The Warhol Incident (2 page)

“I had some unexpected work to do,” I sighed.
“Apparently Evans-Sterling decided to courier over some information I needed.”

“You should have stayed with me.
They wouldn’t have been able to track you down.” He was joking, but I couldn’t help but think his tone sounded a little too sincere.

It was my turn to examine his appearance.
His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and considering his breakfast choice of a plain croissant and black coffee, I had a feeling he was hung over. This was the kind of thing that made me such an astute investigator.

“I probably wouldn’t have managed to get any sleep with the party you were having
.” He shrugged and resumed reading the paper.

The server finally located me and brought my espresso over.
I thanked her and inhaled deeply, taking a tentative sip. Definitely strong. Martin finished the paper and folded it neatly, watching me drink the espresso like it was water, and I had been lost in the desert for a week.

“Slow down
before your head explodes or you give yourself a heart attack,” he warned, and I put the mostly empty cup on the table and leaned back, waiting for the caffeine buzz to kick in.

“Last n
ight, I did some digging on Guillot. From what I can tell, he’s clean. Seems stable, no real criminal record, no scandals, it’s like he’s you, but French.” Martin nodded but said nothing. “What time are you going to the office?”

“Around one.
I’m trying to be reasonable to the Board in case I need to teleconference.” He was back in work mode. “Give me a call when you plan to head over. I should still be there.”

“Okay.”
I got up and put some money on the table for my coffee and Martin’s breakfast. He looked at it, confused. “I’m going to go, but breakfast is on me for once.” I walked away before he could protest.

I took a taxi to the Evans-Sterling offices and was ushered upstairs and into a conference room where I was instructed to wait. I was trying not to fidget, despite the jitteriness I was experiencing from drinking the espresso.

“Ms.
Parker,” a male voice said, “I’m Salazar Sterling.” He held his hand out, and we shook. “Please.” He indicated the seat I just vacated, and I sat back down. “It’s so good of you to come all this way just to escort a painting back to the United States for us.”

“No problem.”
Given his accent, Sterling was an American or at least an ex-pat. “I was just surprised to be hired for such a simple job.”

“Well, there have been some issues as of late
.” Sterling lowered his voice. “The gallery has misplaced the last three pieces of art scheduled to be transported elsewhere.” The way he said misplaced led me to believe the more appropriate term would have been stolen. “Our investigators are still looking into things, but since Mr. Wilkes is such a high profile client, we thought it’d be best to avoid another mishap. You come highly recommended.”

“What exactly am I here to do?
I read the materials that were left at my hotel last night, but they didn’t provide much to go on.”

“My
apologies. The item you will be escorting is a small painting. All you need to do is transport it to the States, and we’ll have our people meet you at the airport and sign off on the delivery.”

I’m just
a glorified courier, I thought, but decided to be a bit more tactful than to say it aloud. I was working on being diplomatic. “Anything I need to do on this end to prepare the painting for transport?”

Sterling
smiled, pleased by the question. “You used to work for the Office of International Operations,” he sounded almost gleeful. “You’re probably used to recovering art and dealing with transport issues.” I nodded noncommittally. “I must admit, we ran a background and checked your credentials. Your past is rather impressive, and we thought it’d be best to have someone so well-versed to ensure the safe delivery of the art.” This job wasn’t as simple as it originally appeared. “We were hoping you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye out over the course of the next few days just to make sure nothing happens to our precious cargo. When the exhibit closes, the painting will be taken down, authenticated once again, and our team will prepare it for transport.”

“We aren’t talking twenty-four
hour surveillance, are we? I’m one person. There is no way I can provide that type of around the clock coverage.”

Sterling
laughed. “No, of course not. I want to put you in contact with our lead investigator, Jean-Pierre Gustav. He’s checking into the three other missing masterpieces, and he might be of some assistance to you. The gallery is under surveillance, but it’s good to have a trained federal agent with experience in matters such as these onsite.”

“E
x-federal agent.” I left the OIO for a reason, and chasing down art thieves was a small part of it.

