The Warhol Incident (11 page)

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”
I paused, determined to make him understand. “I have to do this.” He still didn’t understand it; probably because it was completely illogical. He got up from the couch, putting his glass down on the table as he walked over to me.

“This is purely
platonic, so don’t get mad,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me in a hug. I held him tightly for a few minutes, not wanting to let go. “Stay safe and please come back in one piece.” Finally, I let go and picked up my purse. Boundaries, Parker. We needed firm, clearly defined boundaries.

“I’ll see you later.”

*              *              *

Dressed in comfortable travel clothes, I grabbed a quick bite to eat and then called a cab to take me to the airport. I checked in the recommended two hours early and sat in the terminal, trying to decide if this was actually a good idea. Just because something wasn’t a good idea didn’t necessarily mean I shouldn’t do it.

I
called Patrick Farrell and informed him of my impending trip. Farrell tried to be helpful by smoothing the waters with the Paris Interpol office. They knew I would be snooping around in their investigation and were willing to grant a slight professional courtesy as long as I agreed to stay out of their way. This helped to comfort my questioning mind, and I dialed Clare to tell her my flight number and arrival time. She sounded pleased to have someone to assist in the investigation she was conducting on her own.

An hour later,
I boarded the plane and tried to get comfortable in the cramped, little seat as I closed my eyes. If I could just fall asleep and stay asleep for the next six hours, things would work out well. It was sheer willpower alone that let me sleep as we crossed the Atlantic Ocean. I woke up at ten a.m., Paris time. We still had another couple of hours left in the air, but I could entertain myself for that long. Finally, the plane made its final approach and landed. I stood around baggage claim for what felt like an eternity before my single duffel bag emerged onto the carousel. Grabbing it, I hailed a taxi to my hotel.     

The box was
in my room, waiting for my arrival. Opening it, I regarded the contents before unlocking the room safe and placing everything, except the pepper spray, inside. My first stop would be the Paris branch of Interpol, and I didn’t want to risk setting off the metal detector. Quickly unpacking my bag, I hung up all of my clothes and took a shower. Some breakfast and coffee would have been nice, but I didn’t want to waste the time. Hailing a cab, I headed toward Interpol. During the ride, I sent Clare a text message informing her I was in Paris and offered to meet later. She responded with a location and time to get together for drinks.

Entering
the Interpol building, I was given a visitor’s pass to wear. I informed the man working the main desk I was here in regards to the Gustav murder, and Agent Farrell should have contacted them about my impending arrival. In a small office, I was introduced to Agent Delacroix, who thanked me for all the information I supplied: the videotape, my suspect list, and the connection between Clyde Van Buren and Jean-Pierre. I updated Delacroix on the connections concerning Ramirez, the Sanchez gang, and the Warhol that had been confiscated in the police raid. There were quite a few strangely shaped pieces to this particular jigsaw puzzle. Once I was finished dithering on about my conclusions, Delacroix asked what I planned to do now.

“Look around
and see if anything earth shattering pops up,” I responded. He wasn’t happy with my answer.

“Ms. Parker,” he began, “I understand you used to be an American agent, an
d you still work in security. But this is Paris. We have an investigation in the works, and quite frankly, we don’t need you bumbling about and getting in our way.”

“I understand, but the thing is, I believe
whoever killed Gustav is connected to the creeps that broke into my apartment and threatened me. I can’t walk away, thinking they are still out there.” Maybe I was being a bit dramatic, but Delacroix considered my point.

“You can look around, but if you blow any part of this inv
estigation for us,” his gaze was unyielding, “I will personally make sure you are on the first flight out of here.”

“Understood.”

“If you find anything at all,
you will report it directly to me. Think of me as your commanding officer.” I didn’t like having no say in the matter, but there wasn’t much else I could do. I nodded my head in acquiescence. “Good.” He gave me a brief smile. “Enjoy your stay in Paris.”

On the way back to the
hotel, I felt like I sold my soul to the devil, and all I got out of the deal were the cheap seats. Oh well, I would make do with what I had. Right now, everything was pointing toward Van Buren being the mastermind behind my threats and Jean-Pierre’s murder. If I worked the case carefully, I could work around the Interpol investigation without getting in the way. There were always loopholes; I just needed to make sure I found the right one.

