The Warhol Incident (21 page)

“I’m pretty sure I can blame you for anything I want.
Global warming, rising gas prices, lack of good feature films to go see.” Mark sat at the counter and waited for me to stop being so ridiculous. “Although, I guess in all fairness, none of those things are realistically your fault. None of them. If you wanted me back at the OIO, why didn’t you talk to me? If it was Kendall’s idea, why didn’t you prepare me? I go into the meeting, get my ass handed to me, and then get blindsided with a job offer.”

“I didn’t know how you were going to react.
If I said anything, you might have run for the hills.” In all likelihood, that probably would have been what happened. “It was Kendall’s idea to have you come back full-time. I thought maybe you might want to ease back in by consulting on a few cases first.”

“You told Martin why I quit.”
I sat down next to Mark and took a slice of pizza, waiting for some elaboration.

“He had a right to know who he was hiring and why you weren’t an agent anymore.
You could have told him yourself, but you didn’t.”

“Telling some guy how I got two good men killed wasn’t going to cinch my interview,” I retorted; although, in twenty-twenty hindsight, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference since Martin had known all along.

“Regardless of your reasons, you didn’t tell him.
You never told him.”

“And we come full circle.”
Finishing my slice of pizza, I went to wash the dishes I abandoned. “What part of ‘we aren’t talking about this’ don’t you get?”

“Fine, we won’t talk about it.
Then why the hell aren’t you coming back to work?”

“I quit.”

“Why?” he shouted over the running water. I turned the water off and spun around to face him. Considering the fact we weren’t talking about it, I didn’t have a good answer.

“Screw you.”

“Why?” he asked again, his volume only slightly lower.

“I don’t want to come back. I’m doing just fine on my own.”

“Really?
You worked for Marty, and I had to run the backgrounds on everyone. You worked for Evans-Sterling, and you ask me for help on the car bombing and the package. Without my resources, the resources at the office, where would you be? You call that fine?”

“I’m not fighting with you.”
I was done.

“Parker, if you were okay with it,
you’d be back on the job.” He stood up. “You do realize that, don’t you?” he asked delicately. He had me there, and he knew it. I pulled a beer from the fridge and placed it on the counter in front of where he stood. It was my peace offering, and he opened the cap and sat back down.

“I like my freedom.
No warrants, no gathering evidence, no court orders. I don’t have to make a case.” I was listing the positive attributes of my current private investigator/security consultant status. “If you can guarantee the same kind of gig, consulting at the Bureau, then maybe I would consider it on a temporary, short-term basis only.” I had to prove to Mark I was fine. Martin thought I was; maybe I should listen to him more often.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mark agreed, opening the box and taking a slice for himself.

As requested, I worked on improving my compromising skills by allowing Martin to come over Sunday.
He reported his business dinner went well. His hesitance over the new hire had ebbed away over the course of the last few weeks. As long as Guillot was not a criminal or a killer, everything would be fine.

“Did you talk to Mark yesterday?” Martin asked curiously.

“I agreed to go back to work on a temporary, consulting only basis.
Mark doesn’t know if the Director will agree to it, but…,” my voice trailed off. I wasn’t at all happy about this.

“Alex, you don’t have to go back.
Don’t do it.”

“We’ll see.”
I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, or why I was doing it. “Don’t worry. If it even happens, it’ll take time to get all the paperwork in order, pass the background checks, then there’s the mental and physical evaluations, blah, blah, blah.” Just the thought of it was exhausting.

“So, tomorrow,” he was changing the subject, “are you sure you’re feeling up to coming to work?”

“I’m perfectly fine. I caught up on some much needed sleep, and I’m ready to get back out there.”

“The installation isn’t supposed to start until end of business.
The crew should arrive at four, so if you could be there to supervise and make sure everything gets installed where it’s supposed to go, I’d appreciate it.”

“That I can do.”
Martin and I spent a couple of hours going over building schematics and reviewing the upgrades he approved. By the time he left my apartment that night, I had some very detailed notes on everything being installed and exactly where it was going.

