The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “Alexis, as far as I’m concerned, we’re even. You can stop protecting me. You are no longer my bodyguard. Bruiser is. We’ll see how things go, one day at a time, so stop making rash judgments and proclamations.” He kissed my temple. “Especially not at three a.m.”

  “I am sorry for everything you went through.” My words didn’t just apply to this last week, or telling him how I had gotten roughed up, or even our failed attempt at intimacy. Those eight words were meant to convey how I felt about him getting shot. All of it. Maybe I was just overly tired and emotional. Martin was right. No more three a.m. proclamations for me. I needed a clear head and sound reasoning before making snap decisions. I got up from the couch, and we went back to bed.

  Thirty-three

  Martin woke up the next morning at seven a.m. I felt responsible for his lack of sleep, but he insisted it was fine. Staying in bed long past check-out, I only emerged when my phone rang.

  I arrived at the precinct by mid-afternoon to go over everything from yesterday with O’Connell’s commanding officer. A tech showed up halfway through my story to photograph the much more apparent bruising around my neck for verification of its match to the choke-chain and Abelard’s hand. Lieutenant Moretti nodded as I continued to explain how Abelard had gotten the jump on O’Connell and the most likely scenario that enabled him to slip out of the cuffs. Once I was finished, the lieutenant thanked me for the files and the information.

  “When will O’Connell be back on active duty?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t overstepping my boundaries.

  “Soon. IA didn’t find anything suspicious about the shooting, especially with Abelard’s record and international notoriety.”

  I wanted to talk to Nick, but it could wait until he was cleared, just so there wasn’t even a hint of impropriety. “Tell O’Connell thanks for saving my ass.”

  There was no point in prolonging the inevitable, so I went to the OIO offices to see what else Mark or Farrell might need. Amazingly, everything had already been properly documented and noted. I signed off on its accuracy and was on my way out of the building when Director Kendall stopped me in the middle of the hallway.

  “Parker, my office,” he ordered, and I obediently followed him down the corridor. Sitting down, I waited for him to yell at me, but instead, he took a seat behind his desk and inspected my appearance for a few moments. “You doing okay?”

  “Today’s a hell of a lot better than yesterday.”

  “Good,” he said before falling silent. I stared at him for what felt like an eternity before edging off the seat, thinking our meeting was over. “Sit down.” Apparently, we weren’t through yet. I raised my eyebrows and waited. Finally, he leaned forward in his chair and spoke. “I know you’ve had a hell of a week. Maybe you’ve reconsidered my offer.”

  “Look, I told Jablonsky I’d consider a one-shot consulting thing just to see how it goes. I don’t want to deal with any of the bureaucratic red-tape. I know it’s asking a lot, but quite frankly, sir, I don’t want to be here.”

  Kendall picked up his pen and tapped it on top of his desk as he thought about my terms. “Are you sure one case won’t turn into Pandora’s Box?” His eyes had a knowing quality to them, but I overlooked it.

  “Highly doubtful.”

  “We’ll see.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of paperwork. “You might as well get started on this.” He turned the papers to face me. “Come back in two weeks. I’m sure medical will clear you by then.” Picking up the paperwork unenthusiastically, I went to the door. “Parker,” he called, and I turned on my heel, “good job getting Abelard.”

  “Thank you, sir.” My reply was automatic. My damn training was already kicking in just by being in the building. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible before the radio waves could completely brainwash me.

  * * *

  It was time to face the music. I returned to the hotel, retrieved my bag, and checked out of the room. I had just gotten to my apartment when there was a knock at the door. Really? My neighbors must be stalking me now or planning to run me out of the building with pitchforks. I had no firearms, so if someone wanted to kill me, now would be an exceptionally good time to knock on my door and do just that. However, the knock at my door was Martin. Even though I kept him up most of the night, he wasn’t planning to kill me.

  “No welcome greeting from the nine millimeter today?” he quipped, giving me a quick kiss and proceeding, uninvited, into my apartment.

