The Warhol Incident (14 page)

Donough offered the name of his commanding officer and the code word for the operation. Taking his suggestion under advisement, I called Police Nationale Headquarters and spoke with Capt. Reneaux, who corroborated Ryan’s cover story. Ryan Donough was one of the boys in blue. Deciding not to throw caution to the wind, I made a quick call to Mark to see if he could verify this through more official channels. Better safe than sorry, especially since I was sick and tired of having guns pointed at me.

“Here.
” Donough placed a bowl of ice water on his dining room table in front of me. He had a few pieces of ice wrapped in a towel and sat down, pressing it against the side of his head. “Shall we try this again?”

“
Alex.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m checking into Gustav’s murder. Congratulations, you’re officially off my suspect list.” He shook my hand and chuckled at the absurdity of our second introduction.

“Ryan.
” He leaned back in the chair. “You have one hell of a right cross.” I put my hand into the bowl of ice water; my knuckles were already swollen.

“Sorry
, about the coffee mug. At the time, I thought you were a murderer.” My apology was lacking in sincerity, but I was in a playful mood since I finally identified an ally in this uphill battle.

“I’m sorry
I approached you in that particular manner. I had no idea you were the one watching me all this time,” he sounded relieved.

“I hate to burst your bubble, but I was outside your place for maybe ten minutes before you made me.”

“Wel
l, that’s just bloody fantastic.” He went to the window and pulled back the curtain just a sliver so he could look outside. “They’re still out there.” Joining him at the window, I recognized the dark sedan and the Interpol agents in the vehicle.

“Looks like
I’m not the only one who thought you were responsible for Gustav’s murder. Those are Interpol agents.” I glanced at Ryan, still uncertain about our new level of trust.

“Are you
working for them?”

“Not quite.
From home I supplied them with information on the case, but once I got here, Delacroix told me to back off unless I had something useful to give him. Shouldn’t you be working with them?” I was confused why the Police Nationale and Interpol weren’t cooperating on this case since they were supposedly cooperating on the car bombing and Gustav’s murder investigation.

“Inter
agency politics.” Ryan shrugged. It was the same reason the FBI and NYPD never knew what operations the other was running at any given time.

“How close are you to clos
ing this case? I know how things work, and you wouldn’t have broken cover unless you needed something.”

He
assessed me for a few moments. “After you appeared at the Evans-Sterling office, I ran a full security check on you. You’ll be happy to know you were cleared from any and all suspicion quickly. I was hoping, if you were sticking around, that we could be allies. Recently, I raised a few suspicions during the course of my investigation and needed someone else to provide a distraction, but you left.” Ryan was giving the narrative of his point of view. I sat patiently, waiting for him to get to the point. “When the painting you were hired to retrieve turned out to be a fake, I had the hard evidence needed to prove Gustav was involved in the thefts. I called it in Sunday night, and we were set to move on Jean-Pierre.”

“But he was killed before you got the c
hance.” The pieces were falling into place. Jean-Pierre wasn’t killed because of debts or betting; he was killed because he could have rolled on the people in charge.

“Exactly.
” Ryan stared intensely at me. “One of the other members of the Evans-Sterling team must have made me and informed their boss. The ringleader must have decided to cut ties.”

“Clare?”
She made the most sense. She always did, even though I was stubborn enough to believe she couldn’t have done it.

“That’s what I assumed.
When I first grabbed you in the alley, I thought you were her, come to finish the job.” His comment about it being me now made more sense. Filling him in on everything from my meeting with Ski Mask and Ramirez to the frantic phone conversations with Clare to the video footage I had been sent, he now had a complete picture in front of him.

“I came back to
Paris to find justice for Jean-Pierre, not to get mixed up in a smuggling conspiracy turned murder.” I needed to learn to mind my own business. “To be perfectly honest, I’m still shocked he was this corrupt.”

“I do believe
the gambling and the thievery are related. He had a problem and was looking for an easy way out. You know how one thing can turn into another.”

