She snapped her phone shut and reached for the photos, holding them gingerly at the very edges in case there were prints to pull off. But there wouldn’t be. Any more than there’d be prints on Leo’s letter.
“Ben killed my child,” Wallace said tonelessly. “Ben. Sophie’s godfather. My lifelong friend. He helped make her birth possible. He was there the day she was born. He was there the day she died. He stood by my side at the funeral. He puts daisies on her grave every month. She adored him. He killed her. Then he drove away. He didn’t even stay to help her or to see if she was alive. He didn’t turn himself in. He didn’t come to me. He ran and hid, passed out in a drunken stupor. And when he came to…”
“Wallace,” Sloane tried. “Johnny Liu is the one who arranged…”
“I know who sent me these pictures,” Wallace snapped. “I’m not an idiot. But that’s irrelevant.” His index finger jabbed at the images. “Ben killed Sophie. The evidence is staring us in the face. I’m sure Liu’s been blackmailing him. None of that matters. My friend killed my little girl.”
“No. He didn’t.” Sloane gave a hard shake of her head as she finished scrutinizing the photos. “Wallace, this is a setup. Ben didn’t kill Sophie. Xiao Long did.”
That name made Wallace go very still. “What the hell does Xiao Long have to do with this?”
“He’s Liu’s henchman, a valued member of his triad. He’s loyal to his Dragon Head. And he’s the instrument Liu’s using to carry out his vendetta.”
A spark of realization flashed in Wallace’s eyes, and Sloane could see his wheels turning. What he was thinking, she wasn’t sure. Nor did she have time to ponder it.
“But it’s Ben who’s behind the wheel,” Wallace maintained. “The car is definitely his. I recognize the Saint Jude medal hanging from his rearview mirror. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t speak to how Xiao pulled it off. Only Ben can. But I can tell you that these photos have been doctored. Look. Ben is posed. He’s completely unconscious, literally drooling. His head is propped against the headrest, yet his hands are on the wheel.”
Wallace was staring at the photos. Sloane didn’t know if he was buying her explanation. But at least he was hearing her. She was thankful for that.
“See the background here behind the car?” she pressed on, pointing. “The sun is barely up. That means these photos were taken at the approximate time Sophie was killed. There’s no way Ben would have been cognizant enough to drive. But even if he had been, he’d be out of control, physically and mentally. He could never have made the rational decision to speed off after plowing into the car Sophie was in. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Your points are well taken. But…”
“Think about it. The accident happened on Eighty-ninth Street, near Sophie’s school. That’s a busy residential neighborhood. Ben would have swerved all over the road. Cars would have been bashed in. Pedestrians would have been injured or killed. And Ben would have ended up crashing into a tree or causing a pileup at the intersection of Eighty-ninth and Park. The cops and PIs who investigated the accident were convinced that the hit-and-run driver was fleeing from something or racing to something. He was purposeful, deliberate. So much so that not one of the dozen witnesses interviewed managed to identify his vehicle as anything but a white Mercedes sedan. They didn’t catch the model, or make out even a few letters or numbers off his license plate. The driver was too quick and too focused.” Again, Sloane pointed at the photos. “Does that man look like he’s either of those?”
Wallace shut his eyes and sucked in his breath. He was clearly desperate to believe her.
“Coincidentally, Leo just told me he got a delivery about the same time you did.” Sloane went for her trump card. “It was from a courier service. Inside was a handwritten letter from his fiancée. The envelope it came in was addressed to Leo and was postmarked June 23, 2007—their scheduled wedding day. It had clearly been stolen from his mailbox. In the letter, she begged his forgiveness and understanding. It seems that some Asian thugs had just left her condo, having held guns to her two children’s heads, threatening to kill them. She was informed that the only way her children would remain alive and unharmed is if she packed her bags immediately, took her children, and moved away. Her orders were to disappear and to never contact Leo again. If she did, or if Leo discovered her whereabouts and tried to contact her, her children would die. She had no choice but to run. But I don’t need to tell you what her leaving Leo standing at the altar did to him.”
“No, you don’t,” Wallace replied, still hovering between shock, anger, and pain.
“There’s more. Evidently, Liu is having Xiao Long track down Amalie. Because there’s a cryptic Post-it attached to the letter, telling Leo as much, and informing him that once Amalie’s been found, he’ll have the luxury of watching her die.”
Wallace swore, squeezing his eyes shut.
Sloane gripped his arm. “Don’t you see what’s happening here? Liu has ordered Xiao to destroy every member of your group. His timing is based on circumstances, some of which I can’t share with you, some of which I don’t even understand. But I will tell you that Phil’s bookie was paid off by Xiao—and now Phil is dead. Ben’s employment agency was purchased by Xiao in March 2006—and Ben is about to self-destruct. My mother was kidnapped and almost killed, and I was attacked at knifepoint. And you? You’ve had your soul torn out. Sophie died a few months after Meili committed suicide. Cindy—who’s a dead ringer for Meili—came into your life less than a month ago. Now, these photos of Ben arrive. Don’t you see the pattern?”
Slowly, Wallace nodded. “I see the pattern. I see what Liu is doing. But all that proves is that he’s trying to destroy us. It doesn’t prove that Ben wasn’t driving the car that killed Sophie.”
“There’s only one person who can confirm my theory—Ben. I’m heading over to his factory now.” Carefully, she slipped the photos and news clipping back into the manila envelope. “I assume I can borrow these?”
“There’s no need. I’m going with you.” Wallace grabbed his sport coat. “Whatever the truth is, I have to hear it directly from Ben.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Ben crawled out of the bathroom and back to his desk. That was the third time he’d been sick in the past hour. This time he’d stayed inside the toilet stall forever, kneeling on the floor, his head against the cool wall. He was just too damned weary to get up. Besides, there was nothing to get up for.
Finally, his legs had started to cramp. He’d crept out of the stall, dunked his head under the faucet to drench his face and head with cold water, then grabbed a wad of paper towels to dry himself off. His hair was still wet and his shirt was sticking to his body. He didn’t give a damn.
Now, he dropped heavily into his chair and let the chill permeate his body. Maybe if he stayed cold, he wouldn’t puke again.
He opened his top drawer and pulled out a stale pack of peppermint Life-Savers, popping one in his mouth. A sucking candy. It was the first solid food he’d had since yesterday. Or was it the day before? He’d lost count.
The door to his office swung open. He didn’t bother glancing up. With any luck, it was Xiao Long, here to blow his brains out. It was exactly what he wanted, but he was too spineless to do it for himself.