  “What are you doing here?” My packed bag had barely made it into my bedroom before he arrived. He needed a refresher course from Emily Post.

  “You checked out of the hotel twenty minutes before I got there.”

  I rolled my eyes and ignored him as I attempted to tidy up my apartment. Retrieving the bloody kitchen towel from the table, I threw it in the garbage can, hoping he didn’t notice. From the linen closet, I collected the pile of old, ratty towels I kept for just this type of occasion and placed them over the bloodstained carpeting.

  “It was time to come home and clean up this mess,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  He tapped his watch as he went to my liquor cabinet and poured a decent amount of scotch. “Want something to drink?”

  It was already 6:30. Another entire day had been spent dealing with the Abelard situation. “Maybe I’ll make some tea,” I replied off-handedly.

  “Sugar, honey, lemon?”

  “Whatever.” Tea wasn’t my favorite beverage, so I didn’t particularly care what went in it.

  “Actually, I was trying to figure out which pet name you’d prefer.”

  “Lemon?” The comment at least got him to laugh.

  “Fine, you caught me. I left work early and rushed over here just so I could offer you a hot beverage.” As he said this, the kettle whistled. “Ta da.” He was being snarky, but I let it go. He sat at my kitchen counter and drank his scotch while I tried to figure out what to do with the carpeting. Finally, I took a tentative sip of the tea, found a box cutter, and put on a pair of gloves.

  I cut an outline around the towels. Martin watched, intrigued, as he poured another glass of scotch. It was obvious he was trying to get a handle on the way this week had gone. What better way to do that than by drinking copious amounts of mid-priced scotch?

  I cut a six foot by three foot rectangle out of my carpet that had been the last earthly spot Abelard had taken a breath. As I finished cutting out the rectangle and pulled the carpet free, I rolled it up. Going through my kitchen drawers, I found the large black trash bags. I took the rolled up carpet and laid it inside one bag. Then I took another bag, wrestled it around the other end of the carpeting, and taped the two bags together in the middle. The wood floor underneath didn’t appear damaged, but I poured some bleach over the wood, wiped it away with a clean towel, and washed my hands.

  “I spoke to Luc today.” Martin’s tone had an odd quality that I had never heard before. Turning off the water and facing him, I waited for him to continue. “Apparently everything that’s happened has been in the Paris papers.” Martin stared at the remaining scotch in his glass and intentionally avoided my gaze.

  “Well, Abelard operated an underground gambling syndicate,” I pointed out, confused where this conversation was heading. “That seems newsworthy to me.”

  “Yeah.” He took a sip and put the glass down, focused intently on the remaining scotch. “I might have unintentionally implied your involvement.”

  “It’s fine.” It didn’t matter if Guillot knew. The situation was resolved anyway.

  Martin glanced up. “He has strongly suggested that given your,” he frowned, looking for the proper terminology to use, “availability to work dangerous jobs, it might be best if your contract isn’t renewed at Martin Technologies.”

  “Okay.” Being personally involved with the boss wasn’t kosher in my mind. “Do you want to wait until the contract expires, or do you want to nullify it now?”

  “I d
on’t agree with Luc. If he insist on this, he can put it to a vote before the Board. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “Don’t fight him on this, Martin. It’s not worth it. You can find just about anyone to supervise your camera installations. You don’t need me. I shouldn’t be working for you anymore anyway, given our history.”

  “That’s exactly why you deserve the job,” he replied angrily. He was angry at Luc, not me, but I was the only one in the room for him to yell at.

  “Director Kendall gave me my consulting papers today. I might not be around much if I get scooped into some extensive, long-term situation.”

  He looked forlorn, burning through my insistence and resolve with his green eyes. “We’ll wait until your contract is up for renewal, and then we’ll worry about it,” he concluded, knowing there were another four months remaining.

