Likely Suspects

by G. K. Parks

  “Come back to the hotel. Your room’s empty, and you left half the clothes in the closet. You can’t stay at your place with no furniture.” He was being the voice of reason, but it seemed strange to return to the hotel when we said our good-byes yesterday. “It’s what friends do,” he insisted. “I even promise to be a perfect gentleman, if that’s what you want.”

  “Fine, but only tonight. My new furniture is getting delivered tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The next day, a new mattress and box spring were delivered, along with a sofa and love seat. I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom with Kate, and we were sorting through the piles of clothes strewn about the room. If it was ripped, it was tossed into the large black trash bag, and if it wasn’t, it was tossed into the large white trash bag for sorting before being washed in the laundry or sent to the dry cleaner. Kate had agreed to help if I supplied the pizza and wine.

  “You mean to tell me you never slept with him?” she asked, tossing another blouse into the garbage bag.

  “Kate,” I said patiently, “I worked for him. We weren’t like that.”

  “I would have been.” She grinned evilly. “Did you see those eyes and that body? Grr-rowl.”

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed another slice of pizza from the box. As if on cue, my phone rang.

  “Hello?” It was Martin calling, but I didn’t want to give her another reason to tease me.

  “Did the furniture arrive?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it’s here, all nice and assembled. Kate’s here too, helping to clean up.”

  “That’s good,” he sounded distracted. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t need a place to stay.”

  “I appreciate it.” We stayed on the phone for a moment, not saying a word. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Okay. Dinner next week, pencil me in.” He hung up before I could reply.

  “Who was that?” she asked, suspecting it was him.

  “Just a friend,” I responded, trying not to let my expression betray me.

  We finished eating and cleaning my apartment. I had a large pile of clothes to bring to the dry cleaner in the morning and about ten loads of laundry to do tonight. After she left, I got started on the laundry and looked around my residence. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been here in so long or that the sanctity of my apartment had been violated, but either way, it no longer felt like home.

  Forty

  Martin and I were having our ritual weekly dinner. This had been going on ever since we closed the case. We were discussing our upcoming court appearances and testimonies.

  “Sounds like the fun is just beginning,” he surmised, but he didn’t seem to mind all the legal appearances. He had gotten his life back. He was working like a man possessed and loving every minute of it.

  “How’s the arm?” I asked.

  It was still in a sling, but he was going to physical therapy. There had been some talk of a follow-up surgery, but things were still uncertain at this point.

  “It’s getting there, little by little. The nerve damage will take the longest to repair, if it can be,” he said. Great way to put a damper on the evening, Parker, I berated myself. “I’m going out of town next week, so I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner. It’s a business trip. I have to finalize an overseas acquisition since I’m still looking for Denton’s replacement.”

  “I’d suggest you don’t hire anyone who wants to kill you.”

  “That was really insightful,” he replied sarcastically, and I shrugged.

  “And I got paid the big bucks, how stupid do you feel now?”

  We finished eating and left the restaurant. He gave me a hug before getting into his town car and driving away.

  * * *

  I was standing in my new office, trying to hang some pictures on the wall. I only moved into the building a few days ago, but I wanted to get things up and running as soon as possible. It would probably be a couple of months before I was hired, considering the economy and my unknown status in the world of private eyes and security consultants. The only bright star was being able to name-drop Martin if I needed a reference.

  The bell above my door dinged, and I turned, expecting to find someone asking about a public restroom or directions to the donut shop that used to occupy my office space. To my surprise, it was Martin, dressed in his signature business attire.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, astonished.

  He surveyed the small office space and my cheap press-wood furniture. “Sparse,” he commented.

  “It’s enough to get started.”

  He looked around, assessing the rest of the room, and I sat down in my rolling office chair, waiting for him to explain his presence. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded stack of papers. He sat in my client chair across from me and carefully unfolded the paper.

  “Alex,” he looked up, very serious, “I’d like to keep you on retainer for consulting and investigation.” I looked down at the pile of papers. It was a retainer contract for Martin Technologies. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be a full-time gig, but we’d pay you a monthly stipend. And as issues arise, you can address them. I’ve added a clause allowing for expenses and incidentals.” I stared at the contract. After everything that happened, I couldn’t believe he was serious. “Oh, and absolutely no bodyguard work necessary.” He flashed a smile.

  I rubbed my neck, considering the offer. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Think about it.” He stood up. “Like I said, I’m gone for the week, but when I get back, we can discuss it some more. You know how much I like negotiations.” He walked around to my side of the desk and leaned against it. “Just so we’re clear, you won’t be working for me. You’ll be working for the company.”

  “You are the company. Or the company is you. Whatever.”

  He tilted his head back and forth in a so-so fashion. “The company is much greater than just me. In fact, it’s not even like I’d be your employer. Martin Tech would be your employer.” He smirked, but I was smart enough to realize he simply found another way to rephrase his previous statement.

  “I think you’re splitting hairs.”

