The Warhol Incident (13 page)

That night, I went back to the pool hall where I met Claude. This time, I was 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. I was trying to perfect my out to party look. Entering the bar, the same guy who appeared to be in charge was sitting in the same booth at the back corner. 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 slowly 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 try to win some of my money back.” I was playing along. “Do you know Claude?”

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

“Alex,” I repli
ed, smiling. I offered my hand to once again inundate my American-ness. “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. There were two other guys 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 working in the bar was also working 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 two 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 Tue
sday?” I regretted my wording and thought briefly of Martin, who needed to stay out of my head.

“Y
ou 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 all 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 po
inted 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 so
unded 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 responded, 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 that Clare didn’t kill Jean-Pierre.”

“Is that enough?”

“It has to be,” I intoned. “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 trying to sound neutral and not annoyed with him simply for existing. “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
the small space of my hotel room, “I know whoever is involved had 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 that debt with a few misplaced paintings.”

“Interesting idea,” Delacroix finally spoke.
“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 years ago with the Sanchez gang and a misappropriated Warhol. Maybe this was his in with that kind of crowd.” Delacroix was back to being silent, and since I had nowhere else to go with this, I waited.

“Did you ev
er consider it could be Gustav’s connection to that kind of crowd?” He asked, breaking the silence after a couple minutes. 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 y
ou sure I didn’t do it?”

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

“T
hat 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 was going to 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 all 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, 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 se
arched 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 couple of 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 slightly and thanked him for his help. “You can get back to enjoying your Sunday.”

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

“I don’t know yet.”
I was pulling 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 an
y 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 thin
k 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.

Clare agreed to go to the garage where Jean-Pierre’s charred remains had been found. The vehicle had been moved, and there were a few torn remnants of crime scene tape, 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 seeing if there were any obvious vantage points or easy escape routes. I managed to locate 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 was s
tanding 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 then 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, the tech support at his office could verify 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 on her own 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’s not going to bring him back. Nothing can bring him back.” Her eyes were burning holes through me. I finally understood. The realization that Jean-Pierre was dead dawned on her, and she felt helpless.

“I am so incr
edibly 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 anyo
ne 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 and Langmire’s residences and got into my rental. My first stop was Langmire’s apartment. He still seemed the more likely of the two, but no one was home. All the curtains were opened, but there was no light or movement 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 for almost an hour before giving up.

Next, I heade
d to Donough’s apartment. The drive took about forty minutes, and I was debating what to do if he also wasn’t home. I guess I’d just have to wait him out. Today was quickly turning into a complete bust. Finding the correct avenue, I parked a block away from Donough’s apartment building. Before I could look for any sign of surveillance vehicles, I spotted him, walking down the street. I slouched down in the driver’s seat, hoping not to be noticed. He continued toward his building but stopped suddenly in front of a garbage bin. Carefully, I lifted my camera off the passenger’s seat and zoomed in, watching as he glanced around before surreptitiously reaching into the dumpster and removing a plastic bag.

“What the hell are you up to?”
I asked as I continued to watch. He then pulled something from inside his jacket pocket and placed it into the dumpster. This was a dead drop. I never imagined I’d get lucky this fast. Donough headed away from the dumpster and down the street, straight toward me. Shoving my camera onto the seat and slumping down further to avoid detection, I hoped he wouldn’t notice me as he continued heading in my general direction.

Donough was
half a block from my car when he sat down at the bus stop. He opened the bag and removed the contents, placing them inside his jacket pocket. I had no idea what he retrieved or what he left at the dumpster. I was still watching him intensely when he turned and looked right at me. Standing up, he walked at a fast clip toward his building.

“Shit.
” I was torn. He was involved in something shady, and he knew he’d been made. The problem was I didn’t know what I was going to do with him if I caught him, but if I did nothing, he could destroy evidence or flee. My only lead might escape. Getting out of my car, I pursued him down the street, feeling the reassuring weight of the taser in my right jacket pocket. My handcuffs were hooked on my belt, hidden from sight. Hopefully, I could subdue the subject and then figure out the rest.

Donough turned and disappeared down the alleyway between his apartment building and a local cafe
, past the dead drop dumpster. Even though I lost sight of him, I continued pursuit and cautiously entered the alley. He was nowhere to be seen, but there was an opening with street access at the other end. Edging closer, I made sure he wasn’t behind the dumpster. There was a door that connected the apartment building to the alley, and I pulled on the handle. But it didn’t budge. I took a few steps past and heard the door open as I simultaneously felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against my side.

“Stop,” the Irish brogue of a man’s voice growled in my ear.
I stopped and raised my hands slightly. Dumb move, Parker, the voice in my head scolded. He grabbed my right arm and twisted it behind my back as he maneuvered me into the building, the gun still at my side. “Don’t make a sound.” I was running through my options. In this tight, enclosed space, I had no chance of putting up a fight. Relenting, I let him escort me through the narrow hallways of the apartment building. Donough got to his apartment and put the key in my hand. “Open the door, slowly.” I unlocked the door and turned the knob. He pushed me inside and kicked the door closed behind him.

