The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “I didn’t want to be late to the party. It sounded like things might get exciting.”

  “Detective O’Connell.” Martin nodded at him.

  “Mr. Martin,” Nick replied, “nice to see you again.” Nick turned to the uniformed officers. “Take good care of him. We didn’t do a good job the first time around.”

  “If anything happens, call Mark and have him relay a message,” I told Martin as he threw me one last look and followed the cops down the hallway.

  “O’Connell,” he called before they made it to the stairwell, “keep her safe.”

  I ushered Nick into my apartment and shut the door. When the coffee finished brewing, I filled two mugs. “I didn’t expect to see you.” I handed him a mug.

  “Like I said, it was a slow night,” he deadpanned, opening my fridge and pouring some milk into his cup.

  Twenty-eight

  I was on the phone, trying to make sense of everything that was happening. There had been quite a few details Ryan failed to mention when it came to the raids on Abelard’s safe houses.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I was trying very hard not to scream at him. “I could have been more prepared. There were precautions I could have taken. Hell, I should have stayed in Paris until I knew we had him.”

  “What would you have done?” he asked, his own tone growing heated. “The dossier he had on you didn’t mean he was planning an attack.”

  “So then what the hell did it mean?”

  “He had one on me too. And Olivier, Van Buren, and Langmire. Abelard has all our information thanks to his little lap dog accessing Evans-Sterling’s files. Alex, none of it meant a damn thing until he snuck through airport security and switched tickets with someone else.”

  “Why didn’t you have his known aliases on the watchlist?”

  “We did, but he still slipped through. I don’t know how, but he did. He must have known we’d catch him, so he traded tickets with someone else at a nearby gate. I’m guessing since no one claimed Abelard’s seat, Abelard must have paid the guy not to board the plane or he did something to him. We don’t know. We haven’t been able to identify or locate the original ticket holder yet.”

  I sighed audibly. Abelard could be anywhere. Maybe he wasn’t here. “If he kept his original ticket, when would he have arrived at the airport?”

  “Two hours ago.”

  I hadn’t heard anything from Farrell or Mark, and I knew we missed him. I could feel it. “It’s not your fault.” I forced the words out of my mouth. I didn’t blame Ryan. I blamed Jean-Pierre, the lazy ass airport personnel, and Abelard for being a vengeful, sadistic excuse for a human being. “I need an unbiased opinion. Do you think he’s here?” The question was met with silence, and my mouth went dry. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  “Alex,” Ryan began.

  “Save it.” I didn’t want to hear it. “See what you can get out of Gustav. If he knows anything at all, I want to hear it.”

  “I’m on it. Keep me updated.”

  “Will do.” I hung up and turned to O’Connell.

  “I’m guessing someone’s gunning for you this time?” O’Connell inquired, sipping his coffee. “It’s a nice change of pace from you protecting someone else, I guess. Although, either way, you still end up with the shit end of the stick.”

  “Story of my life.” Luckily, Reneaux forwarded the pertinent information about my involvement with Abelard, so I didn’t have to go through a detailed explanation of what was happening. “Do you think Ramirez might be helpful?” I asked, yawning. The sun wasn’t up yet, and I should have been asleep with Martin. My life sucked.

  “Doubtful.” O’Connell was doing his best to derail the train to worst case scenario and changed topics. “So, you and Martin?”

  “Late night meeting. We were discussing the new security equipment that was installed on Monday and his upcoming surgery. We lost track of time.”

  “All right.” He didn’t believe a word I said.

  “Thanks for the police escort. I don’t need him to get roped into this.”

  “Like I said, I’m here to protect and serve.”

  There was a noise outside, and O’Connell and I both drew our weapons, aiming at the door. It felt good to know I didn’t have the market on paranoia.

  “What the hell?” Mark exclaimed as O’Connell threw him against the wall.

