The Warhol Incident (27 page)

“Up all night partying?” Ryan asked.

“No,” I chuckled, “couldn’t sleep.”

“The job will do that to you.
What’s the unofficial version of what happened?” I filled him in on the major points. As we were talking, I realized what was bothering me about the Abelard situation.

“Ryan, he wanted to get arrested.
He expected to be cuffed. How? Why?” Did he want to make his escape that much more dramatic and hurtful, or was it part of his sadistic game to convince me I was safe just to torture me further when he got free?

“Maybe he thought he was bloody Harry Houdini.
It doesn’t make a difference, does it?” It didn’t, but it irked me.

“I guess not, so given Abelard’s stunt with the c-4 at the motel, have you determined if he was the one who planted the car bomb that killed Marset?”

“I talked to Gustav yesterday after you called.” It felt like today to me, but we were dealing with a six hour time difference, which made it yesterday for Ryan. “Marset was Abelard’s way of sending a message to whoever the mole in his organization was, and Gustav took advantage for his own personal gains. But now that Abelard’s dead, Gustav’s not afraid to talk. He’s just a chatterbox of information. Reneaux hasn’t authorized a move on anything yet. We are waiting for official channels, but if it pans out, we’ll have the location of all the missing paintings, the buyers, everything. We already made the gambling busts, so the paintings can be the icing on the cake.”

“That’s great.
Your eighteen months of hell weren’t a complete waste of time.”

“I know, right?
If nothing else occurs today, by the end of shift, Clare will be released from protective custody and sent home.”

“You said she was innocent, but to squelch my own paranoia, did you ever find any connection proving even a slight involvement?” I double-checked, but with Jean-Pierre still breathing, I doubted Clare had been involved.

“She’s clean, at least as far as I can tell.
I’ll tell her Gustav’s alive and see how that goes.” Ryan let out a breath. “It’s actually done.”

“Thanks to O’Connell.”
My mind conjured the image of Abelard from the second before Nick burst through the door. “Is it just me or does it not feel done?” My tone changed to something dark and pained, and Ryan heard the shift.

“Alex, he’s done.
He’s gone.” The compress on my wrist was soaking through the couch cushion, providing a decent distraction. “But there are still a few unanswered questions looming overhead,” he added. He was going over the details on the gambling busts when Martin cleared his throat from the bedroom doorway.

“Ryan, it’s getting late.
Call me when your shift’s over and let me know how things go.” Disconnecting, I looked up at Martin.

“If I weren’t completely secure in my manhood, I might be offended that you snuck out of bed in the middle of the night to call so
me other guy,” he teased, crouching down to my level and gently removing the cloth from my neck. After re-dipping it in the ice water, he laid it against my skin. I shivered, and he grabbed the robe from behind the bathroom door and put it over me like a blanket.

“I’m glad you’re so secure.”

“Even in the middle of the night.” He looked tired and had to be at work in a few hours.

“I didn’t mean
to keep you up.” He took a seat on the couch and wrapped an arm around me as I leaned against him.

“It doesn’t matter.
I haven’t been sleeping much lately, anyway. Do you want to talk about it?” he asked kindly. Since he had shown up at the hospital, he had barely let me out of his sight, and he wasn’t the overly touchy-feely type usually.

“No.”
I shook my head for emphasis. “It’s too soon and too close. But if you want to talk about it, that’s another story. The week, the worry, your earlier blow-up?”

“I never meant to snap at you.”
He was silent, and I waited to see if he would continue. “You said this was going to be difficult. I just didn’t realize everything it would entail.”

“The exit is still right over there,” I
jerked my head toward the door and regretted the movement as I winced. Luckily, he didn’t notice.

“I just got you back,” he murmured in my ear.
This wasn’t fair to him.

“I’m sorry I put you through this.
This whole thing.” I never should have hung up with Ryan; at least with him I was calm, rational, and methodical. Now everything was coming back: the fear, the pain, the pure evilness Abelard exuded. If O’Connell hadn’t shown up when he did, I either would have killed Abelard and been genuinely okay with that fact, which was frightening, or Abelard would have gotten the jump on me. Who knows what that might have led to, but given his psychotic, sadistic personality, I could only imagine. “But I’m glad you weren’t there, that you stayed away, and that’s how I’ll always want it to be. It’s how it has to be.” After being exceptionally forward, I realized I was trying to pull the trigger on our attempt at a relationship before it ever had a chance.

“Alexis,” he said my name slowly, “as far as I’m concerned, we’re even.
You can stop protecting me. You are no longer my bodyguard. Bruiser is. We’ll see how things go, one day at a time, so stop making rash judgments and proclamations.” He kissed my temple. “Especially not at three a.m.”

