The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  In regards to the car bombing, the Police Nationale were working with Interpol to determine the cause of the explosion. The working theory was Jean-Pierre’s accrued gambling debts were the motivation for the bombing. I was aware of most of these facts, but I didn’t want to share my Interpol connection just yet. I didn’t know why I was having trouble trusting Clare, but it was usually best to err on the side of caution.

  “Do you know who Jean-Pierre owed money to?” I curled the corners of my napkin.

  “We did not normally discuss such things. I followed him once to a private club in the second arrondissement.” Clare laughed bitterly. “I thought he was cheating on me. Too bad I wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Either way, Jean-Pierre still had a mistress on the side.”

  “C’est vrai.”

  “Find anything out about the club? Was it strictly illegal gambling? Are we talking sports betting? Cards? Casino games?” Gambling could cover any of a million different things.

  “I don’t know.” She found a pen in her purse and wrote a name and address on a napkin and slid it across the table. “This is where Jean-Pierre went to bet. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. Nothing glitzy or sinister. It’s just a dilapidated warehouse, like much of the area. It’s all I know.” It didn’t seem like she wanted to find out any more than this. She wanted to remember him in the most positive light possible.

  “Okay, I’ll look into it and see what I can find.” I tucked the napkin inside my purse.

  “I’ve been following the bombing.” She picked up her glass and finished the rest of her drink. “So far, it looks like whoever is responsible knew Jean-Pierre well enough to know his habits, where he parked, what he drove, when he’d return.” I could tell where her suspicions were headed. “It must have been someone he trusted.”

  I took a deep breath. “I think it was someone working on his team at Evans-Sterling.” It was too soon to give up Van Buren.

  “What?” The shock resonated in her voice and read all over her face.

  “I got home Sunday night, after delivering the painting, and two men were in my apartment. They roughed me up, and they knew about my leg.” I tapped my thigh.

  “Shit.” My revelation frightened her. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Anyone at Evans-Sterling ever take issue with Jean-Pierre? Some bad blood or a past history?” I wanted to find out more about Van Buren and the tainted acquisition of the Warhol, but Clare just sat there, flummoxed. Perhaps this was too much for her to absorb all at once. First, her lover was murdered, and she’s told it’s because of his gambling. Next, she’s brought in for questioning on some missing paintings, and now I was telling her one of her teammates was responsible. It was a lot for anyone to handle, and Clare being a desk jockey, not an operative, probably made this all the more difficult to stomach.

  “I don’t know.” She looked to me for help.

  “It’s okay. It’s a lot to process. Take some time. Sleep on it. If you think of something, we’ll look into it.”

  She sat silently, lost in her thoughts. We left the bar, and she dropped me off at my hotel on her way back to her apartment without uttering a single word. I went to my room, changed out of my clothes, and sat in bed with my laptop, checking into the address and name she provided. There were no raids or reports made. Whoever or whatever was operating out of this club managed to remain undetected or unreported to the police. I’d have to do things the hard way. At least it was a starting point which hopefully wouldn’t interfere with Interpol’s investigation.

  * * *

  The next morning, or afternoon since it was a little after one o’clock before I awoke, the valet brought my rental car around, and I drove to the address Clare had given me. The club appeared to be an old, abandoned warehouse, at least during the day. Maybe there was a weekly organized game, or it shut down and moved to another clandestine location to avoid detection. I would have to keep checking at various times to see if I could spot any obvious action going on.

  Despite Delacroix’s insistence that I stay out of the way, I found myself parked outside Van Buren’s residence. I pulled public records and found his address and the model of his vehicle, complete with tag numbers. I was observing him from a distance. He had been a U.S. Customs agent, so I didn’t expect him to be cognizant of being watched.

  Van Buren appeared to live a boring and normal existence. He went to the market, the bookstore, and back to his house. Based on the flickering of the lights, he was watching television. For a murderer and potential smuggler, he wasn’t particularly active. It was midnight when the lights went off inside his apartment. I waited another hour to make sure nothing else occurred before leaving. Driving back to the club, I didn’t see any signs of life. Finally, I returned to my hotel room, raided the snack section of the mini-bar, and went to bed.

