by G. K. Parks
If I wanted more concrete answers, I needed to go back to Paris and do some legwork. During my search for cheap flights, a new e-mail message popped up. Martin had forwarded the pertinent information regarding the security firm meeting which was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. I could go to the meeting and leave Tuesday evening or Wednesday. I wasn’t being paid to investigate Jean-Pierre’s murder, but I was being paid to consult at Martin Technologies. My priorities were skewed toward tracking a killer instead of worrying about updating security cameras but whatever pays the bills.
I sent Martin a response guaranteeing I would be there this time and booked a flight for ten o’clock Tuesday night. Assuming an eight hour flight and the obvious time difference, if I slept on the plane, I could hit the ground running Wednesday afternoon. It seemed like a solid plan, minus the fact I had no idea what I intended to do in Paris. I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t a federal agent, and I wasn’t even an Evans-Sterling employee anymore. Was this entire trip completely ludicrous? Yes, my internal voice answered. However, the constant gnawing feeling made it painfully apparent I had to be there, even if it was just to watch the real cops put the screws to Van Buren. I felt I owed it to Jean-Pierre, which was an equally ridiculous notion. We worked a case together four years ago and spent a few days together recently. I didn’t owe him anything. In all honesty, I barely knew him.
I tried to rationalize why I shouldn’t go to Paris to avenge Jean-Pierre. The problem was, for whatever the reason, he had been a kindred spirit. We both left our government jobs to start over in the private sector in the hopes of making a name for ourselves and living the life we wanted. If Jean-Pierre couldn’t do it, how good were my chances of succeeding before someone blew up my car or waited in my apartment to put a bullet through my skull? Maybe I just wanted to know if it was me, someone would be fighting to find answers. God, I was turning into an insecure mess.
The next day, I called the hotel and requested a room reservation. The desk clerk was more than happy to assist. Boxing up some items, I would overnight them to my hotel room since I didn’t want to piss off the TSA agents. My handcuffs, pepper spray, taser, and Spyderco knife were brought to FedEx for delivery. I might not need any of it, but considering I had yet to determine what my actual plan was, it didn’t seem like a bad idea to be prepared. The hotel would hold my parcel until I arrived. Pulling out my duffel bag, I packed only the necessities and a few items to help me blend in with the seedy underground gambling scene. And they say women can’t pack light.
The next day, I dressed as a business professional in a skirt, dress shirt, and jacket, put on a pair of pumps, and covered my slightly discolored face with concealer. The bruises were in the final stage of healing, and my thigh, while still not completely closed, was well on the way to becoming a pink scar. Marching into Martin Technologies, I was greeted by the security guard, Jeffrey Myers.
“Ms. Parker, long time, no see.” Jeffrey smiled. “Go on up. Mr. Martin is expecting you.”
The place was a ghost town. The only office still on this level was Martin’s and maybe mine, if it hadn’t been turned into a janitor’s closet. I knocked on his door and waited to be buzzed in.
“Alex.” Martin looked up from his desk, acknowledging my presence. Picking a spot in front of the wall of windows, I stared outside while he finished whatever he was doing. He clicked away at the keyboard, and the printer fired up. “Are you ready to listen to the spiel about the latest developments in security cameras and fiber optics?” He sounded cynical in his mocking.
“That is why I’m here. Are you joining me for the festivities?”
“I can spare a few minutes,” Martin said, “but Charlie Roman’s sitting in on the meeting, in case you need assistance.” I briefly met Mr. Roman, a board member, at a charity function with Martin. “Can you provide your official recommendations before close of business today?”
“Of course.” Looking in the direction of my old office, I asked, “Do you mind if I borrow the old office space?”
“It’s your office.” Martin seemed confused by my request. “You are still a Martin Tech employee. You are entitled to have your own space in the building.”
“Good to know.”