“
Tomato, tomato,” he pronounced the word two different ways. “I will pass your number on to Jean-Pierre, and he will be in contact with you shortly. He can show you the gallery, and the two of you can work the details out further, concerning how to ensure the painting’s safe delivery.” He was dismissing me, so I stood and followed him out of the office and down to the lobby.

“I have
something pressing to do this afternoon.” Some disclosure might be a good idea. “Will it cause a scheduling conflict?”

Sterling
looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not at all, I’m sure Jean-Pierre won’t contact you until tomorrow.” Good, I thought as I went outside to hail another cab.

Pulling
out my phone, I dialed Martin. When the call went to his voicemail, I decided to get a jump-start at the MT building and do some snooping on my own. My MT I.D. card was in my wallet, and it ought to be sufficient to get me into the building, even if we were in a different country. I gave the cab driver my destination, and off we went. Allons-y.

The cab r
ide didn’t take long, and I just walked into the Paris branch of Martin Technologies when my phone rang.

“Where are you?” Martin asked
as soon as I hit answer.

“In the lobby.
” With perfect timing, the elevator doors opened, and Martin emerged. I hit end call and put my cell phone in my purse. Next to Martin was Luc Guillot. The two were having a seemingly jovial conversation in very fast-paced French.

“Luc, allow me to introduce my security consultant, Alexis Parker,” Martin said
once he and Guillot reached me.

“Enchanté, Made
moiselle.” Luc kissed both of my cheeks.

“Monsieur Guillot,” I greeted, eyeing
Martin suspiciously and trying to figure out how he managed to make such a perfectly timed entrance.

“I asked Ms. Parker if she would be so kind as to evaluate the s
ecurity protocols in place since she was already in France on other business,” Martin explained to Guillot. Guillot agreed and made sure my I.D. card was programmed with unlimited access to the building. I glanced over at Martin and Guillot; they were wrapped up in their own little world.

“I’m going to
check out the equipment and procedures in place,” I announced to the two oblivious men. “Do the security guards speak English?”

“Of course,” Guillot replied, giving me a friendly smile.
“If you need any assistance, they will be more than happy to help.” I thanked him and threw a sideways glance at Martin before heading toward the elevators. Clipping on my security badge, I planned to start at the top and work my way down. Martin caught me before I made it to the elevator.

“Thanks for doing this.”

“This is exactly why you hired me. When I finish here, I’m going back to the hotel. I’ll e-mail my findings to your corporate account by the morning.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“I don’t want
you to get sick of me.” I refused to explicitly answer his question.

“Never.”
He gave me a devilish grin before heading back to Luc and continuing on their way.

T
he next three hours were spent evaluating the safety procedures and security protocols in place at the Martin Technologies building. The French office was smaller than its American counterpart. The building was only a few levels and designed solely for import/export. There was a large docking bay on the ground floor for trucks to load and unload materials. The top floor contained offices and conference rooms, and the middle floors held smaller offices and cubicles with basic necessities like human resources and accounting. I gave the security officers the third degree about protocols for emergencies. With the exception of the docking bay, there wasn’t much that needed improvement. The office itself seemed like a joke with limited resources, no corporate secrets, and not much worth stealing or protecting. I wondered if Martin asking for my input was just an excuse, but when it came to Martin and business, there was never any real way of knowing what he was thinking.

Finishing my tour of the building, I went
back to the hotel, double-checked there were no other messages or packages left for me, and then I went to my room, changed out of my clothes, and collapsed onto the bed. Screw the time difference and staying awake through the jetlag, I needed sleep.

I opened my eyes to th
e sound of knocking. It took a moment to remember where I was. Grabbing my robe from the chair, I tied it around my waist as I made my way to the door.

“Why ar
en’t you dressed?” Martin asked, entering my room, uninvited. “It’s eight o’clock.”

“What?”
I couldn’t believe I slept through the entire day and night. “Shit.” I was supposed to have written up the security evaluation for him, and I probably missed the call from Jean-Pierre. “How could I have slept so long?” I was slightly frenzied.

“Probably because you didn’t sleep
last night,” Martin pointed out, taking a seat and watching me, amused. Nothing like making yourself at home.