  I continued to observe Van Buren for the rest of the week. He always stuck with a similar routine. Out to run errands in the afternoon, home the rest of the night to watch television, and then bed at a decent hour. I was becoming convinced he was the most brilliant mastermind ever. Who could pull off a murder, send trans-Atlantic threats, and still fit so perfectly into a humdrum, innocent existence? The man must be an evil genius.

  Clare refused to join in the reconnaissance and insisted she was following her own leads on the car bomber. She had some friends at Interpol, but no one gave her any useful information. There was no way to be sure if it was because the investigation was still in the preliminary stages or if for some reason they didn’t want it divulged. Being alone in Paris was making me paranoid. Everyone was turning into a suspect, including Clare. Deciding it best to rely only on people I could trust, I would go it alone as much as possible.

  At night, after leaving Van Buren’s, I was working my way into the underground gambling world by constantly barhopping in the hopes of locating some shady sports bars. This led to ordering and spilling enough drinks to make my presence seem realistic. I would then ask, often loudly, where to go for some action on the game. It didn’t matter what game or sport. I was just looking for connections. So far, I had been directed to a few low-level bookies.

  It was Friday night, a little after two a.m., when I located a pool hall. This was the fourth one I stumbled upon, but it felt different. This was the right atmosphere, judging by the patrons. I entered, smelling of the cheap tequila I intentionally spilled on my top two bars ago. Instinctively, I knew I was on to something. The pool hall had the right seedy feel to it and enough hired muscle for protection and enforcement.

  A man playing pool said something, likely sexist, in French. His smile could make Martin’s lechery look like it belonged to a choirboy. I returned his smile and made a pretense at drunkenly sauntering over. This was easily achieved by stumbling into the pool table and a barstool.

  “Hey there,” I said, making it painfully obvious I was American.

  “Hey yourself, babe.” The man spoke English. Maybe he deserved a prize, so I let him continue to stare down my top. “Looking to play? Or are you lost?”

  I sized up the guy from the moment I stepped inside. He was one of the hired guns, large, burly, and covered in street tats. He would know how to deal with unpleasant outsiders. I noted the scar tissue around his knuckles and eyes. He had been some type of fighter, or he just really liked to hit people. Unfortunately, some of those people had hit back, maybe because he stared down their tops too.

  “I need a drink first to warm up before I hit the tables,” I slurred. “Are they open to anyone? Or just to people you like?” I attempted to be seductive, and he smiled.

  “Francois, a drink for the lady,” he yelled to the bartender.

  I glanced over, watching the bartender mix the drink. I was suspicious by nature, but I couldn’t risk being roofied. Francois mixed the drink and slid it down the bar.

  “Mercy.” I downplayed any and all French speaking ability I possessed. When in doubt, best to play dumb. Taking a gulp from the glass,
I put it on the edge of the table.

  “Warmer?” Burly tat guy asked.

  “You betcha. Do you wager here? I can never remember these things. I just came from Monte Carlo, and they wager on everything. I still have some of my winnings left.” I pulled a hefty stack of Euros from my pocket and saw the man’s eyes light up. Clearly, he thought he found an idiotic, drunken American girl, willing to hand over her money and who knew what else by the end of the night. That would make whoever was in charge happy and maybe give Burly guy enough of a raise to go get another tattoo.

  “We only play for money here.”

  “Well, that is the only reason to play, now isn’t it?” I cooed, cocking an eyebrow up at him.

  Thirteen

  “What’s your name, baby?” the man asked as he racked the billiards.

  “Alex.” I took off my leather jacket and placed it on a nearby chair. My knife was folded into the top of my ankle boot, but the pepper spray was in my jacket pocket. Figuring it was an everyday necessity for women, I didn’t think it would be touched or thought of as suspicious. “And you are?” I asked, trying to sound playful and slutty.

