“True.” Rich continued to closely scrutinize the paintings. “I recognize several of these masterpieces as being among those stolen by the Black Eagles at the recent museum heists in Spain and Germany. The Cassatt over here and that Miró belong to the Museo de Arte Moderno. And the portrait of the little girl in a field of wildflowers is a Renoir that was displayed at the Kunsthalle in Munich.”
“What I recognize is that we have our motive,” Sloane stated, trying to separate emotion from fact. She recognized that Wallace had bought stolen paintings, knowing full well that it was a crime. On the other hand, she understood why he’d done it. She could only begin to imagine the pain that was still tearing him up inside.
“This gallery is a father’s ultimate memorial for his daughter,” she determined aloud. “A five-year-old innocent child whose murder was ordered by the very man who orchestrated the selling of these paintings to Wallace. Liu was using Xiao Long as a conduit to prolong Wallace’s agony and to keep alive the paralyzing pain of Sophie’s death—probably in the hopes of driving Wallace over the edge.”
“And having the perfect ammunition to blackmail him with,” Derek added. “Wallace had to be terrified of going to jail, more terrified of what Xiao would do to him if he opened his mouth, and most terrified of losing his link to the paintings that were his obsession.”
“Now we know why Johnson flipped out when I mentioned Xiao Long’s name in connection with the Rothberg.” Rich dropped another puzzle piece into place. “He was learning that the same man he’d been buying valuable stolen paintings from was the killer who Burbank, Fox, and Leary had seen in Kowloon and was now threatening their lives. That realization must have blown his mind.”
With a shudder, Sloane turned away. “This whole plot makes me sick.”
“Liu’s a bastard. That doesn’t change the fact that Wallace is guilty of buying and harboring stolen property,” Derek replied quietly. “We have no choice but to arrest him.”
“I’m not arguing,” Sloane returned.
“And we’d better move fast,” Rich informed them. “Remember, once Sloane talked to Johnson, he figured out t
hat Liu was behind the sale of the paintings and that he means to bring him down at all costs. If Johnson is as smart as I think he is, he’s going to get this merchandise out of here as soon as possible.”
“And hide it where?” Sloane asked, spreading her hands wide. “There must be thirty paintings here.”
“I have no idea what his plan is. I only know we’ve got to get him into custody before he or the evidence disappears.” Rich’s brows drew together, and he glanced quizzically at Sloane. “Didn’t you say he was at a museum reception tonight?”
“Yes.” Sloane nodded. “At the Jaspar Museum of Art—on Crosby Street in Soho.”
“We can grab him there,” Derek concluded. “Rich, call the Major Theft Squad from your car. Work out whatever details you have to. I’ll call C-6 and have them seal off this manor until ERT can catalog and take the stolen pieces into evidence. When I talk to my squad, I’ll also check on the status of the warrant to search Cindy Liu’s place.”
Rich nodded. “Agreed.”
Derek was already climbing the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Let’s move.”
CHAPTER FORTY
LONG ISLAND CTY
QUEENS, NEW YORK
It was dark.
The business day had ended hours ago.
The team’s targeted industrial area was empty except for a few delivery trucks parked behind fenced-in loading docks and surrounded by tall razor-wire fences.
With its close proximity to Manhattan, Long Island City had been bustling with activity just hours ago. Now, it was deserted.
The beat-up white van turned off its lights and crept toward the rear of the two-story industrial building with a painted metal sign that read ALL-CITY SECURITY, INC. The driver pulled into a spot that was sandwiched between two trucks. It couldn’t be more ideal. Ensured concealment. An unlit area. Close proximity to their target. A clear path to get away.
Now, they’d wait. It wouldn’t be long. As their ongoing surveillance had shown, the younger guy, maybe in his early twenties, was a nicotine addict.
Sure enough, not fifteen minutes later, the metal door swung open and the kid stepped out. He reached down for the brick he kept alongside the concrete wall and wedged it between the doorjamb and the door. He double-checked to make sure the brick was secure so the door couldn’t lock behind him. Satisfied, he strolled into the cool night air, lighting up his cigarette.
It took a drag or two, but he began to visibly relax. Twice, he succumbed to a hacking cough, cursing under his breath. It didn’t seem to deter him. He returned to his smoke, totally unaware that the four men in the hidden van were watching him with keen interest.
“He smokes so much he’s going to die of cancer,” the driver said wryly to the others, speaking in Albanian.
They chuckled.
With that, the leader, who was in the front passenger seat, motioned to one of his men in the rear to get out of the van and get started.