The Warhol Incident (7 page)

“Someth
ing came up. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving.” My angry tone outmatched his, and I ducked my face down, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Maybe he would get the hint and go away.

“What the hell is wron
g with you?” I pushed past him toward my door and attempted to remember which key unlocked which lock. Why did they all have to be the same color?

“I’ve had other things to deal with.
You don’t like it, fire me. I don’t care. Just leave.” I was doing my best to piss him off so he’d storm out and away from any potential danger that could theoretically be waiting on the other side of my door.

“Are you on some kind of bender?” he aske
d, sounding shocked and incredulous. One of the keys got stuck in the lock, and I was trying to coax it out when his words took me completely by surprise. 

“Yes, of course, I’m on a fucking bender.
How did you ever guess?” I replied sarcastically and impulsively turned and looked at him, realizing my mistake too late. “Shit.” His features shifted from anger to concern. “Goddammit.” I couldn’t get the key out. Nothing was cooperating today, not Evans-Sterling, not Martin, and not the damn lock. I kicked the door with my good leg in frustration.

“Here.
” His voice was gentler now as he reached out and maneuvered the key out of the lock and proceeded to unlock my door.

“Please, just go away
,” I begged, feeling absolutely defeated as I entered my apartment. My hand was on the butt of my gun, and I performed a quick walkthrough of my apartment, making sure there were no other intruders present. Martin was in my doorway, watching curiously.

“I’m not going anywhere until you explain what the hell is going on
.”

“Then get inside
and close the door before the rest of the neighborhood sees you here.”  

Martin entered
my apartment, looking around casually. He had never been inside before, and I felt like a panda at the zoo with the way he was surveying everything. My door was bolted, and my newly purchased icepacks were in the freezer.

“Migh
t as well make yourself at home.”

“Thanks
for being so hospitable,” he replied sardonically, taking a seat at my kitchen table and waiting for me to say or do something. I was running through scenarios, trying to determine the best way to deal with the situation. Pulling out the chair across from him, I sat down and slowly took off my sunglasses.

“Don’t say anyth
ing,” I instructed because the last thing I wanted at this moment was sympathy, concern, pity, or whatever it was Martin was going to decide he should utter. His green eyes were speaking volumes on their own. “I was asleep and missed the meeting. I’m sorry. I should have called or remembered. Yesterday was crazy. My flight was delayed sixteen hours, but you’re already aware since you thought to send Marcal to come and fetch me.” My words were biting, and I couldn’t be bothered to keep the contempt from my voice.

“I t
hought you could use a ride.”

“
No, you thought if you supplied a ride, I would call you. But just so you know, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” I put my hand up to keep him from speaking. “I don’t need you, Marcal, or anyone else stopping by here or at the airport or wherever. I’ve got enough to worry about without having to worry about anyone else getting caught in the crossfire.” As I spoke, I realized I was too stubborn to back off from tracking down the real painting and hopefully nailing Ski Mask to the wall in the process. “You being here, really not a good idea right now.”

“Why?”
Martin could be so clueless. Some shock value might drive my point home. He was a showman at heart, after all. I got up from the chair and moved to my front door.

“Because when I got home yesterday
, I was grabbed here,” I put my hands behind my back, “and shoved here.” I pantomimed the movements. “Where a man sitting in the exact same spot you’re in right now pointed a gun at me and threatened to kill me if I didn’t back the fuck off. Then I got my face slammed into the wall right here.” I slapped the surface with my palm. “So perhaps today isn’t a great day for you to show up, uninvited and unannounced.” It was overly dramatic, but he needed to understand this was the world in which I lived.

“Alex,” he stood up,
“I didn’t know.”

“That’s right, you didn’t know.
You shouldn’t know, and you shouldn’t be here because I don’t know who the hell they are or what they want. If they know who I am and where I live, just imagine how tempting it must be for them to find a few more targets to focus on.” I stared fiercely into his eyes.

“That’s even more reason w
hy you shouldn’t be by yourself.” He reached the completely wrong conclusion to my story. “Did you call Jabber or O’Connell?”

“No, I didn’t call Mark.”
Asking Mark Jablonsky, my former boss and colleague at the OIO, to keep an eye out wasn’t going to be helpful.

“But you called O’Connell, and he just left you here.
Alone.” Martin was angry.