  “Claude,” he replied. “My pleasure to meet you.”

  “Not yet,” I gave him my best sexy eyes, “but we’ll see how things go.” I picked up a cue. “What’s the going rate on games?”

  “Two hundred, starting.” He watched my reaction, and I wondered if I was exuding cop instead of drunken slut.

  Maybe I needed to step up the act. Pulling out a handful of Euros, I slapped them down on the table. “How about we play for whatever that is, and we can take it from there?”

  He picked up the money, counting it quickly in his head and adding an equal amount to it before putting it into one of the side pockets for safe keeping. I was permitted to break, and I played well but not too well. I wanted to hook this guy by showing competence in the game play and betting without being an easy mark, but I made sure he won.

  “Double or nothing?” I made a pouty face. “Come on, you have to give me a chance to win some of it back.” Ordering another drink from the bar, I expertly spilled most of it between the bar and the table without anyone noticing.

  “Okay.” He was delighted by this prospect. Maybe he wasn’t used to getting five hundred a game.

  I leaned over the table, making sure he got a nice eyeful before standing up and walking around to the other side to line up my shot. Leaning against the table in front of him, I wiggled my ass before I finally took my shot. I wanted him to be distracted, so when I won, he wouldn’t think it was because I was hustling him.

  The game was close, but I scraped by at the last minute. It was a good thing I spent most of my four years at college playing pool late at night, and people said college didn’t prepare anyone for the real world. Ha. Claude cursed in French. I smiled and picked up my glass, swallowing the remainder in one gulp before turning the glass upside down on the table.

  People around us were watching now, and I could differentiate the regulars from those being hustled. One man, dressed slightly more sophisticated than the others, sat in the corner of the room, watching everything. He was the guy in charge. Taking a mental picture, I noted his close-cropped dark hair, eyes that had seen too much, and his flair for the decadent. His entire presence radiated power. This wasn’t a small racket. I accidentally stumbled into some serious shit. Parker, you’re playing with the big boys now.

  “Another game,” Claude demanded, and I agreed.

  I needed to demonstrate my willingness to throw a significant amount of money around if I wanted to be taken seriously. I also knew I needed to scrape by until the end and then lose. The house always wins was the only rule that mattered when it came to gambling.

  “Sure, but only if you buy me another round.” I walked my fingers up his chest. My skills at flirtation sucked, but hopefully, it wouldn’t matter.

  “Francois,” Claude called to the bartender, “one more.”

  I sipped this one slowly, knowing now that I had the attention of the man in charge, I couldn’t get away with spilling half of it on the floor. “Let’s make it an even grand this time,” I suggested, placing the entirety of my winnings on the table.

  He was ecstatic. The next game continued, and I scratched at the last possible minute, giving him the opportunity to win.

  “Again?” Claude asked.

  Boss man got up from the booth and went into the back room. Was he coming back, or did he see enough? Hopefully, my drunken tourist act had done the job. I made a pretense of reaching into my pocket.

  “Sorry, I’m flush tonight.” I absentmindedly ran my hand up and down Claude’s bicep. He had some muscle, but it was mostly blubber from drinking too much. “Maybe another night. You have to give me a chance to win my money back.” I made a pouty face.

  “Come back anytime. I’m always here.”

  “Maybe pool just isn’t my game.” Was now a good time to broach the subject? “Any other games you think we could play?” I picked up the glass and finished it off. “I remember doing pretty good playing blackjack.”

  Claude turned away from me and glanced toward the room Boss man disappeared into. The door was open, and the man was seated at a desk inside. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Come back tomorrow, and we’ll find something more to your liking.”

  I left the bar and headed to my hotel, keeping a careful eye on the rearview mirror to make sure I wasn’t followed. There was no way of knowing if the bar I happened upon tonight would eventually lead to the men Jean-Pierre owed. Underground gambling might not run in just one circle, but I was certain I stumbled upon a powerful presence. There was no other explanation for the hired muscle and the back room head nod.

