The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  Martin drove to the drugstore where I picked up a few bags of throat lozenges, some sore throat spray, and a bottle of cold water while I waited for the pharmacist to fill my prescriptions.

  “If you won’t stay with me, at least get a hotel room,” he suggested, “my treat.” I was about to protest since he shouldn’t throw his money around now that we were whatever we were. I didn’t want him to think I was a prostitute. This was not a twisted re-enactment of Pretty Woman. “Or half the room.” He was being appeasing.

  “When will you give up on this stupid compromise kick?”

  “That’s the problem with both of us being alpha dogs. It’s a daunting, uphill battle, but maybe one day you’ll actually consider me an equal,” he said, and I glared at him. “Plus, I plan on spending just as much time in that room as you are.”

  “Tease,” I sighed. “I’m sure my place is fine. The coroner should have removed the last remnants of scum by now.”

  Thirty-two

  Arriving at home, I stared uneasily at the stairwell. My stomach tightened, and I shut my eyes. Abelard had taken these same steps to my apartment. Running through the scenario, I knew if O’Connell hadn’t intervened, I would have killed Abelard or died trying. Shuddering, I pushed it aside. This was my place. I would not cower or run away. It was over.

  “Hey, guys,” I spoke to the uniformed officers inside the apartment O’Connell and Thompson had used for surveillance. “Are you done in my apartment yet?” The two uniformed cops looked bewildered, so I pulled out my identification and handed it to them.

  “Body’s been removed. Some detectives and techs are still scoping the place out. Did you want a professional cleaning service?” one of the cops asked, relinquishing my keys.

  “No, I got it.” How much of a mess could one dead guy make? The cops wished me an uneventful evening and a full recovery.

  “Are you sure you want to go in there?” Martin asked skeptically as we passed the bloodstains left on the wall by my wrist.

  “Shit,” I muttered, handing him my keys, “I’ll be right back. Go inside. Don’t freak out.” Not waiting for a response, I reversed direction to ask the officers if my gun had been recovered. It had been collected as evidence, and I could pick it up in a few days. When I went back to my apartment, the door was open, and Martin was standing on the threshold. “I told you not to freak out.”

  “I’m not.” He was only staring at my blood-soaked carpeting, completely motionless.

  “Right,” I sighed and edged past him. Luckily, the carpeting only ran from my front door down the hallway. The rest was hardwood floors. With the exception of where Abelard had been shot, he hadn’t caused much damage to my apartment. The rest of the blood was mine. Considering my options, I could replace or pull up the carpet, leaving the hardwood underneath, assuming it didn’t soak through. At the moment, there were better things to think about.

  A number of police and Interpol agents were finalizing their reports. They turned and stared at the two of us. One of the uniformed officers moved to intercept, but Thompson caught my eye.

  “Parker,” he called and offered a slight nod. Being here and watching the techs catalog my apartment as a crime scene made me realize how much I wanted to leave. The new plan was to pack a bag and get the hell out of here. Martin was right, as irritating as that was.

  “What can I do?” Martin asked, tearing his gaze away from the floor.

  “Some tea would be nice.” Another coughing fit threatened to come on, and keeping him busy was a good idea. He dutifully went into my kitchen and began boiling water as he rummaged through the cabinets, looking for teabags.

  “Are you okay?” Thompson asked, staring at the ligature marks on my neck.

  “Uh-huh. Not much for talking. What’s going on?”

  The police and Interpol were photographing my apartment and cross-referencing the evidence in order to finalize their incident reports. Thompson figured they would be finished within the hour, but there was no reason why I needed to wait around that long.

  “Check this out,” one of the cops called, kneeling over my bloodied carpet. Thompson and I crouched down to get a better look at the object the man was holding. It was a small, blood-covered, strip of metal that resembled a toothpick. It must have been what Abelard used to slip the cuffs. The pieces were coming together, but I resisted the urge to shout ah-ha.

  “What is it?” Thompson asked, staring at the item.