“He took care of things.
I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.” I gave him my most lethal glare. “So you can go.”

Despite my insistence, he remained unperturbed and took a se
at on the couch in my living room. “Sorry, can’t do that.” He was loosening his tie.

“
Do you want me to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing?” He shrugged his shoulders, contemplating the threat for a moment.

“Not really, but you can do what you have t
o do.” He nodded his head resolutely. “Given the excellent job Detective O’Connell’s done so far, I doubt he’d arrest me.” Martin’s tone was disdainful. Sitting on the other end of the couch and glaring at him, I tried to remove him with the power of my mind. Unfortunately, the blow to the head last night obviously impaired my telekinetic powers because he remained seated. Eventually, the glaring and quiet got a little too boring for him. “I rescheduled the security equipment meeting until next week. Think you’ll remember to show up this time?”

I snort
ed and shook my head. He was unbelievable. “You really need to get out of the office more,” I muttered, pausing briefly. “Fine,” I sighed. Maybe now, he could leave. Instead, my phone rang. “Parker,” I answered. The number had a French country code. The call was staticky, and I moved around the room, trying to get better reception.

“Jean-Pierre…” I recognized Clare’s voice on the other end of the line.
“I needed to call…was a fire…”

“Clare,
you’re breaking up.” Her voice sounded on the verge of hysterics, but it was hard to tell with all the static.

“Jean-P
ierre’s dead.” There were sobs and French spoken quickly by someone else.

“What?”
This couldn’t be right. He left a voicemail message earlier today. “How?” I was pacing the room.

“Body…car fire…erre’s wallet.”
The reception wasn’t getting any better, and Clare’s words were getting more garbled. “Wanted you to know…call later.” She disconnected.        

“Alex, what’s wrong?” Martin was speaking to me, but I was having issues processing his words.
I shook my head and continued pacing the length of my apartment. Jean-Pierre was dead. He died in a car fire. That was all I got out of Clare, but it made no sense.

“Oh g
od.” Whoever tried to scare me off did even more than that to Jean-Pierre. Could this all be about the authentication of Mr. Wilkes’ painting? Poor Clare. I dialed the OIO offices and waited for Mark to answer the phone.

“Hey there,
stranger,” he greeted.

“Mark, I need you to get everything you can on a car fire in
Paris that occurred sometime today. The decedent is Jean-Pierre Gustav. Maybe you remember him. He helped us out on that art smuggling case four years ago.” My voice broke slightly, so I shut my eyes and took a breath to steady myself.

“Alex?” Mark asked
, concerned, “Is everything okay?”

“No
. Just see what you can get.” I hung up, still pacing back and forth, trying to piece together everything I knew. According to Mr. Evans, the painting was a fake. It had been authenticated in France; Jean-Pierre witnessed it just like I did. It was delivered to the Evans-Sterling employees at the airport. But when I came home, Ski Mask and his lackey were in my apartment, instructing me to back off, and now Jean-Pierre was dead. What the hell is going on? I absently bit my lip and continued to think as I strode the length of my apartment.

“Alex, stop.”
Martin was suddenly standing in front of me, but his tone was gentle. He pulled out a chair and placed it in my path. “Sit down. You’re bleeding all over the place.” Looking down, there was a small stream of blood running from my thigh to my ankle.

“Hmm.”
I couldn’t feel it, probably because I was too preoccupied to notice. “It’s fine, just some ripped stitches. Don’t worry, I’m not going to bleed to death.” Great choice of words, my morbid sense of self-preservation was being callous again.

Martin went into my bathroom and came back with t
he bag of supplies from earlier. He tenderly guided me into the chair and began bandaging my leg, despite my protests, when I realized something and shot up.

“Did I hurt you?”
He instantly pulled his hands away.

“They were in the parking garage.
No. Wait. That doesn’t make sense. They wouldn’t have known anyway.” I was talking out loud to myself which was freaking him out. This would have amused me more if I wasn’t working some details out in my mind. Who knew I had a screwed up leg? Jean-Pierre, Clare, the hotel desk clerk, the doctor, and maybe the rest of the Evans-Sterling team, if they had been paying attention. Being kicked in the exact place of my previous injury wasn’t a coincidence.