He was clearly busy, so I went across the hallway and unlocked the door. Besides being vacuumed and dusted, the office didn’t look like it had been used in months. I put my belongings down and sat in my chair. It felt strange being back in this building for work. I shook the feeling away and rifled through the drawers for a legal pad and pen. Once prepared, I went to the conference room to wait until Martin freed himself from his desk chair and the security equipment representative showed up.
I was trying very hard not to spin in circles in the office chair when Martin entered the conference room. He no longer seemed interested in work, and it was reflected in his posture. I shot him a questioning look.
“Charlie’s waiting in the lobby. Our sales rep is running late today.” He pulled out the chair next to mine and carefully examined my face. “How are you?” he asked softly. Work-mode Martin was taking a break.
“I’m okay.” I stared at the lines running across the legal pad. He reached to touch my makeup covered cheek, and I automatically jerked away. He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Sorry, it’s almost healed, just a reflex.”
“I wanted to check on you.”
“No reason.” I shook my head, dismissing his sentiment. “I’m actually,” I was about to tell him of my impending trip when Mr. Roman and an exquisitely dressed woman entered the room.
“James Martin, Alexis Parker, this is the equipment representative, Dani Heller,” Roman introduced us. There were rounds of handshakes and nods. I didn’t quite like the way Dani looked at Martin, but I needed to let that go. She was a saleswoman. I just wasn’t sure what she thought she was selling.
Dani came prepared with a slideshow and presentation on the newest and latest equipment from lasers to fiber optics to remote-operated cameras and motion sensors. She was fifteen minutes into her presentation when Martin picked up my pen and scribbled a note on my legal pad. I looked down, assuming he was wondering what my opinion of the biometric locks was, only to be surprised by ‘dinner tonight?’ I tried not to smile. It felt like we were in high school passing notes. I gave Martin an almost imperceptible headshake.
“Excuse me, Ms. Heller,” Martin interrupted, standing up. “I hate to run, but I’m leaving these decisions in the very capable hands of Mr. Roman and our security consultant, Ms. Parker. Please, carry on.” He gave her a charming smile and headed for the door. “Ms. Parker, if you’d be so kind as to hand deliver those recommendations personally at four this afternoon, that would be lovely.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied as he made his way out of the conference room and back toward the elevators.
Dani continued her sales pitch, completely unfazed by Martin’s disappearance. That kind of professionalism was admirable. At the end of the presentation, Roman thanked her for rescheduling. He didn’t have any questions or anything else to add. I, on the other hand, was hired to consult on matters such as these.
“Ms. Heller, if you’d be so kind,” I stood up, nodding to Roman that I could take it from here, “I would like to take you through the building and hear what types of improvements you think would be most beneficial.” Most of what she was selling was too advanced for the MT building. It wasn’t like Martin was protecting weapons-grade uranium, but maybe she would have some interesting ideas I failed to consider.
We began in the lobby and worked our way up. I flipped my notepad to a clean sheet of paper and noted her suggestions. Surprisingly, she wasn’t insisting on solely top-of-the-line replacements. At the end, I escorted her back to the lobby and thanked her for her time. I reiterated that Martin would send her the list of upgrades he wanted very soon. She had been pleased by my questions and probably assumed she would make a nice commission.
In my office, I typed a thorough list of the most
beneficial equipment upgrades. Basically, new cameras with a larger hard drive to store the digital files and some biometric locks wouldn’t be a bad idea when used strategically. Overall, the security at Martin Tech was decent enough as it was. I recommended adding a few more cameras in the elevator and in the blind spots of the hallways but nothing earth-shattering or costly. Martin should be pleased. I printed out the report and e-mailed him a copy, just in case.
It was 3:45 when I opened my office door to wait for him to return. At 4:12, he came down the hall, scanned his ID card, and entered his office.
“Here’s the report you wanted.” I placed it on his desk and sat down in his client chair, waiting for him to finish filing whatever it was he needed to leave the equipment meeting to do. When he was done, he glanced at the two-page report and focused on me.
