The Warhol Incident (19 page)

By two o’clock
, I was waiting in Mark’s office for Director Kendall to tear me a new one. Mark was behind his desk, working on some reports.

“Any idea what
Kendall wants?” I asked, hoping to be prepared for whatever was about to happen.

“I have no idea.
Are you sure you’re okay?” I hated being female when it came to these law enforcement types. A majority of them tended to think I was some weakling that needed looking after. I could hold my own, thank you very much.

“Yes.
I was cleared. A bit anemic and slightly dehydrated but fine otherwise.” I tried very hard to keep the annoyance from my voice.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”
He watched my expression. “Although now that you mention it, you do look a bit ghostly.” I narrowed my eyes at him. Before our conversation could continue, his intercom beeped, and both of our presences were requested in Kendall’s office. Following Mark down the hallway and into the Director’s office, I took a seat and waited patiently for the impending barrage.

As I
predicted, Kendall proceeded to rip into me for running amok in a foreign country, not considering any of the potential ramifications my actions could have on this office, and the lack of concern I exercised toward my own well-being. I sat quietly, trying to look ashamed. He was right on all three accounts, but I couldn’t have cared less. When the yelling portion of the meeting was over, I glanced up cautiously at Kendall. Mark was seated next to me, looking stern. Teacher’s pet.

“Parker, what the hell are you doing?”
Kendall asked, adopting a more relaxed posture and flexing his fingertips against the tabletop.

“Wreaking havoc in
Paris?” I was unsure what the right answer might be but wanted to demonstrate I was paying attention to his tirade.

“That much is obvious.”
He wasn’t pleased with my answer. I guess it must have been the wrong one. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You walk into my office several months ago and resign. Now you’re in France working with Interpol. Before that you were involved in some kind of shootout at a CEO’s house. You’re more on my radar now than you were when you worked here.” I glanced at Mark. His eyebrows were raised, and he nodded his head in agreement with Kendall.

“I’m in the private sector now, sir.
There’s some overlap.”

“Come back to work.
We’ll reinstate you.” I sat there, gawking at him.

“With all due respect, I left for a reason.”
I was shocked he just offered me my old job back.

“You weren’t responsible for those two agents getting killed, Parker,” he replied.
“Things happen. You can’t control everything.”

“Too much bureaucracy and red-tape, sir.”
I ignored his comments since I wasn’t ready to think about the last mission I worked at the OIO. Mark was watching the exchange, maybe hoping I would relent and accept the offer.

“Offer’s on the table.
Think about it.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I moved to get out of the chair, but Mark put his hand on my forearm.

“Would you be willing to consult for us?” Mark interjected.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“We could use more people like you, Agent Parker.”
Kendall was laying it on thick. “If you don’t want to be here full-time, consider a consulting position. Or even a temporary consulting position. Come back, work a few of the more complicated cases. Think about it. Give me your answer in a couple of weeks.”

“Thank you, Director.”
Leaving his office, I stood perfectly still, trying to detect if hell was in the process of freezing over. Before I could positively conclude there was at least some snowfall accumulating in Hades, Mark met me in the hallway and escorted me to his office.

“You knew,” I accused.

“Maybe.
Come on, Alex. You live and breathe this. All you have to do is sign some paperwork, pass the psych eval, and take the physical, and you’re back in. I want you back here.”

I
squeezed the bridge of my nose and opened my eyes, staring at the rope burns and cut marks on my wrist. “Do you think I’d pass the psych eval right now?” I didn’t deal well with talking things out. I didn’t deal with emotions and processing trauma properly either, or so I’d been told.

“Just think about it,” he insisted.
“I need you here.” I laughed bitterly and went to get a cup of water from the cooler in the hallway.

Mark gave me a ride to my apartment where I quickly unpacked and changed into a low-cut tank top. Today had been enough of an annoyance without the constant chafing of cotton against my blistered and burned skin. He was sitting in my living room, flipping through a two week old newspaper, when his phone rang.

“It’s for you,” he call
ed as I emerged from my bedroom and gave him a strange look.

“It’s your cell phone.”

“Trust me, it’s for you.”
He shoved the phone toward me, and I awkwardly answered.

“You’re home.”
Martin’s voice contained a hint of a smile. “Just for the record, I wasn’t at the airport because I was working and wearing a suit.”

“Well, that’s one way to avoid being arrested for indecent exposure.”

“Dinner tonight?” he asked.
Mark offered to buy a few rounds, probably hoping some libations would lower my inhibitions about going back to work for him.

“Mark’s taking me out for drinks, but feel free to join us.
I could use someone on my side,” I responded for Mark’s benefit. Martin took down the location and agreed to meet us at five or as soon as he could tear himself away from work, whichever came first.

“Marty joining us?” Mark asked
once I handed him back the phone.

“Yes.”

