The vision of wildflowers in his mind transformed into a vision of pink roses—and their recipient.
Cindy had been touched by and appreciative of his gesture. She’d expressed her thanks with genuine warmth, and they’d made dinner plans for this coming Tuesday night.
He was looking forward to the evening. Yes, he understood that a portion of the conversation would be about the cocktail party invitations that had been pouring in from eager new clients she’d met at her gallery debut. And, yes, he knew that another portion of the conversation would be about the future plans her uncle had for her success.
But Wallace was hoping that they’d have more, much more, that they could talk about.
Sloane felt sapped in more ways than one as she drove away from the Hospital for Special Surgery and her hand therapy session that evening. It had been quite a harrowing day. Poor Connie. She’d had to work like a demon just to relax Sloane’s hand enough to unclench it and massage the remaining scar tissue on her palm.
Of course she’d asked why Sloane was so wound up. And there was very little Sloane could reveal. So she emphasized the personal part. She told Connie that she was working on a high-profile case that was pitting her and Derek against each other, and that they were fighting like cats and dogs.
The male-female bickering Connie understood well. She commiserated with Sloane about men and their pigheadedness. But she’d also reminded her how hard she and Derek had worked to find their way back to each other after their break-up in C
leveland.
Sloane didn’t need any reminders of how destructively each of them had behaved after the robbery that resulted in her hand being slashed. Derek had pressured her to stay with the Bureau, injury be damned, showing the compassion of a stone wall. She, in turn, had shut him out, showing the maturity of a child.
But wanting to be together didn’t mean either one was willing to take the subordinate role. And this case was a grueling test of their relationship.
Especially since the sides were unbalanced. She was operating alone, with no backup, and no time to hire the right resources. Whereas Derek had not only himself but also the manpower of both C-6 and the Art Crime Team, not to mention whatever confidential human sources he called upon to fully investigate every man in her father’s partnership.
The scales were tipped in his favor.
As luck would have it, today she’d taken a detour that might just untip them.
She’d spotted the lanky Asian kid while she was talking to Bernie. After that, he’d been on her tail all day. She’d purposely tested him, overtly talking to the apartment maintenance staff outside so he could see, and hopefully hear, her. She’d also made it a point to catch most of the neighbors on her parents’ list as they entered or left the building, initiating the conversations she needed to have in full view of her Red Dragon shadow.
She’d then walked three blocks at lunchtime for a sandwich, taken the long route back to her parents’ place, and still the punk was half a block behind.
Finally. She’d been added to the list of Burbanks that Xiao Long considered to be a threat. He was definitely keeping an eye on her. Excellent. It was time to up the stakes and give him something real to worry about. That would make her more vital to the Bureau, and shift Xiao Long’s focus from her parents to her.
The file on Xiao that Derek had given her included the police reports on all the Upper East Side burglaries the Red Dragons had pulled off. There were eight of them, not counting her parents’ place. She had all the names and addresses, as well as a list of items stolen from each apartment.
Sure enough, every list of stolen items included valuable paintings. And that gave her just the in she needed.
She didn’t call ahead. That way, no one could refuse to see her. She simply walked from location to location, acknowledging doormen and pressing intercom buzzers. In a clear, official voice—one that the punk tailing her was sure to hear—she introduced herself as a private consultant representing un-disclosed insurance companies who’d paid claims on several of the more valuable paintings taken during their string of neighborhood burglaries. She further informed them that there were similarities between those paintings and the ones taken from their home. It was imperative that she discuss it with them.
She stopped at all eight apartment buildings, and managed to talk her way into five of them. The Dragon kid who was following her overheard only what she wanted him to. He had no idea what was being said in private. That would freak him out big-time.
Then came the pièce de résistance. Sloane exited the last building, still scribbling down a few notes. She paused a few steps away, flipped open her cell phone, and punched in a number.
“Nineteenth Precinct?” she inquired. “This is Sloane Burbank. Could you please connect me with Detective Diane Yuen?” A pause. “Hi, Diane. Listen, are you going to be at your desk for the next hour? Because I’ve got something on the paintings stolen in that string of burglaries you’re investigating. And it’s something you’ll be able to act on faster and with less red tape than the FBI. Can I come by and run it by you? Great. See you in a few.”
She punched off her phone, silencing the computerized voice at the other end that was providing her with the accurate time and temperature.
She headed over to the Nineteenth Precinct, had an impromptu cup of sludgy coffee with Diane, whom she’d known for years, and gave her a brief explanation of what she’d done, and what she’d presumably told Diane over the phone.
Diane started to laugh. “Very creative. Posing as an independent freelance insurance investigator. And, of course, I assume that once you got inside and actually spoke to these people, you let it slip that you’re working on a contingency basis.”
“You got it.” Sloane grinned back. “Money is a motivator everyone understands. And I admitted that I’d collect a whopping finder’s fee if I recovered the paintings.” She leaned forward. “Between you and me, this was my idea. It’s a little outside the lines, so I figured I’d run it by C-6 after the fact, perhaps later today. So, in the meantime, keep this between us.”
“Only if, in return, you pass along anything solid that comes out of this.”
“When I know, you’ll know.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Sloane rose. “I’ve got to get going.” She took a last gulp of coffee and shuddered. “Next time, let’s meet for a real lunch—one where you actually sit down in a restaurant and get coffee that doesn’t taste like it was pumped from the sewer.”