by G. K. Parks
“For future reference, if Mr. Martin asks you to do something like this again, please disregard and take the day off.” Martin could overstep his boundaries. Although, I knew him, and this was the tactic he chose to use in order to get me to speak to him. Too bad I wasn’t falling for such childish games. I settled into the back seat and shut my eyes. At least I didn’t have to worry about giving a cabbie directions to my apartment building.
“Miss Parker,” Marcal woke me from my nap, “we’re here. Do you need any help with your things?”
“No, but thank you.” Perhaps I should tip him or something. Instead, I lamely picked up my luggage and exited the car, heading straight for my building.
I climbed the six flights of stairs and pulled the key from my purse to unlock the door. My apartment was dark since the lights were off and the curtains were drawn. Putting my bags down next to the door, I pulled it shut as I reached for the light switch. Before I could flip the switch, a strong pair of hands grabbed me, securing my arms roughly behind my back.
Six
I bucked wildly, trying to free myself from my captor’s grasp. Kicking off the floor, I knocked the man backward into the wall. I jerked my head back hard, making contact with the man’s nose. His grip remained tight, and the unmistakable sound of the slide of a gun clicking into place resonated from within my apartment.
“That will be quite enough, Ms. Parker,” an unfamiliar voice commanded from the direction of my kitchen table. I stopped fighting and was roughly shoved forward, my arms still pinned tightly behind my back. In the dark, I could barely make out the shape of someone sitting at my dining room table. The silver from his handgun reflected the light from my stove clock ever so slightly. “Why don’t you try to act more civilized to your guests?” His voice sounded like a sneer, and I detected a very obvious French accent.
“Maybe I would if my guests weren’t of the uninvited variety. Who the hell are you?” I snarled, staring into the darkness and hoping my eyes would adjust further.
“That’s not your main concern.”
Running through my options, I knew whoever had me was much larger and stronger than I was, and the man in front of me had a gun. It didn’t leave much possibility for escape or retaliation. Were there any other men present in the shadows? There was no way to tell, so I couldn’t be sure.
“What should I be concerned with?” I asked.
The man behind me tightened his grip, fearing I would lunge forward or try a different tactic. Most likely, I could get free but not with a gun trained on me at this distance. The man at the table stood up, flipped on my table lamp, and walked slowly toward me. He was in a cheap business suit, wearing a ski mask. He was average height and a little overweight.
He stood directly in front of me, exhaling his foul breath into my face. “It’s come to my attention you’ve recently delivered a painting. No matter what you hear or see, it would be in your best interest to step away from this particular endeavor.” My breathing was harsh as I stared at this guy. His eyes seemed off, and I suspected he was wearing colored contacts to further disguise his physical appearance. “This is your one and only warning to walk away.”
“Kinda hard to go anywhere with this monkey on my back.” I didn’t take kindly to threats, especially by some asshole in a ski mask who ambushed me in my own apartment.
Ski Mask stepped back and nodded almost imperceptibly to my captor. He grabbed both of my wrists in one hand and used his other meaty paw to slam my head against the wall. Pain erupted through the side of my face, and I crumpled to the ground once he released my wrists. Fighting away the waves of blackness, I was taken by surprise when the man slammed his boot down on my stitched-up thigh. White hot pain shot through me, and I screamed as every single stitch ripped through my flesh. Instinctively, I curled myself into a ball as he delivered another few kicks to my injured leg.
“That’s enough. We need to go before the neighbors report her screams,” Ski Mask commanded, and the onslaught stopped. Ski Mask leaned down, grabbing a fistful of my hair and jerking my head off the ground. “Remember what I said.” He slammed my face against the floor for emphasis. As soon as he stepped away, I opened and closed my mouth carefully, checking to see if my jaw was broken. Two sets of footsteps walked to my door, and then the door opened and closed.