  The tech shrugged, and before I could interject my two cents, another man joined us and flipped through the digital photos taken of Abelard’s remains. His left hand was bloody, and there was a deep puncture just below his knuckles. The sicko stowed the lock-pick inside his own flesh to use in the event of his apprehension. Standing up, I knew I needed to get out of here. The more I learned about Abelard, the faster my mind was imagining worst case, what if scenarios.

  “I’m going to pack a bag,” I whispered. “My ride,” I jerked my head toward Martin and regretted the motion instantly, “is dropping me off at a hotel. Whatever you need, I promise I’ll give you tomorrow.” Getting a few sympathetic looks, I went into my bedroom and tossed the necessities into a bag and repeated the process in the bathroom.

  When I emerged, Thompson and Martin were talking in my kitchen. A travel mug waited on the counter. Glancing once more at the dried pool of blood, I reminded myself the bastard was dead, and I was safe.

  “I’ll hold off the dogs until tomorrow,” Thompson assured me.

  “Thanks.” Picking up the tea, I took a sip. “Lock up when you leave. Clearly, I live in an unsavory neighborhood.”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay. In my book, any day’s a good day when the only one who ends up in the ground is a psychopath.”

  I let Thompson’s comment go, unsure if he was fishing for information or just offering some sage advice. Martin remained uncharacteristically quiet through the entire exchange and simply followed me out of my apartment and back to the stairwell. On the fourth floor landing, I paused to get a grip. As I leaned against the cinderblock walls, I put my face in my hands and took a few deep breaths.

  “What can I do?” he asked quietly.

  “Just give me a minute.” My stomach twisted in knots as I thought about all the things that could have happened or almost happened. I stood up and blew out an unsteady breath. “Guess I might take you up on that hotel offer, after all.”

  A simple room for one night was all I needed, but Martin insisted on an upgrade, which led to a suite with a separate bedroom and kitchenette. I had no desire to argue since I was completely worn out. Honestly, any place free of blood and police would suffice; it didn’t matter if it was a tiny room with a twin bed or a palace.

  In the bedroom, I searched for a comfortable change of clothes. When I came out, Martin was leaning against the kitchen sink, staring at the wall. Today must have been just as unsettling for him. He needed to go back to his life and stay out of mine.

  “Mind if I take a shower and change into something else?” I asked.

  He looked up as if he had forgotten I was in the room. “Take your time. I’ll be right here. Did you need me to do anything? I can do whatever you want.”

  “It’s okay. I can manage.” I gave him an encouraging smile, and he went back to staring at the sink.

  The soap and shampoo were heavenly escapes from everything I endured. With Abelard being all over me and then the hospital, I just wanted every reminder gone. If I could have crawled out of my own skin, I would have. Instead, I shut the water, dried off, and changed into a pair of pajama shorts and a cropped tank top which I normally reserved for running on the treadmill. The mirror was covered in condensation, so I opened the bathroom door as I towel dried my hair. As the humidity dissipated, I stared at my reflection. The image before me made me shudder.

  “Would you mind terribly if we turned the heat up?” I called.

  “I believe you already did.” Martin smiled flirtatiously, w
atching from the couch.

  “What did I tell you about using old, tired clichés?”

  “I’m not sure you understand the meaning of the word cliché. Furthermore, how is it a cliché when I speak the truth?” He went to the thermostat and adjusted the temperature before turning back to me. “Honestly, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “Then you need glasses or a neurological exam,” I scoffed. He came into the bathroom as I searched for antiseptic and gauze. “Look at me.” I dropped my bag and stared at the bruised and battered version of myself. “This is because of one sick, twisted motherfucker.” My jaw clenched, and I swallowed the lump in my throat uncomfortably.

  Martin was not the person I should be pointing these things out to. He stood quietly, his hand absently running the length of my arm. “You’ll heal.” His voice was a whisper of hope, not only for my physical injuries but the psychological ones which I was sure I had yet to experience.

