The Warhol Incident (23 page)

“O’Connell,” he called before they made it to the stairwell, “keep her safe.”

I ushered Nick into my apartment and shut the door.
The coffee was finished brewing, and I filled two mugs. “I didn’t expect to see you.” I handed him the mug.

“Like I said, it was a slow nig
ht,” he deadpanned, opening my fridge and pouring some milk into his cup.

I was on the phone, trying to make sense of everything that was happening.
There had been quite a few details Ryan failed to mention when it came to the raids on Abelard’s safe houses.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I was trying very hard not to scream at him.
“I could have been more prepared. There were precautions I could have taken. Hell, I should have stayed in Paris until I knew we had him.”

“What would you have done?” he asked, his own tone getting slightly heated.
“The dossier he had on you didn’t mean he was planning an attack.”

“So then what the hell did it mean?”
He remained silent in order to regain his composure.

“He had one on me too.
And Olivier, Van Buren, and Langmire. Abelard has all our information thanks to his little lap dog accessing Evans-Sterling’s files. Alex, none of it meant a damn thing until he got on that plane tonight.”

“Why didn’t you have his known aliases on the watchlist?”

“We did, but he still slipped through.”
Ryan’s voice got softer. I sighed audibly into the phone.

“When was he supposed to arrive at the airport?”

“Two hours ago.” I hadn’t heard anything from Farrell or Mark, and I knew we missed him. I could feel it.

“It’s not your fault.
” I forced the words out of my mouth. I didn’t blame Ryan; I blamed Jean-Pierre, the lazy ass airport personnel, and Abelard for being a vengeful, sadistic excuse for a human being. “I need an unbiased opinion. Why do you think he’s here?” The question was met with silence, and my mouth went dry. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Alex,” Ryan began.

“Save it.” I didn’t want to hear it. “See what you can get out of Gustav. If he knows anything at all, I want to hear it.” My voice sounded dangerous.

“I’m on it.
Keep me updated.”

“Will do,” I hung up and turned to O’Connell.

“I’m
guessing someone’s gunning for you this time?” O’Connell inquired, sipping his coffee. “It’s a nice change of pace from you protecting someone else, I guess. Although, either way, you still end up with the shit end of the stick.”

“Story of my life.”
Luckily, Reneaux forwarded all pertinent information about my involvement with Abelard, so I didn’t have to go through a detailed explanation of what was happening. “Do you think Ramirez might be helpful?” I asked, yawning. The sun wasn’t up yet, and I should have still been asleep with Martin. My life sucks.

“Doubtful.”
O’Connell was doing his best to derail the train to worst case scenario and changed topics. “So, you and Martin?”

“Late night meeting.
We were discussing the new security equipment that was installed on Monday and then his upcoming surgery. We lost track of time.”

“All right.”
He didn’t believe a word I said.

“Thanks for the police escort.
Being somewhat in charge of his security, I don’t need him to get roped into this.”

“Like I said, I’m here to protect and serve.”

There was a noise outside, and O’Connell and I both drew our weapons, aiming at the door.
It felt good to know I didn’t have the market on paranoia. There was some loud knocking, and O’Connell answered cautiously.

“What the hell?” Mark exclaimed as O’Connell threw him against the wall.

“Mark?” I holstered my gun and went to the door, shutting it as O’Connell released Mark. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you could use some support.
Didn’t realize I was the B-team,” Mark responded, straightening his shirt and sauntering into my kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. “I assume you already heard, no love.” I sighed and went back to the table. We were too late to catch Abelard, but it still hurt to hear it.

The three of us sat at my kitchen table
, discussing Abelard and drinking coffee until the sun came up. O’Connell looked at his watch.

“Get out of here.
You’re on the clock.” I jerked my head toward the door. “Go protect and serve the rest of the city.” He put his cup in the sink.

“I’ll be back later to check on you,” he offered.
I smiled and thanked him before shutting the door and locking all the deadbolts.

“You okay?” Mark asked cautiously.

“Yeah, just tired.”

“Go back to bed.
I’ll keep an eye on things.”

I shut the bedroom door, climbed into bed, and took off my two holsters and put them on either nightstand.
I was aware of two things: first, there was no way I was actually going to sleep; second, if Abelard was here for me, one of us wouldn’t survive the encounter.

