The Warhol Incident (28 page)

As promised, Martin called the next day to make sure I hadn’t checked myself into the loony bin. Even though it was the weekend, he had a million things to do. He had to prepare the office for Luc’s impending arrival and find a solution to the current production error. He was keeping busy which was a relief since I had to deal with a million issues of my own. Despite our full schedules, he insisted on staying at my apartment every night, listening for my screams as my nightmares raged on. We were still taking things slow due to his concern over my injured state; yet at the same time, he constantly needed to touch my hand or stroke my hair to ensure I was next to him. The physicality of our relationship was downright baffling. Hazard of the job, I reasoned. As his schedule became more hectic, he finally agreed to some much needed time apart.

Over the course of the week, I had spoken extensively with Ryan.
As more information was gleaned, the stronger the gnawing became in the recesses of my mind. There was something amiss concerning Jean-Pierre’s involvement with Abelard, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I was on the phone with Ryan as he prattled on about the art recoveries that had been made.

“Gustav gave us the location for the three missing paintings, the buyers, and the fences.
He even rolled on that bogus third party authenticator Evans-Sterling used when you brought the forged painting to the States,” Ryan added. “Interpol has made two of the recoveries since they were sold internationally, and Reneaux personally took the collar on the third.”

“At least Salazar Sterling will be relieved,” I said cynically.
I told Ryan how Sal personally sent a letter of gratitude and the reward for information on the paintings.

He made a disgruntled noise.
“It’s amazing how these brokerage firms and insurance companies can be involved in the purchase and retrieval of possible forgeries. No one on the team even knew, or if they did, they didn’t tell me.”

“It’s big business.
Think about the countless number of masterpieces that have gone missing during times of war or upheaval and add in all the art that has been in private collections for centuries and other works that were thought to have been destroyed that have surfaced. None of us have any idea what’s even out there. So how would we know what’s real? Strangely enough, Evans-Sterling isn’t doing anything illegal, even though quite a few people on the payroll were.”   

“It was mainly Jean-Pierre,” he supplied,
“and whatever contracted, third parties recreated the stolen masterpieces and claimed the fakes to be the genuine articles. That’s why tracking the missing art turned into such an ordeal. Every museum and gallery that reported a theft had a different art restorer and different authenticator. If Jacques Marset had been working at all the museums, the dots would have connected faster, and we would have been able to track the entire smuggling ring to Louis Abelard that much sooner. Instead, the only lead the Police Nationale had was the Evans-Sterling investigative team.”

“Wait a minute.”
I leaned back in my chair and bit my thumbnail, thinking. “Obviously, all of Le Galerie’s paintings are legitimate which was why Marset was switching them for his copies.” My brain was still wrapping itself around something.

“Of course, they had independent authenticators check before they acquired the work.
The place is practically a museum,” Ryan replied, confused by my thought processes.

“Marset was a forger.
He was working for Abelard.”

“Right,” he said slowly, waiting for brilliance to strike.

“And Jean-Pierre was working for Abelard.
Is he still in police custody?”

“We have
him in holding. In case he has anything else to offer, we didn’t want to transfer him yet.”

Flashing back to the shootout in the parking garage, I suspected the men in the SUV weren’t working with Abelard.
My guess was Marset offered them the real painting and as much money as he could carry in exchange for getting him out of the country and away from the unstable Abelard. But how did Jean-Pierre stumble upon that tip? There were two possibilities; either Abelard heard whispers of betrayal and sent Jean-Pierre to act as an enforcer to stop the escape, or Jean-Pierre had gotten the intel another way. But who thwarted Marset’s exit strategy and killed him?

I had an odd feeling about the whole thing.
Jean-Pierre intentionally sent the videotape a day too soon, even though I failed to make the proper connection because of the time difference, and he had taken down the two men in the warehouse and assisted in my escape from Abelard. Did he ensure I would have enough time to free myself from the hook before Abelard and his goons returned with another round of shock therapy? Maybe the reason I was left in possession of my knife was because Jean-Pierre let me keep it.

“Alex?” Ryan asked, probably assuming we had been disconnected.

“I’m still here. Has Agent Delacroix attempted to take custody of Gustav?”

“Funny you should ask,” he snorted.
“Reneaux was bitching about it earlier today.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”
I shook my head in complete amazement.

