The Warhol Incident (30 page)

A few days later, my words rang true when Director Kendall called to ask if I could assist on a particularly intricate case.
I dressed in black slacks, sensible shoes, white button-up shirt, and a black blazer. My hair was clipped in a bun, and every part of me from my shoulder holster to my ugly shoes screamed out federal agent. It felt like going home, and I hated this fact. I drove to the OIO building and parked in the garage, riding the elevator up to the proper floor. As I emerged, Mark caught sight of me. He exited his office and began clapping.

I turned and glared at him, but before I could force him to stop, he was joined by a majority of the office.
Dammit, I thought irritated as I felt myself blush. Kendall came out of his office and joined in. “Welcome home, Agent Parker.”

“I’m not an agent anymore, sir,” I responded as everyone thankfully returned to their business.

“Things could change,” he added, unperturbed.
“Come on in to my office, sign the paperwork, and then you can head to ops for the briefing.” I followed orders obediently, hoping everyone was wrong, and I was not getting sucked back into the life I left behind. Some chapters were closed for a reason and didn’t need to be revisited.

After the paperwork was properly filed and I was briefed on the current case, I decided to take advantage of my new status and went in search of Interpol’s liaison.
Unfortunately, Farrell was out of the office on assignment. Maybe I should follow Ryan’s lead and let sleeping dogs lie.

I returned to my apartment that night completely confused by the day’s events.
I sat on the couch and stared at the blank television screen. It was just one case to prove my leaving had been a conscious choice and not an attempt to hide or escape. This was the reason I went back, to prove I had chosen to leave. If that wasn’t some ridiculously convoluted thinking, I didn’t know what was. At least I figured out what I was trying to prove by going back to the OIO. That was progress.

I glanced at the phone, thinking briefly of Martin.
I didn’t know how things were going to work. Maybe starting over was like slamming my head into a brick wall, hoping the wall would break away before my skull did. Only time would tell. I was in the process of deciding which takeout menu to order from when the phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered, m
aking a conscious effort to be less agent-like.

“Parker?” Delacroix’s voice asked.

“Agent Delacroix,” I responded, trying not to be annoyed. “What can I do for you?” Need the name of a good surgeon to help you remove your head from your own ass?

“Just thought I’d let you know you should be receiving a check in the mail soon,” he sounded less than pleased.
“I did say we’d give you the reward money.”

“You didn’t need to go to all that trouble.”
I didn’t want to have anything else to do with him.

“Well, you have an admirer at Interpol that insists.
He wanted to make it up to you, after everything that happened.” I pressed the phone closer to my ear. Was he talking about Jean-Pierre?

“Were you running an undercover operation independently but concurrently with the Police Nationale?”

“Perhaps.”
His responses were still infuriating. “You’re supposedly smart. Can’t you piece it together?”

“What will
happen now?”

“Oh come on, you know how these things go.
New name, new place, same old game.” I wondered if Jean-Pierre really had committed illegal activity that indebted him to Delacroix and Interpol or if that had all been hearsay and a planted background.

“What if he wants out?”
I had no way of knowing if Jean-Pierre wanted out of the game, but that night in my hotel room, before his murder was staged, I thought his words were sincere.

“You and I both know, once you’re in, there isn’t much hope of walking away.” Delacroix disconnected, and I laid the phone on the counter and stared at it.
His words resonated throughout my apartment, all the way to my bones. What if he was right and there was no chance of walking away from this life?

Here’s a preview of
the next installment in the Alexis Parker series,
Mimicry of Banshees
 

“I’m heading out,” I told Mark Jablonsky as I placed a twenty on the bar. “And just so we’re clear, I’m not consulting for the OIO again. I’m done, and in case there’s any doubt in your mind, my letter of resignation is sitting on top of your desk.”

Picking up my purse, I maneuvered around the barstools. The mirror behind the bar caught my image, white dress shirt, black blazer, and long brown hair pulled into a severe bun. There was a time in my life that was all I wanted, but I had run from the pain associated with the job. Even after coming back for a month long gig, I couldn’t do it. The reflection in the glass wasn’t me. Not anymore.

“Director Kendall isn’t going to be happy about this,” he responded. “To be honest, Alexis, I thought you were going to stay this time.” I shook my head. “If it makes any difference, you were instrumental in helping crack the museum robbery wide open.”

“Thanks, but it doesn’t matter.” I headed for the door, ready to be free from my consulting contract with the Office of International Operations.

Agent Mark Jablonsky had originally been my supervisor and mentor when I started work as a federal agent almost five years ago, but after resigning to follow my own pursuits in the private sector, he and Director Kendall had convinced me to give the OIO one more chance. My own pigheaded stubbornness led to a final stint to reinforce my true reason for leaving; I didn’t want to be tied down by bureaucracy and all the other red-tape legalities law enforcement agencies have to endure.