*              *              *

A few hours later, I emerged from my bedroom, having done nothing except stare at the ceiling and force my mind to go blank. Mark was on the couch. The Abelard file was opened and dissected on my coffee table. I went to the coffeepot and poured a fresh cup.

“Any
idea where he is or why he’s here?” I asked. Mark shook his head. “Any chance he just wanted to visit Disneyland?”

“I highly doubt it.”

“So what, you’re camping out on my couch until someone tracks him down? Maybe he’s in the wind, might have already left the country. Perhaps he fled to Mexico.” I was running out of ideas. It was nice Mark was here to watch my back, but right now, having some solid facts or a decent lead would have been preferable.

“Actually, I want to put a tactical unit in the building across the street.
It’d be good to have eyes on your apartment, just in case. If they’re set up, it’d just be a matter of waiting.”

“You’re using me as bait?
Because I’m not sure I’m the damsel in distress type.”

“You’re not.
You’re more the knight in shining armor. I swear, whoever read you fairy tales really screwed you up.”

“Slaying dragons and riding horses sounds like more fun than sitting in a tower brushing my hair or whatever,” I retorted.
“So you’re certain he’s coming for me?”

“No.
Not in the least. We have nothing, but while we wait for the Police Nationale to sort through this mess, you’re our best bet.”

“Wonderful,” I replied cynically.

Mark and I spent the rest of the morning familiarizing ourselves with all the minute details of Louis Abelard.
Abelard’s criminal career began in his adolescence, running Bonneteau, or three card monte, on street corners. At some point, he became involved with a couple of gangs. After learning the ropes, he broke away from his affiliates and started his own enterprise. There were some peripheral ties to drugs, weapons, and prostitution from his old gang days, but much less involvement than I would have imagined. Abelard’s two main passions were gambling and the finer things in life. He dealt only with top of the line antiquities and art. There were no small-scale robberies in his history. He was meticulous and stayed below the police radar for almost all of his adult life. Until three years ago, he barely existed as far as the authorities were concerned.

“For someone so careful and methodical, why the sudden change?
He either killed or orchestrated the hit on Marset. He was going to kill me. What happened? It’s like he cracked.”

“Donough and the rest of the
Paris police were moving in,” Mark reminded me. “Desperate times and all.” 

“Why not start over someplace else?”
I was trying to apply reason to an illogical situation.

“If someone took everything from you, would you just turn the other cheek and start over?”
Abelard was intent on revenge, but I was trying to convince myself it wasn’t the case.                  

“I get it.”
I rubbed my wrists absently. “Not to mention, given his sadistic personality, I stopped being fun before he got his rocks off.”

The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts, and I answered.

“Parker,” O’Connell said my name carefully, “would you mind coming to a crime scene? We have a body.”

“Who?”
Fear had a firm grip as I waited for an answer.

“I don’t know, but the corpse has a message for you.”
I let out a slight sigh of relief, which was completely inappropriate under the circumstances. O’Connell gave me the address, and Mark and I were on our way.

*              *              *

We were in the old meat packing district in an abandoned warehouse. The area had been cordoned off by some officers, and O’Connell waved us through before Mark had to flash his credentials. I wasn’t prepared for the sight in front of me, but in all honesty, I wasn’t surprised.

“We g
ot an anonymous tip two hours ago about a body starting to stink up the place. 911 dispatch relayed the message, and a couple of officers came down to investigate. Heathcliff got the call and bumped it to me once he saw your name all over it,” O’Connell explained as Mark and I circled the body. “Recognize him?”

“I don’t know.”

Hanging chained from a meat hook was a man, late-thirties, average height, maybe two hundred pounds.
It might have been Ski Mask, but I wasn’t sure. Electrical burns covered his bare torso, and his wrists had been cut cleanly with a knife. Stapled to his bare chest was my name written on a plain white piece of paper.

Mark blanched.
“Is this what he did to you?”

Not wanting to respond to the question, I posed my own.
“Cause of death?” I didn’t know if the electricity killed him or if he bled out. Although, if he had been killed here, the lack of a significant pool of blood indicated he was dead long before his wrists were slashed.

“Coroner’s not sure yet.
We haven’t established a TOD either,” O’Connell answered as he continued assessing the scene. “It’s recent, less than twelve hours.”