“What?”

“I think he was a plant.”

My mind was processing the few facts I knew to be true.
Before the police could arrest Gustav, the car exploded. I wasn’t sure who killed Marset or how it happened, but the timing was too close for comfort. Following this, Delacroix placed round the clock surveillance on Gustav’s apartment, even after his alleged death, and Interpol kept a watchful eye on Ryan in order to keep his movements on a tight leash. Were they afraid he was going to blow their investigation? And what about me? Delacroix loathed my presence in his investigation, but he provided additional information to ponder. Although he pissed me off, his annoyances had pointed in the right direction.

“You’re
telling me Gustav is still in deep cover?” Ryan didn’t sound convinced. “What about the three years worth of paintings being stolen? Would Interpol authorize thievery for their UCs? Plus, were his gambling debts faked? And why wouldn’t he have informed Clare, especially when she’s former Interpol too? She could have been his back-up.” Ryan made some valid points. Given Jean-Pierre’s protective attitude toward Clare, she was clueless and uninvolved.

“Then why did he let me go?
Why did he try to protect me?”

“Maybe he has a soft spot for you.
Or he was afraid you’d piece it together and ruin him. Possibly both.” I rubbed my face, thinking. There was something off about the entire Delacroix/Gustav situation, and it was going to bother me until I figured it out. “A call just came in, so we’ll wrap this up next time.”

“Do me a favor and
see what you can get on Marset’s murder and the bombing. I’ll do the same from this end. And Ryan, stay safe.” I pressed end call, knowing there were quite a few things to ponder.

*              *              *

Over the next couple of days, I made little headway in unraveling the questions regarding Interpol and Jean-Pierre, but I was trying to let it go since the likelihood of ever finding the answers seemed slim. It was Saturday when O’Connell called, thanking me for my thorough retelling of the events leading up to the shooting. He had been cleared, so I offered to meet him and Thompson later tonight at the bar across from the precinct and open a tab in their honor. It was the least I could do. Phoning Mark, I extended an invitation to him, too.

That night
, the four of us were seated at the corner of the bar, and I hoped my credit card wouldn’t be declined. We had been here for the last few hours, so my concern was legitimate.

“Y
ou do realize by inviting some feds into a cop bar, we’re totally losing our street cred right now,” Thompson teased.

“I’m not a f
ed.” I gave him a wink and shook my head slightly. “Plus, I’m buying, so it wouldn’t hurt if you could show some appreciation. A tiny bit of gratitude might be nice.” He lifted his tequila shot in my direction before downing it. O’Connell chuckled and took a sip of his beer. He had been quiet all night, but I wasn’t about to ask what was going on. Thompson was eyeing a girl across the room, who he had been flirting with most of the evening.

“Thanks for the drinks, Parker.”
He got off the barstool. “I’m outta here.” He walked over to the girl, and the two of them left together. Mark waited a reasonable amount of time before getting up and patting my shoulder.

“Thanks for buying,” he said.
“I have an early morning, so I should probably head out too. You’re coming back next week, right?”

“Yes,
Kendall seems to think two weeks is ample time.” Mark was killing my buzz with shop talk. He nodded to O’Connell and started for the door.

“What,” O’Connell called after him, “you aren’t going to find a badge bunny to take home, too?”
I rolled my eyes. Men could be pigs, and I found the whole badge bunny concept particularly degrading. It gave women a bad name, or maybe I was just jealous that scantily clad men didn’t clamor about for women in uniform.

“I have
three ex-wives all collecting alimony. That would be the last thing I need,” Mark said as he headed for the exit, leaving Nick and I alone at the bar.

“So,” I finally decided to broach the subject, “how did this all come down on you?”

“It wasn’t too bad,” he replied, turning to face me. “The hostage situation the day before the shooting might have been a blip on the radar. Y’know, looks like a cop was out for revenge, but the fucker had it coming.”

“That would be an understatement.”

“I got my balls busted a bit, but the mayor was impressed.
He’s throwing some award ceremony.” O’Connell shrugged as if this were nothing new or special.

“Congratulations.
Maybe you will get that promotion after all.” We sat in a comfortable silence, drinking our beers. “Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife?”