I forced myself into a seated position and looked around the room cautiously. When no other attackers presented themselves, I dragged myself to my desk drawer and pulled out my nine millimeter. Loading a clip into it, I leaned against the desk and waited for them to return. After a few minutes passed and no one came back to finish the job, I got off the floor. Using the desk for support, I slumped into my chair. My leg was bleeding profusely, and my vision was impaired by my quickly swelling left eye.
“Holy shit,” I gasped, reining in my thoughts. The painting was delivered. My job was finished, so why did some goon and his henchman threaten me? “I’ll just sit here for a minute and regroup,” I said aloud to myself.
Between the bloody, sticky mess that was my leg and my damaged, swollen face, I couldn’t bring myself to move. Finally, I got up, limping, and made my way to the front door. No one was in the hallway. Locking the door, I put the small security chain into the latch and picked up the phone to call Detective Nick O’Connell. He had helped me before, and I knew I could trust him.
“O’Connell,” he answered as I slowly made my way through my apartment, making sure Ski Mask and his friend didn’t leave any other unpleasant surprises.
“It’s Alex Parker. How good are you at changing locks?”
“What’s wrong?” He knew I would never call unless the shit hit the fan.
“I need your help. I don’t know if I want this to be official.” I was uncertain how well-connected Ski Mask was and if he’d know I ratted out his conversation to the police.
“Okay, I’ll meet you. Where are you?”
“At home.”
Sterilizing a pair of manicuring scissors and tweezers, I was in the process of removing the remnants of my stitches. Having pieces of thread attached to only one side of my injured flesh wasn’t doing me any good. “Holy fucking hell,” I cursed, pulling the last piece of thread out of my leg. As I poured rubbing alcohol over the gaping hole in my thigh, I tried not to scream. Finally, I wrapped it in gauze and taped it in place, anything to avoid a trip to the ER after being awake for the last twenty-four hours.
After slipping on a pair of loose fitting shorts, I assessed my face. My left eye was swollen shut, and the area from my eyebrow to my cheekbone was red and swollen. I was about to go in search of an ice pack when there was a knock at my door. Immediately tensing up, I grabbed my handgun off the bathroom vanity.
“It’s Nick,” O’Connell called from the hallway. Cautiously, I unlatched and unlocked my door, stepping aside and allowing him to enter. “What’s the other guy look like?”
“I wouldn’t know. This was a present from my welcome home party,” I retorted, relocking the door. From the freezer, I pulled out a bag of peas. Taking a seat on the couch, I gave Nick a summary of what happened.
“You should file a report.” He carefully assessed my face, gingerly touching the damage in order to determine if anything was broken.
“I don’t know who this guy is or how connected he might be.” I winced at his touch. “I don’t want to start stirring the pot until I know what’s cooking.”
O’Connell thought it was a bad idea not to implement any official channels. “I’ll write up a report but keep your name off of it. In the event anything happens, at least we’ll have that much.” He would simply follow the same procedures in place for dealing with confidential informants.
“Fine,” I acquiesced and gave him a more thorough description of the man and the events surrounding my assault. O’Connell walked around my apartment, checking for any evidence. “Ski Mask was wearing gloves. They both were wearing gloves, actually.” I thought about the man’s hands against my arms.
“Profess
ionals?” O’Connell asked, and I nodded. He went into the hallway and checked the lock. There were no signs of a break-in. “Were you wearing the same clothes?” My bloody jeans were on the bathroom floor, but my shirt was the same. “Get changed. If you were that close to the guy, maybe you got some kind of transfer on you.”
Limping to my bedroom, I changed my shirt, and he bagged it. “You always come prepared?”
“You always in such a good mood after getting the shit knocked out of you?” he asked.
“No, it must be your bubbly personality.” Sarcasm was my attempt to hide the exhaustion and fear. “Do you know any good locksmiths willing to work Sunday nights who can install a deadbolt or four?”