*
              *              *

Mark and I were seated at the bar. I ordered a glass of white wine, and after one sip, I realized how incredibly stupid the idea was. Even though I slept on the plane, I still felt off. The room wobbled a little as I glanced around at the lively environment. Exhaustion and maybe a tad of dehydration wouldn’t mix well with alcohol, especially given my pallor. I pushed the glass away and asked for water instead. Mark was still staring, probably expecting me to collapse.

“Alex,” he began in the tone I knew meant a lecture was on the way, “you need to talk it out.”
I sighed and looked at him. My head was beginning to throb, and I was going to write it off as Mark’s fault.

“Why?
So I can pass the psych eval and come back to the office?”

“No,” his voice shifted to a kinder tone, “you were tortured.
You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. It will fester and eat you alive.”

“The only thing torturous is this conversation.”

He ignored the embellishment and continued on.
“I didn’t say this to you when Michael and Sam were killed, and instead, I let you disappear. You resigned and holed up in your apartment for months. If I didn’t get you a position working for Marty, you’d probably still be hiding out.”

“We are not talking about this right now.”
My blood pressure was rising, and the room was spinning ever so slightly. I propped my head in my hands to get the spinning under control.

“It wasn’t your fault.
You were coordinating the operation from the office. You had no way of knowing it was a setup. There were no indications the building was booby-trapped. There wasn’t anything else you could have done.” Before I could respond, Martin appeared as if out of thin air.

“Sorry
, I’m late. I had some final plans to make with Luc. We’re having a business dinner tomorrow night.” He slid past me to sit on the barstool next to mine. Pressing his palm gently against the small of my back, he kissed my cheek in greeting. I had yet to turn or acknowledge him since I was still gaping at Mark in utter disbelief that he had opened this particular can of worms. “Did I interrupt something?”

“No, I think we’re done here.”
I glared at Mark, my voice venomous.

“Alex,” Mark sounded apologetic, “I’m sorry, it’s just
–”

“I’m not feeling too great right now.
Coming out tonight was a bad idea. I’m going to hail a cab and head home.” Standing up, the room spun uncontrollably. I reached for the bar, but Martin snaked his arm around my waist, steadying me.

“Easy.”
His grip loosened as I took a couple deep breaths and the room stopped moving. “I’ll take you home.” He got up from the bar as I freed myself from his grasp.

“It’s okay.
I can manage.” I was stubborn.

“I’ll take you home,” he repeated more forcefully.
He shot a glance at Mark as I made my way to the front door.

“Keep an eye on her,” Mark suggested as Martin trailed me out of the bar.

“Are you okay?” Martin asked as I stood outside, teetering slightly. Not waiting for an answer, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders while we waited for Marcal to bring the car around.

“Long day.
Long flight. Drinking wasn’t a smart decision.” I looked up at him. He had seen my wrists and chest but had yet to mention either. “Thank you.” He opened the door, and I got into the car.

“When was the last time you had anything to eat?”
He gently brushed my hair from my face, trying to determine why I was the color of a sheet.

“Um, good question.”
I frowned, unable to recall. “Yesterday, I think.”

“Crash dieting is never a good idea,” he joked.
“How does Chinese sound? We can split some takeout? You did agree to dinner after all.”

“Okay.”
I was just relieved to be away from Mark and his annoying insistence on continuing an absolutely pointless conversation. Finding some relief in the cold glass of the window, I studied Martin as he called in an order to be delivered to my address. When he was done, he closed the phone and looked at me.

“I did miss you.
How was Paris?”

“Awful.
French toast and French fries may never be ordered again because it was just that horrible.”

“I’m sorry.”
I was mesmerized by those gorgeous green eyes. The eyes I thought I would never see again. God, what the hell was wrong with me. “How was the flight?”

“Dammit.
Thanks for that, too.”

My brain was scattered.
His eyes were focused on the burns on my chest, but he kept his mouth shut. Marcal pulled to a stop in front of my building. Climbing the stairs slowly, Martin kept a watchful eye trained on me as we took the six flights up to my apartment. 

“Why didn’t you have your business dinner tonight?”
I poured myself a glass of water and some scotch for Martin. He took the glasses and carried them to the coffee table in front of the couch.

“Luc and Vivi wanted a chance to
get settled at the hotel in order to combat the jetlag,” he commented, taking a sip. It wasn’t the fifty year old Macallan he was used to, but he didn’t complain.

“I know that feeling.”
Although, my exhaustion was linked to days of not sleeping or not sleeping enough. I slumped against the pillow on the arm of the couch, resisting the urge to crumple completely into the sofa cushions. Sitting sideways, I pulled my knees to my chest and faced him. “I ruined your evening.”

“You didn’t.
We’re having dinner, which was all I requested.” He looked unsure of what to say. He was trying to be on his best behavior. “What was all that about with Mark?”

“Long story, but the short version is he wants me to go back to work.”
Martin pressed his lips together, lost slightly in thought.

“Back to the OIO?”
I nodded and sighed. “But you don’t want to?”