He glanced at his watch.
“She’s working graveyard at the hospital tonight. I’ll pick her up in the morning and take her out to breakfast to celebrate. It’s a Saturday night. Shouldn’t you be having some late night security consulting meeting with Martin?”

“No, I don’t think that would be a prudent idea.”
He looked surprised. “After you called and told him to pick me up at the ER,” I gave him my annoyed look, “it’s just, I don’t know.”

“Great use of the English language.”

“You know how this life is. There are days we go to work and might not come back in one piece or at all. It’s not fair to put someone through that. Honestly, I don’t think he can handle it.” O’Connell tilted his head back and laughed. “What?” I asked, completely bewildered.

“You don’t think he can handle it?
What the hell kind of fed were you, Parker? I always thought you were more competent than that.” I remained silent, waiting for some elaboration. “Look, I don’t know him that well, but the few times we’ve met, he can be very intimidating, particularly when it comes to you.” I snorted and gave him my best ‘yeah, right’ look. “Let me put it another way, if you let him, he would walk through fire for you.”

“Maybe that’s the problem.
What if I don’t want him to get burned?” I understood what O’Connell was saying. “It’s not fair for any of us to expect someone to be there waiting or risk getting caught in the crossfire.”

“You have to realize
you can’t control everything. You cannot make these decisions for him or for anyone else. The only thing you can decide is if you want him there or not, and if not, then just say so. I know you have a history, but honestly, you don’t owe him a damn thing.” O’Connell had a point. “I wouldn’t be doing this without my wife,” he continued, lost in his own story. “Seven years ago, I got grazed, and she was the nurse working the ER. We got to talking, numbers were exchanged, one thing led to another.” He smiled at his memory.

“Do you worry?”
             

“I have to, but at some point
, you realize life’s just too damn short. There are too many negative possibilities and not enough time for anything.” He got up from the barstool. “And now that you’ve made me this goddamn nostalgic, I’m going to see if she can get off work a little early tonight.” He headed toward the door.

“Nick,” I called after him, “thanks.”

“Anytime.”

The next morning
, I planned on staying in bed for the majority of the day and doing the proper hangover thing. Unfortunately, the universe didn’t seem to agree with my carefully laid plans. My phone began buzzing around ten o’clock that morning, and whoever was insisting on calling refused to stop until I answered.

“Parker,” I growled into the receiver.

“The biometric locks have seized up,” announced a panicked voice.

“What?”
I definitely wasn’t awake enough for that grouping of words to make sense. The phone on the other end was shuffled around before I got any type of response.

“Miss Parker, hi, this is Jeffrey Myers.
I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning.” Jeffrey was being overly cordial. “It appears the new biometric locks you approved are malfunctioning, and we have no way of getting into the security office.”

“Did you call Heller?”
I didn’t provide the equipment, so why exactly was this my problem?

“Yes, but it’s the weekend.
She’s trying to find someone to fix it, but,” his voice trailed off, “maybe you’d have a better solution in the meantime?”

“Did you call Mr. Martin?”
There was mumbling in the background.

“He thought you might be able to bypass it.”

“Fine.”
I was not at all pleased. “Give me the model number, and I’ll get some equipment and be there as soon as I can.” Performing some quick searches, I made a few calls to a couple of security specialists, grabbed my own lock-picking gear, and stopped by the local electronics store.

Arriving at the MT building an hour and a half later, the plan was to break into the security office.
Worst case, the lock could be shot off. It was a good thing I collected my weapon from evidence lock-up on Friday afternoon. Flashing my MT credentials to the man working the front door, I went to the security office.

“Call Mr. Martin and let him know he needs to notify your security firm that any recorded breach is not a break-in.
I don’t want the cops all over my ass when I screw up,” I informed Jeffrey. He seemed agitated by the entire problem and slightly frightened by my ordering him around.

“Um…,” he stammered, “maybe you should tell him yourself.”
He jerked his head toward one of the armchairs across the room. “Just so you know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “the lock on his office isn’t working either.”

“Great.”
I sighed.

“Morning,” Martin greeted, sounding rather annoyed.

“I’m glad you decided to leave the word good out of that salutation,” I commented.
“I don’t know if I can bypass the system or not, but I’m willing to try if you’re game.” He was in agreement. “Did you give your security firm or the police the heads up? I’m not qualified to do this, and there’s a good chance I’ll trip the alarm.”

