The Warhol Incident (24 page)

There had to be more than this.
Determined to find something concrete, I went outside; Mark was at my heels. The two of us were standing outside the warehouse door when Mark pointed to some dilapidated, old cargo containers.

“Did you have your guys check those out?” Mark asked O’Connell once he joined us after re-securing the crime scene and replacing the police tape.

“Yeah, nothing turned up.
They were empty.” Our outing was a complete bust. I circled the area. This was my last ditch effort before admitting defeat and giving up.

“Sorry
, I dragged you here,” I muttered, annoyed with myself. “We can leave. It doesn’t look like this will lead to anything.”

“I have
a few calls in to a couple of guys I know in the gangs unit,” O’Connell offered. “Thought if Abelard follows his previous pattern, there might be some chatter.”

“Thanks,” I said glumly
, rubbing my eyes. I was tired of all of this. “Would either of you care to stop by my office for a couple of minutes, I just want to double-check some things.”

O’Connell glanced at his watch. “If you buy me a cup of coffee from that place next to your office, then you’ve got a deal.”

“Well, if we’re talking free coffee, I’m in,” Mark replied, grinning.

“Coffee’s on me.”

I gave Mark a ten dollar bill and sent him to get the coffees as I skimmed through my mail, and O’Connell surveyed my small office space.

“Glad to see the private sector is booming,” he joked.
“What do you call this? Pressed wood chic?”

“I call it all I can afford.
I swear, you and Martin both have issues with my office décor.” The stack of mail went into the recycle bin, and I pressed the message button on the answering machine to make sure there were no missed calls.

“If you want to get business, you have to look like a legitimate company,” he chided.
I was preparing a proper comeback in my mind when his radio went off. There had been a 911 call made regarding a gunman. I ignored the radio chatter until I heard the address.

“That’s here.”
I was confused. Regardless, my weapon was unholstered, and the safety was off. O’Connell’s piece was in his hand, and we both approached the front door. Standing in the middle of the parking lot was Abelard, a cell phone in one hand and a gun at his side. “It’s him,” I hissed.

O’Connell was on the radio
, requesting back-up and relaying pertinent information. Abelard smiled menacingly and tossed the phone away before giving a slight wave.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” I snarled, confident I could put a bullet through his skull from this distance.
Reaching to open the door, O’Connell stopped me.

“We need a plan,” he insisted.

“Fine,” my eyes didn’t leave Abelard, “go out the back
and around the building to head him off. I’ll keep him occupied until then.” Or I’d shoot him. Whichever came first. O’Connell went out the back without another word, and I carefully exited my office. A bulletproof vest would have been a nice accessory to have on today, I thought wistfully. My nine millimeter was down by my side so as not to panic civilians as I cautiously made my way toward Abelard.

“Madame,” he bellowed from his spot in the middle of the parking lot, “it see
ms we never got to finish our little tête-à-tête.” My body was turned sideways, and my gun was leveled at him.

“Drop your weapon.”

“Tut tut.”
He shook his head. “You wouldn’t want to risk hurting one of these innocent people.” O’Connell approached from the left, and Abelard raised his gun in the air and fired. The resulting gunshot sent everyone in the vicinity running and screaming.

“Dammit,” I cursed as a herd of people blocked my view.

“Parker,” O’Connell yelled, and we were running through the crowd in pursuit of Abelard.
Abelard didn’t have much of a head start as I ran across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a taxi. O’Connell was ahead of me, and we continued running through the pedestrians on the sidewalk as we chased Abelard another block. Turning the corner a couple of steps behind O’Connell, I caught a glimpse of Abelard descending the stairs to the subway.

Running down steps was my least favorite thing.
Pushing past commuters, I was almost to the turnstiles when I caught sight of Abelard’s back, heading up the other set of steps.

“Nick,
” I screamed, reversing direction and running up the escalator. At least going up the stairs was less of an ordeal than going down. At street level, he disappeared down an alleyway, and I followed, hoping for a dead end. Nick was three steps behind me as the narrow alley opened onto another street. Crossing once more Frogger style and narrowly missing getting hit by a bike messenger, Abelard made it into a park. Nick was at my heels, and as we moved past a street vendor, we were both confronted with a hostage situation.