“Wait, last night?”
I went to the window and pulled the curtain. It was dark. “It’s still today.” I was making no sense, and I blamed him. I slapped his good arm. “You’re such an ass.”

“Hey,
” he feigned injury, “I thought we had dinner plans.”

“We
did not have dinner plans.” Grabbing some clothes, I stomped to the bathroom and shut the door. “I told you I’d send you an e-mail.”

“I’m pretty sure you
agreed to go to dinner with me.” There was a level of swagger in his voice. “I asked about dinner, and you didn’t obviously refuse. Therefore, we have plans.” Martin’s unilateral decision-making and reasoning always managed to irritate me. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, hoping he might be a figment of my imagination. Instead, he continued his diatribe. “Plus, you are obviously awake now and getting dressed, so there is no reason to cancel said plans.”

I opened the door.
“Do you ever actually listen to the things you say?” I tried not to chuckle at how utterly insane this entire exchange would seem to normal, rational people. Luckily, neither Martin nor I were normal, and one of us was definitely not rational.

“All the tim
e. You must admit, I always make very valid points.”

“Maybe to the clinica
lly insane,” I responded, sitting on the bed and grabbing my laptop off the table.

“What are you doing?” He
genuinely seemed confused that I wasn’t grabbing my purse and announcing I was ready to go to dinner. Ignoring his question, I typed out a quick e-mail and hit send. His phone immediately buzzed, notifying him of a new message. He opened the mail and read aloud. “Martin, I am not going to dinner with you. <3 Alex.” He looked at me and smiled. “I really like the heart.”

“I thought you would.
Now, please,” I gestured toward the door, “I do have actual work to do.” Martin understood and nodded, standing up. “Thanks for waking me. If you didn’t, I probably would have slept all night.” He brushed my hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear.

“If y
ou finish in a few hours and still want to grab a quick bite, let me know.”

“Okay.”

H
e left the room, shutting the door behind him. I resisted the urge to follow him into the hallway and announce that I changed my mind. Instead, I opened the word processing program and began typing out a formal report on the strengths and weaknesses of the Paris office. Once my report with the suggested improvements was completed, I e-mailed it to Martin’s corporate account as promised.

It was a little before eleven.
Ordering room service, I ate my dinner while watching French-dubbed American television. After I finished eating, I attempted to look into the recent art thefts and see if I could discover anything useful. The only problem was the news stories were in French, and while I managed to go through French articles last night about Luc Guillot, I only accomplished this by gleaning information from the context. Here, I didn’t understand the context. I should have paid more attention in French class. Picking up the phone, I dialed Martin. Unfortunately, he was the only person I knew who was fluent in French.

“Change your mind?”

“Actually, I have a
favor to ask.” Further ingratiating myself to him was not something I wanted do, especially given our history of him taking a bullet intended for me. “I need a translator.”

“Okay, I’m upstairs.”
He ended the call, and I grabbed my room key and laptop, slipped on a pair of sneakers, and headed for the elevator. Martin had changed into a t-shirt and jeans, instead of the suit he wore earlier.

“I’
m sorry to bother you with this.”

“It’s no bother.
I would have preferred getting to go to dinner than doing your homework, but whatever makes you happy.” He grinned, indicating no hard feelings.

I provided
a brief breakdown of my freelance job and all the information I ascertained so far about the three other misplaced paintings. Initially, I was hesitant because of the potential for confidentiality issues, but it was Martin. He could be trusted, and I had little choice since I needed his help.

He
nodded thoughtfully and began reading the articles. When he was finished, he supplied a summary of the information. Basically, the art had gone missing before being transported out of the gallery. There were no leads in terms of it being sold or stolen, and as far as surveillance showed, the paintings didn’t leave the museum, leading to the theory they were simply misplaced.

“Hmm.”
A million theories were formulating in my mind, but I reeled them back. The other paintings were not my problem. I had nothing to do with the investigation to find them. I just didn’t want the one I was sent to retrieve to face a similar fate.

“You have
that look.” His eyes brightened as he stared at me. “The one that says ‘I’ve got a gut feeling about this.’ It’s been awhile since I’ve seen that look. It’s a good look.”