Stepping into the cold night air, I exhaled slowly and watched my breath float away. Alex Parker, you’re free, my internal voice happily cheered. I had been working the private sector for almost a year, taking a few consulting jobs here and there. Going back to my former agency was the most recent venture in my sporadic work schedule. But it required one too many sacrifices, and I was glad to leave it behind.

My personal life had been put on hold while I waited for the gig at the OIO to conclude. What was initially supposed to last a couple of weeks had taken almost a month to resolve. During that timeframe, I had neglected both my retainer contract as security consultant for Martin Technologies and my somewhat erratic and brief attempt at a romantic relationship with James Martin, the company’s CEO.

Arriving home, I checked the time. I promised Martin, once I was liberated from the government bureaucracy and both of our lives settled down, we would give our relationship another try. The only time we attempted to date, Murphy’s Law had reigned supreme.  First, a sadistic crime boss had gotten in the way, and then Martin was busy vetting his company’s new VP and undergoing surgery to remove scar tissue from an injury sustained during my first private sector job, working as his bodyguard. I counted the weeks in my mind, trying to determine if his rehab would be completed by now. By my best estimate, he still had another week or two to go.

Even though it was after one a.m., I dialed his number. It had been a month since I heard his voice, and I missed him. The phone rang five times before his voicemail picked up. After leaving a message for him to call whenever he had a chance, I went to bed. There was no reason to rush things since I was a free agent once more.

*        *        *

It felt as if I had only closed my eyes when the phone began ringing incessantly. My bedroom was bathed in a warm glow, and I knew it must be morning; although, people should know better than to call this early on a Saturday. Grabbing the receiver, I answered, “Parker,” out of habit.

“Miss Parker?” a voice I didn’t recognize responded. “Alexis Parker?”

“Yes,” I grumbled. I had a feeling this was a telemarketer. “I’m not interested.” And I hung up. It was too early in the morning to deal with someone selling subscriptions to cable television. Rolling over, I buried myself under the covers. The phone rang again, and I sighed loudly and picked it up. “What?” I snarled.

“Miss Parker, this is Alan Ackerman,” the voice identified himself. “Are you still under contract with Martin Technologies?”

“Uh-huh.” Calls this early never bode well, and I knew something was wrong.

“Miss Parker,” he continued, “I’m James Martin’s attorney. Have you been watching the news?”

“What’s happened?” A feeling of fear and dread settled in the pit of my stomach. “Is he okay?”

“It’d be best to discuss this matter in person.” He rattled off an address. “Please do not speak to the press or anyone from the media until we have a chance to meet.”

As soon as our conversation was concluded, I turned on the television. Flipping to the local news channel and turning the volume up, I dressed and prepared to depart for Ackerman’s law office. Mr. Ackerman hadn’t provided any hint as to what was brewing, and given Martin's recent history, I hoped he wasn’t hurt or worse. How many times could a person be threatened in the span of one year? Thankfully, before my musings could become more morbid, I went into the living room and caught the story toward the end.

“The police are still investigating the suspicious death of Caterina Skolnick, a model rising to fame at the Tate Agency. Skolnick was discovered on a yacht belonging to CEO James Martin. As more information becomes available, we will continue to update you,” the news anchor informed the viewer before the story changed to a scene of a fire at a preschool.

Taking a deep breath, I left my apartment for the law office. I was irritated. The reason I had stayed away from Martin for the last month was to keep him out of trouble and protect him from the dangers associated with my line of work. Apparently he was talented enough to get into hot water with or without my presence.

Arriving at the office building that housed Ackerman’s law firm, Ackerman, Baze, and Clancy, I waited impatiently for more information. The assistant indicated a few empty chairs in the lobby and promised Ackerman would be available momentarily. While I sat in an uncomfortable chair near the reception desk, my phone rang. I hated being this popular.

“Parker,” Detective Nick O’Connell’s voice instantly calmed my nerves, “have you heard what’s going on?”

Nick was a good friend. We had a general understanding of quid pro quo. He had come to my rescue when I was Martin’s bodyguard, and he had risked his neck to watch my back when dealing with the sadist from one of my recent cases. My work had helped him earn a commendation, and typically, I tended to make his job much easier. Although, we weren’t always in agreement on that last part. 

“Only tidbits,” I responded. I would have loved to ask some questions, but now wasn’t a particularly pertinent time.

“I can’t say anything, but I wanted to let you know Martin’s in holding.” I swallowed and shut my eyes. Great, he was arrested for murder. Could today get any better? “I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he’s okay,” Nick promised.

“Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. A man emerged from an office and gestured for me to join him. “I’ll be by as soon as I can.”

“Miss Parker,” Ackerman greeted, extending his hand, and we shook.

“Alex, please.” He ushered me into an office and shut the door. “What’s going on?”

He picked up a file and flipped through some pages. “You’re on retainer as security consultant for Martin Technologies. It’s also been indicated that you originally worked private security for James Martin, prior to your position at his company.” I nodded. “Former federal agent, meritorious service award, excellent percentage of closed cases, and you have a private investigator’s license and your own consulting firm.” I didn’t need this jerk to read my file to me. I wanted to know what was going on with Martin. “It appears Mr. Martin is in need of an investigator at the moment, and he holds your skills in high regard.”