  “Fine.” I sat next to him at the counter and leaned my head against his shoulder. His surgery was in less than two weeks. Closing my eyes, I wished life wasn’t this complicated, that murderers didn’t exist and try to kill me in my own apartment, and everything would just work itself out.

  “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Martin said soothingly. He turned sideways and embraced me fully in his arms. “What is it?” He wiped some moisture from my cheek. When did I start crying? Everything had gotten to me. I shook my head, refusing to pull away until I could calm down. I hated crying. It made me feel weak and inferior. He held me tightly, only exacerbating the situation as my silent tears turned into choked sobs. Once I got myself under control, I pulled away from his embrace. “Sweetheart, what is it?” he asked again.

  I took a slow, deep breath. “Everything just hit me all at once.” Pressing my lips together, I shut my eyes to make sure I wasn’t about to relapse.

  “I know you don’t want to stop working for me,” he kidded, and I gave him a lopsided smile.

  “You’ve got me.” Before either of us could say anything else, his phone rang. “Go ahead,” I urged, taking the opportunity to escape to the bathroom to clean up after my unfortunately timed hysterics, “you should take that.” By the time I returned, Martin had his jacket on and was standing near my front door.

  “The research department hit a snafu.”

  “Get out of here. I’m okay, really. I just need some alone time to process things.”

  “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?”

  I nodded, and he left. I locked the door and turned around, surveying my apartment. Resisting the urge to open my fire escape and throw the bagged up carpet out the window, I made dinner and went to bed. It had been an incredibly long six weeks.

  Thirty-four

  As promised, Martin called the next day to make sure I hadn’t checked myself into the loony bin. Even though it was the weekend, he had a million things to do. He had to prepare the office for Luc’s impending arrival and find a solution to the current production error. He was keeping busy which was a relief since I had to deal with a million issues of my own. Despite our full schedules, he insisted on staying at my apartment every night, listening for my screams as my nightmares raged on. We were still taking things slow due to his concern over my injured state. Yet, he constantly needed to touch my hand or stroke my hair to ensure I was next to him. The physicality of our relationship was downright baffling. Hazard of the job, I reasoned. As his schedule became more hectic, he finally agreed to some much needed time apart.

  Over the course of the week, I had spoken with Ryan. As more information was gleaned, the stronger the gnawing became in the recesses of my mind. There was something amiss concerning Jean-Pierre’s involvement with Abelard, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I was on the phone with Ryan as he prattled on about the art recoveries that had been made.

  “Gustav gave us the location for the three missing paintings, the buyers, and the fences. He even rolled on that bogus third party authenticator Evans-Sterling used when you brought the forged painting to the States,” Ryan said. “Interpol made two of the recoveries since they were sold internationally, and Reneaux personally took the collar on the third.”

  “At least Salazar Sterling will be relieved,” I said cynically. I told Ryan how Sal sent me a letter of gratitude and the reward for information on the paintings.

  Ryan made a disgruntled noise. “It’s amazing how these brokerage firms and insurance companies can be involved in the purchase and retrieval of possible forgeries. No one on the team even knew, or if they did, they didn’t tell me.”

  “It’s big business. Think about the countless number of masterpieces that have gone missing during times of war or upheaval and add in all the art that has been in private collections for centuries and other works that were thought to have been destroyed that have surfaced. None of us have any idea what’s even out there. So how would we know what’s real? Strangely enough, Evans-Sterling isn’t doing anything illegal, even though quite a few people on the payroll were.”

  “It was mainly Jean-Pierre and whatever contracted, third parties recreated the stolen masterpieces and claimed the fakes as genuine articles. That’s why tracking the missing art turned into such an ordeal. Every museum and gallery that reported a theft had a different art restorer and different authenticator. If Jacques Marset had been working at all the museums, the dots would have connected faster, and we would have been able to track the smuggling ring to Louis Abelard that much sooner. Instead, the only lead the police had was the Evans-Sterling investigative team.”