“Still avoiding me like the plague?” he asked playfully.
“Actually, what I wanted to tell you earlier was I’m leaving tonight.”
He got up from behind his desk and poured himself a drink. “Want one?”
“No, thank you.” I moved to the couch. Business was obviously over for the day, and now I was afraid I’d have to justify my leaving.
“Going back to Paris?” He carried his drink to the couch and sat down next to me. He didn’t sound surprised.
“Yes. My flight leaves tonight at ten. I don’t know when I’m coming back. I just thought you should know in case you needed me to do anything here.” I gestured obliquely around the office.
“We’ll manage.” He didn’t sound pleased by my revelation.
“Okay, well, if there’s nothing else, I should get going.”
“Alex,” his questioning tone almost sounded wounded, “what are you doing?”
“What?”
“Why are you going to Paris? What do you think you can do that isn’t already being done?” He studied my face, hoping to gain some type of understanding.
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.” I paused, determined to make him understand. “I have to do this.”
He still didn’t get it, probably because it was completely illogical. He got up from the couch, put his glass down, and knelt in front of me.
“This is purely platonic, so don’t get mad,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me in a hug. I held him tightly for a few minutes, not wanting to let go. “Stay safe and please come back in one piece.”
Finally, I let go and picked up my purse. Boundaries, Parker. We needed firm, clearly defined boundaries. “I’ll see you later.”
* * *
Dressed in comfortable travel clothes, I grabbed a quick bite and called a cab to take me to the airport. I checked in the recommended two hours early and sat in the terminal, trying to decide if this was actually a good idea. Just because something wasn’t a good idea didn’t necessarily mean I shouldn’t do it.
I called Patrick Farrell and informed him of my impending trip. Farrell tried to be helpful by smoothing the waters with the Paris Interpol office. They knew I would be snooping around in their investigation and were willing to grant a slight professional courtesy as long as I agreed to stay out of their way. This helped to comfort my questioning mind. I dialed Clare to give her my flight number and arrival time. She sounded pleased to have someone to assist in the investigation she was conducting on her own.
An hour later, I boarded the plane and tried to get comfortable in the cramped, little seat as I closed my eyes. If I could just fall asleep and stay asleep for the next six hours, things would work out well. It was sheer willpower alone that let me sleep as we crossed the Atlantic Ocean. I woke up at ten a.m., Paris time. We still had another couple of hours left in the air, but I could entertain myself for that long. Finally, the plane made its final approach and landed. I stood around baggage claim for what felt like an eternity before my single duffel bag emerged onto the carousel. Grabbing it, I hailed a taxi to my hotel.
Twelve
The box I sent ahead was waiting in my room. Opening it, I regarded the contents before unlocking the room safe and placing everything, except the pepper spray, inside. My first stop would be the Paris branch of Interpol, and I didn’t want to risk setting off the metal detector. Quickly unpacking my bag, I hung up my clothes and took a shower. Some breakfast and coffee would have been nice, but I didn’t want to waste the time. Hailing a cab, I headed to the Interpol offices. During the ride, I sent Clare a text message to let her know I was in Paris and offered to meet later. She responded with a location and time to get together for drinks.
Entering the Interpol building, I was given a visitor’s pass to wear. I informed the man working the main desk I was here in regards to the Gustav murder, and Agent Farrell should have contacted them about my impending arrival. In a small office, I was introduced to Agent Delacroix, who thanked me for all the information I supplied: the videotape, my suspect list, and the connection between Clyde Van Buren and Jean-Pierre. I updated Delacroix on the connections concerning Ramirez, the Sanchez gang, and the Warhol that had been confiscated in the police raid. There were quite a few strangely shaped pieces to this particular jigsaw puzzle. Once I was finished dithering on about my conclusions, Delacroix asked what I planned to do now.
“Look around and see if anything pops up,” I replied.
