The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  “That’s even more reason why 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 wouldn’t be helpful.

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

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

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

  “Do you want me to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing?”

  He shrugged, contemplating the threat. “Not really, but do what you have to.” He nodded 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 snorted 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 would 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-Pierre’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 paced 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 asked, but I couldn’t process 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 god.” Whoever tried to scare me off did even more than that to Jean-Pierre. Could this be about the authentication of Mr. Wilkes’ painting? Poor Clare. I dialed the OIO offices and waited for Mark to answer.

  “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, warning me to back off, and now Jean-Pierre was dead. What the hell was going on? I absently bit my lip and continued to think as I strode the length of my apartment.

  “Alex, stop.” Martin stood 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.”

  I looked down. A small stream of blood ran 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 the bag of supplies from earlier. He tenderly guided me into the chair and bandaged 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.” Speaking out loud to myself was freaking him out. This would have amused me more if I wasn’t working the 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 there,” I instructed. Pulling another chair over, I placed 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 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 spun. 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 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 need 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 died,” I stared into his eyes, “and I can’t let that go. Not again. Plus,” my tone became slightly more threatening, “I don’t take kindly to threats.” I turned toward the computer and opened the lid.

  Martin 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 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.

  The 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 had large photo spreads and business experience listed, but the investigators were little more than names and photos.

  Jean-Pierre mentioned a source who 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 my toiletries back in the bathroom. Then I put my empty suitcase in the closet.

  “I don’t see how you don’t starve living here,” Martin called from the kitchen. 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 take.

  He was making some kind of sauce and found a few cans of crushed tomatoes in my cabinets, along with a box of penne. “This will take a while 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 for 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 to cook while I went into my bedroom and called O’Connell. I updated him on 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, I didn’t spot 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 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 about 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 warily.

  “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 you okay?”

  “I’m fine. 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 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 relocking the door. I grabbed a plate and fork from the kitchen and put them on the table for Mark.

  “No French wine?” Mark teased.

  “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. I 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 interjected, “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 of a few missing pieces.

  After dinner, Martin offered to clean up, despite my insistence he should go home instead. The sink ran 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 coming 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.” 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 worried 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,” I insisted. 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 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 found 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 is the preliminary report,” Mark said. 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.”

  “I 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.”