“Fill me in.”

Ackerman flipped over a confidentiality agreement to sign, along with who knows what other types of forms. I didn’t bother to read; I just put my John Hancock seamlessly on each of the Xs and waited.

“Last night, the Coast Guard received a distress call from Mr. Martin’s yacht. When they boarded, they found Caterina Skolnick’s body on the main deck. Only the preliminary ME’s report has come back, but she was stabbed repeatedly and suffocated. The only other person on the yacht was James Martin.” Rubbing my face, I leaned back in the chair. “Mr. Martin placed the distress call, but given his proximity to the body, he’s been arrested on suspicion of murder.”

“His call wouldn’t have done anything to alleviate such suspicion,” I replied, automatically running through basic police procedures. “Has it been turned over to the locals?”

“Yes. Until other suspects are identified, it is in the best interest of our client to hire a team of investigators to look into the murder as well.”

“Martin and I have,” I paused, “had, might have had, a personal relationship.” There was no easy way to categorize our past history, but I needed to divulge this information. Even though I was positive he hadn’t committed murder, he couldn’t afford any part of his defense to be tainted with impropriety. Ackerman acknowledged this without any surprise. After all, personal relationships with employees were an all too common occurrence in Martin’s past.

“Okay,” he pressed his lips together in thought, “don’t investigate on your own, but if your law enforcement friends offer any relevant information, please pass it along. Or if you can convince them to drop the charges altogether, I wouldn’t mind that either.” Excusing myself, I left the office and went to the precinct.

Pulling into a parking space near the out-of-service patrol cars, I noticed some news vans lingering near the front of the building. Apparently they couldn’t wait for a few tantalizing snippets on this high profile murder. I headed to O’Connell’s desk in the major crimes unit and found him flipping through some casework.

“Hey, Nick,” I greeted, sitting down in his partner’s chair. He looked up, smiling slightly.

“Funny, I thought you would have been here twenty minutes ago. Now I owe Thompson ten bucks. What took you so long?”

“I’m glad you’re taking things so seriously,” I growled. I bit my lip and shut my eyes, trying to force myself to be more pleasant. “What can you tell me? Can I see him?”

“I can’t tell you anything. It’s an ongoing investigation, so don’t look in this file.” He pointed to the folder on his desk. “I’m going to grab a cup of coffee. Do you want one?”

“Yes.” I eyed the folder, glad that he had dropped the by-the-book attitude he had when we first met. “Cream, sugar, and shaved chocolate on top would be nice. Maybe you need to run to the store to get some.” 

He snorted. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

As soon as he was gone, I glanced around the room. No one was paying any attention, so I picked up the folder and began reading the report. Caterina Skolnick was stabbed three times to the left side of her torso; however, the cause of death was asphyxiation. I skimmed through the crime scene photos and located the possible murder weapon. There was a standard bed pillow next to the body. From the coroner’s report, there were obvious signs of sexual activity prior to her time of death, but there was no tearing or injury to indicate it was anything other than consensual. No semen or DNA were present, but spermicide was found. Whoever she had been intimate with wore a condom. I swallowed and continued to the next page.

From Martin’s statement, it was clear he had no recollection of what happened once they arrived on his yacht. He claimed to have passed out, and when he came to, he found Caterina, attempted to perform CPR, and radioed for help. There was a note indicating a toxicology screening was ordered for both Martin and the deceased. Hopefully, this would help to exonerate him.

Closing the folder, I placed it back on O’Connell’s desk and tried to process everything I just read. If Martin slept with her, it would add to his suspicion. I didn’t want to think about that possibility either, but it was in the report so personal feelings needed to be pushed aside for the moment. Although, if there was spermicide, then where was the condom?

I grabbed the folder again and carefully scanned through the crime scene photos, cross-referencing the scene markers with the list of evidence. There was no condom present. Maybe she had sex before getting on the boat. This could point to a plethora of possible sexual partners and would help cast some dispersion on Martin’s guilt since there was the possibility of an unknown third party being involved. Spotting O’Connell returning with the coffees, I put the folder down.

“I brought you a regular, black coffee. This is a police station, so I couldn’t find your fancy chocolate shavings,” he teased, setting the cup in front of me. He lowered his voice and leaned down. “I don’t think he did it.”

“Me neither. Why don’t you cut him loose?”

“It’s out of my hands.” He took the folder to a filing cabinet and stuffed it inside. “It’s not my case. I’ve got too much past history with the accused.”

“A lot of that going around. When can I see him?”

“I’ll find out. The last I heard, his lawyers were working on getting him released. I’m sure he’ll be out of here in a few hours. He’s only been here since four this morning, anyway.” I waited for O’Connell to return. I hadn’t seen Martin in a month, and this was not the way I intended our reunion to go.