“Which brings me back to my original question,” I stared
at Ryan, “you told me all of this for a reason. What is it? What do you need me to do?”

“I can’t very well go anywhere without alerting
my tail,” he sounded annoyed. “We’re so close. I’ve been under for a year and a bloody half.” The time in seclusion was getting to him, and all he wanted was to be free to resume his normal life. “My commander is only in the beginning stages of establishing a cover for my relief replacement, but you have a legitimate cover. You’ve been investigating the murder all along. Will you help us?”

I took a deep breath.
“Okay.”

*              *              *

Ryan and I spent the rest of the day going over ever piece of evidence he had and everything I uncovered. Given the intel from the last eighteen months, it was apparent Louis Abelard was in charge of both the underground gambling and the art thefts. The connection had been particularly daunting, and if it wasn’t for Jean-Pierre, it might never have been made. Jean-Pierre was a gambler at heart and somehow happened upon Abelard. I assumed in a similar fashion to the way I happened upon Abelard, completely by accident. Abelard’s venture was costly, and the police suspected he had turned his small business into a large enterprise through forgery and black market art sales. He had made a name for himself as he sought to establish his own underground gambling empire. Millions of dollars in stolen art, over the course of the last few years, had bankrolled his entrepreneurial endeavors, but the police failed to get any hard evidence against him. Any time a lead, such as Jean-Pierre, seemed promising, something horrific occurred.

“A
t least I was on the right track.” I smirked once we were done with the show and tell portion of the evening.

“
Incroyable,” Ryan reverted to French for a moment. “I don’t see how you managed to put so much together on your own. Eighteen months and only now are we compiling hard evidence.”

“It’s easier
when you don’t need evidence, and you get handed some very fundamental facts on a silver platter.”

“You
have a meeting scheduled with Abelard for Tuesday evening?”

“I wouldn’t call it a meeting so m
uch as an open invitation to spend a few grand on some table games.”

“It’d
be enough. If Abelard’s there and you can verify it, then we can move in, confiscate everything, and at least have enough to get him on some bloody illegal gambling charges. Who knows, maybe our compatriots at Interpol can manage to fumble around and make murder stick to him, too.” The relief showed on his face.

“What about Clare?
You’re going to let her get away with everything?”

“Do you think she intentionally ki
lled Jean-Pierre?” I shook my head. “Neither do I, so I’d be willing to let her bloody well suffer in silence for the rest of her life if we can’t find anything to tie the two of them together. Who knows? We won’t know what we have until that warehouse gets raided. Maybe it’s just a wet dream, but I hope we find some of the missing art in that warehouse.”

“You want me to be wired, don
’t you?” I flashed back to my lovely frisking at the bar. Where could I hide a wire? Ryan thought about it for a few moments.

“Maybe we can
come up with a less obvious alternative.” This was absolutely crazy. I came to Paris for one reason, and now I was here for a completely different reason and working for the Police Nationale no less. Jeez, how in the world do I get myself into these things? When I get home, I’m shredding my passport and having Mark place me on the no-fly list.

We each made a couple of
calls and formulated a decent plan of action. The commander and a technician were meeting me at my hotel for a proper briefing and equipment check before Tuesday night. I also had to sign the paperwork, indemnifying them from any injury sustained. Legality and fear of litigation were always such a pleasure to deal with. Mark would have to forward my personnel file and any other pertinent information the French police needed before I could become their informant.

“Care for some dinner?” Ryan asked as I concluded my overseas calls and got the ball r
olling. It was past ten, and I was considering going back to my hotel. It had been a long day. “It’s the least I can do after taking you hostage.”

“Fine,” I relented.
He ordered delivery from the deli down the street. While we waited, I glanced out the window. The surveillance vehicle was still outside. “Any idea how I’m going to get out of here undetected?” He joined me at the window before going into the back bedroom.

“There’s another van out back.”

