The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “Uh-huh.” Why would a French national hire a local guy to assist? Maybe Ski Mask wasn’t really French but pulled off a convincing accent.

  “Are you doing okay?” O’Connell interrupted my thoughts.

  “Peachy.” I informed him of the delivery this morning and Jean-Pierre’s murder.

  “Shit, Parker. You don’t half-ass anything, do you?”

  “Apparently not. Let me know when you collar the guy.”

  Disconnecting, I flipped the safety off and fired one-handed in a sniper stance until the magazine clicked empty. All head shots. At least my aim was improving. I repeated the process with my left hand, aiming this time for center mass, making about seventy percent of the shots in the ten ring. It would do in a pinch. Cleaning up my spent bullet casings, I went back to my car and drove home.

  Once again, I carefully entered my apartment and made sure everything was as I left it. I thought about the VHS tape. An attempt had been made to deliver it to my office early this morning, but I wasn’t there. It didn’t matter. I already knew Jean-Pierre was dead, and watching him die had little impact on that conclusion. But something was gnawing at my subconscious. I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

  The databases provided detailed arrest information on Ramirez, but there was little to be gained that O’Connell didn’t already tell me. I cross-referenced Ramirez with the employee list from Evans-Sterling. There was no overlap or connection to be found. Not to mention, Ramirez didn’t even possess a passport. He must have been hired for his sparkling personality and ability to grab women who were half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than he was.

  A thought crossed my mind, and I looked into the Sanchez gang to see if they had any connections to black market art smuggling. There must be some kind of connection between Ramirez and Paris. Talk about a French connection, my mind filled in the pathetic joke. After a couple of hours of searching, the pieces connected. A few members of the Sanchez gang had been arrested for running an illegal gambling ring. The items recovered in the raid included an Andy Warhol print with an estimated value of $60,000. Gambling and art, my two favorite things at the moment.

  Tracking the history of the Warhol backward, I was scrolling through ownership and bills of sale when my phone rang, destroying the mental trail I was so carefully following.

  “What?” I asked, annoyed.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Martin said.

  “I am.” I blinked a few times. The hours of staring at the computer screen made it difficult to focus on things at a distance. Maybe I could use a break. It was almost seven. “I need to get back to work.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just remember to stay clear of me for a while.” I wasn’t going to tell him about the videotape.

  “Sure. Good night, Alex.”

  I went back to clicking away at the keyboard, but my concentration was shattered. Looking for something to eat, I rummaged around in the kitchen. I ate dinner and stared out the window of my apartment, wondering why everything had to be so complicated. I thought about Jean-Pierre and Clare. I was firmly planted in the anger stage of grief. To top it off, I was even more pissed someone had the audacity to send such a heinous tape. The anger was just the motivation I needed to get back on track.

  I went to the computer and traced the Warhol’s ownership back two years when it was in the possession of a Mr. Wilkes, who insured the painting with Evans-Sterling.

  “Hot damn.” I leaned back in my chair and tried to digest the full implications of my discovery.

  Ten

  I failed to consider the significance of the painting’s owner. Mr. Stanley Wilkes was simply a name attached to a file provided by the helpful bastards at Evans-Sterling. It was mixed in with their welcome package of ‘do’s and ‘don’t’s on procuring and transporting valuable art, making it even more difficult to ascertain any useful information on the man. The law enforcement databases found nothing on Wilkes. He didn’t exist, or he didn’t have a criminal record. A general people search came up with quite a few Stanley Wilkes, but none matched the address or contact information Evans-Sterling provided. After an internet search, I still had nothing. Did Evans-Sterling screen their clients at all?

  It was almost ten p.m., so calling the office building now would be a fruitless endeavor. I shut down my computer and decided to get some sleep. The jetlag, my welcome home party, and Clare’s late night call fucked up my Circadian rhythms even more so than usual.