“I can’t,” I replied quietly.
Luckily, I was saved by the doorbell. “Who is it?” I didn’t want to get up and look through the peephole, find my handgun, and then answer the door. Asking seemed simpler.

“Chinese delivery,” a man called.

Martin put his hand on my knee.
“I got it.” He paid the man and turned around, holding the box of Chinese takeout. “Where should I put this?”

“Coffee table.”
There was an insane amount of food in the box. “How much did you order? Are we having a party for a hundred people?”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he rationalized.
He handed me a pair of chopsticks as he opened each of the boxes, announcing the contents as he went. Selecting the carton of orange chicken, we ate in silence.

Despite the fact I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, I wasn’t hungry.
Maybe I was too tired to eat. Picking individual grains of rice out of the carton with my chopsticks, I flexed my wrist to see which tendons ached the most. Martin was curiously observing this when the phone rang.

Getting up, I grabbed the cordless phone from the charger and glanced at the caller I.D.
It had a French country code. “Sorry,” I muttered as I answered.

“Alex?” Ryan sounded tired.
It must be early morning in Paris. “How was your flight? Did you get home safely?”

“It was fine.”
I sat back down on the couch as Martin cleared the table and placed the leftovers in my refrigerator. He was doing this to give me some privacy. “Did we get Abelard?”

“Not yet.
We have his photo posted at all the airports and train stations. His passport has been added to the watchlist. He’s not going anywhere. We will find him.” Bad news, that’s just great. I picked up the pillow, placing it flat on the couch cushion and laid against it, staring at the ceiling.

“Any leads?”
Under normal conditions I would be pacing, but right now, I wasn’t much for moving. 

“We’re working on it.”

“Was he tipped off?
Is that how we missed him? Please don’t tell me there’s a leak.”

“I don’t think so.
After Tuesday night, he’s being overly cautious.”

“Can’t imagine why?
It’s not like he was torturing a police informant.” Something clattered in my kitchen, and I remembered Martin was still in earshot.

“We should have moved in sooner.”
Ryan was angry about the way things had gone.

“It’s not your fault.
It’s his, so just make sure you get the bastard. Keep me updated.”

“I will.”

“Hey, Ryan, be careful. Abelard is a crazy, dangerous son-of-a-bitch. It’s not a good mix.” My voice reflected worry, and Martin came over to the couch and studied me. His brow furrowed. I gave him a small smile for reassurance.

“I’ll talk to you later.”
Ryan disconnected, and I put the phone on the table and sunk into the pillow.

“Goddammit.”
I slapped my palm against the sofa cushion. Martin was standing over me, unsure of what to do.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.
Realizing I was taking up the entirety of the couch, I sat up and moved the pillow out of the way. Immediately, he sat down, grabbed the pillow and placed it on his lap, before gently pulling me back down. One of his hands stroked my hair while he wrapped the other around my torso. Feeling at ease for the first time in days, I shut my eyes and felt my rigid posture relax.

“A sick, sadistic son-of-a-bitch got away, again,” I responded, opening my eyes and looking up at Martin.
He was staring at my wrist, resting over his arm. Why didn’t I bandage everything up before going out tonight?

“Did he kill Jean-Pierre?”

“I guess it’s time to catch you up. Jean-Pierre’s not dead. I wish he was dead. Probably wouldn’t have minded killing him myself.” I hoped I was only over-embellishing. “No, instead he betrayed everything and everyone.”

“Did he do this to you?”
Martin’s jaw muscles clenched, and it was time we talked about the elephant in the room. He gently lifted my hand in his and brushed his thumb ever so slightly over my scraped knuckles.

“No.
Not directly.” I paused, considering what to say. “We don’t need to talk about this.”

“Okay.”
He studied my face. “You know, I am a good listener. World class, in fact. In case you ever want to talk about anything, I’m around.”

My lips curled at the corners.
“World class, really?”

“Close enough.
You should know. Weren’t you the one who called a few nights ago, just to talk?” My face fell as I remembered the pre-op jitters and the feeling of impending doom. Why didn’t I listen to my instincts more carefully? I should have noticed the inconsistency with the VHS delivery. “Alex?” He realized he said something wrong.

“The night I called, it was the day before all of this happened.
Something was wrong, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. I just needed to hear your voice.” I swallowed uncomfortably. “The next day, I was grabbed off the street and held in a warehouse for almost six hours.” I felt unsteady. Even though I was prone, the room wobbled a little. “I didn’t know if I was going to get out of there.” He tensed beneath me as he lifted my hand again in his, trying to gain insight from my injuries. “That was a combination of fighting with Ryan, the cop who just called, and some thugs in a warehouse.” His touch was gentle as it slowly moved to my wrist, careful not to touch any of my injured flesh. Instead, he slowly rotated my arm, watching the rope burns and cut marks as they circled my wrist like a macabre bracelet. “I was hung by my wrists.” I swallowed. Mark better be damn pleased I was talking to someone.