The Warhol Incident (8 page)

He
was making some kind of sauce and managed to find a few cans of crushed tomatoes in my cabinets, along with a box of penne. “This will take awhile to cook.” He indicated the sauce. “I hope you aren’t hungry, or I guess you could call one of those delivery joints.” I narrowed my eyes, knowing his tricks all too well. He decided to buy as much time as possible to avoid leaving me alone.

“And if I were
, what would you do?” If only he would admit to his manipulative tactics.

“Hand you the phone and let you order whatever you wanted
, my treat.”

“I take it you’re staying fo
r dinner.” It wasn’t a question since I already knew the answer.

“That would be lovely.
Thanks for the invitation.”

“Just so you know, I am on to you and your pathetic attempts at psychological manipulation
. The only reason they work is because I let you get away with them. Apparently, I’ve somehow learned to tolerate you.”

“Duly noted.”

I left Martin in the kitchen to continue to cook or pretend he was cooking
while I went into my bedroom and called O’Connell. I updated him on the most current events and gave the go-ahead to stick my name and pertinent detailed information on the report and file it. The best way to see how wide reaching this thing was was to throw some matches at the powder keg until something exploded. O’Connell assured me patrol cars would drive past my place every now and again to see if things stayed quiet. I thanked him and hung up, heading back into the kitchen.

“Martin, please tell me
you didn’t leave Marcal sitting outside in your town car this entire time.” I hadn’t actually thought about how Martin arrived at my apartment so much as I had focused on getting him to leave.

“Of course not.
I told him if I didn’t come out in fifteen minutes to go home,” he said matter-of-factly. Looking out the window of my fire escape toward the parking lot, there weren’t any suspicious cars or anything of the sort outside. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t thinking anything sordid, I just figured I’d call when I was ready to leave.”

The fact he felt the need to mention
he didn’t have any ulterior motives made me think perhaps he originally did, but I let it go. “When you got here, did you see anyone suspicious or any suspicious vehicles?” If I had anything concrete to report to O’Connell, I’d rather do it sooner instead of later.

He thought
for a moment. “No. I noticed your car was parked outside and figured you must be home. I didn’t consider you might have walked to the store.” Which was exactly what I did.

“Okay,
just wondered.” My anxiety lessened since O’Connell’s guys were keeping an eye on things, and neither Martin nor I had seen anyone suspicious outside. But I couldn’t be too careful, especially when it involved him potentially painting a target on his back.    

Pulling
a couple of plates and some silverware out of the still open cabinets and drawers, I set the table. “So how’s everything coming along with Guillot’s transfer?” It was a safer, more civil conversation topic. Martin spoke of all the paperwork he’d been working on and estimated Guillot would be able to transfer in within a couple of months, depending on how quickly his temporary work VISA could be obtained.

Finally, dinner was ready.
Although, it probably could have been ready an hour or so earlier. We were almost finished eating when there was a knock at the door. I tensed immediately and went to the coffee table to retrieve my gun.

“Who is it?” I called wearily.

“Mark.
I brought you some files, special delivery.” I put my gun down on the table and went to the door, unlocking the two deadbolts, sliding the security bar out of the way, and unlocking the doorknob. “What is this, Fort Knox?” Mark asked before I managed to open the door. As the door opened, surprise and concern dawned on his face.

“Hey, come in.
You’re just in time for dinner.” I stepped out of the way, so he could enter. He had a stack of folders in his hands.

“Are y
ou okay?”

“I’m fin
e. If you were hoping to jump onto the overprotective bandwagon, you’re a little late to the party,” I said pointedly for Martin’s benefit.

“Jabber,” Martin greeted Mark.
They had been friends from way back, and the only reason I even knew Martin was because Mark had gotten me hired on as his security consultant.

“Marty.”
Mark nodded, putting the files down on my coffee table. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” I said quickly, after reloc
king all of the locks. I grabbed a plate and fork from the kitchen and put them on the table for Mark.

“No French wine?” Mar
k teased, knowing full well Martin and I recently returned from France.

“Definitely not,”
I replied a little too quickly, and Martin got a devilish glint in his eyes.