  Leaving a couple of lights on in my apartment, I changed the bandage on my leg. Amazingly, it was healing, thanks to Martin’s little trick. I assessed my face in the mirror. It was severely bruised but no longer swollen. As long as I didn’t touch it, things were good.

  I slept until six a.m. Maybe I was turning into a morning person, I thought ironically as I dressed in workout gear and did a few hundred crunches, some push-ups, and finished with a couple basic combinations of punches and blocks, avoiding anything that might put undue stress on my thigh since it didn’t need to start bleeding again. I had a lot of pent-up energy from all the hostility I was harboring toward Jean-Pierre’s murderer. After showering and dressing, I took a seat at the computer and double-checked that I didn’t miss finding the proper Stanley Wilkes.

  By nine o’clock, I was out the door and heading for the Evans-Sterling building. Mr. Evans would be absolutely delighted to see me again. This time, the secretary went straight to the intercom and informed him I was in the lobby. Once I entered his office, my tirade began.

  “Who’s Mr. Wilkes?” I asked before taking a seat.

  “Ms. Parker, our client confidentiality is very important.”

  “Cut the bullshit. Wilkes doesn’t exist. So whose painting did I bring back?”

  Evans tried to intimidate me with his stare, which didn’t work since his face reminded me of a pug. Sure, he could probably snort loudly and maybe let out a bark every now and again, but his bite wasn’t dangerous. I waited him out.

  “This is a very well-endowed, high profile client. Wilkes is the name we have selected in order to ensure the utmost level of privacy.”

  “Despite your penis-envy for the guy, he often has issues in the procurement of his paintings, doesn’t he?” I narrowed my eyes at Evans. If I gave him my death glare, he would keel over.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He fidgeted with the pen on his desk. He must make a lousy poker player. “Now if you wouldn’t mind leaving, or I can have you escorted from the building.”

  I stood up and walked slowly toward the door. “It’s a real shame about that Warhol getting caught in the police raid a couple years back. It would be a disgrace if the press got wind of how Evans-Sterling was failing to protect client assets from being used in some illegal form or fashion.” I would burn the whole place to the ground in order to get what I wanted.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Evans barked. “You signed a confidentiality agreement. We’d own your ass.”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure my contract only pertains to the painting I was hired to return, and quite frankly, I don’t remember a strict confidentiality clause anywhere. If you want to call the legal department and have them explain it to you, I can wait.”

  He turned blood red but realized he wasn’t going to win this. “Sit down,” he commanded. Victorious, I went back to the chair and took a seat. “If I tell you what you want to know, it can’t leave this room.” I shrugged. “Stanley Wilkes is the codename we use for suspect pieces a high-end brokerage firm has hired us to procure.”

  “Suspect?”

  “The company has its own investments and eccentric clientele. Every once in a while, one of their buyers locates a piece they must have, but sometimes, the art they acquire may not be, shall we say, legitimate. All of the verified pieces are later sold or surrendered to institutions and private dealers. However, since these pieces aren’t always reliable, we’re paid to handle the procurement, authentication, and delivery in order to ma
intain the brokerage firm’s reputation.”

  “You’re involved in the sale of illegally obtained works and fraudulent art?”

  “Of course not.” Evans was genuinely offended. “Nothing black market, but sometimes, we play in the gray.” If I were still an OIO agent, I’d have him in cuffs. “We hire former federal agents, like yourself, in order to ensure laws are not broken.” In other words, so they could cover their asses.

  “Why did the brokerage firm want to acquire this particular painting?”

  “I don’t know,” he sounded sincere. I couldn’t be positive he wasn’t lying, but my gut said he was on the level about this.

  “How did the Warhol end up in a raid?” It didn’t matter, but my interest was piqued.

  “It belonged to a gang. One of the lackeys transferred ownership for a decent price. We were handling the delivery.” Evans was covering by making the sale sound legitimate. “Unfortunately, not all of his cohorts agreed on the price. Things got a little messy. It wasn’t our brightest moment.”

  Nodding, I left the office. I had a lot to think about.

