The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “Okay.” I thought briefly about my dinner plans with Martin, but this was more important. “What time?”

  “Shift change is midnight. Meet me then?”

  “You just want to take advantage of my internal clock’s time difference and catch-up on some sleep while I keep an eye out,” I teasingly accused.

  “Don’t you know it, chére.” He grinned. “I’ll give you a call if something happens between now and then. Sal probably wants you paying close attention Friday and Saturday morning, so tonight can be a dry run.”

  “Sal?”

  “Salazar Sterling, the guy who signs our paychecks.”

  “Well, maybe yours. I’m only working this one job. I’m my own one-woman investigating and consulting firm.”

  “How’d you manage to get that gig?”

  “Long story. Maybe I’ll fill you in tonight,” I teased, getting out of the car. At least I’d be able to make dinner with Martin and still work the stakeout with Jean-Pierre. Tonight was going to turn out well.

  * * *

  It was 7:30, and I was sitting across the table from Martin. He decided on a more native Parisian dinner, so we were in a brasserie close to the hotel. He wore jeans and a black dress shirt. I was dressed in a similarly casual manner in some tightly fitting denim, a sweater, and a killer pair of heels. We were on our second bottle of wine, and I realized I needed to stop now in order to sober up before meeting Jean-Pierre. Hopefully, I wouldn’t fall asleep between now and then. Martin reached to refill my glass, but I put my hand over the top.

  “I have to work tonight,” I told him.

  He looked at me like I was insane. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Actually, I’m not. I’m conducting some surveillance on the painting thing.” I probably wasn’t supposed to tell him any of this. But somehow, he had become my trusted confidant, and as it was, he had translated for me last night. He might as well be clued in. “What time is your flight tomorrow?” I inquired, changing the subject.

  “It’s my jet, so it leaves when I want to leave.” I gave him my best give me a break look. “The flight plan is for 8:15 tomorrow morning.”

  We ate in silence for a while, enjoying the food and the company. I provided a vague run-through of my itinerary for the rest of the week and filled him in on my travel plans for Saturday morning. Unfortunately, those of us who didn’t have private jets had connecting flights to Heathrow, then JFK, and from there, home.

  “I can pick you up at the airport,” Martin offered.

  “No, I’m okay,” I said firmly. “The Evans-Sterling guys are taking possession of the painting at the airport, so I don’t need even more people in suits waiting for me. I might get confused with a celebrity or an heiress.”

  “I don’t have to wear a suit.” He indicated his casual dress. “I’m not wearing one now.”

  “No, you are not.” My ability for clever banter was somewhat impaired at the moment as Martin stared at me with his classic lecherous look. “What?”

  “Y’know, we’re in a bar in Paris. I’m not wearing a suit. You aren’t under my direct employ at the moment.”

  I could see where his argument was going. “I’m always employed by you. I’m on retainer.” This was just another in our long list of arguments regarding my insistence to not become romantically involved with my boss.

  “I could fire you,” he looked wistful, “and rehire you in the morning.”

  “I have to work tonight.” Although that wasn’t the sound argument I should be making, my internal voice commented.

  “And you say I’m a workaholic,” he scoffed. “We don’t have to be James Martin and Alexis Parker tonight.” He tried a new tactic. “We could just be two lonely American tourists who met by chance in a foreign city.” The two bottles of wine turned Martin into an incorrigible romantic and me into someone who might be stupid enough to fall for the bullshit.

  “Martin,” I sighed, “you’re still you. I’m still me. We’re the same people here or at home.” I gave him a sad smile.

  He reached over and brushed his thumb across my cheek, his signature move. “I guess you’re right.” I was drowning in the green pools of his eyes. “I might have to work tonight, too. I’m waiting for a call from the Board about Guillot.” He glanced at his watch. “C’est la vie.”

  “Ha,” I exclaimed. “And you gave me a hard time about working tonight.”