  “Mark?” I holstered my gun and went to the door, shutting it as O’Connell released Mark. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you could use some support. I didn’t realize I was the B-team.” Mark straightened his shirt and sauntered into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. “I assume you already heard, no love.”

  I sighed and went back to the table. We were too late to catch Abelard, but it still hurt to hear it. The three of us sat at my kitchen table, discussing Abelard and drinking coffee until the sun came up. O’Connell looked at his watch.

  “Get out of here. You’re on the clock.” I jerked my head toward the door. “Go protect and serve the rest of the city.”

  He put his cup in the sink. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”

  I smiled and thanked him before shutting the door and locking the deadbolts.

  “Are you okay?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah, just tired.”

  “Go back to bed. I’ll keep an eye on things.”

  I shut the bedroom door, climbed into bed, and took off my two holsters and put them on either nightstand. I was aware of two things. First, there was no way I was actually going to sleep. Second, if Abelard was here, one of us wouldn’t survive the encounter.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I emerged from my bedroom, having done nothing except stare at the ceiling and force my mind to go blank. Mark was on the couch. The Abelard file was opened and dissected on my coffee table. I went to the coffeepot and poured a fresh cup.

  “Any idea where he is or if he’s here?” I asked. Mark shook his head. “Any chance he just wanted to visit Disneyland?”

  “I highly doubt it.”

  “So what? You’re camping out on my couch until someone tracks him down? Maybe he’s in the wind. He might be in another country. Perhaps he fled to Mexico.” I was running out of ideas. It was nice Mark was here to watch my back, but right now, having some solid facts or a decent lead would have been preferable.

  “Actually, I want to put a tactical unit in the building across the street. It’d be good to have eyes on your apartment, just in case. Once they’re set up, it’d just be a matter of waiting.”

  “You’re using me as bait to flush him out? Because I’m not sure I’m the damsel in distress type.”

  “You’re not. You’re more the knight in shining armor. I swear, whoever read you fairy tales really screwed you up.”

  “Slaying dragons and riding horses sounds like more fun than sitting in a tower brushing my hair or whatever,” I retorted. “So you’re certain he’s here and he’s coming for me?”

  “No. Not in the least. We have nothing, but while we wait for the Police Nationale to sort through this mess, we need to be proactive.”

  “Wonderful,” I replied cynically.

  Mark and I spent the rest of the morning familiarizing ourselves with all the minute details of Louis Abelard. Abelard’s criminal career began in his adolescence, running Bonneteau, or three card monte, on street corners. At some point, he became involved with a couple of gangs. After learning the ropes, he broke away from his associates and started his own enterprise. There were some peripheral ties to drugs, weapons, and prostitution from his old gang days, but much less involvement than I would have imagined. Abelard’s two main passions were gambling and the finer things in life. He dealt only with top of the line antiquities and art. There were no small-scale robberies in his history. He was meticulous and stayed below the radar for almost all of his adult life. Until three years ago, he barely existed as far as the authorities were concerned.

  “F
or someone so careful and methodical, why the sudden change? He either killed or orchestrated the hit on Marset. He was going to kill me. What happened? It’s like he cracked.”

  “Donough and the rest of the Paris police were moving in,” Mark reminded me. “Desperate times and all.”

  “Why not start over someplace else?” I was trying to apply reason to an illogical situation.

  “If someone took everything from you, would you just turn the other cheek and start over?” Abelard was intent on revenge, but I wanted to convince myself it wasn’t the case.

  “I get it.” I rubbed my wrists absently. “Not to mention, given his sadistic personality, I stopped being fun before he got his rocks off.”

  The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts, and I answered.

  “Parker,” O’Connell said my name carefully, “would you mind coming to a crime scene? We have a body.”

  “Who?” Fear gripped my insides as I waited for an answer.

  “I don’t know, but the corpse has a message for you.”

  I let out a slight sigh of relief, which was completely inappropriate under the circumstances. O’Connell gave me the address, and Mark and I were on our way.