O’Connell made a call to a retired cop he knew who was nice enough to come over and install two deadbolts and a security bar on my door. The man looked at me suspiciously. He probably thought I was the victim of domestic abuse. That really served as a great commentary for how often crimes and abuse happen against women, I thought cynically. I wrote the man a check, and he left without another word.
“Will you be okay by yourself?” O’Connell asked.
“Of course.”
“I’ll have a few cars keep an eye on things tonight in the neighborhood, just in case.”
When he left, I locked each of my new locks and turned on all the lights in my apartment. It was the only way I would feel safe enough to sleep. I left my nine millimeter on the nightstand for easy access. I changed the gauze on my leg since I already bled through it, grabbed the bag of peas, and put them on top of my face before closing my eyes and going to sleep.
I awoke late Monday afternoon after sleeping for almost eighteen hours straight. The gauze on my leg was soaked through with blood, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. And my thigh didn’t look as bad as it did the day before. Despite the fact my pillow was soppy from the melted peas, my eye was no longer swollen shut. However, I still looked like I went twelve rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champion who mistook my face for a punching bag. I showered and dressed, re-bandaging my leg.
When I checked my phone, there were four missed calls. Glad I’m so popular, I thought as I listened to my voicemail messages. The first was from Martin, asking where I was.
“Shit.” I forgot about the meeting. The second was from Evans-Sterling, asking for a call back. The third was from Jean-Pierre, but the words were garbled from a bad connection. The fourth message was Martin again. He sounded worried and wanted me to call him back immediately when I got the message.
Deciding to prioritize, I dialed the home office of Evans-Sterling. The receptionist transferred my call to Mr. Evans, the namesake partner in charge of the American branch.
“Ms. Parker,” he sounded frustrated. Join the club. “The painting you delivered yesterday was a fake. Can you please account for your whereabouts surrounding the sixteen hour delivery delay?”
“What? What do you mean it’s a fake? It was authenticated Friday afternoon. The paperwork is included in the briefcase. It never left my sight. Evans-Sterling security transported the painting to the airport. It was a carry-on, and I had it with me the entire time I was waiting for the flight to be rescheduled. Your guys signed off on delivery at the airport.” I recounted all of the events. Suddenly, the threat from yesterday made a lot more sense. Dammit, I thought angrily.
“I see. Can anyone verify the authentication?”
“Jean-Pierre Gustav was there when the painting was authenticated and transported to my hotel room.”
“I have some other things to check, but we’ll be in touch.” Evans hung-up.
I rubbed the intact portion of my face. How the hell could they think I stole a painting? My mind raced around my threatening houseguests. I was never one to frighten easily, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure how far down the rabbit hole I was willing to go for a painting, especially when my employer was accusing me of the theft. It was a good thing I called O’Connell yesterday and he insisted on making a report, even if it wasn’t filed through the normal channels. At least I had a paper trail and some corroboration.
Glancing at the clock, I hadn’t eaten since the London airport, and I needed to get some pressure bandages and other first-aid supplies. Clipping on my shoulder holster and handgun, I put on my jacket and made sure to take my wallet out of my still packed bags. I placed my P.I. license and carry permit inside. Trying to obscure as much of the left side of my face as I could, I parted my hair on the side and put on a pair of oversized sunglasses. With my two new keys, I exited my apartment and made sure to lock the deadbolts. There would be no more surprise visitors for me.
Each step down the six flights of stairs was excruciating. I didn’t want more stitches after having the last set ripped out. Truthfully, I was a baby when it came to doctors. After stopping at the deli on the corner for a quick sandwich, I bought some antiseptic, bandages, and a few ice packs since peas weren’t practical when they had a habit of melting into goo. I returned to my apartment building and hobbled back up the steps. Why couldn’t I live on the first floor or even the second? I thought as my leg repeatedly threatened to give out on me. Emerging onto the sixth floor, I was confronted by a man in an expensive suit, standing outside my door.
“Go home, Martin,” I ordered. If Ski Mask and his friend were keeping an eye on me, then Martin could inevitably get caught in the crosshairs.