“Gloves?”
O’Connell handed me a glove which I slipped on before lifting the paper off of the man’s chest to see if it said anything besides my name. There were no other markings on either side.

“You don’t know him?”
O’Connell watched my expression.

“Might be the goon with the ski mask,
but I honestly can’t tell. It was dark, and I was tired and preoccupied with fighting off Ramirez.” I shut my eyes, thinking if there were any distinguishing features. “I don’t know.”

The three of us surveyed the rest of the scene.
The place had been abandoned for years, and the corners held a collection of refuse from vagrants who used the space as refuge from the elements. Some forensic technicians were sifting through what appeared to be plastic wrap and bagging up half a dozen destroyed cell phones. Below the body, scene markers were placed to indicate a wire cutter and pair of needle-nose pliers. Were they used in this man’s torture? On top of a small crate was a spatula and bowl, possibly left by one of the squatters in the warehouse. This wasn’t a good place to die. Then again, what place was?

“Okay.”
O’Connell turned to me. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure.”
My mind was a million miles away. The recreation and murder were threats, but in case I was too dense to get the message, Abelard was kind enough to staple a name tag to the deceased. If the corpse was Ski Mask, then he was cleaning up his mess.

“Look,” O’Connell was
being reasonable, “I can bring you into protective custody or set up a protection detail.”

“No.”
I wasn’t risking anyone else getting hurt.

“Alex,” Mark tried to argue O’Connell’s point, “I’ll keep a tac team on standby.
It’ll ensure your safety.”

“No,” I repeated again.
Mark’s earlier conversation surfaced to the forefront of my thoughts. “We’ll give the son-of-a-bitch exactly what he wants. Me.”

The plan was simple.
I was dangling myself like a worm in front of a fish, waiting for Abelard to take the bait. I refused protective custody. As far as any onlooker could tell, there were no police officers stationed in my building or outside my door. On the surface, I was alone and unprotected. At least that was my goal. O’Connell volunteered to work undercover and watch my back. It might have been professional courtesy, because we were friends, or he was afraid to deal with Martin in the event of my demise. Regardless of his reasoning, it was comforting to know he was there.

O’Connell and Thompson were alternating running surveillance from the apartment down the hall and doing their best to keep an eye on things.
Mark and the OIO were working extensively with Interpol to track Abelard and any of his known associates who might pose a potential danger. I called Ryan and updated him on the situation. He was working his ass off to get answers from Gustav, but he had met little success. The Police Nationale were questioning all of Abelard’s men, but no one had anything useful to say regarding his intentions for coming to the U.S. or what he might do now that his gambling syndicate was disbanded.

It had been two days since the body was found in the warehouse.
The coroner placed TOD around six a.m. Sunday morning, approximately three hours after Abelard landed. My working theory was Ski Mask picked Abelard up at the airport and took him to either a secure location or the warehouse, but he was double-crossed for failing to keep me out of the investigation or for not killing me when he had the chance. Either way, Ski Mask was dead for pissing off the wrong person.

‘Accidentally’ bumping into Nick in the hallway of my apartment building, I invited him
over for a cup of coffee, just to be neighborly. We exchanged all the relevant information we had.

“I’m sorry to do this to you.
Your wife is going to kill me,” I apologized.

“It’s okay.
I volunteered. Plus, if I make this bust, there might be a pay increase. First grade detective here I come. She’ll be happy about that,” he responded good-naturedly.

“I hate the waiting.
I’m thinking of going to my office. Maybe see if anything or anyone is waiting for me there.”

“I’ll ca
ll Thompson and get a few plainclothes to shop around while you check in. I don’t want you going anywhere alone.”

“I never knew you cared.”

“If you kill him, I won’t get my promotion,” he responded, grinning.
“It’s more for his safety than yours.”

After waiting a couple of hours for everything to be arranged, I
left the building, armed with my nine millimeter in a shoulder holster and my back-up strapped to my ankle. I got in my car, frightened of turning the key and exploding, but luckily, that didn’t happen. I drove to my office at the strip mall, keeping a watchful eye on my rearview mirror for a tail. When I got there, I unlocked the door, opening it warily and performing a full check of every nook and cranny inside. You can never be too careful. As I watched the shoppers outside, I tried to determine who the undercover cops were, and with the exception of Thompson, whom I recognized, I couldn’t make the rest. Hopefully, since I couldn’t tell, neither could Abelard.