  * * *

  We were in an abandoned warehouse in the old meatpacking district. The area had been cordoned off, and O’Connell waved us through the crime scene tape before Mark had to flash his credentials. I wasn’t prepared for the sight in front of me, but in all honesty, I wasn’t surprised.

  “We got an anonymous tip two hours ago about a body starting to stink up the place. 911 dispatch relayed the message, and a couple of officers came down to investigate. Heathcliff got the call and bumped it to me once he saw your name,” O’Connell explained as Mark and I circled the body. “Recognize him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hanging chained from a meat hook was a man, late-thirties, average height, maybe two hundred pounds. It might have been Ski Mask, but I wasn’t sure. Electrical burns covered his bare torso, and his wrists had been cut cleanly with a knife. Stapled to his bare chest was my name written on a plain white piece of paper.

  Mark blanched. “Is this what he did to you?”

  Not wanting to respond to the question, I posed my own. “Cause of death?” I didn’t know if the electricity killed him or if he bled out. Although, if he had been killed here, the lack of a significant pool of blood indicated he was dead long before his wrists were slashed.

  “Coroner’s not sure yet. We haven’t established a TOD either,” O’Connell answered as he continued assessing the scene. “It’s recent, less than twelve hours.”

  “Gloves?”

  O’Connell handed me a glove which I slipped on before lifting the paper off of the man’s chest to see if it said anything besides my name. There were no other markings on either side.

  “You don’t know him?” O’Connell watched my expression.

  “Might be the goon with the ski mask, but I honestly can’t tell. It was dark, and I was tired and preoccupied with fighting off Ramirez.” I shut my eyes, thinking if there were any distinguishing features. “I don’t know.”

  The three of us surveyed the rest of the scene. The place had been abandoned for years, and the corners held a collection of refuse from vagrants who used the space as refuge from the elements. Some forensic technicians were sifting through what appeared to be plastic wrap and half a dozen destroyed cell phones. Below the body, scene markers were placed, indicating wire cutters and a pair of needle-nose pliers. Were they used in this man’s torture? A spatula and bowl sat on top of a crate, possibly left by one of the squatters in the warehouse. This wasn’t a good place to die. Then again, what place was?

  “Okay.” O’Connell turned to me. “What do you want to do?”

  “I’m not sure.” My mind was a million miles away. The recreation and murder were threats, but in case I was too dense to get the message, Abelard was kind enough to staple a name tag to the deceased. If the corpse was Ski Mask, then he was cleaning up his mess.

  “Look,” O’Connell said, “I can bring you into protective custody or set up a protection detail.”

  “No.” I wasn’t risking anyone else getting hurt.

  “Alex,” Mark tried to argue O’Connell’s point, “I’ll keep a tac team on standby. It’ll ensure your safety.”

  “No,” I repeated again. Mark’s earlier conversation surfaced to the forefront of my thoughts. “Now that we know he’s here, let’s give the son of a bitch exactly what he wants. Me.”

  Twenty-nine

  The plan was simple. I was dangling myself like a worm in front of a fish, waiting for Abelard to take the bait. I refused protective custody. As far as any onlooker could tell, no police officers were stationed in my building or outside my door. On the surface, I was alone and unprotected.

  O’Connell volunteered to work undercover and watch my back. It might have been professional courtesy because we were friends, or he was afraid to deal with Martin in the event of my demise. Regardless of his reasoning, it was comforting to know he was there. O’Connell and Thompson took shifts, running surveillance from the apartment down the hall.

  Mark and the OIO were working with Interpol to track Abelard and any of his known associates who might pose a threat. I called Ryan and updated him on the situation. He was working his ass off to get answers from Gustav, but he had met little success. The Police Nationale questioned Abelard’s men, but no one had anything useful to say regarding his intentions for coming to the U.S. or what he might do now that his gambling syndicate was disbanded.