  After properly dressing my wounds, I switched my train of thought to something more productive as he microwaved some water and made a fresh mug of tea. There was a duffel bag near the door. He must have called Marcal to bring him some necessities while I was in the shower. It must be nice having those kinds of resources, I thought as I realized the million things I needed to do. Call Ryan, call Mark, remove the carpet, get new carpet, find a new place to live, retrieve my gun from evidence.

  “Have you talked to Mark?” I asked. Surprisingly, he hadn’t called about the incident.

  “Not recently. Why?”

  “He’s okay, but he took a bullet to the vest yesterday when we were pursuing Abelard. I just wanted you to know ahead of time. He’ll probably call once Farrell submits his report, so… yeah.”

  “Okay.” Martin was still uncharacteristically quiet and keeping in almost constant physical contact with me. At the moment, his arm was around my shoulders while we sat on the couch. The morbidity of my apartment hindered all conversation, even after our escape.

  As I predicted, Mark called soon after, and I gave him my unofficial report. There was something bothering me about the entire thing, but I couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. I kept the thought to myself and promised, once O’Connell was cleared, the three of us would go out for drinks. Hanging up, I checked the time. When I was released from the hospital, I had a brief burst of renewed energy but being in my apartment drained me. It was early, but I was tired. Martin insisted on ordering dinner, so while we waited, I took my tea and went into the bedroom to lie down. He followed like a lost puppy.

  I woke up gasping. Strong arms were around me, and I jerked, desperate to free myself. “Alex,” Martin’s voice was in my ear, “you’re okay. It’s just me. Everything is okay.” I stopped struggling and opened my eyes, taking a deep breath and coughing. The inside of my throat felt like it was filled with razor blades. “Nightmares?” he asked, knowing my susceptibility to such things.

  “Something like that.” Being restrained in any sense made my heart race and panic set in. Sitting up, I took a sip of cold tea. Putting the mug down, I tried to think clearly. “Did I miss dinner?”

  He chuckled. “No, but I’m glad you have your priorities in order.” He turned toward the alarm clock. “Another twenty minutes,” he reported.

  How long could I have been asleep? Not more than a half hour, unless that was some really slow room service.

  “Good. I’m starving.” I couldn’t resist the draw of snuggling against him. He was turning into a crutch, and I would have to put a stop to it. He wasn’t handling this situation well, and it wasn’t helping me any. “You know, you don’t need to be here. I’m okay. Everything is okay.” Maybe I had been a parrot in a past life. Although, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince of these facts.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” he brushed my hair away from my neck and placed a cool compress along the ligature marks, following doctor’s orders, “I’ll hang around. The last time I let you out of my sight...” his voice dropped away. On the one hand, Martin wanting to be here was comforting, but on the other, I was fighting the urge to push him and his smothering habits away. “Look at us, back in a hotel room after a stint in the hospital. Let’s not turn this into our thing,” he joked. “Next time, we’re coming straight to the hotel for some cheap, tawdry rendezvous, instead of stopping at a hospital first.”

  Once the food arrived, we ate in silence. After dinner, the dirty dishes were tossed onto the tray, and I retreated to the bedroom, allowing him to accompany me. It was still early, but I was done for the day. My wrist and neck throbbed, and I relented and took a painkiller. He didn’t mind that I could no longer sleep in the dark and had to have the living room light on or that it wasn’t even nine o’clock but we were in bed. He was just relieved I wasn’t in a body bag. That made two of us.

  It was around two a.m. when I awoke. Going to sleep at such an early hour was a bad idea. Carefully disentangling myself from him, I climbed out of bed.

  “Are you okay?” Even half asleep, his voice was etched with concern.

  “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” I closed the bedroom door and went into the living room. Pouring a glass of water, I found a towel, filled it with the remaining ice from the bucket, and dipped a washcloth into the melted ice water before finding my phone and dialing Ryan. I took a seat on the couch, icing my wrist and putting the cloth against my sore neck.

  “Up all night partying?” Ryan asked.

  “No,” I chuckled, “couldn’t sleep.”

  “The job will do that to you. What’s the unofficial version of what happened?”

