by G. K. Parks
Next, I headed to Donough’s apartment. The drive took about forty minutes, and I debated what to do if he wasn’t home. I guess I’d just have to wait him out. Today was quickly turning into a bust. Finding the correct avenue, I parked a block away from Donough’s apartment building. Before I could look for any surveillance vehicles, I spotted him, walking down the street. I slouched down in the driver’s seat, hoping not to be noticed. He continued toward his building but stopped suddenly in front of a garbage bin. Carefully, I lifted my camera off the passenger’s seat and zoomed in, watching as he glanced around before surreptitiously reaching into the dumpster and removing a plastic bag.
“What the hell are you up to?” I asked. He pulled something from inside his jacket pocket and placed it in the dumpster. This was a dead drop. I never imagined I’d get lucky this fast. Donough headed away from the dumpster and down the street, straight toward me. Shoving my camera onto the seat and slumping down further to avoid detection, I hoped he wouldn’t notice me as he continued in my general direction.
Donough was half a block from my car when he sat down at the bus stop. He opened the bag and removed the contents, placing them inside his jacket pocket. I had no idea what he retrieved or what he left at the dumpster. I was still watching him intensely when he turned and looked right at me. Standing up, he walked at a fast clip toward his building.
“Shit.” I was torn. He was involved in something shady, and he knew he’d been made. The problem was I didn’t know what I was going to do with him if I caught him, but if I did nothing, he could destroy evidence or flee. My only lead might escape. Getting out of my car, I pursued him down the street, feeling the reassuring weight of the taser in my right jacket pocket. My handcuffs were hooked on my belt, hidden from sight. Hopefully, I could subdue the subject and then figure out the rest.
Donough turned and disappeared down the alleyway between his apartment building and a local cafe, past the dead drop dumpster. Even though I lost sight of him, I continued pursuit and cautiously entered the alley. He was nowhere to be seen, but the alley opened onto a parallel street. He could be anywhere by now.
Edging closer, I made sure he wasn’t behind the dumpster. A door connected the apartment building to the alley. I pulled on the handle, but it didn’t budge. I took a few steps past and heard the door open as I simultaneously felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against my side.
“Stop,” the Irish brogue of a man’s voice growled in my ear. I stopped and raised my hands. Dumb move, Parker, the voice in my head scolded. He grabbed my right arm and twisted it behind my back as he maneuvered me into the building, the gun still at my side. “Don’t make a sound.” I ran through my options. In this tight, enclosed space, I had no chance of putting up a fight. Relenting, I let him escort me through the narrow hallways of the apartment building. Donough got to his apartment and put the key in my hand. “Open the door, slowly.”
I unlocked the door and turned the knob. He pushed me inside and kicked the door closed behind him. We were now in a large enough space that I had a decent chance to fend him off. He was acutely aware of this because he cautiously circled around, stepping out of my striking zone. The gun remained pointed at me.
“It’s you,” he sounded shocked as recognition dawned on him. His aim faltered, and I lunged. He held the gun in his right, so I used my right to shove it away as I spun around and tried to elbow him with my left. He blocked my elbow and twisted my arm behind me. “Stop,” he repeated forcefully.
My foot slammed down on his instep, causing his grip on my arm to loosen. Pulling free, I let go of his gun hand as I spun my body around and delivered a right cross to his jaw. He stumbled backward, and the gun clattered to the floor. I dove for it, but he recovered and launched himself at me. We were both on the ground. I tried to roll him off, but he held on. Reaching into my jacket pocket for the taser, I had just gotten a grip on it when he grabbed my wrist and pried it from my fingers. I dropped the taser, and it slid out of my reach. I tried to knee him. But he straddled my thighs, and I couldn’t get free from under his weight.
I was trying to maneuver out of his hold when I noticed a coffee mug on the floor next to his couch. Reaching for it, I grabbed the handle and slammed it into the side of his head. He crumpled sideways, dazed, and I scrambled for the gun. He cursed in French and launched himself at me, knocking me sideways to the floor. All I accomplished was pissing him off, which was not a good thing. He had my legs pinned and my wrists held tightly against the ground above my head.
“Bloody hell. Stop fighting,” he angrily commanded. “I’m a cop.” I wasn’t about to fall for this line of bull. He used to be a cop.
“I don’t know any cops who make suspicious dead drops outside their apartments,” I practically spat, “especially when they were discharged from the police department.” Great job pissing off the guy who’s going to kill you. My internal voice could be a sarcastic bitch sometimes.
“Apparently in America you don’t do undercover work,” he sneered. He held both of my wrists firmly in one hand as he pulled a pair of cuffs from his jacket pocket and bound my wrists together around the table leg. “Now would you please just stay there.” He got up cautiously, making sure I didn’t kick him. Then he retrieved the gun from the floor, putting the safety on and sliding it into the holster on his belt. I got into a semi-seated position and watched him.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“I’m going to show you my badge, and if you can behave like a lady, I’ll consider taking the handcuffs off.” He went to the bookcase and pulled a thick volume from the shelf. Opening the book, he produced a shield and identification. Apparently, the book had been hollowed out. He tossed them in my general direction. It wasn’t easy manipulating my bound hands around the table leg to examine his identification, but it looked legitimate.
