“That’s why I called you.”
“Anna,” Sloane pressed. “Can you tell me what these men looked like? Did you see their faces?”
“For a few minutes, yes. Both of them from an Asian country. The one who held me was very big and strong. He was wearing a jacket. The other not. He was younger and skinny, with a cap on his head. He had a picture of a dragon on his arm. Red. But not paint.”
“A tattoo.”
Another nod. “A tattoo. Yes.”
Sloane could see how distraught Anna was, so she spoke very gently. “If I got a special police artist to work with you, do you think you could describe the men well enough for him to draw pictures?”
“I can try.” Tears filled Anna’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. I never thought…”
“It’s not your fault.” Sloane reached over and covered Anna’s hand with hers. “You didn’t know. Besides, we owe you our thanks. You’ve just helped us figure out something very important.”
“That’s right,” Rosalyn chimed in. “Mr. Burbank and I are very grateful to you for showing me your key. We’re also terribly sorry about what happened to you.”
“Me? What about you? You were in hospital. Now you have a broken arm. Those men almost killed you. It’s my fault.”
“No, Anna,” Sloane corrected. “It’s the other way around. You were a victim because of my family. Those men hunted you down so they could copy your key to my parents’ apartment. If anything, it’s our fault that you were assaulted.” Squeezing Anna’s hand, she rose. “I’m calling Derek,” she told her mother. “Then we’ll all go down to the Field Office and have a sketch artist do his thing. From Anna’s description, I’ll bet the skinny guy is the one who sliced up my arm. He probably also made a dry run at the apartment beforehand to scope out Dad’s office and take some pictures, so they’d know which file cabinets were where.”
“Yes, and the strong one might be the SOB who almost snapped off my arm and planned to do the same thing to my neck,” Rosalyn replied, already in motion.
“I was thinking the same thing. Thanks for calling me, Mom. You’ve got great instincts. And before I forget, call a locksmith and have your door re-keyed.”
A twinkle lit Rosalyn’s eyes. “I already thought of that. Who do you think you inherited your smarts from?”
Sloane arched a brow. “I plead the fifth.” She flipped open her cell phone. All she could think about was one thing. Thank goodness for this development. Now Derek could call off his dogs.
Ben, Wallace, Leo, and Phil were off the hook.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Daniel Zhang was expecting them.
He met Rich and Derek in a room at the Flushing youth group organization where he’d just finished a class for Chinese-American teens who were recently out of rehab and trying to live drug-free lives.
“Agent Williams. Agent Parker.” Zhang shook each of thei
r hands, speaking in perfect, barely accented English. He was slight, in his midthirties, with an open, friendly demeanor and a kind face. But his eyes were old, conveying the difficulty of his past. “Please, sit down.” He walked over to the circle of chairs he’d set up for class and pulled three of them to the front of the room.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Rich began as they sat down. “Do you prefer Zhang Ming, or Daniel Zhang?”
“Daniel is fine.” Zhang gave him a half smile. “I’ve been in the States for a long time now. Plus, it puts the kids I work with at ease, since most of them have English names.”
“Fine…Daniel,” Rich repeated. “You and I spoke only briefly on the phone. But you understand what we need from you.”
“I do. However, first, I want you to understand that it’s been years since I had any contact with the Fong Triad, or any triad.” It was clear that Zhang wanted to clarify who he’d become, not only to avoid problems with the FBI but also because of the pride he felt for his transition. “My life is very different now. I’m very different now. I was lucky enough to get a fresh start. I want to share that good fortune with the kids I help. Most of them are at crucial turning points in their lives. They need hope, direction, and the knowledge that someone is there for them—someone who’s been where they are and made the kind of changes I made. Someone who’ll offer them the emotional support necessary to make those same changes.”
“What you’re doing is commendable,” Derek replied. Despite his impatience to get the answers they sought, he felt a surge of genuine admiration for this man. “Let me assure you, we have no interest in interfering in your life or making any trouble for you. All we want is the information Special Agent Williams requested when you spoke.”
“About the painting I bought for my Dragon Head.” Zhang gave a be-mused shake of his head. “The girl who sold it to me said it was a Rothberg, that it was worth hundreds of thousands of U.S. dollars, and she was only asking fifty thousand for it. She seemed pretty desperate, and since I had no idea what a Rothberg was, I assumed the offer was a scam. But my Dragon Head told me that Aaron Rothberg was a gifted artist, and that if the painting was genuine, it was as valuable as she claimed. He borrowed the painting and had it authenticated. It was real. So he gave me the money and told me to complete the transaction.”
“Which you did,” Derek ascertained.
Zhang nodded. “I met her at her friend’s apartment and bought the painting. It was months later, when Fong and I heard there was a murder attached to it, that we unloaded the painting—fast. The Dutch guy who bought it didn’t care about its history. He just wanted it, either to keep or to sell. Fong got top dollar for it. And that was that.”
“Tell us about the girl who sold it to you,” Derek asked, leaning forward.