinking in that direction. If she was, she would have confronted Sloane head-on. Maybe it was better that way. Let her parents focus on the path she’d planned on them taking anyway. Later, if it came down to it, she’d hit them with the ugly possibility that one of their friends—or partners—was the accomplice they were seeking.

If it came down to it.

Sloane extracted a few sheets of paper from her tote bag. “The FBI faxed me a copy of the police report. It details all the people they interviewed after the break-in. Take a look at it, see who’s applicable, and I’ll start with them while you write up your list.”

“We will.” Curbing his apprehension, Matthew took the police report and glanced over it. “As far as I’m concerned, you can talk to all these people. Roz?” He showed the report to his wife.

She nodded. “Go for it.”

“Okay.” Sloane took back the list and headed for the front door. “I’ll check back in a little while.”

Armed with a handful of people to interview, Sloane took the elevator down to the lobby. Might as well start on the ground level and work her way up. She stepped outside to talk to the doorman, and winced when she saw who was on duty. Bernie Raskin. This was going to be tough. Given that her parents had sublet their apartment during their short-term retirement, and moved right back in when they returned, Sloane had known Bernie for a decade. He was a gentle, polite sweetheart of a guy, who was always smiling and never had a bad word to say about anyone. Sloane could no more picture him aiding and abetting than she could a boy scout.

Regardless, she couldn’t exclude anyone. The good news was that Bernie hadn’t been on duty the night of the burglary. So she wouldn’t be impugning his character with her questions. On the other hand, he had a tight friendship with the other three doormen who manned the entranceway on a rotating basis. He was bound to resent any implication Sloane made that any of them might be guilty of this.

Well, she’d known this wasn’t going to be fun. Nevertheless, it had to be done.

She took a deep breath and approached Bernie.

Diagonally across the street, eating a hot dog and ostensibly scanning a college textbook, was a young Asian man. He blended right in with the pedestrian traffic, looking like every other New York college student. Except that on his right arm, concealed beneath his baggy army jacket, was a fiery Red Dragon tattoo.

Sitting against a tree, he was careful to keep his distance so he wouldn’t be spotted by whatever security the FBI had guarding the place. At the same time, he had a bird’s-eye view of Matthew Burbank’s apartment building—and his daughter.

She’d been there for over an hour, he noted, biting into his hot dog and watching her exit the building and walk over to the doorman. Adjusting his Yankee hat, he focused in on the exchange. It started casually enough, but got real heavy real fast. The doorman was pissed, that was for sure. He stiffened up and took a step back, whipping his head from side to side in a way that said “no friggin’ way” as clearly as if he’d shouted the words across the street. As Burbank’s daughter continued to press her point, he stopped talking altogether, shutting her down with an emphatic gesture, his hand slicing the air with absolute, dismissive conviction.

Lucky for her that her interrogation session had gone south in a hurry. It had better stay that way.

Because if the Dai Lo heard otherwise, she wouldn’t be around much longer.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Peggy Sun took a few steps back to scrutinize her initial handiwork.

In her mind, the canvas was still primarily bare. The lush green background was well under way, in both color and texture. But the little girl, the details of her features, the fluidity of her motion—all that was yet to be captured and re-created.

A contemporary art piece would have been far easier to copy under these tight time parameters. With its broader strokes and more abstract concepts, contemporary art was more forgiving in its replication. And the process moved quickly. But a painting like this—detailed, rich with specific character expression, individualistic traits, and movement—it was Impressionism at its best, and a very tall order to replicate. At 13.5 by 10.5 inches, it was one of Renoir’s smaller paintings. Also one of his lesser known—and therefore less widely recognized. But Peggy approached her job as if she were copying La Lecture, the breathtaking depiction of two young girls studying at their desk that was currently hanging in the Louvre and was scrutinized on a daily basis by some of the most discerning art connoisseurs in the world.

Totally immersed in her craft, Peggy didn’t hear Cindy come upstairs to the loft. Tucked away on the apartment’s second floor and reachable only by an inconspicuous back staircase, the loft was an artist’s haven. Peggy did all her work there, both for the solitude that inspired creativity and the privacy that ensured no intruders.

“Incr

edible replica,” Cindy praised as she rounded the top of the staircase and caught a glimpse of Peggy’s canvas.

“Partial replica,” her friend corrected, still studying what she’d painted thus far. “It’s still very much a work in progress. And Renoir? It’s humbling to try to emulate that level of genius.”

Cindy shook her head, an expression of sheer disbelief crossing her face. “You’re a genius yourself. Every brushstroke is like a caress. Watching you paint is watching a love scene unfold.”

“Thank you,” Peggy replied with simple gratitude. “I hope I can live up to your uncle’s expectations.”

“You always do.” Balancing the heavy vase she was carrying, Cindy moved closer, taking in the astonishing similarities between the original and Peggy’s emerging forgery. “I know how disappointed you were that you only got one of the two Renoirs to copy. But, as we both know, the other original was sold—at an exorbitant price. Especially considering it’s never going to be seen.”