“I’m supposed to believe these are current?” I asked. “I know you were a cop. Ryan Donough, honorably discharged after sustaining a spinal fracture. I can read the newspapers just like anyone else.” Well, at least Martin could, but that didn’t seem important at the moment.
“I never sustained a spinal fracture.” Donough spun and lifted his shirt. From what I could tell, there were no scars or signs of surgery, but maybe he was just a lucky son of a bitch who healed well. He took a seat on the couch, rubbing his head absently. “Alexis Parker, former OIO agent, currently private security consultant.”
“Maybe you should have tried this type of introduction in the first place.” I was working on the handcuffs, trying to get the hinge to unlock, but I needed to buy some time.
“You should have just knocked on my door instead of watching me from your car. I can’t afford that right now. It could blow my cover.”
“What’s your cover? Evans-Sterling douchebag who killed Jean-Pierre?” Leaning against the table, I hoped to lift it enough to slide the cuffs from under the leg before he noticed.
“Evans-Sterling employee investigating the missing paintings. It’s an inside job, after all. I know you’re aware of this. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He tried to crack a friendly smile, but it looked more like a challenge. “Paintings have been going missing for the last three years. A lot more than the three you heard about. They’ve always been insured by Evans-Sterling, and since the insurance company was responsible for the retrievals, my cover was established. Each of the paintings would inevitably encounter a delivery problem. Either they would arrive or depart as forgeries. It’s happened at numerous galleries and museums all over France. The accident was staged along with my discharge. I was hired on to Evans-Sterling, and I’ve been in deep cover for the last eighteen months. It’s just about over, and here you are, trying to fuck it up.”
“What did you get from the dead drop?” His story was plausible, but without proof, he could be playing me. He opened his jacket pocket and pulled the items out. There were a list of addresses and a burner phone. “Doesn’t prove anything.”
“L
isten, you can’t tell anyone what I’ve told you,” Donough said. If he was in deep cover, telling me was a total violation. So either he was close to wrapping it up, or he needed something. This was assuming he wasn’t lying.
“You find a way for me to verify your story, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Maybe you could work on taking these cuffs off too.” I tried a more civil approach, hoping he wasn’t about to disprove the entire story and shoot me where I sat. He rubbed the side of his head where I hit him with the coffee mug, brushing pieces of ceramic from his hair.
“That can be arranged.” He got up from the couch and approached cautiously. Since I was docile, he unlocked the handcuffs. “Does this earn some trust?”
“We’ll see.” I rubbed my wrists absently as I tried to make sense of the last twenty minutes.
Sixteen
Donough offered the name of his commanding officer and the code word for the operation. Taking his suggestion under advisement, I called Police Nationale Headquarters and spoke with Capt. Reneaux, who corroborated Ryan’s cover story. Ryan Donough was one of the boys in blue. Deciding not to throw caution to the wind, I made a quick call to Mark to see if he could verify this through more official channels. Better safe than sorry, especially since I was sick and tired of having guns pointed at me.
“Here.” Donough placed a bowl of ice water on his dining room table in front of me. He wrapped a few pieces of ice in a towel and sat down, pressing it against the side of his head. “Shall we try this again?”
“Alex.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m checking into Gustav’s murder. Congratulations, you’re officially off my suspect list.”
He shook my hand and chuckled at the absurdity of our second introduction. “Ryan.” He leaned back in the chair. “You have one hell of a right cross.”
I put my hand into the bowl of ice water. My knuckles were already swollen. “Sorry about the coffee mug. At the time, I thought you were a murderer.” My apology lacked in sincerity, but I was in a playful mood since I finally identified an ally in this uphill battle.
“I’m sorry I approached you in that particular manner. I had no idea you were the one watching me all this time,” he sounded relieved.
“I hate to burst your bubble, but I was outside your place for maybe ten minutes before you made me.”
“Well, that’s just bloody fantastic.” He went to the window and pulled back the curtain just a sliver so he could look outside. “They’re still out there.”
Joining him at the window, I recognized the dark sedan and the Interpol agents in the vehicle. “Looks like I’m not the only one who thought you were responsible for Gustav’s murder. Those are Interpol agents.” I glanced at Ryan, still uncertain about our new level of trust.
“Are you working for them?”
“Not quite. From home I supplied them with information on the case, but once I got here, Delacroix told me to back off unless I had something useful to give him. Shouldn’t you be working with them?” I was confused why the Police Nationale and Interpol weren’t cooperating on this case since they were supposedly cooperating on the car bombing and Gustav’s murder investigation.
“Interagency politics.” Ryan shrugged. It was the same reason the FBI and NYPD never knew what operations the other was running at any given time.
“How close are you to closing this case? I know how things work, and you wouldn’t have broken cover unless you needed something.”