  * * *

  I went to Mark’s office, positive he must be sick and tired of seeing me by now. When I knocked on his door, he looked up wearily.

  “Please don’t give me anything else,” he begged. “I have enough casework of my own without doing you or Interpol any favors.”

  “Maybe I just came to see you. It’s been almost twenty-four hours. I don’t think I can make it a full day without getting to see your smiling face,” I said.

  “What do you want, Parker?”

  “Is there an ongoing investigation into Evans-Sterling?”

  He adopted a shifty-eyed look. “What did you hear?”

  “Not a thing. I just thought if there wasn’t one in the works, there should be.”

  He sighed, exasperated, and rubbed his forehead. “What did I just say about giving me more work to do?”

  “You were looking for an excuse to score some overtime,” I suggested, smiling pleasantly. After telling Mark everything I uncovered from Evans, he didn’t seem surprised. Evidently, things like this were common occurrences. It was nothing earth-shattering or worth starting a new file or investigation on, at least not at the present.

  “While I have you here, you might as well know, our guys checked the box, the tape, and the content. We haven’t identified the sender. However, the VHS tape appears to have been cut. Unfortunately, there’s no way to determine what was removed, but I thought you’d like to know.” I was about to speak, but Mark cut me off. “Oh, and yes, I did pass it on to our friends at Interpol.”

  * * *

  O’Connell called during my drive home. Ramirez was brought in late last night. They were still holding him. Making an illegal u-turn, I headed for the precinct.

  “That was quick,” O’Connell commented as I took a seat in the vacant chair across from his desk.

  “Traffic was light.” I neglected to mention the one or two minor traffic violations I committed on my way here. “You do realize there is no way I can legitimately identify him.”

  O’Connell’s nod was barely perceptible. “That doesn’t mean we can’t suggest he cooperate on his own volition.” He winked. “Are you willing to get back in the ring, slugger?”

  If I went along with this ruse, there was a good chance I’d have a few more unexpected visitors knocking on my door or worse. Although, if I didn’t, my opportunity to identify Ski Mask would be nonexistent. “Okay.”

  I followed O’Connell into the interrogation room and remained near the door as he went around the table and sat in front of Aaron Ramirez. Ramirez stared at the table. As far as I could tell, he didn’t notice me.

  “Mr. Ramirez,” O’Connell spoke slowly, “are you sure you want to stick with your story that you have no idea why you’re here?”

  “That’s right.” Ramirez rocked ever so slightly back and forth in his chair. He was cuffed to the bar in the table. “This is jus’ some kind of racial profilin’ shit. You see me out and think he mus’ be guilty of somethin’.”

  “Hmm.” O’Connell glanced at me. I leaned against the wall, making sure it was sturdy, with my arms crossed over my chest. “So you don’t want to tell me who hired you for the assault on Sunday afternoon?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that.” Ramirez stared at his nails.

  “Funny,” I spoke up, “I know you’re lying.”

  Ramirez turned his head in my direction, watching me carefully. There was maybe a flicker of recognition, but this thug was a pro. He wasn’t even dazed by my presence.

  “Do you realize, Mr. Ramirez, assaulting a federal agent is a felony?” O’Connell might have left out the word former, but I wasn’t about to correct him. An assault was an assault.

  “Who’s a federal agent?” Ramirez seemed curious but not flustered or nervous. I wasn’t sure we’d get him to roll. “She a federal agent?”

  I gave him a big, fake smile.

  “So you see,” O’Connell got his attention, “it’d be a shame if something horrible were to happen to you in lock-up before you get transferred out of here. You know how things work when you attack a cop.” O’Connell leaned back in the chair; we had all the time in the world.

  “What do you want?” Ramirez asked after a few minutes of complete silence.

  O’Connell glanced at me again. This was all for show.

  I cocked an eyebrow up and shrugged. “A name would be nice.” I stood up straight, away from the wall, and sauntered toward the table, staring Ramirez down. My expression conveyed one simple truth; I’m not intimidated by a son of a bitch like you. “Give us the suit with the accent, and I’ll make sure you get out of here this afternoon.”