  He ran his left hand through my hair, grasping the back of my neck and gently kissing me on the mouth. Why not? I thought. I shut my eyes and returned the kiss. He pulled away finally, a self-satisfied grin on his face, but he seemed a bit surprised by my reaction. He turned and went to the door.

  “Just remember, I don’t date my employer,” I retorted, and he spun around.

  “We’ll see, especially since I won’t really be your employer.” His eyes danced.

  “This is not a unilateral decision you get to make,” I responded as he walked out the door, waving good-bye. I watched him get into the car and drive away. “What the hell.” I picked up the pen and signed the contract. Things couldn’t be any more harrowing than they were the first time around.

  Don’t miss the next exciting installment in the series. Check out this preview of The Warhol Incident

  I stared out the restaurant window, completely mesmerized by the view.

  “Like what you see?” James Martin asked from across the table. I turned to him and smiled. I couldn’t help it. I was in full-on tourist mode tonight.

  “It’s breathtaking.”

  “Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you, Alexis.” He was still trying to win me over with his playboy demeanor and smooth words, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He sensed my displeasure at the comment and decided to select a more practical conversation topic. “Do you start work tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I have a meeting scheduled with the insurance executives, and I’ll take it from there.” Currently, I was Alexis Parker, international traveler.

  “Exactly what is it you’re supposed to do?”

  “Asset retrieval.” I made a face. “The details are limited, to say the least. Honestly, I think Evans-Sterling, the insurance company, just wants to make
sure the painting I was hired to escort gets back safely, so they aren’t forced to issue a payout for any loss or damage.”

  “How did an insurance company in France even hear about you?” His forehead creased as he tried to work the details out in his mind.

  “It’s not a French insurance company. They’re international with offices all over the world. The owner of the painting is American. My guess is one of your board members may have mentioned my name since people of your status tend to travel in small circles,” I pointed out. “The real question,” I gave him a suspicious look, “is why you suddenly needed to take a trip to Paris which coincided so perfectly with my travel itinerary.”

  “I have to make sure the Paris branch of Martin Technologies is operating efficiently. Plus, I’ve been hearing good things about my French counterpart. I might just have to offer him the VP spot since it is still available.” Martin was the consummate workaholic, so the fact he was globetrotting with me still seemed a bit suspect in my mind.

  It had been a few months since I worked as Martin’s personal bodyguard and security advisor. Over the course of several weeks, I had uncovered a conspiracy within his company. After exchanging gunfire with some contract killers and watching Martin almost bleed to death, his company decided to keep me on retainer for their other security consulting needs. I opened my own small firm, thanks in large part to the money earned on that first private sector job, and now I was taking smaller, less dangerous jobs on the side.

  “Well, you didn’t have to let me fly over with you on the company jet. I was given a travel allowance.”

  Martin waved my protest away, which he often did. “Yes, but you have to admit, a private jet is much nicer than commercial business class. And the nuts are actually warm.” He smirked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I replied, “nor do I want to know.”

  Martin chuckled, amused by his own play on words. For a brilliant, capable CEO in his mid-thirties, he often reminded me of a teenage boy.

  “Ready to get out of here?” he asked, glancing at his watch. I nodded, and he called for the waiter, spoke perfect French to him, and paid the bill. We exited into the cool night air and strolled toward our hotel.

  “Where’s Bruiser tonight?” I asked while looking out over the Seine.

  “I gave him the night off. We are in Paris, after all.” Martin expected some type of protest, but I remained silent. The city was too beautiful for an argument. “You do realize Bruiser really isn’t his name, right?” Bruiser was the nickname I insisted on giving his current full-time bodyguard.

  “He’ll always be Bruiser to me.”

  We reached our hotel and headed up in the elevator. I caught a glimpse of our reflection in the mirrored doors. Martin was impeccably dressed as always, tonight in a black Prada suit, with his stylish dark brown hair, amazing good looks, and toned athletic build. Despite the jetlag, I was impressed how pulled together I appeared, wearing a black skirt, silk blouse, and the Jimmy Choo pumps Martin left in my possession from my previous stint working for him. My brown hair was pulled back and curled as it cascaded down my shoulders. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought we were a couple. Luckily, I knew better.

  “Come up for a nightcap?”

  “I have that meeting in the morning,” I replied, “and mixed in with the jetlag, I’d probably sleep through the alarm and miss the entire thing.”

  “You could stay with me tonight. I’ll make sure you get up in the morning.” His green eyes sparkled.

  “Ha. Ha.” Martin was the ever-optimistic lothario. “I won’t date my boss, remember?”

  “But I’m not your employer anymore. Martin Technologies is, and I didn’t say anything about dating. I just asked you to stay the night, on the couch if you prefer. I remember how much you like to sleep on those.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Fine,” his speech pattern became slightly more formal, “but there was something else I wanted to discuss with you. Business related, I promise.”

  “Okay,” I cautiously agreed. “You didn’t have to wait this long.”

  “Why ruin our weekly dinner, especially when we’re in this exotic locale?” He smiled. The elevator doors opened on my floor, and we both looked out into the hallway. “Plus, I want you to see the view from my room.” He pushed the close door button, and we continued the ascent to the penthouse suite. Classic Martin, I thought.

