The Warhol Incident (10 page)

Clyde Van Buren, former American Customs agent, was hired by Evans-Sterling two years ago. The first large-scale asset retrieval he worked was the Warhol. This must be how he had Ramirez’s name. Van Buren had no criminal record, a decent enough credit score, and recently applied for permanent alien resident status in France. I was doing as much research as possible to figure out why one of Jean-Pierre’s teammates would be willing to kill him and threaten me. There didn’t seem to be any real reason besides the fact the guy must be a greedy, sinister asshole.

Clare had been partnered with him during the stakeout at the gallery.
Could there be a potential love triangle in my midst? I clicked the mouse a few times to exit all of the opened windows. It didn’t matter what Van Buren’s motivation was. All that mattered was stopping him. I informed Mark of the situation, and he put me in direct contact with the Interpol liaison, Patrick Farrell.

Farrell was a
cooperative man and promised to keep me in the loop. Interpol was now working with the Police Nationale on tracking Van Buren’s movements and attempting to build a solid case against him for the murder of Jean-Pierre. Theoretically, my work should have been finished at this point.

Unfortunately, I have a horrible habit of failing to let things go.
I spent the rest of the week spying on the Evans-Sterling offices. If Clyde Van Buren was dirty, how did I know there wasn’t an equally corrupt American counterpart working with him? I ran license plate numbers, backgrounds, and perhaps followed a few of the more suspicious types. Everyone at the American branch of Evans-Sterling appeared to be on the level. I even followed Mr. Evans once or twice when he was leaving the office. Nothing conclusive turned up. On the plus side, no one noticed the tail since I wasn’t pulled over or arrested for stalking. On an even more positive note, no one came to my apartment to deliver any more messages.

When I wasn’t stalking Evans-Sterling employees or running background checks,
I was digging up information on the entire French team that Jean-Pierre led. Once again, no one appeared dirty. Van Buren had the blip on his radar with the Warhol incident. With some more digging, I discovered Jean-Pierre was partnered with him on that retrieval, and maybe this was the beginning of things going awry between the two. Clare was removed from the entire situation since she was one of the latest newcomers to Evans-Sterling, causing my theory on a love triangle to fall to the wayside.

It was no
w Sunday, and if I wanted more concrete answers, I needed to go back to Paris and do some legwork and digging on my own. During my search for cheap flights, a new e-mail message popped up. Martin had forwarded the pertinent information regarding the security firm meeting which was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. I could go to the meeting and then leave Tuesday evening or Wednesday. I wasn’t being paid to investigate Jean-Pierre’s murder, but I was being paid to consult at Martin Technologies. My priorities were skewed toward tracking a killer instead of worrying about updating security cameras but whatever pays the bills.

I sent Martin a response guaranteein
g I would be there this time, and then I booked a flight for ten o’clock Tuesday night. Assuming an eight hour flight and the obvious time difference, if I slept on the plane, I could hit the ground running Wednesday afternoon. It seemed like a solid plan, minus the fact I had no idea what I intended to do in Paris. I wasn’t a cop. I wasn’t a federal agent, and I wasn’t even an Evans-Sterling employee anymore. Was this entire trip completely ludicrous? Yes, my internal voice answered. However, the constant gnawing feeling made it painfully apparent I had to be there, even if it was just to watch the real cops put the screws to Van Buren. I felt I owed it to Jean-Pierre, which was an equally ridiculous notion. We worked a case together four years ago and spent a few days together recently. I didn’t owe him anything. In all honesty, I barely knew him.

I tried
to rationalize why I shouldn’t go to Paris to avenge Jean-Pierre. The problem was, for whatever the reason, he had been a kindred spirit. We both left our government-issued jobs to start over in the private sector in the hopes of making a name for ourselves and living the life we wanted. If Jean-Pierre couldn’t do it, then how good were my chances of succeeding before someone blew up my car or waited in my apartment to put a bullet through my skull? Maybe I just wanted to know if it was me, someone would be fighting to find answers. God, I was turning into an insecure mess.

The next
day, I called the hotel and requested a room reservation. The desk clerk was more than happy to assist. Boxing up some items, I would overnight them to my hotel room since I didn’t want to piss off the TSA agents. My handcuffs, pepper spray, taser, and Spyderco knife were brought to FedEx for delivery. I might not need any of it, but considering I had yet to determine what my actual plan was, it didn’t seem like a bad idea to be prepared. The hotel would hold my parcel until I arrived. Pulling out my duffel bag, I packed only the necessities and a few items to help me blend in with the seedy underground gambling scene. And they say women can’t pack light.

The next day
, I dressed as a business professional in a skirt, dress shirt, and jacket, put on a pair of pumps, and covered my still slightly discolored face with concealer. The bruises were in the final stage of healing, and my thigh, while still not completely closed, was well on the way to becoming a pink scar. Marching into Martin Technologies, I was greeted by the security guard, Jeffrey Myers.

“Ms. Parker, long time
, no see.” Jeffrey smiled. “Go on up, Mr. Martin is expecting you.” The place was a ghost town. The only office still on this level was Martin’s and maybe mine, if it hadn’t been turned into a janitor’s closet. I knocked on his door and waited to be buzzed in.

“Alex.
” Martin looked up from his desk briefly, acknowledging my presence. He was preoccupied with work as usual. Picking a spot in front of the wall of windows, I stared outside while he finished whatever he was doing. He clicked away at the keyboard, and then the printer fired up. “Are you ready to listen to the spiel about all the latest developments in security cameras and fiber optics?” He sounded cynical in his mocking.

“That i
s why I’m here. Are you joining me for all the festivities?”