  Ramirez pulled back on his cuffs, making them clang menacingly while he eyed me. Finally, he shifted his gaze to O’Connell.

  “This on the level?” he asked.

  “I’ll make the paperwork disappear myself,” O’Connell promised.

  “He don’t got a name,” Ramirez responded.

  “Fine. Throw the son of a bitch in lock-up.” I turned and headed for the door. “I’m done.”

  “Sorry, pal,” O’Connell said. The chair squeaked against the floor as he got up. I was one step into the hallway when Ramirez spoke again.

  “Wait, what if I roll on who paid me?”

  I turned around slowly and glanced at O’Connell. It was his call what he wanted to do.

  “I guess that would suffice.” O’Connell retook his seat, and I shut the door and resumed my leaning.

  “Guy named Clyde Van Buren wired the money.”

  I nodded once to O’Connell and left the interrogation room. If I stayed a moment longer, I would want to even the score. Back in the bullpen, I sat down in O’Connell’s chair, waiting for him to finish with Ramirez. He was giving him the stay away or else speech. Finally, O’Connell met me at his desk.

  “Was that helpful?” he asked, staring at his chair forlornly. Surrendering his chair, I took a seat next to his desk.

  “Just confirmation it’s an inside job.” Tilting my head up, I stared at the ceiling, asking, “Do you think he’ll tattle to his buddies?”

  “No. He’s getting out of town and taking a nice long vacation. At least he will if he knows what’s good for him.” O’Connell could be intimidating when he wanted to be.

  “Looks like I might be taking a trip, too. Thanks, I owe you one.”

  “We’ll call it even for everything you gave me last time,” he countered. “Fair enough?”

  “Sure.” I left the precinct and headed home. All the lights were staying on tonight.

  Eleven

  Clyde Van Buren, former American Customs agent, was hired by Evans-Sterling two years ago. The first large-scale asset retrieval he worked was the Warhol, which would explain how he had Ramirez’s name. Van Buren had no criminal record, a decent enough credit score, and had recently applied for permanent alien resident status in Fr
ance. But that didn’t explain why he would be willing to kill Jean-Pierre and threaten me. There didn’t seem to be any reason besides the fact the guy must be a greedy, sinister asshole.

  Clare had been partnered with him during the stakeout at the gallery. Could there be a potential love triangle in my midst? I clicked the mouse a few times to close the opened windows. It didn’t matter what Van Buren’s motivation was. All that mattered was stopping him. I informed Mark of the situation, and he put me in direct contact with the Interpol liaison, Patrick Farrell.

  Farrell was a cooperative man and promised to keep me in the loop. Interpol was now working with the Police Nationale on tracking Van Buren’s movements and attempting to build a solid case against him for the murder of Jean-Pierre. Theoretically, my work should have been finished at this point.

  Unfortunately, I had a horrible habit of failing to let things go. I spent the rest of the week spying on the Evans-Sterling offices. If Clyde Van Buren was dirty, how did I know there wasn’t an equally corrupt American investigator working with him? I ran license plate numbers, backgrounds, and followed a few of the more suspicious types. Everyone at the American branch of Evans-Sterling appeared to be on the level. I even followed Mr. Evans once or twice when he left the office. Nothing conclusive turned up. On the plus side, no one noticed the tail since I wasn’t pulled over or arrested for stalking. On an even more positive note, no one came to my apartment to deliver any more messages.

  When I wasn’t stalking Evans-Sterling employees or running background checks, I was digging up information on the French team Jean-Pierre led. Once again, no one appeared dirty, except Van Buren, who had the blip on his radar with the Warhol incident. With more digging, I discovered Jean-Pierre was partnered with him on that retrieval. Maybe this was when things went awry between the two. Clare was removed from the entire situation since she was one of the latest newcomers to Evans-Sterling, causing my theory on a love triangle to fall to the wayside.