Drawn in Blood (Burbank and Parker 2)

“I understand. But I can’t leave yet. There’s more.”

“More?” He stared at her. “How much more can there be?”

“Quite a bit.” Sloane was gripping the water bottle so tightly, the plastic was buckling. “Meili’s family name was Liu. Johnny Liu was her father.”

This time, Wallace jerked backward as if he’d been punched. “What?”

“Johnny Liu. Meili was his only child. That explains her strong resemblance to Cindy. They were cousins. And Wallace, Meili left a suicide note. Her father knows everything—your name, the way your art investment group offered her an absurdly low price for the second Rothberg, the bet you guys made during your poker game, the fact that Meili ended your relationship when you told her about it—everything.”

Wallace had gone so still and was staring so intently into space that Sloane wondered if he was absorbing all her information.

When he spoke, she realized he was, and that he’d been processing everything she’d said and all the ramifications associated with it.

“If Liu’s known all this time, he must despise me. I don’t blame him. I’m not sure I don’t despise myself. But the pretense he’s kept up…”

“It was planned. Liu has spent these past few years obsessed with getting revenge.”

“All our business dealings, the favor he asked of me when it came to Cindy…” A painful pause. “Cindy’s appearance in my life isn’t a coincidence. And the relationship is all a facade. Liu wanted to rub my nose in her resemblance to Meili, and then make sure I relived our break-up as painfully as possible.”

“Cindy and her uncle are very close,” Sloane confirmed softly. “I haven’t confronted her, but my guess is you’re right.”

“I am. The way she said good-bye to me today seemed oddly final, considering we’d just spent the weekend together. And in the car, she apologized for how her priorities would affect us. I assumed she meant her being a workaholic. I told her that I understood, that I’d been there. She averted her gaze and said she doubted that. Now it all makes sense. And that exquisite painting she gave me of the little Chinese girl—she said it was a heartfelt thank-you gift from her uncle and herself. I assumed it was meant to be a tribute to Sophie. Now I know it wasn’t. It was a reminder of Liu’s loss, a way of taunting me about my own, rubbing salt in wounds that will never heal. My precious Sophie. And the unborn child I never even knew existed…”

Sloane saw where this was headed. Wallace’s thoughts were turning in the exact direction she’d feared. Soon he’d come to the logical conclusion about Sophie’s death that would send him into a murderous rage. She had to tell him the truth. She had no choice.

“Wallace, this is even bigger than you realize,” she began. “Liu isn’t just a wealthy entrepreneur. He’s head of the Liu Jian Triad. He has loyal members helping him with this plot to avenge Meili’s death. And that plot doesn’t just involve you, although you’re his prime target. All your partners are on his victim list. He’s slowly destroying each of them because of the slimy way the group did business with Meili, topped off by that ludicrous bet you all made. He’s going for everyone’s jugular—especially yours. Which brings me to Sophie…”

Sloane was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. She was tempted to ignore it, but given the precarious state of the investigation, she couldn’t.

“I have to take this,” she apologized to Wallace.

Vaguely, he nodded. His mind had already returned to processing mode.

“Hello?” Sloane said into the phone.

“Sloane? Thank God you answered. I just got it. It’s a year and a half later, and I just got it. They made sure I got it. I read it three times. Then I saw the Post-it they attached. They’re going to kill her. I’m sick to my stomach. And I don’t know who to call—the police, the FBI. Tell me what to do.”

It was Leo. His voice was tear-clogged. And he was distraught to the point of hysteria.

“Leo, calm down,” Sloane directed. “You’re not making sense. What is it you just got and read, and what Post-it was attached? Who’s going to kill who, and how do you know the information is authentic?” She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “Something’s happened at Leo’s end. I need a few minutes.”

“Take them. I need time to think, anyway.” Wallace crossed over and left the office. He looked ill.

Sloane was just finishing up with Leo, assuring him she’d take immediate action with regard to his situation, when Wallace stormed back into the office. He was positively shaking with rage, out of control in a way Sloane had never seen him.

“A messenger service was here,” he announced, ignoring the phone in her hand. “They delivered these.”

He opened the manila envelope, pulled out the contents, and flung what turned out to be some photos and a newspaper clipping across the desk at Sloane.

She glanced down at them and froze.

The photos were of Ben. Passed out drunk at the wheel of his white Mercedes. His front fender was badly dented. Blood was splattered all over the front grill and hood of the car.

The date stamp on the photos was April 11, 2006. And the newspaper clipping was Sophie’s obituary, dated a few days later.

The nightmare had just exploded into a hellish reality.

“Leo, I’ve got to go,” Sloane said into the phone. “Don’t touch the letter, the Post-it, or the envelope again. I’ll have someone at the FBI pick them up. The Evidence Response Team will check for fingerprints. But we both know who’s responsible. I’ll call you back.”