The next day
, I checked my mail, threw out the pile of flyers and junk mail, and stopped by my office to repeat the process. There was a letter from Mr. Sterling, expressing gratitude for the assistance I provided the Police Nationale in doing some house cleaning of his employees. Enclosed was a check in the amount of the reward for any information pertaining to the missing paintings. It wasn’t an exorbitant amount, but it would help cover my travel and hotel costs for the last two weeks.

Glancing at the time, I called Detective O’Connell.
I owed him my thanks for sending his report to the Paris police, and I filled him in on everything. Nick offered to keep an eye out for any suspicious pings on French travelers entering the country, just in case. Unfortunately, there were no leads on identifying Ski Mask.

“At least Ramirez is long gone,” he offered as consolation.
“If I hear he’s causing trouble, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.
You’re still my favorite detective.”

On the way to the Martin Technologies building, I picked up a new cell phone to replace the one that got smashed in
Paris. Things were getting back to normal, finally. I wondered when Ryan would call with an update. I hated to admit it, but Martin was right. I had issues separating myself from the job. Thoughts about Clare entered my mind, and I wondered if she had been cleared of any involvement. Was she even aware Jean-Pierre was still alive? As I entered the MT building, I forced all Paris related thoughts from my mind and greeted the security guard, Jeffrey, before heading to the top floor to put my purse in my office and wait for the equipment installation guys to show up.

The seventeenth floor had changed in appearanc
e since the last time I was here. One of the four conference rooms had been modified and converted into Guillot’s office. Martin wanted to keep a closer eye on him than he had his former vice president. I was swiveling back and forth in my desk chair when my office phone rang; the equipment installers were downstairs. I went to the lobby to greet them.

Over the course of the next two hours, I supervised the installation and approved the locations for all of the new cameras.
A few locks were changed, and the security office and Martin’s office were both upgraded to biometric technology. I was standing in the lobby, watching the equipment specialist code the lock so it would open for any of the security guards, when Martin emerged from the elevators.

“Everything set up?” he asked.

“Yes.
I’m just waiting for the lock to be coded properly and that should be it.”

“Stop by my office and sign t
he paperwork before you leave.” It was good to know he could act professional in public.

After the men were done, I signed off on the work order and went upstairs, retrieved my belongings, and knocked on Martin’s open door.
He looked up and smiled.

“Close the door on your way in.”
His voice was playful.

“Two things,” I replied professionally.
“First, here is the work order, signed and dated for your records. Second,” I glanced at the glass wall and the cameras in the hallway. “before you decide to fool around with any of the secretaries in your office, I’d suggest you remember to change the setting on your wall of windows. If not, the security guys will have one hell of a field day.”

Martin adopted a wolfish grin.
“I don’t think that’s an issue, at least not with the assistants. It could be a problem with a certain security consultant I know.”

“I don’t think that issue is going to come up.”
He raised his eyebrows, preparing a cheeky response, when Luc knocked on his door. Martin buzzed him in.

“Pardon,” Guillot replied, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not. I was just on my way out after giving Mr. Martin the work order for the security installation.” Picking up my purse, I went to the door. “If there was nothing else, sir.”

“Actually,” he
smirked ever so slightly, “would you mind escorting Madame Guillot up here before you leave.” Vivi was sitting in one of the chairs near the elevators, and I brought her to Martin’s office. We made polite conversation on the way.

“I’m taking the Guillots out to dinner before they fly back to
Paris tomorrow. Vivi wanted to see the main office building and specifically where Luc will be working.” Luc and Vivi went down the hallway toward the modified conference room. I nodded my head and took a step toward the elevator. “Want to join us?” Martin asked conspiratorially.

“That’s not a good idea.
I still have a fridge full of leftovers calling my name.”

“Leftovers?” Vivi commented from behind.
“No, you must join us. The boys will be discussing business, documents and mergers, and who knows what else. Please.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”
Tonight was going to be awkward. I remembered the difficulty in feigning interest in Martin; now I was going to be doing the exact opposite. Catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, he looked rather self-satisfied and smug.