  He paid the bill, and we walked the few blocks back to the hotel. I stumbled, and he offered his arm for balance. It was the heels, not the wine; although, if I were being honest, it might have been a little bit of both. Acting more subdued than usual, we entered the hotel and rode the elevator to my floor. Martin exited when I did and walked me to my room.

  “Have a safe trip home,” I murmured.

  His words from the restaurant played through my head on a loop. The prospect was becoming more appealing by the second. The warning bells blared in my mind, but I ignored them. Fumbling to pull my room key out of my pocket, I got distracted by how close he was standing. I looked into his eyes. Maybe he was right, and we didn’t have to be us tonight.

  My brain shut down, and on pure instinct, I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him to me. His hands tangled in my hair as we kissed. It was electric, like we were lightning, and the energy surged between us. One of his hands traveled slowly down my back. We continued kissing as if the world were about to end. His hand traveled lower, and he hiked my leg up. Wrapping both of my legs around his waist, I let him support my weight in his arms and lean my back against the wall. This was not appropriate hallway behavior, and it was about to turn even more graphic. But, at the moment, I didn’t care. My phone buzzed in my pocket, breaking the spell temporarily.

  “Don’t answer it,” he hissed in my ear as his lips traveled to my neck and began to do some absolutely fantastic things. I sighed in pleasure, giving up on retrieving the phone. Voicemail existed for a reason.

  My hands were in Martin’s hair now, and I was trying to remember where my room key was when his phone rang. This time, he stopped, cursing quietly. Rational thought reigned supreme in my brain, and I untangled my legs and stood, slightly shaky, back on the ground.

  “I’m sorry. I have to take this.” His apology was so sincere. I knew he would regret having ever answered the phone. The universe just sent a cosmic signal, preventing us from crossing that line and making a huge mistake. I found my room key and pulled out my cell phone. It had been Jean-Pierre, and I needed to call him back. Martin spoke a few words on his call and hung up. “I hate to say this, but I have to go. There is one more thing I need to get signed before I head home tomorrow. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He smiled seductively. “Remember where we were, and we’ll continue this as soon as I get back.” He clasped my face in his hands and kissed me again before retreating toward the elevator. “Don’t start without me,” he called, getting into the elevator.

  I watched the doors close and shut my eyes. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I berated myself as I unlocked the door. Thankfully, we didn’t have an audience in the hallway, and things stopped before they really started. Why did I have to be attracted to the one person I shouldn’t be involved with? At least nothing serious transpired. I picked up my phone and dialed Jean-Pierre.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I got a call from a fence I know. Tonight, there might be a scheduled buy for one of the missing pieces. Want to head over early?”

  “I’ll meet you there in an hour.” Hopefully by then, I’d manage to sober up completely.

  “À tout à l'heure.” Jean-Pierre hung up.

  I pulled a sports drink out of the mini-fridge and drank greedily, hoping replenishing my fluids and electrolytes would flush the remaining alcohol out of my system faster. It was only wine, but the sheer volume was the issue. Checking my reflection in the mirror, I noticed my pupils weren’t dilated and responded to the light. Maybe I wasn’t intoxicated but just stupid. Damn Paris. The
fact it was the city of love was a mental manipulation by itself without Martin putting other idiotic and fanciful ideas into my head. I was angry for the mess I was making of things. I worked for Martin’s company, and he was my friend. That was it.

  Locating the hotel stationery, I decided it was best to leave a note: Glad we were saved by the bell. Went to work. Have a safe flight.

  After leaving it at the main desk for him, I went outside and hailed a cab. My head was clearer now. My earlier intoxication might have had more to do with Martin than the wine.

  The cab dropped me off a couple of blocks away from the gallery, and I walked the rest of the way to the proper street. I had my suspicions on which vehicles were being used for surveillance but decided it was best to call Jean-Pierre rather than to surprise someone who may be armed.

  “Ali,” he said from behind and opened the side door of a nondescript gray van. Climbing inside, I assessed the equipment and vantage point. “It ought to be an exciting night. The guys think the art restorer is moving one of the missing paintings.”