“I’ll make the call.”
He was in total business crisis mode, which would explain why he was being short with me.

“You might want to tell Heller exactly what you think of her shoddy equipment,” I snapped.
He nodded and picked up his phone as I went back to the security office.

It took almost forty-five minutes to disconnect the biometric reader from the door and manually jimmy the lock open.
Jeffrey Myers and the other two security guards applauded, and I rolled my eyes.

“I’m not sure what
to do in the meantime, but you might want to get an actual locksmith to install a regular lock until Ms. Heller replaces this one.” I was less than pleased with how my recommended security improvements had gone awry.

“I’ll check with Mr. Martin and see what he wants to do,” Jeffrey said.
Glancing at the armchairs across the lobby, Martin was gone. “Oh, if you can unlock his office, he’d greatly appreciate it.” Wondering when Martin disappeared, I went to the elevator and debated if I was intentionally being given the cold shoulder or if I was just imagining things.

Forty minutes later, I was still standing in the hallway outside Martin’s office.
There was an electronic reader in my palm, a metal lock-pick hanging from the corner of my mouth, and a pair of wire cutters sticking out of my back pocket.

“Don’t ask me why I find you incredibly sexy right now, I just do,” Martin came up behind me and whispered in my ear.
I ignored the distraction and continued to adjust the scanner to detect which wires to disengage. Pulling the wire cutter from my pocket, I short-circuited the biometric sensor. It had taken almost half an hour to get the front panel off just to expose the wires. Whoever made these faulty locks didn’t consider an easier way to bypass them.

“Do you say that to all the locksmiths or just the ones you wan
t to sleep with?” I teased, clipping a few more wires. “My office key is in my pocket if you want to wait in there until I finish.” Even though the biometric sensor was inactive, the electronic lock was still fully engaged, and there was no way to determine how to manually disengage it.

“How would
it look for me to be rummaging through your pockets?” I could hear him smirking, but he did have a point. “Can I help?” I handed him the electronic reader and my wire cutters.

“I’m sorry the biometric locks aren’t working.
If I had known they were glitchy, I never would have recommended them.” Best to remain professional while at work.

“It’s not your fault.
Dani’s called five times to apologize and offered a full refund in addition to new upgraded locks which are being installed tomorrow.” Failing to turn the tumbler in the proper direction, I growled at the door before starting over. Martin remained silent and let me focus as I finally managed to pick the lock and pry the door open.

“There,” I said resolutely,
sliding my lock-picks into their case. “Sorry, it took so long.”

“That’s okay.”
He walked into his office, waiting for me to join him. I was paranoid the door would close and the lock would somehow reengage, trapping us inside, so I found a doorstop and propped the door open, just to be on the safe side. “It’s been a hell of a weekend.”

“Now that your office is functioning again, I’m going to go.
But just to be on the safe side, don’t close the door.” He nodded, staring at some paperwork on his desk. “I know you’re busy,” I began, “but do you think you might have some free time tonight? Maybe we could have dinner.” He looked up, smiling.

“I’d like that.
Giovanni’s at seven?”

“I’ll be there.”

*
              *              *

I went home, took a shower, and tried on almost every single article of clothing I owned. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. Martin and I had been to dinner almost every week for the last few months, but tonight felt different. On the one hand, it was kind of like our first date, and on the other, I knew the tension between us needed to be addressed. Once again, I replayed the intended conversation over in my head. It was time to take a step back, especially when he would be incapacitated with the surgery and then extremely busy transitioning Guillot in as vice president. I was going to be equally busy, tormenting myself with what I hoped would be a brief consulting gig at the OIO. Needless to say, we both had a lot on our plates for the foreseeable future. Slow meant almost total avoidance, at least while I was working for the OIO.

Finding something appropriate to wear, I went to the restaurant to meet Martin.
Requesting a table in the back as secluded as possible, I ordered a white wine while I waited. I was nervously spinning my glass on the tabletop when he arrived. He glanced at his watch and then at my empty glass.

“I thought I’d
be on time for once,” he remarked, sitting across from me and ordering a bottle of wine for the table.

“You are.
I was just early. How are the locks?” I wanted to avoid having a real conversation for as long as possible.