I followed the three of them to a restaurant.
We were seated quickly, and as Vivi predicted, Martin and Guillot were discussing the European markets before the waitress even brought our drinks.

“Thanks for not making me
feel like an empty chair.” She smiled as she spoke.

“Glad I could help.”
We chatted easily about her impending move, the best places to shop, good restaurants nearby, and anything else that came to mind. The conversation was light and comfortable. By the time the main course arrived, I was feeling much more social and relaxed. I slipped off my suit jacket and hung it from the back of my chair.

“Alexis,” her tone sounded slightly panicked, “what happened?”
Dammit, my internal voice muttered. Until now, she was unaware of my bandaged wrists.

“Oh, this.”
I played it off as if it were nothing. “Hazard of the job.” Martin was watching out of the corner of his eye. “Not this job. Different job.” I was a blundering mess. “As a security consultant, I work for different companies, doing different things. The last one didn’t go so well.”

“D’accord.”
Vivi nodded uncertainly. She looked confused, and I noticed three pairs of eyes all staring at me.

“Ms. Parker used to be a federal agent.”
Martin attempted to salvage the conversation with a bit of diplomacy. “Sometimes, things can be dangerous in her line of work. It’s how she first got on my radar. I hired her to deal with the issue I was having at MT with a former board member.”

“I see.”
Guillot was aware of who he was replacing and why. There was a pregnant pause before he asked Martin, “pardon me, I don’t mean to be so blunt, but is your upcoming surgery related to the injury you sustained in the shooting? I wasn’t sure why we are advancing the timetable on my move if your surgery is simply elective.”

It took a conscious effort to remain completely impassive toward this new information.
When Martin and I were together in Paris there was a brief mention this could be a possibility, but it never seemed like a definite thing. God, the icepack the other day and everything else going on, I understood why he didn’t tell me, but he should have.

“It’s not a big deal.
Just a simple procedure to remove some of the scar tissue, but I want to make sure you are well-versed in the goings on at the office before I leave for a week or two.” Martin made it sound like he was taking a trip and wanted everyone to know the proper way to water the plants before he left.

Vivi was prattling on about something, and I tried to pay attention to her.
I smiled and nodded, remaining outwardly calm for the rest of the evening. But once the check was paid, I stood up, wishing the Guillots a safe trip home and thanking them once again for allowing me to accompany them back to the States. Excusing myself graciously, I left the restaurant, heading home before my melting down could cause a scene.

I was pacing my apartment because, after all, that is what I do.
Some people smoke, drink, or engage in other reckless behavior; I pace. It was infuriating that two days ago, Martin sat at my kitchen table and said I wasn’t responsible for all the bad things that happened to people around me while, all the while, he had a surgery scheduled because I failed to do my job. Unfortunately, self-loathing and pity weren’t getting me anywhere.

In an attempt to be more productive, I dialed Ryan.
It only occurred to me after the first ring that, given the time change, he was probably asleep.

“Alex?” Ryan sounded awake.
“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.
I just wanted to know how things were going. I forgot about the time difference.”

“It’s okay.
I’m at work.” He paused, and I heard footsteps in the background. “Gustav’s given us the locations for half a dozen of Abelard’s private safe houses. We’ve relocated Clare and still have her in protective custody in exchange for Gustav’s continued cooperation.”

“Have you moved on the safe houses yet?”
Even though I was thousands of miles away, the anxious energy radiated through the phone.

“Soon.
His tips better not be total rubbish either.”

“Wish I was there,” I retorted before my mind even had time to process the words.
Ryan laughed cynically.

“You’re completely daft, but when we get Abelard, I’ll tell him you said hello.”
His voice sounded dangerous.

“Please do.”
My own voice had an edge as we disconnected. At least Clare was innocent and someplace safe. Not everyone had been sucked into Abelard’s world or Jean-Pierre’s deception.

With not much else to do, I cleaned and re-assembled my two handguns and decided to call it a night.
I was getting into bed when the phone rang. I ignored it, knowing Martin could leave a message if he felt the need to talk things out.