  It had been two days since we found the body in the warehouse. The coroner placed TOD around six a.m. Sunday morning. My working theory was Ski Mask met Abelard at the warehouse, possibly to collect payment or take another job, but was double-crossed for failing to keep me out of the investigation or for not killing me when he had the chance. Either way, Ski Mask was dead for pissing off the wrong person.

  ‘Accidentally’ bumping into Nick in the hallway of my apartment building, I invited him over for a cup of coffee, just to be neighborly. We exchanged the relevant information we had.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you. Your wife is going to kill me.”

  “It’s okay. I volunteered. Plus, if I make this bust, I might get a pay increase. First grade detective here I come. She’ll be happy about that,” he said good-naturedly.

  “Glad to help,” I teased, “but I hate the waiting. I’m thinking of going to my office. Maybe see if anything or anyone is waiting for me there.”

  “I’ll call Thompson and get a few plainclothes to shop around while you check in. I don’t want you going anywhere alone.”

  “I never knew you cared.”

  “If you kill him, I won’t get my promotion. It’s more for his safety than yours.”

  After waiting a couple of hours for everything to be arranged, I left the building, armed with my nine millimeter in a shoulder holster and my backup strapped to my ankle. I got in my car, afraid of turning the key and exploding, but luckily, that didn’t happen. I drove to my office at the strip mall, keeping a watchful eye on my rearview mirror for a tail. When I got there, I unlocked the door and performed a full check of every nook and cranny inside. As I watched the shoppers outside, I tried to determine who the undercover cops were, and with the exception of Thompson, whom I recognized, I couldn’t make the rest. Hopefully, since I couldn’t tell, neither could Abelard.

  Having nothing better to do, I dialed Patrick Farrell. He graciously divulged every fact on the car bombing that killed Marset. The incendiary device had been constructed out of plastic explosive. It wasn’t anything special, just your garden variety C-4. Given its chemical composition and limited range, Interpol speculated the bomb was handcrafted.

  Gustav might have the knowledge and know-how to make the device since he spent years in the military, but despite everything he put me through, he didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer. Then again, bomb creation was a skill
that could be learned. With enough time and an internet search engine, I could be a bomb expert or have Homeland Security knocking on my door. Hoping not to be put on a terrorist watchlist, I skimmed through the basic ingredients necessary, such as plasticizer, other commonly found chemicals, and the rudimentary method of combining the ingredients. It was frightening how readily available these items were and how easily someone with a large enough mixing bowl, a spatula, and reading comprehension skills could wreak havoc if they had access to a couple of detonators.

  It was dusk when I left my office and returned to my car. The unsettling feeling of being watched made my stomach twist in knots, but I didn’t see Abelard. Maybe it was just the police presence making me jumpy. I didn’t risk glancing toward Thompson as I pulled out of the parking space and headed for home. Constantly checking my rearview mirror, I spotted a silver sedan, four cars back, that made the last two turns I did. To mix things up, I turned left down the next street. The car followed. Forcing my speed to remain steady, I turned right, but the silver sedan continued straight.

  “I’m probably losing it,” I said to myself and continued home. No other cars were in pursuit. I parked and cautiously got out, glancing around as I walked at a decent clip to the building, resisting the urge to sprint inside. Once up the six flights of stairs, I stood outside my apartment door, cursing loudly about my key being stuck, so O’Connell would know I returned, even though the video feed he was monitoring should have indicated this. I checked my apartment for signs of intruders, but nothing appeared disturbed.

  I just sat down when my phone rang, causing my heart to skip a beat. “Abelard’s credit card was just used to procure a room at a motel. We have a team heading there now,” Mark informed me.

  “Mark,” I exhaled a breath in relief, “don’t let the bastard get away again.”

  Waiting impatiently in my apartment, I stalked back and forth. It had been almost an hour since the call, and I had yet to hear if they located Abelard. I was going crazy. Did O’Connell have any news? Mid-dial, there was a knock at my door. O’Connell stood outside, holding a bottle of laundry detergent.