  I filled him in on the major points. As we were talking, I realized what was bothering me about the Abelard situation.

  “Ryan, he wanted to get arrested. He expected to be cuffed. How? Why? Did he want to make his escape that much more dramatic and hurtful, or was it part of his sadistic game to convince me I was safe just to torture me further when he got free?”

  “Maybe he thought he was bloody Harry Houdini. It doesn’t make a difference, does it?” It didn’t, but it irked me.

  “I guess not. So given Abelard’s stunt with the C-4 at the motel, have you determined if he was the one who planted the car bomb that killed Marset?”

  “I talked to Gustav yesterday after you called.” It felt like today to me, but we were dealing with a six hour time difference, which made it yesterday for Ryan. “Marset was Abelard’s way of sending a message to whoever the mole in his organization was, and Gustav took advantage for his own personal gains. But now that Abelard’s dead, Gustav’s not afraid to talk. He’s just a chatterbox of information. Reneaux hasn’t authorized a move on anything yet. We are waiting for official channels, but if it pans out, we’ll have the location of the missing paintings, the buyers, everything. We already made the gambling busts, so the paintings can be the icing on the cake.”

  “That’s great. Your eighteen months of hell weren’t a complete waste of time.”

  “I know, right? If nothing else occurs today, by the end of shift, Clare will be released from protective custody and sent home.”

  “You said she was innocent, but to squelch my paranoia, did you ever find any connection proving even a slight involvement?” With Jean-Pierre still breathing, I doubted Clare had been involved.

  “She’s clean, at least as far as I can tell. I’ll tell her Gustav’s alive and see how that goes.” Ryan let out a breath. “It’s actually done.”

  “Thanks to O’Connell.” My mind conjured the image of Abelard from the second before Nick burst through the door. “Is it just me or does it not feel done?” My tone changed to something dark and pained, and Ryan heard the shift.

  “Alex, he’s done. He’s gone.” The ice on my wrist soaked through the couch cushion, providing a decent distraction. “But a few unanswered questions remain,” he added. He was going over the details on the gambling busts when Martin cleared his throat from the doorway.

  “Ryan, it’s ge
tting late. Call me when your shift’s over and let me know how things go.” Disconnecting, I looked up at Martin.

  “If I weren’t completely secure in my manhood, I might be offended that you snuck out of bed in the middle of the night to call some other guy.” He crouched down to my level and gently removed the cloth from my neck. After re-dipping it in the ice water, he laid it against my skin. I shivered, and he grabbed the robe from behind the bathroom door and put it over me like a blanket.

  “I’m glad you’re so secure.”

  “Even in the middle of the night.” He looked tired.

  “I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

  He took a seat on the couch and wrapped an arm around me. “It doesn’t matter. I haven’t been sleeping much lately, anyway. Do you want to talk about it?” Since he had shown up at the hospital, he had barely let me out of his sight.

  “No.” I shook my head for emphasis. “It’s too soon and too close. But if you want to talk about it, that’s another story. The week, the worry, your earlier blow-up?”

  “I never meant to snap at you. You said this would be difficult. I just didn’t realize everything it would entail.”

  “The exit is right over there,” I jerked my head toward the door and regretted the movement as I winced. Luckily, he didn’t notice.

  “I just got you back,” he murmured in my ear. This wasn’t fair to him.

  “I’m sorry I put you through this. This whole thing.” I never should have hung up with Ryan. At least with him I was calm, rational, and methodical. Now everything was coming back, the fear, the pain, the pure evilness Abelard exuded. If O’Connell hadn’t shown up when he did, I would have killed Abelard and been genuinely okay with that, which was frightening, or Abelard would have gotten the upper hand again. Who knows what that might have led to, but given his psychotic, sadistic personality, I could only imagine. “But I’m glad you weren’t there, that you stayed away, and that’s how I’ll always want it to be. It’s how it has to be.” After being exceptionally forward, I realized I was trying to pull the trigger on our attempt at a relationship before it ever had a chance.