The Warhol Incident

by G. K. Parks

  * * *

  That afternoon, I arrived, looking professional. For what, I didn’t yet know. I sat in Delacroix’s office, waiting for him to return from a meeting and resisting the urge to rifle through the files on his desk, looking for information. Instead, I watched the second hand on the clock slowly tick by. When Delacroix returned, he glanced at the stack of files suspiciously as he sat behind his desk.

  “Did you do your homework, Parker?” he asked in an attempt to disgrace my intellect.

  “You’re watching Gustav’s place.” I glared at him. “Are you waiting for someone to return to the scene of the crime, so to speak?”

  He nodded to himself as a smug, omniscient grin crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I was on the phone a few minutes ago with Patrick Farrell. Seems you called in quite a few tips on this case.” He wasn’t answering my question, so I figured I might as well return the favor. We stared each other down for a few minutes.

  “Are you sending me home?”

  He seemed to consider something before he replied, “I heard you could be a hard ass. Stubborn, opinionated, difficulty playing well with others, probably means you don’t let people push you around.”

  I remained unresponsive to his commentary. I could be a team player, just ask Mark Jablonsky. Maybe I was a bit headstrong, but I always followed orders. Well, almost always.

  “Is there a point?” I finally asked.

  “Just thought it might be fun to see what you shake loose on your own. You know Van Buren is clear, so from now on, stay clear of Gustav’s place. If we spotted you, someone else could too.” I continued staring at him, wondering what the hell he was thinking. “You’re free to go. Remember, report back anything you find. This is still my case.”

  “You know, I normally get paid for my services.”

  “Funny, you don’t seem like a street-walker.”

  I headed for the door, more pissed off than when I arrived. Out of the two of us, I was not the one who couldn’t play well with others.

  “Parker,” he called as I reached the hallway, “there might be some kind of reward for information that leads to the arrest of the bomber.”

  I snorted and continued walking.

  Fourteen

  That night, I went back to the pool hall where I met Claude. This time, I dressed in a black miniskirt, high-heeled leather boots, a matching jacket, and a light blue tank top. Hopefully, he wouldn’t confuse me with a street-walker either.

  Entering the bar, I noticed the same guy who appeared to be in charge sitting in the same booth. Claude was nowhere to be seen. Surveying the room, I took a seat at the bar and waited. When in doubt, patience was a useful tool. My back was to the wall, so I would have the tactical advantage of spotting anyone who might be coming. The barstools were half-full with other patrons, probably regulars. From what I gathered, I was the only tourist.

  I ordered a drink and nursed it, waiting for something to happen. Ordering a second drink, I continued to wait. The man in charge finally approached me. He took a seat next to mine and said something in French. I gave him a slight smile and responded in English.

  “I’m sorry. My French isn’t too good.”

  He nodded and began again in English. “You were here last night playing billiards?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

  “Yes. Claude said to come tonight if I wanted to win some of my money back. Do you know Claude?”

  “Oui, Mademoiselle,” he replied. “This is my bar. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Louis Abelard.”

  “Alex,” I replied, smiling. I offered my hand to once again inundate my Americanness. “Abelard, like the philosopher?”

  “Ah, intelligent and beautiful.” He took my hand and kissed it. “How did a girl like you happen upon my bar?”

  “Just looking to have some fun. My girlfriends and I spent the last couple of weeks in Monte Carlo, and I didn’t get the gambling out of my system yet. This was the first pool hall I found. I was hoping Claude could help me locate some table games.”

  Abelard considered my request. “Maybe I can help you.” He got off the barstool. “Come with me.” I followed him around the bar and toward the back room. He opened the door and ushered me inside.

  “Where are we going?”

  Following a man into a small, dark, enclosed space didn’t seem like a good idea. The room was dimly lit with a folding card table in the middle and a couple of chairs. Two guys sat at the table, smoking cigarettes. I tried to stay near the door in case I needed to make a quick escape. The only problem with this plan was that everyone in the bar worked for Abelard. If this man wanted to make me disappear, it could happen. Why didn’t I tell Clare, Delacroix, or even Mark where I was going? Too late now, the voice in my head responded. Remaining outwardly clueless, I tried to play along.

  “Forgive me,” Abelard said, “but what you are asking is illegal. Precautions must be taken.”

  One of the men not so gently frisked me, locating the pepper spray in my pocket but failing to locate the knife strapped to my ankle. I was then checked for a wire, which I obviously wasn’t wearing since I wasn’t good enough to be one of Delacroix’s team players.

  “Satisfied?” I asked, annoyed. The man nodded to Abelard, and he wrote an address on a sheet of paper.

  “My apologies.” He handed me the piece of paper. “If you are still interested in some high stakes action, go to this address Tuesday night, and when you knock on the door, tell the man I sent you.”

  “You mean I went through all this and I still can’t get any action until Tuesday?” I regretted my wording and thought briefly of Martin, who needed to stay out of my head.

  “You may play pool,” he encouraged, “but if you want a casino experience, you have to wait.” I was shown to the door. Abelard followed me out of the back room and went to his corner booth. Our interaction for this evening was over.