He assessed me for a few moments. “After you appeared at the Evans-Sterling office, I ran a full security check on you. You’ll be happy to know you were cleared from any and all suspicion quickly. I was hoping, if you were sticking around, that we could be allies. Recently, I raised a few suspicions during the course of my investigation and needed someone else to provide a distraction, but you left.” Ryan provided the narrative from his point of view. I sat patiently, waiting for him to get to the point. “When the painting you were hired to retrieve turned out to be a fake, I had the hard evidence needed to prove Gustav was involved in the thefts. I called it in Sunday night, and we were set to move on Jean-Pierre.”
“But he was killed before you got the chance.” The pieces were falling into place. Jean-Pierre wasn’t killed because of debts or betting. He was killed because he could have rolled on the people in charge.
“Exactly.” Ryan stared intensely at me. “One of the other members of the Evans-Sterling team must have made me and informed their boss. The ringleader must have decided to cut ties.”
“Clare?” She made the most sense. She always did, even though I was stubborn enough to believe she couldn’t have done it.
“That’s what I assumed. When I first grabbed you in the alley, I thought you were her, coming to finish the job.” His comment about it being me now made more sense.
After I filled him in on everything from my meeting with Ski Mask and Ramirez to the frantic phone conversations with Clare to the video footage I had been sent, he had the complete picture in front of him. “I came back to Paris to find justice for Jean-Pierre, not to get mixed up in a smuggling conspiracy turned murder.” I needed to learn to mind my own business. “To be perfectly honest, I’m shocked he was this corrupt.”
“I do believe the gambling and the thievery are related. He had a problem and was looking for an easy way out. You know how one thing can turn into another.”
“Which brings me back to my original question.” I stared at Ryan. “You told me this for a reason. What is it? What do you need me to do?”
“I can’t very well go anywhere without alerting my tail,” he sounded annoyed. “We’re so close. I’ve been under for a year and a bloody half.” The time in seclusion was getting to him, and all he wanted was to be free to resume his normal life. “My commander is only in the beginning stages of establishing a cover for my relief replacement, but you have a legitimate cover. You’ve been investigating the murder all along. Will you help us?”
I took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Ryan and I spent the rest of the day going over every piece of evidence he had and everything I uncovered. Given the intel from the last eighteen months, it was apparent Louis Abelard was in charge of both the underground gambling and the art thefts. The connection had been particularly daunting, and if it wasn’t for Jean-Pierre, it might never have been made.
Jean-Pierre was a gambler at heart and somehow happened upon Abelard. I assumed in a similar fashion to the way I happened upon Abelard, completely by accident. Abelard’s venture was costly, and the police suspected he had turned his small business into a large enterprise through forgery and black market art sales. He had made a name for himself as he sought to establish his own underground gambling empire. Millions of dollars in stolen art, over the course of the last few years, had bankrolled his entrepreneurial endeavors, but the police failed to get any hard evidence against him. Any time a lead, such as Jean-Pierre, seemed promising, something horrific occurred.
“At least I was on the right track.” I smirked once we were done with the show and tell portion of the evening.
“Incroyable,” Ryan reverted to French for a moment. “I don’t see how you put so much together on your own. Eighteen months and only now are we compiling hard evidence.”
“It’s easier when you don’t need evidence, and you get handed some very fundamental facts on a silver platter.”
“You have a meeting scheduled with Abelard for Tuesday evening?”
“I wouldn’t call it a meeting so much as an open invitation to spend a few grand on table games.”
“It’d be enough. If Abelard’s there and you can verify it, then we can move in, confiscate everything, and at least have enough to get him on some bloody illegal gambling charges. Who knows, maybe our compatriots at Interpol can make murder stick to him, too.” The relief showed on his face.
“What about Clare? You’re going to let her get away with everything?”
“Do you think she intentionally killed Jean-Pierre?” he asked. I
shook my head. “Neither do I, so I’d be willing to let her bloody well suffer in silence for the rest of her life if we can’t find anything to tie the two of them together. Who knows? We won’t know what we have until that warehouse gets raided. Maybe it’s just a wet dream, but I hope we find some of the missing art in that warehouse.”
“You want me to be wired, don’t you?” I flashed back to my lovely frisking at the bar. Where could I hide a wire?
Ryan thought about it for a few moments. “Maybe we can come up with a less obvious alternative.”
This was absolutely crazy. I came to Paris for one reason, and now I was here for a completely different reason and working for the Police Nationale no less. Jeez, how in the world did I get myself into these things? When I get home, I’d have to shred my passport and ask Mark to place me on the no-fly list.
We each made a couple of calls and formulated a decent plan of action. The commander and a technician were meeting me at my hotel for a proper briefing and equipment check before Tuesday night. I also had to sign the paperwork, indemnifying them from any injury sustained. Legality and fear of litigation were always such a pleasure to deal with. Mark would have to forward my personnel file and any other pertinent information the French police needed before I could become their informant.
“Care for some dinner?” Ryan asked as I concluded my overseas calls and got the ball rolling. It was past ten, and I was considering going back to my hotel. It had been a long day. “It’s the least I can do after taking you hostage.”
“Fine,” I relented. He ordered delivery from the deli down the street. While we waited, I glanced out the window. The surveillance vehicle was still outside. “Any idea how I’m going to get out of here undetected?”