“I am sorry for everything you went through.”
My words didn’t just apply to this last week, or telling him how I had gotten roughed up, or even our failed attempt at intimacy. These eight words were meant to convey how I felt about him getting shot. All of it. Maybe I was just overly tired and emotional. Martin was right. No more three a.m. proclamations for me; I needed a clear head and sound reasoning before making snap decisions. I got up from the couch, and we went back to bed.

Martin was up the next morning at
seven a.m. I felt responsible for his lack of sleep, but he insisted it was fine. Staying in bed long past check-out, I only emerged when my phone rang.

I was showered, dressed, and at the p
recinct by mid-afternoon to go over everything from yesterday with O’Connell’s commanding officer. A tech showed up halfway through my story to photograph the much more apparent bruising around my neck for verification of its match to the choke-chain and Abelard’s hand. Lieutenant Moretti nodded as I continued to explain how Abelard had gotten the jump on O’Connell and the most likely scenario that enabled him to slip out of the cuffs. Once I was finished, the lieutenant thanked me for the files and the recantation.

“When will O’Connell
be back on active duty?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t overstepping my boundaries.

“Soon.
IA didn’t find anything suspicious about the shooting, especially with Abelard’s record and international notoriety.” I wanted to talk to Nick, but it could wait until he was cleared, just so there wasn’t even a hint of impropriety.

“Tell O’Connell thanks for saving my ass.”

There was no point in prolonging the inevitable, so I went to the OIO offices to see what else Mark or Farrell might need.
Amazingly, everything had already been properly documented and noted. I signed off on its accuracy and was on my way out of the building when Director Kendall stopped me in the middle of the hallway.

“Parker, my office,” he ordered, and I obediently followed him down the corridor.
Sitting down, I waited for him to yell at me, but instead, he took a seat behind his desk and inspected my appearance for a few moments. “You doing okay?”

“Today’s a hell of a lot better than yesterday.”
My voice sounded relieved, even to me.

“Good,” he responded, before falling silent.
I stared at him for what felt like an eternity before edging off the seat, thinking our meeting was over. “Sit down.” Apparently we weren’t through yet. I raised my eyebrows and waited. Finally, he leaned forward in his chair and spoke. “I know you’ve had a hell of a week. Maybe you’ve reconsidered my offer.”

“Look, I told Jablonsky I’d consider a one-shot consulting thing just to see how it goes.
I don’t want to deal with any of the bureaucratic red-tape. I know it’s asking a lot, but quite frankly, sir, I don’t want to be back here.”

Kendall
picked up his pen and tapped it on top of his desk as he thought about my terms. “Are you sure one case isn’t going to be the Pandora’s Box you can’t close again?” His eyes had a knowing quality to them, but I overlooked it.

“Highly doubtful.”

“We’ll see.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a stack of paperwork. “You might as well get started on this.” He turned the papers to face me. “Come back in two weeks. I’m sure medical will clear you by then.” Picking up the paperwork unenthusiastically, I went to the door. “Parker,” he called, and I turned on my heel, “good job getting Abelard.”

“Thank you, sir.”
My reply was automatic as I headed for the nearest exit. My goddamn training was already kicking in just by being in the building. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible before the radio waves could completely brainwash me.

*              *              *

It was time to face the music. I returned to the hotel, retrieved my bag, and checked out of the room. I had just gotten to my apartment when there was a knock at the door. Really? My neighbors must be stalking me now or planning to run me out of the building with pitchforks. I had no firearms, so if someone wanted to kill me, now would be an exceptionally good time to knock on my door and proceed to do just that. However, the knock at my door was Martin. Even though I kept him up most of the night, he wasn’t planning to kill me.

“No welcome greeting from the nine millimeter today?” he quipped
, giving me a quick kiss and proceeding, uninvited, into my apartment.

“What are you doing here?”
My packed bag had barely made it into my bedroom before he arrived. He needed a refresher course from Emily Post.

“You checked out of the hotel twenty minutes before I got there.”

I rolled my eyes and ignored him as I attempted to tidy up my apartment. Retrieving the bloody kitchen towel from the table, I threw it in the garbage can, hoping he didn’t notice. From the linen closet, I collected the pile of old, ratty towels I kept for just this type of occasion and placed them over the bloodstained carpeting.

“It was time to come home and clean up this mess,” I responded.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” He tapped his watch as he went to my liquor cabinet and poured a decent amount of scotch.

“Want something to drink?”
It was already six-thirty. Another entire day had been spent dealing with the Abelard situation.

“Maybe I’ll make some tea,” I replied, off-handedly.
 

“Sugar, honey, lemon?”

“Whatever.”
Tea wasn’t my favorite beverage, so I didn’t particularly care what went in it.