  “Why?” I stared out the window at the gallery.

  “Watch and see.” Jean-Pierre picked up a camera and snapped some photos as a man exited the building with a large portfolio.

  Four

  Jean-Pierre and I waited in the surveillance van outside Jacques Marset’s residence. Marset was the art restorer employed by La Galerie d’Art et d'Antiquités. The other four Evans-Sterling investigators were in two other vehicles. One was still monitoring the gallery, and the other was parked farther down the street in a black sedan. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, I realized we had been here for two hours, and so far, nothing happened. Maybe Mr. Marset went home and straight to bed.

  “Why are stakeouts always so much more exciting in movies?” I mused aloud as I continued to stare out the window.

  “Don’t jinx us.”

  “Sorry.” I adjusted the seat into a more comfortable position. “Give me the rundown on why you thought tonight would be so eventful.”

  “A fence I know heard the first painting, a Manet, was being moved out of the country and going up for auction in Luxembourg in three days.”

  “Reliable source?”

  “I wouldn’t consider him a source otherwise. Anyway,” Jean-Pierre changed the subject in an attempt to make polite conversation and kill some time, “are you enjoying your trip so far?”

  “It’s okay. No sleep. Lots of work. The fun just doesn’t stop,” I responded sarcastically, and he smiled.

  “You can sleep when you’re dead.”

  Hopefully, that wouldn’t be for a long, long time. My phone buzzed loudly. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the display. It was Martin, and I pressed ignore.

  Jean-Pierre watched me suspiciously. “Who was that?”

  “No one,” I replied just as my phone beeped, announcing a new voicemail message.

  “No one seems persistent.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No, just a lonely American tourist I met in a bar.” Martin’s story might as well come in handy for something.

  “Slut,” Jean-Pierre teased.

  “He wishes. What about you? Wife and kids, or are you still keeping a girl in every port?”

  Jean-Pierre smiled but shook his head. “I got out of the business for a reason. Settling down is the plan, but I haven’t made it happen yet. I’m only on step one or two.”

  “Intrigue. Is there a lucky lady?”

  “Clare.” He smiled like a schoolboy with a crush. “She’s actually working for Sal, too. She’s in the other car with Van Buren.”

  “Sorry, I ruined your ideal stakeout fantasy.” My phone buzzed again. Martin, you are killing me. I fished the phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to take this, so I can get this guy off my back.” Hitting answer, I held the phone against my ear, decreasing the volume.

  “I am so sorry.” Martin’s voice was full of remorse. “I never should have left.”

  “It’s okay. The real world came knocking. Those two lonely tourists have lives they need to get back to. We would have regretted tonight.”

  “Alex, please.” He understood the implications of my words. Tonight was an accident based on being in a foreign, romantic city and drinking too much wine. “Stay safe.”

  “Always.”

  “See you when you get home?”

  “Have a safe flight. I have to go.” Disconnecting, I blew out a slow breath.

  “Think he got the message?” Jean-Pierre asked.

  I nodded. He got it, loud and clear. “Whoa.” I sat up straighter and grabbed the binoculars. “We have movement.”

  Jean-Pierre was on the radio to the other surveillance team. An SUV just pulled up, and two men got out of the vehicle, heading straight for Marset’s house. We continued to watch as the men rang the doorbell, and Marset opened the door, allowing them to enter his home. It was almost four a.m. when the men left. The silver briefcase they had been carrying was no longer in hand; instead, they were carrying a large cardboard tube. Jean-Pierre told the other team to stick with the SUV since I was a liability, given my lack of weaponry and my tourist status in the country. The SUV pulled away, followed slowly by the sedan.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” I posed the question as he pulled out the radio and called the third team, who was still waiting at the gallery, to give them instructions on how to assist Clare and Van Buren.

  “Could be anywhere. We’ll try to keep a tail on them between the two cars.” He was contemplating something when there was movement at Marset’s. The art restorer exited through the back door with a large duffel bag in hand and went quickly down the alley. He stopped at the opening and looked around cautiously, eyeing our van suspiciously.