“Great, if only I had an invisibility cloak,” I commented. Ryan looked at me like I was an idiot. “C’mon, you and that accent, you must be familiar with Harry Potter.”

“I’m Irish, not English,” he
insisted, even though I was very much aware of this fact, given his name and his accent.

“
Such a cliché,” I teased. Ryan and I were slowly forging a friendship of sorts.

Dinner
arrived and while we ate, he explained how his family moved from Belfast to Paris when he was four years old. It made sense why English was his first language, and the one we had been conversing in all day. After our meal, I looked out the window. The surveillance van wasn’t going anywhere. What the hell, if Delacroix has a problem, he can kiss my ass. I investigate my way; he investigates his.

“I’m going out the
front. I’ll deal with the fallout if and when I have to,” I announced.

“Hang on.”
Ryan wrote down the number for his new burner phone. “If you need anything, I’ll be there.”

“Okay.
And Ryan,” I just opened the door, “the next time you put cuffs on me, they damn well better be the pink fuzzy kind.” He looked up and caught my eye.

“I’ll make a note of i
t,” he smiled slyly.

“You do that.”
I shut the door and headed out the front of the building, walking down the avenue and toward my parked car. As I passed the Interpol surveillance van, I gave them a big smile and a friendly wave. You guys are complete idiots, I thought as I passed. They were annoyed by my overt actions, ruining their pathetic attempt to be stealthy. I was just pulling away when my phone rang.

“Parker, what the hell did I tell you?” Delacroix
sounded angry.

“You know what, I don’t work for you.
I don’t actually work for anyone at the moment, so unless you want to try to argue that I’m doing something illegal, stay out of my way.” I hung up before he had a chance to respond. I was tired of his attitude and his inability to run a productive operation. Everything he had done so far seemed counterintuitive, and I no longer needed him or his help.

I got to my
hotel a little before midnight. Ryan’s C.O., Captain Reneaux, would be stopping by first thing in the morning. I needed to be well rested for tomorrow, but I was too keyed up. Turning on my computer, I attempted to learn the finer points of basic table games from blackjack to roulette to craps. With the exception of watching some celebrity poker shows, I knew absolutely nothing about casino games. By two a.m., I had the proper terminology down, and by four a.m., I familiarized myself with the odds of each game. Hopefully, this would be sufficient enough to make me a believable enough player while I waited for the cavalry to ride in and save the day.           

At seven,
my alarm woke me from what I considered to be a nap. Three hours of sleep didn’t count for much, but it was the best I could do. I was dressed and anxious to get everything worked out. A few minutes past eight, the hotel phone rang, and I was informed there were a couple of gentlemen waiting in the lobby. Giving the front desk permission to send them up, I was nervous; although, I had no idea why.

“Madame Parker?” a male voice bel
lowed. Opening the door, I found two men standing in the hallway. “Captain Reneaux,” one of the men introduced himself, pulling his credentials from his jacket pocket. “We spoke on the telephone yesterday. This is our technical specialist, Monsieur DuVall.” The other man presented his identification.

“Please.
” I gestured for them to enter.

“Merci,” Reneaux replied.
“I would like to thank you for your willingness to assist us,” Reneaux was cordial and sincere, “but are you positive you want to undertake such an endeavor?” This was my last chance to back out, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“I’m in.
” And we got down to business. Reneaux reiterated everything Ryan said yesterday but provided a more elaborate explanation of the role the support team would be playing. Basically, all I needed to do was get inside the warehouse, verify the presence of Abelard and the illegal gambling, and stay out of the way until the police teams breached the perimeter. It sounded easy enough with one exception. “When I first stumbled upon Abelard at a pool hall, I was thoroughly searched.” I emphasized the word thoroughly. “I can’t be wired.”