“I have
a few bottles at my place, figured I’d save them for a special occasion. I’ll send one home with you the next time you stop by,” Martin promised. Going to the fridge, I pulled a beer out for Mark while glaring at Martin, who pretended not to notice.

“
Alex, what’s going on?” Mark asked, concerned. I gave him the same rundown Martin heard. The details surrounding Paris and the chase through the streets which led to the pathetic shootout in the parking garage were excluded due to Martin’s presence. Mark nodded as he listened thoughtfully.

“Wait,” Martin interj
ected, “you told me you had ripped stitches. When did you get stitches?” Why did he always pay attention?

“In
Paris. Don’t worry about it. I cut my leg on a piece of rusted wire in a garage. It’s not important.” Martin seemed satisfied with the answer, but Mark was aware there were a few pieces missing.

After dinner, Martin offered to clea
n up, despite my insistence he should go home instead. The sink was running full blast while Mark and I went into the living room, and I filled him in on the misplaced paintings, the fake Manet we recovered from Marset, and the SUV in the garage.

“Sounds like you had a hell of
a time in Paris.”

“The only thing worse was com
ing home. Why can’t anything ever be simple?”

“
I got the files you wanted. You can thank our Interpol friends.” I picked up the folder, not wanting to open it yet. Once I did, Jean-Pierre would officially be dead. The ball would be rolling, and there would be no stopping it. I put the file back on the table, pulling my hand away like it might bite.

“Thanks.”
Mark understood my hesitance. Changing the subject, I glanced back at Martin, who was still washing dishes. He was doing this deliberately slow as well. “He won’t leave,” I whined, and Mark chuckled. “I missed the damn meeting at Martin Tech today, and he just shows up at my door and sees this,” I indicated my face, “and won’t leave.”

“He’s w
orried about you and with good reason. Plus, he’s trying to make up for the weeks you spent taking care of him.”

“I was paid to take care
of him. It was a job.” Mark gave me a ‘yeah, right’ look but kept his mouth shut. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m scared. If Ski Mask and his little friend come back, I don’t want them to target anyone else to get to me.”

“I get it.
I’ll have a talk with Jones, you know him as Bruiser, and I’ll make sure he keeps an extra close eye on Martin. Once Marty realizes you’re okay, he’ll back off. Trust me.”

I picked the folder
up and opened it, reading all the information presented inside. A body, so badly burned it was unrecognizable, was discovered in a burnt-out car identified as belonging to Jean-Pierre Gustav. It was discovered this morning. The identification was made based upon the driver’s license inside the wallet that had somehow been protected from the fire, likely because it was leather and inside the inner pocket of Jean-Pierre’s leather jacket.

“Car bomb?” I asked
. Given the graphic photos enclosed, it must have been a quick blast that blew out the entire interior of the car and charred the body, leaving only the leather intact.

“That would be my guess.
It’s still a new and open investigation, but this was the preliminary report.” I shut the folder and put it on the table. “Parker, you can let this one go. Interpol’s investigating. He used to be one of theirs. They will get whoever is responsible.” Mark was trying to rationalize why I should back off.

“I al
ready know it’s someone from Evans-Sterling. Or at the very least, someone from Evans-Sterling is involved.” I found the list of people I dealt with and handed it to Mark. “Give this to whoever gave you the report, and let them check out backgrounds and alibis.”

“Are you sure you
’re okay?” Mark asked again. I nodded my head. I wasn’t some fragile flower that was going to crumble. “All right.” Mark walked to the door. “Marty, I can drop you at home.”

Martin turned and looked at me, unsure if he should stay or go.
“I’ll meet you downstairs in ten. I have some private business to discuss with Alex.” Oh joy, I thought cynically.

“What now?” I asked
unenthusiastically. I was emotionally drained from the news about Jean-Pierre and simultaneously anxious to get started on tracking down the party responsible.

“I’m sorry,” Martin said simply, his eyes full of
remorse. “I should never have left you in Paris.”

“Look
. We are both adults.”

He
smirked. “I meant I shouldn’t have left you in Paris, the city. I should have insisted you fly back with me. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” I felt like an idiot.