Having nothing better to do, I dialed Patrick Farrell.
He graciously divulged every fact on the car bombing that killed Marset. The incendiary device had been constructed out of plastic explosive. It wasn’t anything special, just your garden variety C-4. Given its chemical composition and limited range, Interpol speculated the bomb was handcrafted, instead of purchased from an arms dealer.

Gustav might have
the knowledge and knowhow to make the device since he spent years in the military, but despite all that he put me through, he didn’t seem like the cold-blooded killer. Then again, bomb creation was a skill that could be learned. With enough time and an internet search engine, I could be a bomb expert or have Homeland Security knocking on my door. Hoping not to be put on a terrorist watchlist, I skimmed through the basic ingredients necessary, such as plasticizer, other commonly found chemicals, and the rudimentary method of combining the ingredients. It was frightening how readily available all the items were and how easily someone with a large enough mixing bowl, a spatula, and reading comprehension skills could wreak havoc if they had access to a couple of detonators.  

It was dusk when I left my office and returned to my car.
The unsettling feeling of being watched made my stomach twist in knots, but I didn’t see Abelard. Maybe it was just the police presence making me jumpy. I didn’t risk glancing toward Thompson as I pulled out of my parking space and headed for home. Constantly checking my rearview mirror, I spotted a silver sedan, four cars back, that made the last two turns I did. To mix things up, I turned left down the next street; the car followed. Forcing my speed to remain steady, I turned right, but the silver sedan continued straight.

“I’m probably losing it,” I said to myself and continued home.
No other cars were in pursuit. I parked and cautiously got out, glancing around as I walked at a decent clip to the building, resisting the urge to sprint inside. Once up the six flights of stairs, I stood outside my apartment door, cursing loudly about my key being stuck, so O’Connell would know I returned, even though the video feed he was monitoring should have indicated this. Checking my apartment for any signs of intruders, nothing appeared disturbed.

I
just sat down when my phone rang, causing my heart to skip a beat. “Abelard’s credit card was just used to procure a room at a motel. We have a team heading there now,” Mark informed me.

“Mark,” I said, exhaling a breath in relief, “don’t let the bastard get away again.”
    

Waiting impatiently in my apartment, I stalked back and forth.
It had been almost an hour since the call, and I had yet to hear if they located Abelard. I was going crazy. Did O’Connell have any news? Mid-dial, there was a knock at my door. O’Connell was standing outside, holding a bottle of laundry detergent.

“It’s my cover,” he explained after I shut and locked the door.
“I was going to ask if you had any laundry detergent, or how to use the washing machine, or something.”

“Uh-huh,” I responded, amused.
“Have you heard anything?”

“The last I heard, the guy’s barricaded himself in the room.
They are sending in emergency services in case we need a tactical resolution.”

“It’s definitely him?”

“It looks that way.”
O’Connell was antsy. “We’re running off the description the motel clerk provided. We haven’t gotten eyes on him. No cameras, no surveillance. It’s a run-down motel, the kind you pay for by the hour.” My leg bounced up and down with nervous energy. Something wasn’t sitting right. There was the familiar twinge in the recesses of my mind.

“Why would he use a credit card?
He used a fake passport to enter the country. He knows we’re gunning for him, or he should. He left us a freaking gift wrapped body for god’s sake.”

“Maybe he figured with a flea
bag motel like that it wouldn’t matter,” O’Connell reasoned. “These guys always screw up. It’s just a matter of when.” 

“No, not this guy.
Not like this.” My mind was working to come up with an explanation as I quickly ran through the limited amount of information I had on Abelard. “Shit.” The random items found in the warehouse weren’t left by squatters. They were bomb building materials, and Abelard was clearly a fan of fireworks. I picked up the phone and dialed Mark, hoping it wasn’t too late.

“Parker?” he asked, confused by my call.

“Don’t breach. He wouldn’t screw up like this. It’s a trap.” Mark yelled something to the team assembled.

“I’ll call you back.”
O’Connell raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged my shoulders. Ten minutes later, Mark phoned. “I’ve never seen anyone with instincts like yours,” he sounded awed.