Back in
my room, I resisted the urge to lie down. If I fell asleep now, I’d be doomed. Instead, I called the concierge and arranged for a rental car. Having my own means of transportation would make surveillance a lot easier. The car would be delivered, charged to my credit card on file with the hotel, and be waiting in the parking lot whenever I was ready to go out. I pulled up some maps, locating the gallery and a few other key locations, figuring Clare could point out where Jean-Pierre’s car was found, where he went to gamble, and other similarly important locales.

S
tudying the city maps, I was familiarizing myself with the cross streets and traffic patterns when my phone rang. It was Clare; she was on her way and wondered if I needed to be picked up. It would make things easier and allow me to pay attention to the roads while she drove, so I gave her my room number and waited.

*              *              *

“Alexis,” Clare intoned in her thick French accent, “I can’t believe you came all this way.”

“That’s the general consensus.”
We were sitting alone at a small table in the corner of the bar. “How are you holding up?” She shrugged.

Her eyes held a question, and she hesitated to ask as she stabbed at the ice cubes.
Eventually, she met my eyes and spoke softly. “Were you and Jean-Pierre lovers?”

“Oh g
od, no,” I responded, completely surprised. “I spent a couple of months working with him years ago. That was it.” I swirled the straw around my glass. “I regret that I didn’t know him very well.” Signaling to the waitress for another round, I studied Clare’s appearance. Her eyes were puffy and dark. The news of his death was weighing heavily on her, but I detected the smallest sign of relief. Jean-Pierre might have been a lot of things, but at least he wasn’t a philanderer. 

“
Then I don’t understand. Why come here to avenge him?”

My original knee-jerk reaction to Jean-Pierre’s
murder was to hunt down the person responsible. That was also the same knee-jerk reaction I had when reading particularly gruesome news stories. This was often what separated our first responders and military from ordinary civilians. Some of us had the unquenchable need to do something. It was probably because we were all just closeted control freaks. The difference here was one too many people told me to back off.

“I want justice for him,” I looked at Clare, knowing I needed to admit
to my own selfish motivation, “but I’ve also received a few violent suggestions to walk away. Needless to say, I’m not the most obedient. It’s more like, oh really, then watch this, asshole.” A brief, knowing smile crossed her face.

“
Je comprend.”

Glancing around the bar, n
o one seemed at all interested in us or our conversation. “What have you managed to find out?” I whispered.

Clare gave a run-
through of everything. The Police Nationale strongly suggested Evans-Sterling conclude its business at the gallery. The surveillance teams were pulled, and everyone who worked any aspect of the missing painting investigation was questioned in conjunction with the thefts. Passports and VISAs were confiscated, and no one was permitted to leave the country. Marset had not been located, but as far as Clare was aware, the Manet never went up for auction in Luxembourg.

In regards to the car b
ombing, the Police Nationale were working with Interpol to determine the cause of the explosion. The working theory was Jean-Pierre’s accrued gambling debts were the motivation for the bombing. I was aware of most of these facts, but I didn’t want to share my Interpol connection just yet. I didn’t know why I was having trouble trusting Clare, but it was usually best to err on the side of caution.

“Do you know who Jean-Pierre owed money to?” I asked, curling the corners of my napkin.

“We did not normally discuss such things. I followed him once, down to a private club in the second arrondissement.” Clare laughed bitterly. “I thought he was cheating on me. Too bad I wasn’t so lucky.”

“Either way,
Jean-Pierre still had a mistress on the side.”

“C’est vrai.”

“Find anything out about the club?
Was it strictly illegal gambling? Are we talking sports betting? Cards? Casino games?” Gambling could cover any of a million different things.

“I don’t know.
” She found a pen in her purse and wrote a name and address on a napkin and slid it across the table. “This is where Jean-Pierre went to bet. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. Nothing glitzy or sinister. It’s just a dilapidated warehouse, like much of the area. It’s all I know.” It didn’t seem like she wanted to find out any more than this. She wanted to remember him in the most positive light possible.

“Okay, I’ll look into it and see what I can find.”
I tucked the napkin inside my purse.

“I’ve be
en following the bombing.” She picked up her glass and finished the rest of her drink. “So far, it looks like whoever is responsible knew Jean-Pierre well enough to know his habits, where he parked, what he drove, when he’d return.” I could tell where her suspicions were headed. “It must have been someone he trusted.”