“This has nothing
to do with you. This,” I indicated my face, “is why you need to stay away from me. Enough people try to kill you just because you’re you. You don’t need them to be after you because of me, too. This is the life I’ve chosen. It comes with the territory.” Jean-Pierre left Interpol for the chance at a life too, but he didn’t get one. It wasn’t fair.

“Alex
is,” Martin’s voice was gentle, “I wish I could ask you not to do this, but it’s what makes you, you. I’ll stay away, but if you need anything, I expect a call.” He walked to the door, and I got up to lock it behind him. He stopped and turned to me. “Don’t forget the security equipment meeting next week.”

“E-mail me the de
tails.” After locking up, I headed to the coffee table and picked up the file Mark brought. It was going to be a long night.

I
pulled dossiers of every Evans-Sterling employee that worked with Jean-Pierre on the investigation. Everyone had a squeaky clean background that I found infuriating. On the gallery’s website were names of all of the employees. Maybe if there was a connection between one of my squeaky clean suspects and a gallery employee, then the dots would connect. The hotel desk clerk and doctor probably weren’t part of the conspiracy to threaten me and murder Jean-Pierre, which did very little to rule out the list of suspects who could be involved.

I
brewed a pot of decaf coffee since I needed to do something besides stare at the computer screen. I listened to the garbled voicemail Jean-Pierre left on my phone. Why didn’t I hear the phone and answer? Maybe I could have done something. The message was still fairly indecipherable, so I’d have to bring it to Mark tomorrow and see if it might be of some help to the Interpol investigators. The last conversation I had with Jean-Pierre was during my layover at Heathrow; he said they were making progress on recovering the paintings. Was this what led to his death?

Backtracking, I tried to recall the precise threat
I received. No matter what happens from here on out I was to step away from the investigation. What kind of horseshit was that? Recalling Ski Mask’s physical characteristics, he was somewhere between 5’9 and 6’0 and weighed maybe 200 pounds. I looked through the small photos on everyone’s dossier. The description didn’t match any of them. Everyone at Evans-Sterling was in decent physical shape, except for the men in charge.

I was attacking the
problem from too many different angles and ending up lost in the middle. Looking at the clock, it was almost two a.m. I closed my computer, double-checked the locks, and decided to get some sleep with half of the lights still on in my apartment. This was progress, I reasoned. I was just about to drift off when the phone rang, causing me to jump up, startled.

“Parker
,” I answered.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Clare said from the other end.

“I
wasn’t asleep.” I went into the kitchen where I had left my notes. “How are you doing?”

Sh
e made a nondescript sound, followed by a lighter being clicked before air was exhaled. She was smoking a cigarette. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“I am so sorr
y for your loss.” The words came out automatically. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“They
called me to the scene to identify what was left. It was his jacket and his wallet.” It sounded as if she were trying very hard not to cry. “It wasn’t his face. He was scorched.” Clare was tortured by the indelible images she had seen, which was breaking my heart.

“Are they sure it was him?”

She let out a horrible sounding laugh. “Not yet, but I’m sure.” She exhaled another breath. “They think it was a car bomb.” I waited patiently for her to continue. “The blast shattered his teeth, making dental recognition impossible, and the amount of burns to the flesh.” She choked the sobs back down.

“I underst
and. I’m sorry.” I picked up my pen and crossed her name off my list. No one tortured this much could be responsible. She was weeping. “Listen,” I needed her to focus on something else, “when I got home…,” I stopped. I was so close to telling her about Ski Mask, but something didn’t feel right. “Jean-Pierre left a voicemail message, but I don’t know what it was in regards to. Do you think he was on to something involving the Evans-Sterling investigation?”

“Je ne
sais pas,” Clare reverted back to French, but if she kept things basic, it’d be okay.

“Has an
yone been threatened?” Hopefully, she wouldn’t ask my motivation for this particular question.

“No.
I don’t think his murder,” she paused, trying to regain her composure, “has anything to do with the investigation.” I sat down on the couch, waiting for her to continue but willing to give her as much time as she needed. “Jean-Pierre got himself in too deep with gambling debts.”

“I had no idea.
” I was dumbfounded, not expecting the conversation to go in this direction.

“He always says he can handle it,” she was crying again, “but this time
, it got away from him.”

“Clare, if there is anything I can do,” I felt useless, “please don’t hesitate.”