“Alex?” My odd appearance confused him. “Where have you been? You missed the meeting. You’re always so punctual. If Marcal hadn’t picked you up yesterday, I might have thought you were still in Paris.”
“Something came up. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving.” My angry tone outmatched his, and I ducked my face down, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Maybe he would get the hint and go away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
I pushed past him toward my door and attempted to remember which key unlocked which lock. Why did they all have to be the same color?
“I’ve had other things to deal with. If you don’t like it, fire me. I don’t care. Just leave.” I was doing my best to piss him off so he’d storm out and away from any potential danger that could theoretically be waiting on the other side of my door.
“Are you on some kind of bender?” he asked, sounding shocked and incredulous. One of the keys got stuck in the lock. I was trying to coax it out when his words took me completely by surprise.
“Yes, of course, I’m on a fucking bender. How did you ever guess?” I replied sarcastically and impulsively turned to look at him, realizing my mistake too late. “Shit.” His features shifted from angry to concerned. “Dammit.” I couldn’t get the key out. Nothing was cooperating today, not Evans-Sterling, not Martin, and not the damn lock. I kicked the door with my good leg in frustration.
“Here.” His voice was gentler now as he reached out and maneuvered the key out of the lock and proceeded to unlock my door.
“Please, just go away,” I begged, feeling absolutely defeated as I entered my apartment. My hand rested on my gun, and I performed a quick walkthrough of my apartment, making sure there were no other intruders present. Martin stood in my doorway, watching curiously.
“I’m not going anywhere until you explain what the hell is going on.”
“Then get inside and close the door before the rest of the neighborhood sees you.”
Seven
Martin entered my apartment, looking around casually. He had never been inside before, and I felt like a panda at the zoo with the way he surveyed everything. I bolted my door, and put my newly purchased ice packs in the freezer.
“Might as well make yourself at home.”
“Thanks for being so hospitable,” he replied sardonically, taking a seat at my kitchen table and waiting for me to say or do something.
I ran through scenarios, trying to determine the best way to deal with the situation. Pulling out the chair across from him, I sat down and slowly took off my sunglasses.
“Don’t say anyth
ing,” I instructed because the last thing I wanted at this moment was sympathy, concern, pity, or whatever it was Martin was going to utter. His green eyes spoke volumes on their own. “I was asleep and missed the meeting. I’m sorry. I should have called or remembered. Yesterday was crazy. My flight was delayed sixteen hours, but you already know that since you sent Marcal to fetch me.” My words were biting, and I couldn’t be bothered to keep the contempt from my voice.
“I thought you could use a ride.”
“No, you thought if you supplied a ride, I would call you. But just so you know, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” I put my hand up to keep him from speaking. “I don’t need you, Marcal, or anyone else stopping by here or at the airport or wherever. I have enough to worry about without having to worry about anyone else getting caught in the crossfire.” As I spoke, I realized I was too stubborn to back off from tracking down the real painting and hopefully nailing Ski Mask to the wall in the process. “You being here is really not a good idea right now.”
“Why?” Martin could be so clueless. Some shock value might drive my point home. He was a showman at heart, after all, so I got up from the chair and moved to my front door.
“Because when I got home yesterday, I was grabbed here,” I put my hands behind my back, “and shoved here.” I pantomimed the movements. “Where a man sitting in the exact same spot you’re in right now pointed a gun at me and threatened to kill me if I didn’t back the fuck off. Then I got my face slammed into the wall right here.” I slapped the surface with my palm. “So perhaps today isn’t a great day for you to show up, uninvited and unannounced.” It was overly dramatic, but he needed to understand this was the world in which I lived.
“Alex,” he stood up, “I didn’t know.”
“That’s right. You didn’t know. You shouldn’t know, and you shouldn’t be here because I don’t know who the hell they are or what they want. If they know who I am and where I live, just imagine how tempting it must be for them to find a few more targets to focus on.” I stared fiercely into his eyes.