  Trying to blend in, I ordered another drink as if I were interested in the prospect of picking up a game or two of pool. After twenty minutes, I left. Once outside, I dropped my keys in the parking lot as an excuse to turn around and make sure I wasn’t being followed or watched. When I was certain it was clear, I got into the car and drove away. I needed to recruit some reinforcements before Tuesday night.

  * * *

  I ran extensive background checks on Abelard and the address he gave me. The location was another abandoned warehouse in the second arrondissement. Whoever Jean-Pierre owed money to had to be at least peripherally connected to Abelard. However, I didn’t know if Jean-Pierre was killed because of his gambling debt, as everyone insisted, or if it was because of the paintings. The most reasonable explanation was Jean-Pierre mixed his personal life with his professional one and tried to pay off his debt with the missing paintings, but I had no real evidence of this.

  Calling Mark the next day, I filled him in on everything that had transpired. He didn’t like my involvement with Abelard or the prospect of further embedding myself in the underground gambling world.

  “You are not an agent,” he pointed out, in case I forgot. “You’re going to get yourself arrested.”

  “What else can I do? Delacroix doesn’t want me here. I don’t have Interpol watching my back.”

  “Alexis,” Mark sounded compassionate but firm, “as your friend, I’m telling you to let this one go. O’Connell tracked down one of the guys responsible for the break-in at your apartment. No one else is going to pay you another visit. You did enough.” He was being the voice of reason, but I was already in too deep.

  “I promised Clare,” I said, and Mark exhaled in the background.

  “Do you trust her?” I didn’t respond immediately, and he took this as a bad sign. “You cannot do this unless you have someone you trust watching your back.”

  “I know. The only thing I’m certain of is Clare didn’t kill Jean-Pierre.”

  “Is that enough?”

  “It has to be.” I sighed. “I’ll talk to you before
Tuesday night. If you find anything else out which may be helpful, I’d appreciate it.” We ended the call.

  Before phoning Clare, I wanted to have another chat with Agent Delacroix. I found the number for his office and dialed, hoping he wouldn’t instruct me to stay away from the warehouse too.

  “Delacroix,” he answered.

  “It’s Parker. I was wondering if you made any headway concerning the motivation for Gustav’s murder.”

  “Why? Did you find anything out?” This was not the way this conversation was supposed to go, but what choice did I have.

  “Look,” I paced my hotel room, “I know whoever is involved has to be on the Evans-Sterling team with Gustav.” I paused, waiting for some type of acknowledgment. Unfortunately, Delacroix was better at playing this game. “I also know Jean-Pierre owed someone a lot of money.” Still no response. “I’m going out on a limb and assuming maybe he planned on paying off his debt with a few misplaced paintings.”

  “Interesting idea,” Delacroix finally said. “So what you’re saying is someone working for Evans-Sterling was also working for the debt collectors?”

  “Maybe. I thought that person was Clyde Van Buren. He and Gustav were involved in a raid a couple of years ago with the Sanchez gang and a misappropriated Warhol. Maybe this was his in with that kind of crowd.”

  Delacroix went back to being silent, and since I had nowhere else to go with this, I waited. “Did you ever consider it could be Gustav’s connection to that kind of crowd?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  I hadn’t considered this because, in my mind, Jean-Pierre was still the good guy. “Was it?”

  “Maybe Gustav brought someone else into the gambling world. If they racked up their own debt, maybe they found a more creative way to pay it off.” Delacroix was simply giving me more possibilities to ponder but never letting on if any of these theories could be correct. It was infuriating.

  “Who?” I didn’t want to play twenty questions. I just wanted a name.

  “I don’t know. There were only four other people on the team, aside from you.”

  “Are you sure I didn’t do it?”

  “You weren’t in the country when it happened. If you had been, I would have considered you a suspect.”

  “That leaves Ryan Donough, Michel Langmire, and Clare Olivier.” I named off the three remaining team members as I scribbled the names on a list. “If I start staking out their places, will you to tell me to back off again?”

  “Try it and see.” Delacroix disconnected, and I let out a frustrated growl and sat down at the table.

  I didn’t want to call Clare for assistance when there was a one in three chance she was involved. She couldn’t have killed him, but what if she inadvertently let it slip where he would be and his debt collector did the job? There couldn’t be any doubts.

  “Dammit,” I cursed, putting my head in my hands, cognizant of the clock ticking away my remaining two and a half days.

  Pulling up profiles on Donough and Langmire, I began perusing the data. Donough had been Police Nationale for a few years before being injured on duty. The details were not included in the report, but he was honorably discharged and sought employment elsewhere, landing a job at Evans-Sterling. This occurred within the last year and a half. Initially, I assumed Clare was the newest member of the Evans-Sterling team, but I must have missed this.

  Pulling up the news articles regarding Donough’s injury, I found they were all in French, and the translation software was useless. It was a joke, trying to read through the gibberish it spat out. Unless I wanted to translate a children’s book, the software couldn’t put the sentences back into the proper structure.