“I barely even know you, Alexis, but I saw how happy it made Jean-Pierre to work with you again. I thought I should call and let you know what happened.” She was ready to disconnect. “Interpol is looking into things. I will let you know how it all ends.”

“I am deeply sorry.”

“Moi aussi.” Clare hung up. I leaned back against the couch cushion and closed my eyes. Pull it together, Parker; my mind instructed my emotions to obey.

I was back to the most basic question imaginable.
Was Jean-Pierre’s murder related to Ski Mask threatening me? There was a thought already formulating in my brain, but I didn’t like where it was going. If Jean-Pierre needed to pay off his debts, what was he willing to do? Did he help misplace the lost paintings? It was hard to fathom him being crooked, but then again, I couldn’t imagine my threat and his death weren’t related. It didn’t make any sense. If he was dirty, then why would they kill him? Rule number one of loan sharking, if you kill your client, you’ll never get paid. No, his death had to be related to the art theft; maybe it was simply made to look like a loan shark getting revenge for unpaid debts.

I went back
to bed and stared at the ceiling. There was nothing I could do at the moment, so I decided to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I would come up with a plan of attack.

*              *              *

The next morning, I showered, dressed, and headed to the Evans-Sterling building. It was time I had it out with Mr. Evans. I entered the lobby and spoke to the receptionist, insisting Mr. Evans meet with me. She took my name and relevant information and informed me he was in a meeting right now, and I should make an appointment.

“I’ll wait,” I replied, sitt
ing down in a chair and picking up a magazine. She eyed me carefully and finally got on the phone and spoke in a hushed tone.

“Ms. Parker, Mr. Evans ca
n see you now.” It was amazing how quickly meetings could come to an end, particularly when they were of the made-up variety.

“Thanks.
” I headed toward his office.

“Ms. Parker.
” Evans was in his doorway, waiting for me. “Please, have a seat.” He stepped back and allowed me inside. I took off my sunglasses and sat down. He came around the desk, surprised by my appearance.

“Mr. Evans,” I forced my voice to
be neutral, “are you aware one of your investigators was found murdered yesterday morning in Paris?”

“Yes, but,” he
began, but I cut him off.

“And did you realize, sir,” I practically spat the word, “that not only did you accuse m
e of stealing the painting I was hired to retrieve, but also upon arrival, I was greeted by two very friendly gentlemen who suggested I have nothing further to do with the painting or the subsequent investigation.” I was watching Evans for any micro-expressions or suspicious behavior. Despite his faults, he seemed genuinely frightened and properly concerned.  

“I was
not aware.”

“Well, now you are.
” He was gaping at my bruised cheek, a bit unnerved. He probably prided himself on being more of a lover than a fighter, although given his physical characteristics, he’d be lucky to be able to call himself either. “I would strongly recommend you check into your employees’ backgrounds because I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one of them were involved.” I stood up. I said my peace, and it was time to leave.

“Ms. Pa
rker,” Evans finally spoke up, “you will still be compensated for the job, even though the results were not what we expected.” Resisting the urge to tell Mr. Evans what he could do with his money, I stomped out of his office and out of the building. This wasn’t about the money or the job; this was about getting some answers.

I
n my car, I sat smoldering for a few minutes. Things could have been handled a little more professionally. On the plus side, I didn’t threaten anyone or cause any property damage, so I suppose I could still write the entire event off as an overall win. While I was determining my next course of action, a few employees exited the building. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if I waited a bit longer, just to make sure no one matching my recollection of Ski Mask appeared coming out of or going into the Evans-Sterling building.

After being in the
car for almost an hour, nothing surfaced. Staring out the window, I began running through scenarios in my head until my phone rang. I glanced at the caller I.D. before answering.

“Mark,” I greeted.

“If you’re still dead set on looking into this case, I have some more information to add to the Gustav file. Do you want to come by and pick it up?”

“Yeah.
Okay.” Turning the key, I pulled away from the parking spot. “I have a voicemail that might be of some interest. Maybe you could have someone clean it up for me before you pass it along.”

“You’re really going to make sure I end up racking up a ton of favors with Interp
ol, aren’t you?”

“Of course, you know me, com
pletely into fair trades.” He snorted and hung up.