“What happened?”
I put Mark on speaker phone as I paced.

“Door was booby-trapped with a trip wire hooked to some homemade C-4.
There was a remote detonator attached and wires on the windows. No one was inside. The room had a shared connecting door that was jimmied open. It looks like he set everything up and escaped before we arrived. We’re canvassing the area, but my guess is he’s long gone.” Abelard couldn’t have had more than a few minutes to set the bomb and get away. Who was this guy and how did he keep eluding us?

“He’s trying to draw me out,” I stated.
“But I’m right here. Why doesn’t he just come and get me?”

“Maybe he wants
to make sure you’re left unprotected,” O’Connell offered. “If he thinks you have Interpol or the Bureau watching your back, he might want to distract them, so you’ll be left unguarded.” It was a good theory. I had to give O’Connell credit for coming up with it. The problem was it was just a theory.

*              *              *

The next morning, Mark came by my apartment to check on things. There wasn’t much to report; there were still no leads. I was beginning to think I should stand in the middle of the street with a giant neon sign above my head, saying “come and get me”, but the electrical bill for that little stunt would be astronomical. Maybe it was part of Abelard’s sadistic nature to make me wait. It was torture knowing he was somewhere, planning god knows what, and being unable to do anything to stop him.

Traffic cam footage from near the hotel had been compiled from the night before.
Even if the motel itself didn’t have surveillance cameras, there was still a chance one of the nearby DOT cameras caught Abelard going or coming. Mark brought a copy, and I inserted the disk into my computer and watched a plethora of cars drive past. Only a few made the appropriate turn which would lead to the motel.

“Goddamn,” I swore.
“The son-of-a-bitch was following me.” The silver sedan from last night turned and disappeared out of sight. Suppressing the chill that traveled up my spine, I rewound and pointed to the vehicle.

“Parker,” Mark was
being patient, “it’s a silver sedan. It’s the most popular type and color of vehicle. How can you be positive it’s the same one you thought was following you?” As the footage continued to play, another five or six silver sedans passed the camera. “I understand you’re scared, but jumping to conclusions is only going to make finding him that much more difficult.” I rubbed my eyes. Was I paranoid and hiding from shadows? “Plus, if he found you, he would have known you were alone and made his move instead of trying to lure you into a trap.”

“True,” I agreed.
My paranoia wasn’t helping the situation. “Did you get the motel’s check-in records? Maybe he was there earlier to plant the bomb. That way, he would have time to swipe his credit card and get away before any of us were the wiser.” 

“You really thin
k a place like that keeps records? They don’t even have security cameras. The clerk stays behind a barred, bullet-resistant window.”

“Classy joint,” I sighed.
“Something’s got to give. We can’t stay three steps behind.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to move to a more secure location?” Mark asked.

“One way or another, this is going to end. I need to be more proactive since playing defense isn’t cutting it.”

“We don’t know where he is.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t look for him.” My voice was deadly. “I accidentally stumbled upon him in a foreign country. Here, I have the home court advantage.”

“In
Paris, you happened to get lucky.” Mark was failing to be optimistic.

“I’m
calling O’Connell and taking another look around the warehouse. Do you want to join us?”

“Might as well, since you’re going to go either way.”

I gave Nick a call. He was presently at the precinct, and Thompson was in the apartment. Since I was leaving, Thompson could go home. It seemed like an all around win. O’Connell agreed to meet us where the body had been discovered in twenty minutes.

*              *              *

Slowly walking the interior perimeter of the building, I noted its dissimilarities to the warehouse in France, but for Abelard’s purposes, I’m sure it sufficed. There were a lot of broken windows and plenty of light from outside. There was one large door for trucks to enter and exit and a smaller door but no other openings. I crouched on the ground and stared at the hook where Ski Mask had been left dangling until the coroner retrieved the body.

“The techs have gone through this place with a fine-tooth comb, and they found nothing new,” O’Connell stated.
There were no separate rooms for Abelard to use as a staging or prep area. Did he take his toys with him when he was finished? Or could he have a setup in one of the other empty buildings nearby?

“Did you check the surrounding buildings?” I asked, doing a quick three-sixty before heading for the door.

“Some officers canvassed the area,
but they didn’t come up with anything.”