Abelard had grabbed a teenage boy and was using him as a shield, the muzzle of his gun pressed against the boy’s temple.
“I said I wasn’t done with you yet,” Abelard taunted. O’Connell and I had our weapons trained on him, but I didn’t have a clear shot.

“Police,” O’Connell identified himself, holding his shield in his free hand.
“Let the boy go.” He sidestepped closer to me. “If you have a shot, take it,” he whispered.

“Non, non, non,” Abelard responded jovially, his French accent thickening his words.
“All of this is because of her, and I’m not through having my fun.” Abelard was less stable than I ever realized. He might have suffered a psychotic break from reality since the man I met in the Parisian bar was less of a lunatic than the man before me now. “Our playtime is only beginning, Madame. Now Monsieur Policeman, I would suggest you put down your pistol,” Abelard urged, giving O’Connell a wicked smile. Mark had followed us and was edging toward Abelard from behind. I had no idea how he managed to get around, but I was thankful he did.

“Okay, let’s just calm down.”
O’Connell was attempting to de-escalate the situation. He made a show of removing his finger from the trigger and holding his gun in the air before carefully sliding it onto his hip. “No one needs to get hurt.” My weapon remained trained on Abelard. If the kid would just move another inch to the right, I would have a clean shot.

“Is that right, Alex?” Abelard hissed.
“You don’t want to hurt me after everything I’ve done to you. And everything I promise I’ll do to you.”

“Seems your issue is with me and only me,” I responded.
“Why don’t we work out our differences by ourselves?” I growled, and Abelard smiled.

“Oh, we will Madame.
I’m just not ready for the grand finale yet. Until then, I hope you’re enjoying the foreplay,” his voice dripped maniacal pleasure. Before I could say or do anything, Mark grabbed Abelard’s gun arm and attempted to wrestle the weapon from him. O’Connell yelled at the kid to move, and I was about to take the shot when Abelard’s gun discharged, and Mark hit the ground. Abelard turned and gave a two-fingered salute, before fleeing into the crowd. O’Connell checked on the kid, and I rushed to Mark.

I swore loudly, frustrated as I knelt on the ground.
Mark was properly accessorized with a vest under his shirt, and given the small caliber weapon Abelard had been holding, it only knocked the wind out of him.

“I don’t like your friend,” Mark
replied once he caught his breath. Abelard was long gone. I should have pursued him instead of checking on Mark.

O’Connell’s back-up arrived, and we all had to provide statements and go through the rigmarole of dealing with the hostage situation and letting the suspect get away.
O’Connell would have to deal with the fallout. Mark and I returned to my office and locked up before going to the precinct and filling out the official paperwork.

“Are y
ou sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?” I teased Mark, who was, by all accounts, absolutely fine. He barely even bruised, the lucky bastard.

“Shut up, Parker.”
        

“I should have shot him.”
I was beating myself up over this fact as Mark drove me home. “Why didn’t I take the shot or continue pursuit? Hell, I should have done both.”

“You didn’t want to hit the kid.
And you were worried about the old man that got shot. I swear I’m getting too damn old for this.”

“Then you should be behind a desk, not in the field.”
He pulled to a stop in front of my apartment building.

“I’ll come up.”

“No, you go home. Take some ibuprofen before bed. It’ll hurt in the morning,” I warned. Mark was reluctant to leave when there was a crazy man on the loose. “I’m sure O’Connell will be here momentarily. Plus, Abelard likes to make 911 calls informing us of his location ahead of time.” How long was Abelard waiting outside my office before he made the call identifying his location? He must have been staking it out, waiting for my appearance. Maybe he was in the silver sedan from the previous night and had been keeping tabs on me all along.

“Fine, but be extremely careful.”

“You too. Circuitous routes and everything else.” He nodded, and I got out of the car, walking swiftly inside with my hand resting against the butt of my gun. I didn’t know where Abelard escaped to today, but he planned to make good on his threat to finish having his fun with me. I forced my mind not to imagine what that might entail; hopefully, Abelard wasn’t the creative type.