  “Wait a minute.” I leaned back in my chair and bit my thumbnail, thinking. “Le Galerie’s paintings are real, so Marset had to switch them with the fakes.”

  “Yeah. The place is practically a museum,” Ryan replied, confused by my thought process. “They wouldn’t mistake a forgery for a masterpiece.”

  “But Marset was a forger. He worked for Abelard.”

  “Right.” Ryan waited for brilliance to strike.

  “And Jean-Pierre worked for Abelard. Is he still in police custody?”

  “We have him in holding. We didn’t want to transfer him yet, in case he has anything else to offer.”

  Flashing back to the shootout in the parking garage, I remembered the men firing at Jean-Pierre. The men in the SUV weren’t working with Abelard. If they had been, they never would have fired on one of their own. They must have been working for Marset. The forger probably offered them the real painting and as much money as he could carry in exchange for getting him out of the country and away from the unstable Abelard. But how did Jean-Pierre stumble upon that tip? There were two possibilities. Either Abelard heard whispers of betrayal and sent Jean-Pierre to act as an enforcer to stop the escape, or Jean-Pierre had gotten the intel another way. But who thwarted Marset’s exit strategy and killed him?

  I had an odd feeling about the whole thing. Jean-Pierre intentionally sent the videotape a day too soon, even though I failed to make the proper connection because of the time difference, and he knocked out the two men in the warehouse and assisted in my escape. Did Gustav ensure I would have enough time to free myself from the hook before Abelard and his goons returned with another round of shock therapy? Maybe the reason I was left in possession of my knife was because Jean-Pierre let me keep it.

  “Alex?” Ryan asked, probably assuming we had been disconnected.

  “I’m here. Has Agent Delacroix attempted to take custody of Gustav?”

  “Funny you should ask,” he snorted. “Reneaux was bitching about it earlier today.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?”

  “I think Jean-Pierre’s a plant.”

  Before the police could arrest Gustav, the car exploded. I wasn’t sure who killed Marset or how it happened, but the timing was too close for comfort. Following this, Delacroix placed round the clock surveillance on Gustav’s apartment, even after his alleged death, and Interpol kept a watchful eye on Ryan in order to keep his movements on a tight leash. Were they afraid Ryan would blow their investigation? And wha
t about me? Delacroix loathed my presence, but he provided me with additional information to ponder. Although he pissed me off, his annoyances ultimately led me in the right direction.

  “You’re telling me Gustav is in deep cover?” Ryan didn’t sound convinced. “What about the three years’ worth of stolen paintings? Would Interpol authorize thievery for their UCs? Plus, what about his gambling debts? Were those faked too? And why wouldn’t he have told Clare, especially when she’s former Interpol too? She could have been his backup.” Ryan made several valid points. Given Jean-Pierre’s protective attitude toward Clare, I knew she was clueless and uninvolved.

  “Then why did he let me go? Why did he protect me?”

  “Maybe he has a soft spot for you. Or he was afraid you’d piece it together and ruin him. Possibly both.”

  I rubbed my face, thinking. There was something off about the entire Delacroix/Gustav situation, and it was going to bother me until I figured it out.

  “A call just came in, so we’ll wrap this up next time, Alex.”

  “Do me a favor and see what you can get on Marset’s murder and the bombing. I’ll do the same from this end. And Ryan, stay safe.”

  * * *

  Over the next couple of days, I made little headway in unraveling the questions regarding Interpol and Jean-Pierre. I tried to let it go since the likelihood of ever finding the answers seemed slim. It was Saturday when O’Connell called, thanking me for my thorough retelling of the events leading to the shooting. He had been cleared, so I offered to meet him and Thompson later and open a tab in their honor. It was the least I could do. Phoning Mark, I extended an invitation to him, too.

  That night, the four of us sat at the corner of the bar, and I hoped my credit card wouldn’t be declined. Since we’d been drinking for the last few hours, it was a legitimate concern.