We were now in
a large enough space that I had a decent chance to fend him off. He was acutely aware of this fact because he cautiously circled around, stepping out of my striking zone. The gun still pointed at me.

“It’
s you,” he sounded shocked as recognition dawned on him. The gun faltered, and I lunged. He was holding the gun in his right, so I used my right to shove it away as I spun around and tried to elbow him with my left. He blocked my elbow and twisted my arm behind me. “Stop,” he repeated forcefully.

M
y foot slammed down on his instep, causing his grip on my arm to loosen. Pulling free, I let go of his gun hand as I spun my body around and delivered a right cross to his jaw. He stumbled backward, and the gun clattered to the floor. I dove for it, but he recovered and launched himself at me. We were both on the ground. I tried to roll him off, but he held on. Reaching into my jacket pocket for the taser, I had just gotten a grip on it when he grabbed my wrist and pried it from my fingers. Dropping the taser, it clattered away, out of my reach. I tried to knee him, but he straddled my thighs, and I couldn’t get free from under his weight.

I wa
s trying to maneuver out of his hold when I noticed a coffee mug on the floor next to his couch. Reaching for it, I grabbed the handle and slammed it into the side of his head. He crumpled sideways, dazed, and I scrambled for the gun. He cursed in French and launched himself at me, knocking me sideways to the floor. All I accomplished was pissing him off, which was not a good thing. He had my legs pinned and my wrists held tightly against the ground above my head.

“
Bloody hell. Stop fighting,” he angrily commanded. “I’m a cop.” I wasn’t about to fall for this line of bull. He used to be a cop.

“I don’t know any
cops that make suspicious dead drops outside their apartments,” I practically spat, “especially when they were discharged from the police department.” Great job pissing off the guy that’s going to kill you; my internal voice could be a sarcastic bitch sometimes.

“Apparently in
America you don’t do undercover work,” he sneered. He held both of my wrists firmly in one hand as he pulled a pair of cuffs from his jacket pocket and bound my wrists together around the table leg. “Now would you please just stay there.” He got up cautiously, making sure I didn’t kick him. Then he retrieved the gun from the floor, putting the safety on and sliding it into the holster on his belt. I managed to get into a semi-seated position and watched him.

“What are you going to do w
ith me?”

“I’m going to show you my badge, and if you can behave
like a lady, I’ll consider taking the handcuffs off.” He went to the bookcase and pulled a thick volume from the shelf, opening the book and producing a shield and identification. Apparently the book had been hollowed out. He tossed them in my general direction. It wasn’t easy manipulating my bound hands around the table leg to examine his identification, but it looked legitimate.

“I’m supposed to believe these are current?” I retorted.
“I know you were a cop. Ryan Donough, honorably discharged after sustaining a spinal fracture. I can read the newspapers just like anyone else.” Well, at least Martin could, but that didn’t seem important at the moment.

“I never sustained a spinal
fracture.” Donough spun and lifted his shirt. From what I could tell, there were no scars or signs of surgery, but maybe he was just a lucky son-of-a-bitch who healed well. He took a seat on the couch, rubbing his head absently. “Alexis Parker, former OIO agent, currently private security consultant.”

“Maybe you should have tried this type of introduction in the
first place.” I was working on the handcuffs, trying to get the hinge to unlock, but I needed to buy some time.

“You should have just knocked on
my door instead of watching me from your car. I can’t afford that right now. It could blow my cover.”

“What’s your cover?
Evans-Sterling douchebag who killed Jean-Pierre?” Leaning against the table, I hoped to lift it enough to slide the cuffs from under the leg before he noticed.

“Evans-Sterling employee investigating the missing paintings.
It’s an inside job, after all. I know you’re aware of this. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He tried to crack a friendly smile, but it looked more like a challenge. “Paintings have been going missing for the last three years. A lot more than the three you heard about. They’ve always been insured by Evans-Sterling, and since the insurance company was responsible for the retrievals, my cover was established. Each of the paintings would inevitably encounter a delivery problem. Either they would arrive or depart as forgeries. It’s happened at numerous galleries and museums all over France. The accident was staged along with my discharge. I was hired on to Evans-Sterling, and I’ve been in deep cover for the last eighteen months. It’s just about over, and here you are, trying to fuck it up.”

“What did you get from the
dead drop?” His story was plausible, but without proof, he could be playing me. He opened his jacket pocket and pulled the items out. There was a burner phone and a list of addresses. “Doesn’t prove anything.”

“Listen, you can’t
tell anyone what I’ve told you,” Donough sounded serious. If he was in deep cover, telling me was a total violation, so either he was close to wrapping it up, or he needed something. This was assuming he wasn’t lying.

“You find a way
for me to verify your story, and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Maybe you could work on taking these cuffs off too.” I was trying a more civil approach, hoping he wasn’t about to disprove the entire story and shoot me where I sat. He rubbed the side of his head where I hit him with the coffee mug, brushing pieces of ceramic from his hair.

“That
can be arranged.” He got up from the couch and approached cautiously. Since I was being docile, he unlocked the handcuffs. “Does this earn some trust?”

“We’ll see.”
I rubbed my wrists absently as I tried to make sense of the last twenty minutes.