“We’ve thought of that,” DuVall piped up.
He reached into his briefcase and retrieved a small square. “This is a tracking device, so we will be aware of your location at all times. It’s petite. You can place it almost anywhere.” I looked at it skeptically, not impressed. “Also,” he pulled out a burner phone similar to Ryan’s, “it’s the twenty-first century. Everyone has a cell phone. As a precaution, we can track your whereabouts through the phone’s GPS. Plus, you can use it to call in or send a text.” This is the great technical specialist for the French police, I thought sarcastically. “If they confiscate phones at the door,” he continued, holding up a small earwig, “we can communicate this way. It has a microphone and speaker, allowing for two-way communication.”

“The only thing is,” Reneaux cut in, “it transmits on a higher radio frequency.
If you’re wanded, it will be detected. Keep it off until after they check you.” Great, I get a low jack, a cell phone, and half a set of headphones. What could possibly go wrong?

It was almost noon by the time we finished going over location, schematics, where the tactical
teams would be positioned, and how to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Room service arrived, and we moved on to the legal portion of our day.

I was granted confidential status
to further insulate me from being part of the actual criminal proceedings. It required an agreement to provide a statement of any and all events which might transpire and to relinquish any physical evidence to the Police Nationale. As I signed the dozen or so forms, Reneaux read through my personnel file that Mark forwarded him last night.

“Madame, you have a ste
llar reputation.” He was impressed.

“Thanks.”
Hopefully, we were almost done because I wanted to continue prepping for tomorrow evening and maybe take a nap.

“We’re
lucky to have stumbled upon you at this particular time.” He relayed the story of Ryan’s undercover assignment, emphasizing how the entire case almost crumbled when Jean-Pierre was killed.

“It’s better to be lucky than good,” I said seriously.
Reneaux nodded, and he and DuVall excused themselves. If I were to encounter any problems or if the meet at the warehouse was to be moved or rescheduled, I was to contact Reneaux personally. That was the essence of deep cover. Only a select few ever knew what was going on until the very end. With any luck, by the weekend this would all be completed, and I could go home.     

Performing a mental check of everything
I was told, I mapped the entire scenario out in my head with a few different outcomes. There were obviously quite a few potential negative possibilities: Abelard may not be present, the address I was given could be a complete hoax, Delacroix could arrest me between now and tomorrow night, or the promise of table games might be ping-pong and pool. I sighed. There were always a lot of unknowns.

Before calling Mark, I took a two hour nap
. It was a little after six, making it around noon at home, and I wanted to run through the entire thing with him just to make sure there weren’t any other obstacles I hadn’t considered. Mark was enthused by the game plan. It was, after all, a lot better than my own plan to do everything by myself. The information on the bomb materials and the DNA analysis of the charred remains were almost complete, and Mark promised he’d try to get that information before I went to the warehouse, just in case. After all, surprises were never good.

“I got a call fr
om Interpol today,” Mark said as we were preparing to conclude our conversation. “I heard you pissed off one of the supervisors in Paris.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t work for you anym
ore. It means I don’t have to play nice for the sake of interagency politics. Delacroix’s a real ass. He has no idea how to run an investigation.”

“Try to behave
,” Mark reminded me. “Even if you currently don’t work for the OIO, Interpol might still take your malevolence out on my department.”

“Sure,” I begrudgingly responded.
“Hopefully, everything will be over by tomorrow night, and I can come home before I make any more enemies.”

“When you have a definite exit strategy
, let me know. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Farrell wants the chance to debrief you.” I made an ugh sound and hung up.

I was in pre-op mode.
I hadn’t felt this kind of energy surge since leaving the OIO. This feeling was one of the few things I actually missed about my old job. It was a complete high of emotions; anxiety, fear, aggression, and a bit of bravado and arrogance thrown in for good measure. But I needed to relax and wind down in order to sleep tonight, so I would be ready for whatever tomorrow would bring.

Going down to
the hotel gym, I burned off as much energy as possible, running five miles on the treadmill before returning to my room, showering, and ordering some dinner. Finally, I began to feel subdued, but my anxious energy was replaced by an unsettling feeling. My subconscious was scratching at the surface of something I had yet to realize, and I was getting a bit skittish.