The hallway was empty, as usual, as I made my way to my apartment.
I verified all my locks were still secure before unlocking the door and flipping on the lights and checking the entirety of my apartment before settling down and removing my back-up from my ankle.

As I heated a frozen pizza, O’Connell knocked on my door, announcing his presence.

“The lieutenant doesn’t want any more mishaps,” O’Connell said as I offered him some pizza. “He has a team set up in the building across the street.” There was no room for argument. Today could have been disastrous.

“I’m really sorry.”
I felt responsible for the flack he had to endure. “How hard did this come down on you?”

“Not too bad.
The kid’s fine. Shaken up, but fine. Agent Jablonsky barely even flinched. Everyone’s still breathing, so it’s all good.” I wished Abelard wasn’t, but I kept that thought to myself. “How are you?”

“Still breathing.”

“That’s one crazy mother.”
O’Connell was astounded.

“Strangely enough, he didn’t seem so crazy the first time around,” I took a breath, “and he was insane then, too.
Now he’s completely overboard.” I cringed. It was no wonder Jean-Pierre had been afraid to cross him.

*              *              *

The next morning, I stared out my window, wondering if the police were watching from across the street. Mark called and said he and Farrell might be making progress on locating the supplier Abelard used to purchase the detonators for his C-4. I wished them luck. O’Connell dropped by my apartment that morning, after he relieved Thompson from the night shift, and I offered him a cup of coffee.

“Any news?” I asked skeptically.
O’Connell shook his head. Abelard had vanished again. I hadn’t slept at all the night before; the paranoia and anxiety were getting to me. People I cared about could have been killed yesterday. Mark had been shot, after all.

“You look like shit,” O’Connell said, and I snickered at his assessment.

“Thanks.
Exactly what I was hoping to achieve.” He gave me a look, and I poured another cup of coffee. “I hate that Abelard is calling the shots and running the show.”

“He’s escalating.
I’d bet anything he’ll make another run at you in the next few days.”

O’Connell’s words rang true a few hours later when his radio chirped, notifying him of Abelard being sighted in my neighborhood.
I was positive Abelard made the call himself. The tactical team, which was set up across the street, was on high alert, and uniformed officers were moving in to secure the area.

“Showtime,” I muttered, unenthused.
Nick checked his side arm. My gun was holstered but at the ready; however, I was unsure of what to do. This was when having no official job title made life difficult. The waiting was incredibly anticlimactic as I paced my apartment, avoiding the windows. I checked and rechecked my weapon a dozen times. About forty-five minutes later, Nick’s radio went off again. A few uniformed officers apprehended a suspect matching Abelard’s description.

“I’ll make sure we have
him,” O’Connell said. “Stay here this time.”

If I saw Abelard again, he would
be bloody and lifeless. O’Connell radioed he was on the way and left my apartment. I stood in the doorway, watching him open the door to the stairwell and disappear down the steps. Taking a deep breath, I hoped this was finally over as I shut my door. I just locked the deadbolts when I heard a high-pitched, mechanical squeal coming from outside.

“Shit,” I muttered, unlocking the door and pulling my gun before exiting into the hallway.
Leaving the door open, I put my back against the doorframe and peered around the corner. The hallway was empty, and I strained to hear if the sound had come from a different floor. Lowering my gun, I cocked my head to the side. Maybe I was imagining things. As I turned to go back into my apartment, the stairwell door opened, and a deliveryman exited onto my floor. There was something odd about the man. The warning bells in my brain blared, but lack of sleep slowed my mind and reflexes.

He has not
hing to deliver I realized, raising my gun to take aim. It was Abelard, but I was too slow. He rushed forward, wrapping one of his large hands completely around my throat and shoving me into the wall. I was suspended by my neck in mid-air, choking. His other hand grabbed for my gun, but I refused to let it go. However, my wrist couldn’t withstand the torment in its previously injured state, and after being slammed into the wall a few times, the gun slipped from my grip and clattered to the floor.

Had I been able to get any air in or out, I would have been screaming bloody murder.
Instead, my vision was rapidly clouding by the encroaching black bubbles. I wasn’t getting any oxygen or blood to my brain, and there was nothing I could do. I made a feeble attempt to knee Abelard or fight back with my one free hand, but it was too little, too late.