Martin grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the chair.
I sat down obediently and let him finish playing doctor. “There,” he patted my knee, “little trick I learned when bandaging my shoulder. It should keep it from re-opening.” He was kneeling on the floor in front of me.  

“Stay ther
e,” I instructed, pulling another chair over and placing them both on either side of him. He looked at me as if I lost my mind. I walked around the chairs slowly, scrutinizing from different angles as I tried to recreate the parking garage. It had been much darker, and Marset, the gunman, and their buddy drove past quickly. None of them could have seen my injury.

“What?” Martin asked as I tapped my pointer finger against my lips.

“It’s an inside job.
That’s how they got my address, knew what time I was getting in, everything.” That must have been how the painting was authenticated as real but turned out to be a fake. Perhaps the Evans-Sterling security team switched it, or the third party authenticator was on the take. I was still talking to myself as I dragged one of the chairs back to my table and sat down. They killed one of their own for what, a doodle on some canvas? My attacker was French. Could he have flown over ahead of time to lay in wait just to threaten me and then head back on another flight and kill Jean-Pierre? How many people were involved? Evans-Sterling had offices around the world. My head was spinning. Was there anyone I could trust from the insurance firm?

I
went to my still packed luggage which hadn’t left the spot where I dropped it yesterday afternoon. Retrieving my laptop, I dug around, looking for my power cord. Finally, I found it and plugged my computer in, logging in to the Evans-Sterling site. Martin came around and peered over my shoulder. Automatically, I closed my laptop lid and glared at him.

“I nee
d to work, and you need to leave.”

“What are you doing?”
He sounded frustrated and hurt. “You went and picked up a painting and brought it back. You’re done. Why are you doing this?”

“Because a good man d
ied,” I stared into his eyes, “and I can’t let that go. Not again.” He nodded. “Plus,” my tone became slightly more threatening, “I don’t take too kindly to threats.” I turned toward the computer and opened the lid. Martin was standing behind my chair and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I sighed and put my hand on his forearm.

“I’m sorry about
your friend.”

“Me,
too.” He leaned down and kissed my good temple.

“Get to work.
I’ll make you some dinner, and then I’ll get out of your hair. I promise.” He was being sweet which made me feel like an ass for being so harsh with him. I still didn’t like him being here, but the damage was already done.

T
he employee database for Evans-Sterling listed the few people I had been in contact with: Jean-Pierre Gustav, Clare Olivier, Clyde Van Buren, Salazar Sterling, Ronald Evans, Ryan Donough, and Michel Langmire. All the information was perfunctory and not very helpful. The two namesakes for the company had large photo spreads and business experience listed, but the investigators were little more than names and photos.

Jean-Pierre
mentioned a source that ousted Marset’s plan to sell the Manet. Perhaps Clare would know something about that. Clare genuinely seemed upset by Jean-Pierre’s death, but a transcontinental phone call full of static wasn’t the greatest way to judge a person’s sincerity. I wasn’t ready to rule her out just yet.

I needed details on the scene and a much more thorough list of everyone who could be involved or even remotely involved.
I had no idea who comprised the Evans-Sterling security team who escorted me to the airport on Saturday morning or who the men were who signed off on the delivery of the painting Sunday afternoon. Maybe there was a way I could get access to French nationals who flew into the country between Friday and Sunday. But the list would be too long and extensive to even think about going over. It might not even help. Ski Mask could be a local, hired to make a threat, and the killer may never have left Paris. I was spinning in circles and needed to stop and get a grip.

Changing gears,
I carried my luggage into my room. I needed to do something more productive than run myself into the ground. I pulled out my dirty clothes and tossed them into the hamper and placed all my toiletries back in the bathroom. Then I put my empty suitcase into the closet.

“I don’t see how you don’t starve living here,” Martin called from the ki
tchen. Apparently my unpacking signified it was safe to attempt conversation. “It’s no wonder you’re so thin.”

“Why?
Pizza guy delivers. Chinese food delivers. Indian food delivers. There’s even a sub place around the block that will deliver.” Going into the kitchen, I sat at the table. Every single cabinet was open, as well as over half the drawers. Martin had no idea where I kept anything. “And let’s not forget, I do own a microwave. Frozen dinners can stay in their cardboard boxes for years without expiring.” I smirked, glad to get out of my own head for a few minutes. It was nice having him here, even though it was a risk he shouldn’t be taking.