To take my mind off things, I dialed
Martin’s number. It was after midnight here, so with the time difference, he’d be off work, probably at home or out to dinner.

“Hello?” he
asked, answering on the second ring.

“Hey.
What are you doing?” Why did I call him? Something was eating away at me, and I knew I should hang up before saying something I might regret.

“Making dinner.
Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing.
” I took a breath. “If you’re busy, I’ll let you go.” He paused, and I wondered what he was thinking. The sound of a chair scraping across the floor filled the silence, and I pictured him taking a seat at his kitchen table.

“I’m not busy.”
I had a feeling he was smirking. “How’s everything coming along?”

“With any luck, I will be done by this weekend.”
Unless I just jinxed myself into being condemned to Paris for another few weeks.

“Really?”
He sounded hopeful. “If you want, Luc and Genevieve Guillot are flying in on the company jet Friday morning. He needs to finalize some things here, and she wanted to check out the houses we’ve found for them. You could hitch a ride, my treat.” Instinctually, I was going to decline his generous offer immediately, but after that horrible layover in Heathrow last time, I thought better of it.

“What time are they departing
?” 

“
Eight thirty a.m., Paris time. I’ll get your name put on the manifest.” There was no way to know how long it would take to wrap things up with Abelard, but if everything ran smoothly, there was a chance I could make the flight. However, I knew better than to assume things would run smoothly.

“I don’t know if
I’ll make it.”

“Okay.
If you do, you do, and if you don’t, that’s okay too.”

“Just for t
he record, I wasn’t calling to bum a ride on the company jet,” I tried to sound teasing, but my tone didn’t relay that fact very well.

“I know.
” Martin paused. “Why did you call? Did you need me to read some more French articles to you?” His tone was much more teasing than mine.

“No.
I was feeling homesick.” I shut my eyes and sat on the bed. “There’s a slight possibility I miss you.” The impending tactical op made me more nervous than I cared to admit. If I was confident things were going to be fine, I never would have said something quite so sentimental and girly. Comments like this were the equivalent of throwing lit matches at a powder keg.

“Really?” I hear
d the swagger in his voice.

“Don’t
be a pompous ass.” That was the kind of comment more typical of me.

“Alex,” his voice betrayed a smile,
“I miss you, too.”

“Jerk.”

“Oh, the security equipment we ordered is being installed next week. Monday, I think. If you’re back by then, would you care to supervise the installation?” Thank goodness he was back to business.

“We’ll see.
I don’t know if I’ll make it. Best case scenario, I’ll be there. But worst case, I don’t know what’ll happen.” My thoughts went to the indelible images of Jean-Pierre’s car blowing up. Something was off about the explosion, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Optimistically, I wouldn’t meet a similar fate, but it never hurt to have a realistic perspective in order to stay alert.

“
I’m sure the security guys can take care of it if you’re not around.”

I needed to get some sleep
, so I’d be set for tomorrow. “Martin.” The uneasiness returned full blast, and it was getting the best of me. I knew I shouldn’t say or do anything at the moment. Potentially making life-altering changes was a result of anxiety and fear, not rational, clear-headed thinking. This was constantly preached in psych classes and seminars, but the nagging feeling wouldn’t go away. “When I get back, maybe we can discuss what happened in the hotel hallway a couple weeks ago.” I grimaced, awaiting his response.

“I’m not sure I remember what happened
. You might need to stage a reenactment, just to refresh my memory,” he said good-naturedly. What possessed me to think opening this can of worms was a good idea? After a few moments of silence passed with me failing to come up with a good comeback or quip, Martin decided it best to back off. “Or not,” he added quietly. I was confusing the hell out of him. Me, too.

“It’s late, and I’m in desperate need of a good night’s sleep, especially before
tomorrow.” I couldn’t say what was going to happen, but he was intelligent enough to read between the lines. “We’ll talk when I get home.”

“Goo
d night. Remember, Friday morning, eight thirty.”