by G. K. Parks
Eight
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mark asked again. I nodded. 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 was emotionally drained from the news about Jean-Pierre and 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.
“Alexis,” 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 details.” 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 on every Evans-Sterling employee who 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 the employees. Maybe if there was a connection between one of my squeaky clean suspects and a gallery employee, 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 remained 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, I determined 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, I realized 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?”
She made a nondescript sound, followed by a lighter clicking and a lengthy exhale. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I am so sorry 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 broke my heart.
“Are they sure it’s 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 understand. 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 anyone been threatened?” Hopefully, she wouldn’t ask my motivation for this particular question.
“No. I don’t think his murder,” she paused, fighting 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 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, 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, sitting 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 can 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 remain 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 me 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 watched 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 gaped 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 call himself either. “I would strongly recommend you check into your employees’ backgrounds because I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them was involved.” I stood up. I said my piece, and it was time to leave.
“Ms. Parker,” Evans finally spoke, “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 answers.
In 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 entered or left the Evans-Sterling building.
After almost an hour of waiting, nothing surfaced. Staring out the window, I ran through scenarios in my head until my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID 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 going to make sure I end up racking up a ton of favors with Interpol, aren’t you?”
“Of course. You know me, completely into fair trades.”
He snorted and hung up.
Nine
After leaving Mark’s office, I knew it was about time I checked in at my own. I was leasing a small office space at a strip mall. It was designed for meeting clients and appearing to be a competent and established investigator. So far, I met with exactly one client in my office, and that was Martin when he brought the retainer contract for me to sign. Other than that, it was basically just a drain on my limited income.
Picking up the mail, I unlocked the door. The stack of letters was mostly addressed to current resident, until I came across a delivery notice. The slip advised a package was not delivered this morning, and another delivery attempt would be made later today. I’d just have to stick around until the courier graced me with his presence.
Taking off my shoulder holster and placing my gun in the now open top drawer of my desk, I opened the bottom drawer and propped my injured leg up. Leaning back in the chair, I stared out the door, waiting. People went about their business, to and from the other shops. At least my lack of clients wasn’t because of a zombie apocalypse.
After a few minutes of waiting, I figured I might as well get some work done. Turning on the computer, I perused the new information Mark provided. I checked into Jean-Pierre’s background and ran checks on any and every one he had been in contact with. Interpol provided the OIO with a list of Jean-Pierre’s CI’s, the ones they knew about anyway, as well as his other black market contacts.
Every single person had a rap sheet, which didn’t surprise me. I just didn’t know if he had been in contact with any of them or if they would have turned against him for the right price. Rubbing my eyes, I searched the police databases for anyone involved in illegal gambling. I wanted a clear picture of what the gambling and racketeering world looked like in Paris and if it was strictly tied to organized crime. Gambling existed on so many different levels that whoever Jean-Pierre owed could have been a small-time bookie, looking to make a big impression, or someone running a large-scale crime syndicate.
Looking for bomb specifications in the updated file was futile since none were provided. The cause of the explosion was still under investigation, as were the DNA results for the victim. The only positive identification was the VIN of Jean-Pierre’s car.
I turned off the computer and pulled out a pad of paper. It was time to try this the old-fashioned way. Here were the few facts I had. Jean-Pierre was murdered. Ski Mask and his goon threatened me and knew of my previous injury. The painting was a fake. Marset had a fake Manet and quite a bit of money in his possession, and the SUV and its two occupants were assisting Marset. I added Jean-Pierre’s gambling debts to my list with a question mark. Was Marset ever located, and did the painting go up for auction in Luxembourg as Jean-Pierre suspected?
I stared out the door, unseeing, as I slowly ran through the few contacts I had in the underground art world. Unfortunately, every name I came up with had been arrested or worse. Maybe Clare or another Sterling employee knew who Jean-Pierre’s contact was. Although, who could be trusted? At least one person on the team had to be involved in this. No one else would have known enough about me to send Ski Mask to deliver a message.
The bell above my door dinged, and I jumped despite the fact I was staring at the door. It was the courier. Plastering a pleasant smile on my face, I signed the sheet and accepted delivery of my parcel. After he left, I carefully examined the exterior of the box. It had French stamps and international, overnight airmail stickers. There was no return address. I really needed to invest in a bomb sniffing dog, the paranoid part of my brain thought as I pulled out a letter opener and sliced through the tape. Slowly peeling back the brown paper to reveal a white cardboard mailing box, I tried not to think what my remains would look like after being flash-burned by a letter bomb.
Inside the box was a VHS tape. It was unlabeled, and there was nothing else inside. It was a good thing I was one of the few people left with outdated equipment. I rummaged through the small storage closet, looking for the TV and VCR combo. This was probably why most people considered me a packrat. I pulled the TV out and set it on top of my desk, finding an extension cord and inserting the tape into the player. Hitting play, I waited.
The image was grainy, and the tape was low quality. The tracking lines scrolled up and down the screen. The scene looked vaguely familiar, and I watched Jean-Pierre’s spiked blond hair emerge from the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. He walked over to a dark colored car and unlocked the door. The screen went bright white, followed by a few moments of nothing but static and fuzz, and then I saw the remnants of the still burning vehicle. I gasped. Why would anyone send me this? The tape played for a few moments, but there was nothing else on it. Hitting stop, I sat down in my desk chair. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the remote, shutting off the blue glow from the television
I pulled out a pair of gloves and ejected the tape, placed it back in the box, and grabbed my belongings. I headed straight to Mark’s office. He looked up as I entered.
“What’s wrong?” He reached for the box, but I pulled it out of his reach before he could touch it.
“Might be evidence. I already touched the whole damn thing but figured I might as well be retroactive with the gloves.” I was in a bitch of a mood. Watching a friend get murdered tended to have that effect. �
�In case you were wondering, someone was kind enough to let me watch Jean-Pierre’s last few seconds. Do you think they were being helpful or just sending another message?” I placed the box on Mark’s desk and pulled out the failed delivery notice from my purse and handed it to him.
“Are you okay?” He motioned to some agents in the hallway to come and properly claim the box.
“I’m fucking wonderful.”
The agents came in and removed the box and packaging from Mark’s desk. He nodded to them as they walked out. “Are you sure you don’t want to let this one go?”
I stared him down like he was a speeding train, and we were in the midst of a game of chicken. “Funny, the more forcefully that point is made, the less likely I am to listen.” There was another trip to Paris in my future.
* * *
I went to the shooting range to blow off steam. I had just gone through two magazines, firing in the classic two-handed stance most law enforcement agencies insisted on. I pressed the button, and my paper target moved toward me. The center of the paper was decimated, just the way I liked it. I replaced the target with another and was reloading my gun when my phone buzzed.
“If it isn’t my favorite detective,” I answered, putting the safety on.
“What an honor,” O’Connell teased. “How many other detectives do you even know?”
“Don’t belittle my compliment. I’m assuming your call actually has a point.” Gunfire sounded in the background as a few other people shot at their targets.
“Is this a bad time?”
“I’m at the range.”
“It must have been a slow week for the tech guys because they got a match on some blood from the back of your shirt.” My attempt to break my captor’s nose had been successful. “His name’s Aaron Ramirez, local guy, bit of a thug, used to do odd jobs for the Sanchez gang until they got disbanded. He has quite a few assaults and drug offenses, nice assortment of felonies and misdemeanors. We have a BOLO on him.”