I took a deep breath.
“I think it was someone working on his team at Evans-Sterling.” It was too soon to give up Van Buren.

“What?” The shock resonated in her voice and read all over her face
.

“I got home Sunday night, after delivering the painting, and two men were in my apartment.
They roughed me up, and they knew about my leg.” I tapped my thigh.

“Shit.” M
y revelation frightened her. “I can’t imagine.”

“Anyone
at Evans-Sterling ever take issue with Jean-Pierre? Some bad blood or a past history?” I wanted to find out more about Van Buren and the tainted acquisition of the Warhol that he and Gustav worked, but Clare just sat there, flummoxed. Perhaps this was too much for her to absorb all at once. First, her lover is murdered, and she’s told it’s because of his gambling. Next, she’s brought in for questioning on some missing paintings, and now I was telling her one of her teammates was responsible. It was a lot for anyone to handle, and Clare being a desk jockey, not an operative, probably made this all the more difficult to stomach.

“I don’t know.”
She looked to me for help.

“It’s okay.
It’s a lot to process right now. Take some time. Sleep on it. If you think of something, we’ll look into it.”

She sat silently,
lost in her thoughts. We left the bar, and she dropped me off at my hotel on her way back to her apartment without uttering a single word. I went to my room, changed out of my clothes, and sat in bed with my laptop, checking into the address and name she provided. There were no raids or reports made. Whoever or whatever was operating out of this club managed to remain undetected or unreported to the police. I’d have to do things the old-fashioned way. At least it was a starting point which hopefully wouldn’t interfere with Interpol’s investigation.

*              *              *

The next morning, or afternoon since it was a little after one o’clock before I awoke, the valet brought my rental car around, and I drove to the address Clare had given me. The club appeared to be an old, abandoned warehouse, at least during the day. Maybe there was a weekly organized game or it shut down and moved to another clandestine location to avoid detection. I would have to keep checking at various times to see if I could spot any obvious action going on.

Despite Delacroix
’s insistence to stay out of the way, I found myself parked outside Van Buren’s residence. I pulled public records and found his address and the model of his vehicle, complete with tag numbers. I was observing him from a distance. He had been a U.S. Customs agent, so I didn’t expect him to be cognizant of being watched. Van Buren appeared to live a very boring and normal existence. He went to the market, the bookstore, and back to his house. Based on the flickering of the lights, he was watching television. For a murderer and potential smuggler, he wasn’t particularly active. It was midnight when the lights went off inside his apartment. I waited another hour to make sure nothing else occurred before leaving. Driving back to the club, there were still no signs of life. Finally, I returned to my hotel room, raided the snack section of the mini-bar, and went to bed.

I continued to observe Van Buren for the rest of the we
ek. He always stuck with a similar routine. Out to run errands in the afternoon, home the rest of the night to watch television, and then bed at a decent hour. I was becoming convinced he was the most brilliant mastermind ever. Who could pull off a murder, send trans-Atlantic threats, and still fit so perfectly into a humdrum, innocent existence? The man must be an evil genius.

Clare
refused to join in the reconnaissance and instead insisted she was following her own leads on the car bomber. She had some friends at Interpol, but no one gave her any useful information. There was no way to be sure if it was because the investigation was still in the preliminary stages or if for some reason they didn’t want it divulged. Being alone in Paris was making me paranoid. Everyone was turning into a suspect, including Clare. Deciding it best to rely only on people I could trust, I was going it alone as much as possible.  

At night, after I would leave Van Buren’s,
I was working my way into the underground gambling world by constantly barhopping in the hopes of locating some shady sports bars. This led to ordering and spilling enough drinks to make my presence seem realistic. I would then ask, often loudly, where to go for some action on the game. It didn’t matter what game or sport. I was just looking for connections. So far, I had been directed to a few low-level bookies. It was Friday night, a little after two a.m., when I located a pool hall. This was the fourth one I stumbled upon, but it felt different. This was the right atmosphere, judging by the patrons. I entered, smelling of the cheap tequila I intentionally spilled on my top two bars ago. Instinctively, I knew I was on to something. The pool hall had the right seedy feel to it and enough hired muscle for protection and enforcement.