“Actually
, I was trying to figure out which pet name you’d prefer.” He smirked.

“Lemon?”
The comment at least got him to laugh.

“Fine, you’ve caught me.
I left work early and rushed over here just so I could offer you a hot beverage.” As he said this, the kettle whistled. “Ta da.” He was being snarky, but I let it go. He sat at my kitchen counter and drank his scotch while I tried to figure out what to do with the carpeting. Finally, I took a tentative sip of the tea and searched through my drawers, finding the box cutter and putting on a pair of gloves.

I cut
an outline around the towels. Martin was watching, intrigued, as he poured another glass of scotch. It was obvious he was still trying to get a handle on the way this week had gone. What better way to do that then by drinking copious amounts of mid-priced scotch?

I was slowly cutting a six foot by three foot rectangle out of my carpet that had been the last earthly spot Abelard had taken a breath.
As I finished cutting out the rectangle and carefully pulling the carpet free, I rolled it up. Going through my kitchen drawers, I found the large black trash bags. Martin looked confused as I took the rolled up carpet and laid it inside one bag. Then I took another bag, wrestled it around the other end of the carpeting, and taped the two bags together in the middle. The wood floor underneath didn’t appear damaged, but despite this fact, I poured some bleach over the wood and wiped it away with a clean towel. I was washing my hands before he finally spoke.

“I was talking to Luc today.”
His tone had an odd quality that I had never heard before. Turning off the water and facing him, I waited for him to continue. “Apparently everything that’s happened has been in the Paris papers.” Martin stared at the remaining scotch in his glass and intentionally avoided my gaze.

“Well, he was operat
ing an entire underground gambling syndicate,” I pointed out, still confused where this conversation was heading. “That seems newsworthy to me.”

“Yeah.”
He took a sip and put the glass down, still focused intently on the remaining scotch. “I might have unintentionally implied your involvement.”

“It’s fine.”
It didn’t matter if Guillot knew. The situation was resolved anyway.

Martin glanced up.
“He has strongly suggested that given your,” he frowned, looking for the proper terminology to use, “availability to work dangerous jobs, it might be best if your contract isn’t renewed at Martin Technologies.”

“Okay.”
Being personally involved with the boss wasn’t kosher business sense in my mind. “Do you want to wait until the contract expires, or did you want to nullify it now?”

“I don’t agree with Luc.”
His tone was intense. “If he wants to insist on this point, then he can put it to a vote before the Board. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“Don’t fight him on this, Martin.
It’s not worth it. You can find just about anyone to supervise your camera installations. You don’t need me. I shouldn’t be working for you anymore anyway, given our history.”

“That’s exactly why you deserve the job,” he replied angrily.
He was angry at Luc and not at me, but I was the only one in the room for him to yell at.

“Director Kendall gave me my consulting papers today,” I continued.
“I might not be around much if I get scooped into some extensive, long-term situation.” He looked forlorn, burning through my insistence and resolve with his green eyes.

“We’ll wait until your contract is up for renewal, and then we’ll worry about it,”
he concluded, knowing there was at least another four months remaining.

“Fine.”
I sat next to him at the counter and leaned my head against his shoulder. He had less than two weeks until his surgery. Closing my eyes, I wished life wasn’t this complicated, that murderers didn’t exist and try to kill me in my own apartment, and everything would just work itself out.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” Martin said soothingly as he turned sideways and embraced me fully in his arms.
“What is it?” he asked, wiping some moisture from my cheek. When did I start crying? Everything had gotten to me. I shook my head, refusing to pull away until I could calm down. I hated crying. It made me feel weak and inferior. He held me tightly, only exacerbating the situation as my silent tears turned into choked sobs. Once I managed to get myself under control, I pulled away from his embrace. “Sweetheart, what is it?” he tried again.

I took a slow, deep breath, “Everything just hit me all at once.”
Pressing my lips together, I shut my eyes to make sure I wasn’t about to relapse.

“I know
you don’t want to stop being an MT employee,” he kidded, and I gave him a lopsided smile.

“You’ve got me.”
Before either of us could say anything else, his phone rang. “Go ahead,” I urged, taking the opportunity to escape to the bathroom to clean up after my unfortunately timed hysterics, “you should take that.” By the time I returned, Martin had his jacket on and was standing near my front door.

“The research department has hit some kind of snafu.”

“Get out of here. I’m okay, really. I just need some alone time to process things.”

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow, okay?”
He looked for reassurance. I nodded, and he left. I locked the door and turned around, surveying my apartment. Resisting the urge to open my fire escape and throw the bagged up carpet out the window, I made dinner and went to bed. It had been an incredibly long six weeks.