  As I continued driving, my mind wandered to Van Buren and his humdrum life. From what I observed, he was a homebody who stuck to a stable routine. No friends, no visitors, nothing. I slammed on my brakes and turned down the next street, reversing direction and heading toward Van Buren’s apartment. Maybe something new would surface at this late hour. It was almost four a.m. By my reasoning, Van Buren should have been asleep for the last four hours, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe he was like Marset, waking in the middle of the night to have clandestine meetings with strange men. I found a spot and parked.

  All the lights were off, and there didn’t appear to be any movement in the apartment. I’d wait an hour and then go to my hotel. I was sitting in the car, trying to stay focused on the apartment but not managing very well. Stakeouts were incredibly boring, especially by yourself. It was dark, and I was tired. I fiddled with the radio for a while, but that got boring fast. Checking my phone, I debated if I should call Clare to keep me company, but it was the middle of the night. I thought about calling Mark or Martin. But Mark would want an update, and Martin would be confused by my call. I leaned back in my seat and stared out the windshield.

  “Holy crap.” I jumped when someone knocked on the passenger’s side window. I glanced over while reaching for my knife. Dammit, I thought, hitting the unlock button.

  Agent Delacroix opened the door and got into my car. “Parker, are you lost?” he asked in a demeaning tone.

  “Not exactly.” With my luck, I’d be going to the airport in the morning.

  Delacroix sniffed the air cautiously. “Are you drunk?”

  “Not exactly. My shirt might be.”

  He nodded at my comment as if it made perfect sense. “Just thought you’d like to know we’ve cleared Van Buren as a suspect. You can stop tailing him.”

  “What?”

  “He isn’t responsible. Airtight alibi.” Delacroix was all business. “I know you’ve been surveilling him all week. I’ve had a couple of guys watching you watching him.”

  Dammit, I was so consumed by watching Van Buren I didn’t worry about who was watching me. That was a rookie mistake, and if it had been the bomber, it could have cost me dearly. “Wait a minute, if he isn’t the guy, why the hell are you out here
at five in the morning, giving me this update?” Especially since this was my first late night stakeout. I was getting an uneasy feeling about Delacroix and carefully reached toward the door handle, preparing to flee if necessary.

  He genuinely smiled, a look I had never seen on his face. “Maybe you need to do some more homework.” He opened the door and got out of the car. “Go back to your hotel and get cleaned up. Come see me tomorrow afternoon. We have a couple of things to discuss.” He walked down the street and got into a black sedan. I waited for a few minutes to see if he was leaving. He remained parked a few cars away. Finally, I gave up and slowly pulled out of the space, executing a three-point turn and driving past the sedan. Someone else was in the car besides Delacroix, but in the dark, there was no way of knowing who it might be.

  Back in my room, I was more confused now than when I left. I pulled up the addresses on the other Evans-Sterling suspects, but no one lived near Van Buren. So why were Interpol agents in the neighborhood if Van Buren wasn’t involved? But he had to be. He wired the money to Ramirez.

  Wait a minute. I thought about the wire transfer. To wire money all someone needed was photo identification. Could someone have forged an ID using Van Buren’s information in order to throw investigators off the scent? Great, Van Buren was likely a dead end, and I was back to square one. Whoever was behind this was an Evans-Sterling employee who worked the gallery case. I skimmed through Jean-Pierre’s information, figuring if I was back at square one, I might as well start at the very first building block.

  “Huh,” I said to the computer screen. Jean-Pierre lived across the street from Van Buren. Could Delacroix have been staking out Jean-Pierre’s apartment to see if the killer might be coming back for something? A missing painting perhaps?

  I shut off my laptop and went to bed. There would be no way of knowing what was actually going on until Delacroix read me in on his investigation, unless of course his entire plan was to lure me to his office in the afternoon just so he could personally escort me to the airport. I pushed the second thought aside, figuring he wouldn’t have wasted his time if that was the case.