“They’re being
installed first thing in the morning. I’ve been assured this will never happen again,” he replied, folding his menu and leaning back in his chair. “We don’t have to talk about work though.” He was appraising my appearance. “You look amazing.” He lifted his eyebrows suggestively. His gaze shifted to the stitches on my wrist and then to my neck. The ligature marks from the garrote had finally vanished.

“Thank you.”
It didn’t seem important to mention it had taken over an hour to figure out what to wear. Our conversation was temporarily halted as the waiter arrived and took our orders.

“I’m glad you invited me to dinner.”
His green eyes sparkled. “I was positive you didn’t want to see me anymore.” It was meant to be a joke, but he knew something was wrong. I bit my bottom lip, and the mood shifted.

“I have missed you.”
I hoped he would take what I had to say the way it was intended. “But we need to talk.” He waited patiently for me to begin. “These next few weeks will be crazy for both of us. You have surgery and Guillot, and I’m supposed to be back at the OIO on a temporary basis. It might be best if we don’t plan on seeing one another until things calm down.”

“This isn’t working, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”
He pressed his lips together. His eyes turned dark as they met mine. “Then again, I have my suspicions where the problem might be.” I remained silent, and he searched my eyes. “Do you want to call things off?”

“No.
Not at all.” I reached across the table for his hand. “We said we would take things slow, and after Abelard,” I looked at him, hoping for some type of understanding, but I was met with frustration, “it’s just, we’re either all or nothing.”

“Funny,” his tone was cynical, “unless you’re confusing me with someone else, I don’t remember us every actually doing much of anything.
If we were going any slower, we’d be in reverse.”

“I didn’t mean physically.”
This wasn’t going the way I hoped. “I’m sorry I have to ask you to stay away, but I worry about what could happen to you. I can’t separate what’s already happened,” I glanced at his shoulder, “from where we are now.”

“I’m only
saying this once, and we are not talking about this again, understand?” His tone was serious. “When I said we were even, I was wrong. We aren’t even. You saved me twice, once from the explosion and once from bleeding to death in my own home. That means I still owe you. So do not sit here and give me this goddamn song and dance about how you have to protect me. It’s all fucking bullshit and incredibly emasculating. You were hired to protect me. You did, and now it’s done.” He stopped to get his tone under control.

“Martin,” I tried to interject, but he put his hand up to silence me.

“I want to spend time with you, Alexis, and it’s not because I think you’ll pull me out of the way of a speeding taxi or jump in front of some sniper’s bullet. So do not sit here and tell me you have to protect me, or we will be done.” I leaned back in my chair and swallowed uneasily. His eyes were smoldering. “Is that what you want?” he asked in a slightly more civil tone.

I was replaying the conversation I had with Nick over in my head as I considered my options.
I was at a crossroads. I could either get up and walk out that door and ensure Martin would be safe from the hazards associated with my life, or I could agree to let him stick around until we could no longer stand one another. 

“I was hoping we could start fresh once both of our lives have settled down.”
He stared unnervingly at me as his green eyes burned through my soul.

“What happens afterward when life gets complicated again?
Will you tell me to stay away and cut all contact?”

“I don’t know.
I can’t promise you I won’t.”

He looked despondent and poured another glass of wine.
“At least we’ll always have Paris,” he attempted to joke, but his words lacked any hint of mirth. Our meals arrived, and I picked at mine as we sat through the rest of dinner in complete silence. We were at a total impasse. The check arrived, and he put his credit card on the tray, ignoring my attempt to pay for dinner.  

“When’s your surgery?” I asked quietly, fearing I no longer had any right to be given this information.

“Thursday morning.” He was back to staring at me.

“How long,” I swallowed; my throat had gone dry, “are you going to be there?”

“It’s a day procedure. Hopefully, I can get back to work by Tuesday or Wednesday. Not a big deal.” He was being mechanical. “When do you start working for Mark?”

“Friday, I think.”
I was trying to figure out what was going on, if we were back to just friends or if we had yet to decide. “I still have to pass all the evaluations, but at least the paperwork is finished.” He produced a small smile that didn’t make it to his eyes. The waiter returned with the credit card receipt to be signed, and once that was done, Martin stood up.

“Well.”
He paused, contemplating what to say. His tone sounded cordial, and I suspected saying thanks for a lovely evening was obviously too phony a comment to utter.