  “We have a runner.”

  Marset made us and ran back down the alley and leapt the fence, making our ability to follow in the van nonexistent. I opened my door, prepared to give chase. Jean-Pierre was a few seconds ahead of me, and we ran down the alley after our suspect. Jean-Pierre leapt the fence in one fluid motion. Unfortunately, I had to jump and climb to get myself up and over. If only I had longer legs, I thought wistfully as I continued to run full-out down the avenue.

  Marset was still in sight but had a decent lead. The avenue split, and Jean-Pierre signaled that I go right in the hopes of heading off the suspect. Turning the corner, we entered a parking garage from two different angles. I ran up the ramps while keeping a watchful eye on the stairs. Jean-Pierre was gaining on him. On the fourth level, Marset exited the stairwell and ran into a cluster of parked cars, disappearing into the darkness.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Jean-Pierre emerged and looked at me. Unfortunately, neither of us knew where Marset was. The radio in Jean-Pierre’s jacket squawked, and a woman said something in French about losing the vehicle, making us oh for two tonight.

  While carefully walking through the rows of cars in search of Marset, I heard tires screech from the floor above. The SUV flew down the ramp, heading straight toward us. Throwing myself flat against one of the structural pillars, I reached instinctively for my gun.

  “Dammit.” I was in a foreign country with no firearm. Things could have been better. The SUV stopped, and Marset ran from his hiding spot toward the back door. Jean-Pierre lunged, knocking the duffel bag away. It skittered across the pavement, sliding to a stop next to another of the pillars. The two men struggled on the ground. Jean-Pierre couldn’t get a good grip on Marset, who continuously squirmed out of the hold as he tried to reach the discarded duffel. I maintained a close eye on the SUV, quickly running through my options for detaining its occupants.

  The two men sitting in the SUV seemed entirely untroubled by this unfortunate series of events. One barked orders to Marset in bored-sounding French, and the other exited the SUV, brandishing a pistol. He looked at me and fired. I dove to the next support pillar and ducked behind it. Why was I stupid enough to th
ink chasing after some smugglers was a good idea? The struggle continued behind me, and I peered around the pillar, knowing I was going to be of little help. Jean-Pierre managed to kick the duffel bag farther away from the man and was now taking cover behind the parked cars as the gunman fired at him. If I could just reach the bag and distract them, Jean-Pierre could get clear. Playing decoy had to be my least favorite idea, but it was the only one I had. Staying low, I ran from my hiding spot to the bag and shoved it hard enough to slide across the asphalt and drop to the level below.

  The solo gunman turned and fired at me. His aim left a lot to be desired, but it was France. Guns weren’t nearly as prevalent here, thank goodness. Running in a zigzag pattern to make myself a more difficult target, I headed for the parking barrier, hoping to take the same path as the duffel. As I leapt over the barrier wall, my leg caught on the rusted wire, and I landed splayed on top of a parked car. Quickly rolling off the hood, I came to rest in a crumpled heap on the ground. The car next to me provided a place to stow the duffel bag, and I crouched between the two closely parked cars, hoping the SUV and its occupants wouldn’t be able to locate me or the bag. My thoughts returned to Jean-Pierre on the floor above. Was he okay? The tires screeched again as the SUV drove past at breakneck speed and continued down the ramp and out of the garage.

  “Ali, you okay?” Jean-Pierre called from above.

  “Never better.” I waited three counts before emerging from my cover position in case the SUV returned. Jean-Pierre was on the radio with the other two teams as he came down the ramp toward me. “What the hell did they want?”

  “Je ne sais pas. Marset got inside the SUV, and they drove off. Nice move, playing decoy,” he complimented.

  Reaching under the car, I pulled on the strap of the bag until it popped free from the undercarriage. “You do the honors.” My jeans were ripped at the thigh, and my leg was bleeding. Just my luck. Peering over his shoulder into the bag, I spotted the missing Manet, along with a few thousand dollars.