  I switched gears and searched Langmire. He had an eerily similar background to Gustav, former military turned Interpol agent turned Evans-Sterling employee. Did he and Jean-Pierre have an overlapping past in either the military or at Interpol? The connection couldn’t be made since they had been stationed in different locations at different times. Although, if I were a betting woman, and at the moment I was pretending to be, then I would have guessed he was the next most likely suspect. Staring at the wood grain on the table, I tried to figure out what the best course of action would be. When brilliance failed to strike, I went with my secondary plan. Here goes nothing.

  “Are you okay?” Martin asked immediately, answering on the first ring.

  “Hi to you, too,” I responded glibly, ignoring his worry. “Are you near a computer?”

  “Hang on.” He was moving around. “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry. This should only take a few minutes.” I forwarded the link to the news story on Donough’s injury and asked that he read and translate it.

  Apparently, Donough had been chasing a suspect when he was hit by a vehicle and suffered a spinal fracture. His recovery had taken several months, and during that time period, he decided to leave the police force to pursue other opportunities. There was something strange about Donough, but I was having trouble deciphering what I was thinking.

  “Alex? You still there?”

  “Sorry.” I shook my head and thanked him for his help. “You can get back to enjoying your Sunday.”

  “I wasn’t doing anything special. How’s Paris? When are you coming home?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I pulled up addresses for Donough and Langmire, figuring I’d check them both out within my limited timeframe. A background check had already been conducted on Clare, so it wasn’t necessary to do it again. Maybe she could be persuaded to take me to the crime scene where Jean-Pierre’s car exploded. It might lead to something helpful.

  “Make any progress?”

  “Some, maybe. I don’t know.” I stopped typing and leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. “Do you think it’s crazy I’m here?”

  “No, it’s not.” His voice was soft. “You live by your own moral compass. You do what you think needs to be done regardless of how insane it might seem.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “So you think I’m insane?”

  “Just a little bit,” he teased. “Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  We said our goodbyes, and I stared at the map some more, scribbling down directions.

  Fifteen

  Clare agreed to go to the garage where Jean-Pierre’s charred remains had been found. The vehicle had been moved. Only a few torn remnants of crime scene tape remained, but overall, if I didn’t know what happened here, I wouldn’t be able to guess there was an explosion or a fatality. I walked around the parking structure, looking for surveillance cameras and checking for any obvious vantage points or easy escape routes. I located the place where the camera that provided the videotape should have been, but the camera itself was missing. Only the telltale mounting equipment remained stuck to the wall. It was odd there were no other cameras anywhere in the garage, not on any of the other three levels of the parking structure.

  “Do you know if the investigators got a copy of the surveillance tape?” I asked Clare, who stood timidly at the entrance to avoid coming inside. Revisiting a crime scene could be traumatic, and I didn’t want to push her too hard.

  “There was no surveillance. No cameras in the garage.”

  “Except for the one that had been set up right here.” I pointed to the camera mounting equipment still on the wall.

  Clare took a step inside and glanced up. “That looks like an antique. I’m sure it’s not connected to the explosion.”

  I judged her speech and expression. Obviously, she didn’t want to be here. However, her insistence could be interpreted as covering up her collaboration in Jean-Pierre’s murder. I filed that thought away and continued to examine the scene.

  There wasn’t much more to do. On a whim, I used my cell phone to photograph the mount where the camera had been and held my phone in front of it and photographed the area the camera would have covered, just to make sure my assumptions were correct. Forwarding the pictures to Agent Farrell’s e-mail, I asked if the t
ech support at his office could verify the location. Looking around the garage once more, I gave up. In the event I was struck by a brilliant idea, I could revisit on my own.

  Clare was standoffish for the rest of the ride. I assumed she would want to talk about the progress she was making in regards to tracking down her lover’s killer, but she remained silent. She didn’t even ask if I discovered anything. Regardless, I shared the small tidbit of information I had.

  “Van Buren isn’t behind this,” I said quietly once she stopped at a traffic light.

  “I’m aware,” she responded coldly. “It doesn’t bring us any closer to tracking his killer.”

  I kept my mouth shut even though knocking one of four suspects off the list was a huge accomplishment. “Clare,” I began slowly, trying to be comforting or supportive or whatever it was she needed at the moment, but she interjected.

  “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. No matter what happens, it won’t bring him back. Nothing can bring him back.” Her eyes burned holes through me. I finally understood. The realization that Jean-Pierre was dead dawned on her, and she felt helpless.

  “I am so incredibly sorry.”

  She made a harrumph noise, and we made the rest of the trip back to my hotel in silence.

  “If there is anything I can do, call me, please.”

  “There is nothing anyone can do,” she said dejectedly and drove away.

  I sighed. She was right; there wasn’t anything anyone could do to bring him back. The only thing left was to figure out what happened.

  I picked up the directions to Donough’s and Langmire’s residences and got into my rental. My first stop was Langmire’s apartment. He seemed the more likely of the two, but no one was home. The curtains were opened, but there was no light or movement coming from within his apartment or any suspicious sedans or SUV’s to indicate Langmire was under surveillance. Maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. I waited almost an hour before giving up.