  “Can’t you just tell me now?”

  “What fun would that be?”

  The elevator doors opened again, and we exited onto the top floor. He pulled out his room key and unlocked the door, holding it open so I could step inside. Walking into the incredibly large and lavish suite, I was awed by the magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower lit up in the night sky.

  “Maybe the ride up to your room wasn’t a complete waste of my time,” I gave in, turning around to find him already pouring drinks from the mini-bar. “I’m not drinking.”

  He ignored my protest and mixed a martini for me and poured two fingers of scotch for himself. “In case you change your mind.”

  He brought the glasses over and handed them to me, so he could open the balcony door. We sat outside at the small table with our drinks. I slowly spun the glass on the tabletop, waiting for him to tell me what possible business agenda he needed my help with now. He leaned back and took off his tie, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt a bit awkwardly, using only his left hand. Once he was situated, he picked up his scotch and took a sip.

  “Anytime now.” I stared at him, waiting for him to begin.

  “I was thinking,” he began slowly, prolonging this as much as possible, “if you have the time, maybe you could give the Paris branch of Martin Tech the quick once-over. Make sure the place is secure, no obvious security leaks, and check out Luc Guillot and make sure he isn’t a murderous, conniving son of a bitch before I offer him the VP position.”

  “That can be arranged.” Making a quick mental assessment, I tried to determine the most efficient way of doing things. “The painting isn’t being moved until the end of the week, so I can swing by tomorrow after my meeting, or…,” the time difference and jetlag were getting to me, “what’s today?”

  Martin chuckled. “Monday.”

  “Okay, so Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday at the latest. When are you flying home?”

  “Thursday or Friday, depending on how things go with Guillot. The Board has already granted permission to offer him the position, and they have the paperwork all ready to be signed. I’m just a bit reluctant.” Martin finished his drink and rubbed his right shoulder absently.

  “Still going to physical therapy?”

  “Uh-huh, it’s getting there slowly, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the patient type. Then again, a follow-up surgery is always an option.”

  Picking up the martini and taking a larger gulp than I intended, I wanted to wash the images of Martin being shot and almost dying out of my mind. “I’ll check into things and give you my assessment of Monsieur Guillot.” I stood and headed toward the door, but I couldn’t just leave, not when we skirted the edge of the dangerous precipice that was our past history of death and mayhem. “Martin.” My voice was soft as I turned back to face him, but he was already up and behind me at the door. Our eyes locked.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered into my ear, reaching around and pulling the door open. The closeness of his body to mine was almost intoxicating. I swallowed and turned, walking purposefully back into the hotel room.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow after my meeting and let you know when I can check out MT of Paris.” I headed for the door.

  “Okay.” He was slightly distracted, pouring himself another drink.

  Stopping at the door, I turned around. “Good night.”

  “Bonne nuit, Alex.” He winked as I hastily retreated.

  My room seemed much smaller now. Thanks a lot, Martin. I tossed my purse onto the table and kicked off my shoes. Turning on my laptop, I changed out of my clothes
as the computer started up. I might as well run a background check on Guillot while it was fresh on my mind. I typed in the query and clicked the submit button. Scanning through the information, I found Guillot had a few minor traffic violations, but nothing screamed psychopath. Martin Tech was stringent in their hiring policies, but it never hurt to double-check these things. I sat, staring at the screen for a few minutes.

  “The more you accomplish tonight, the less you have to do tomorrow,” I said out loud to psych myself up because, at the moment, the only thing I wanted to do was crawl under the covers and sleep for a week. It was only eleven Paris time which meant it was five o’clock at home, but since I didn’t sleep on the flight or very much the night before, I had a legitimate reason to be exhausted. Performing a quick internet search on Guillot before going to bed was all I was willing to do at the moment. I checked some news sources and other websites for any type of scandal, but Luc Guillot appeared to be an upstanding, scandal-free citizen. I shut my computer and was getting ready for bed when there was a knock at the door.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I yelled. Opening the door, I expected to find Martin. Instead, it was the hotel concierge.

  “Madame, sorry to bother you so late,” the concierge apologized. At least in French being called ma’am sounded classier. “This package was left for you and marked urgent. I thought it best to deliver it tonight.”

  “Merci.” I took the package and handed the man a few Euros which were scattered on top of the dresser.

  Shutting the door, I stared suspiciously at the large manila envelope in my hands. My name was written on the front, but no other information was provided about the sender or the contents. I opened the flap carefully. Paranoia had become my constant companion, probably due to my previous career as a federal agent at the Office of International Operations. Luckily, nothing exploded.

  As I dumped the contents unceremoniously onto the table, I flipped on the floor lamp. The package came from the Paris office of Evans-Sterling and contained information on the painting, the owner, the insurance protocols and claims procedures, and proper methods of transportation. It was now midnight, and I needed to be well-versed on all of this by the morning. Settling down in the chair, I began reading and taking notes. By the time I finished, it was a little after three a.m. I set the alarm for seven and crawled under the covers.