He wasn’t happy with my answer. “Ms. Parker, I understand you used to be an American agent, and you still work in security. But this is Paris. We have an investigation in the works, and quite frankly, we don’t need you bumbling about and getting in our way.”
“I understand, but the thing is, I believe whoever killed Gustav is connected to the creeps who broke into my apartment and threatened me. I can’t walk away, thinking they’re still out there.” Maybe I was being dramatic, but Delacroix considered my point.
“You can look around, but if you blow any part of this investigation for us,” his gaze was unyielding, “I will personally make sure you are on the first flight out of here.”
“Understood.”
“If you find anything, you will report it directly to me. Think of me as your commanding officer.”
I didn’t like having no say in the matter, but there wasn’t much I could do. I nodded my head in acquiescence.
“Good.” He gave me a brief smile. “Enjoy your stay in Paris.”
On the way back to the hotel, I felt like I sold my soul to the devil, and all I got out of the deal were the cheap seats. Oh well, I would make do with what I had. Right now, everything was pointing toward Van Buren being the mastermind behind my threats and Jean-Pierre’s murder. If I worked the case carefully, I could work around the Interpol investigation without getting in the way. There were always loopholes. I just needed to make sure I found the right one.
Back in my room, I resisted the urge to lie down. If I fell asleep now, I’d be doomed. Instead, I called the concierge and arranged for a rental car. Having my own means of transportation would make surveillance a lot easier. The car would be delivered, charged to my credit card on file with the hotel, and be waiting in the parking lot whenever I was ready to go out. I pulled up some maps, locating the gallery and a few other key locations, figuring Clare could point out where Jean-Pierre’s car was found, where he went to gamble, and other similarly important locales.
Studying the city maps, I was familiarizing myself with the cross streets and traffic patterns when my phone rang. It was Clare. She was on her way and wondered if I needed to be picked up. It would make things easier and allow me to pay attention to the roads while she drove, so I gave her my room number and waited.
* * *
“Alexis,” Clare intoned in her thick French accent, “I can’t believe you came all this way.”
“That’s the general consensus.” We sat at a small table in the corner of the bar. “How are you holding up?”
She shrugged. Her eyes held a question, and she hesitated to ask as she stabbed at the ice cubes. Eventually, she met my eyes and spoke softly. “Wer
e you and Jean-Pierre lovers?”
“Oh god, no,” I said, completely surprised. “I spent a couple of months working with him years ago. That was it.” I swirled the straw around my glass. “I regret that I didn’t know him very well.” Signaling to the waitress for another round, I studied Clare’s appearance. Her eyes were puffy and dark. The news of his death weighed heavily on her, but I detected the smallest sign of relief. Jean-Pierre might have been a lot of things, but at least he wasn’t a philanderer.
“Then I don’t understand. Why come here to avenge him?”
My original knee-jerk reaction to Jean-Pierre’s murder was to hunt down the person responsible. That was also the same knee-jerk reaction I had when reading particularly gruesome news stories. This was often what separated our first responders and military from ordinary civilians. Some of us had the unquenchable need to do something. It was probably because we were all just closeted control freaks. The difference here was one too many people told me to back off.
“I want justice for him,” I looked at Clare, knowing I needed to admit to my own selfish motivation, “but I’ve also received a few violent suggestions to walk away. Needless to say, I’m not the most obedient. It’s more like, oh really, then watch this, asshole.”
A brief, knowing smile crossed her face. “Je comprend.”
Glancing around the bar, I made sure no one was interested in us or our conversation. “What have you found?”
Clare gave a run-through of everything. The Police Nationale strongly suggested Evans-Sterling conclude its business at the gallery. The surveillance teams were pulled, and everyone who worked any aspect of the missing painting investigation was questioned in conjunction with the thefts. Passports and VISAs were confiscated, and no one was permitted to leave the country. Marset had not been located, but as far as Clare was aware, the Manet never went up for auction in Luxembourg.