“Part of it.
Charlie Roman’s sitting in on the meeting, in case you need some assistance.” I briefly met Mr. Roman, a board member, at a charity function with Martin. “Can you provide your formal recommendations before close of business today?” 

“Of course.”
Looking in the direction of my old office, I added, “do you mind if I borrow the old office space?”

“It’s still your office.
” Martin seemed confused by my request. “You are still a Martin Tech employee. You are entitled to have your own space in the building.”

“Good to know
.”

He was clearly busy, so I went across the hallway to my old office, managing
to find the key to unlock the door. Besides being vacuumed and dusted, the office didn’t look like it had been used in months. I put my belongings down and sat in my chair. It felt strange being back in this building for work. I shook the feeling away and rifled through the drawers and found a legal pad and pen. Once prepared, I went to the conference room to wait until Martin freed himself from his desk chair and the security equipment representative showed up.

I was trying very hard not to spin in circles in the office chair when Martin ente
red the conference room. He no longer seemed interested in work, and it was reflected in his posture. I shot him a questioning look.

“Charlie’s waiting i
n the lobby. Our sales rep is running a little late today.” He pulled out the chair next to mine and carefully examined my face. “How are you?” he asked softly. Work-mode Martin was taking a break.

“I’m
okay,” I said, staring at the lines running across the legal pad. He reached to touch my make-up covered cheek, and I automatically jerked away. He pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Sorry, it’s almost healed, just a reflex.”

“I wanted to check on you,” he
began.

“No reason.
” I shook my head, dismissing his sentiment. “I’m actually,” I was about to tell him of my impending trip when Mr. Roman and an exquisitely dressed woman entered the room.

“James Martin, Alexis Parker, this is the equipment representative, Dani Heller,” Roman introduced us.
There were rounds of handshakes and nods. I didn’t quite like the way Dani was looking at Martin, but I needed to let that go. She was a saleswoman, after all. I just wasn’t sure what she thought she was selling.

Dani came prepared with a slideshow and presentation on the newest and latest equipment from l
asers to fiber optics to remote-operated cameras and motion sensors. She was fifteen minutes into her presentation when Martin picked up my pen and scribbled a note on my legal pad. I looked down, assuming he was wondering what my opinion of the biometric locks were, only to be surprised by ‘dinner tonight?’ I tried not to smile. It felt like we were in high school passing notes. I gave Martin an almost imperceptible headshake. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye.

“Excuse me, Ms. Heller,” Martin interrupted
, standing up. “I hate to run, but I’m leaving these decisions in the very capable hands of Mr. Roman and our security consultant, Ms. Parker. Please, carry on.” He gave her a charming smile and headed for the door. “Ms. Parker, if you’d be so kind as to hand deliver those recommendations personally at four this afternoon, that would be lovely.”

“Yes, sir,” I
replied perfunctorily as he made his way out of the conference room and back toward the elevators.

Dani continued her sales
pitch, completely unfazed by Martin’s disappearance. That kind of professionalism was admirable. At the end of the presentation, Roman thanked her for rescheduling. He didn’t have any questions or anything else to add. I, on the other hand, was hired to consult on matters such as these.

“Ms. Heller, if you’d be so kind,” I stood up, nodding to Roman t
hat I could take it from here, “I would like to take you through the building and hear what types of improvements you think would be most beneficial.” Most of what she was selling was too advanced for the MT building. It wasn’t like Martin was protecting some weapons-grade uranium, but maybe she would have some interesting ideas I failed to consider.

We began in the lobby and worked our way up.
I flipped my notepad to a clean sheet of paper and was making notes on her suggestions. Surprisingly, she wasn’t insisting on solely top-of-the-line replacements. At the end, I escorted her back to the lobby and thanked her for her time. I reiterated that Martin would send her the list of upgrades he wanted very soon. She had been pleased by my questions and probably assumed she would make a nice commission.

In
my office, I typed a thorough list of the most beneficial equipment upgrades. Basically, new cameras with a larger hard drive to store the digital files and some biometric locks wouldn’t be a bad idea when used strategically. Overall, the security at Martin Tech was decent enough as it was. I recommended adding a few more cameras in the elevator and in the blind spots of some of the hallways, but nothing earth shattering or costly. Martin should be pleased. I printed out the report and e-mailed him a copy, just in case.

It was
3:45 when I opened my office door to wait for him to return. At 4:12, he came down the hall, scanning his I.D. card and entering his office. I slowly gathered my belongings and report and locked my door before going across the hallway.

“Here’s the report you wanted.”
I placed it on his desk and sat down in his client chair, waiting for him to finish filing whatever it was he needed to leave the equipment meeting to do. When he was done, he glanced at the two page report, made sure it appeared correct, and then focused on me.

“Still avoi
ding me like the plague?” he asked, trying to sound playful, but I wasn’t convinced.

“Actually, what I wanted
to tell you earlier was I’m leaving tonight.” He got up from behind his desk and went to the wet bar, pouring himself a drink.

“
Want one?”

“No, thank you
.” I moved to the couch. Business was obviously over for the day, and now I was afraid I’d have to justify my leaving.

“Going
back to Paris?” He carried his drink to the couch and sat down next to me. He didn’t sound surprised. 

“Yes
. My flight leaves tonight at ten. I don’t know when I’m coming back. I just thought you should know in case you needed me to do anything here.” I gestured obliquely around the office.

“We’ll manage.”
He didn’t sound pleased by my revelation.

“Okay, well, if there’s nothing else, I should get goi
ng.”

“Alex,” hi
s questioning tone almost sounded wounded, “what are you doing?”

“What?”

“Why are you going to Paris? What do you think you can do that isn’t already being done?” He was studying my face, trying to gain some type of understanding.