The Warhol Incident (6 page)

“Miss Parker
,” Marcal woke me from my nap, “we’re here. Do you need any help with your things?”

“No, but thank you.”
Perhaps I should tip him or something; instead, I lamely picked up my luggage and exited the car, heading straight for my building.

I climbed the
six flights of stairs and pulled the key from my purse to unlock the door. My apartment was dark since the lights were all off and the curtains were drawn. Putting my bags down next to the door, I pulled it shut as I reached for the light switch. Before I could flip the switch, a strong pair of hands grabbed me, securing my arms roughly behind my back.

I bucked wildly
, trying to free myself from my captor’s grasp. Kicking off the floor, I knocked the man backward into the wall. I jerked my head back hard, making contact with the man’s nose. His grip remained tight, and the unmistakable sound of the slide of a gun clicking into place resonated from within my apartment.

“That will be quite enough, Ms. Parker,” an unfamiliar voice commanded from the direction of my kitchen table.
I stopped fighting and was roughly shoved forward, my arms still pinned tightly behind my back. In the dark, I could barely make out the shape of someone sitting at my dining room table. The silver from his handgun reflected the light from my stove clock ever so slightly. “Why don’t you try to act more civilized to your guests?” His voice sounded like a sneer, and I detected a very obvious French accent.

“Maybe I would if my guests weren’t of the uninvited variety.
Who the hell are you?” I snarled, staring into the darkness and hoping my eyes would adjust further.

“That’s not your main concern
.” Running through my options, whoever had me was much larger and stronger than I was, and the man in front of me had a gun; it didn’t leave much possibility for escape or retaliation. Were there any other men present in the shadows? There was no way to tell, so I couldn’t be sure.

“W
hat should I be concerned with?” I growled. The man behind me tightened his grip, fearing I would lunge forward or try a different tactic. Most likely, I could get free but not with a gun trained on me at this distance. The man at the table stood up, flipped on my table lamp, and walked slowly toward me. He was in a cheap business suit, wearing a ski mask. Average height and a little overweight, he stood directly in front of me, exhaling his foul breath into my face.

“It’s come to my attention
you’ve recently delivered a painting. No matter what you hear or see, it would be in your best interest to step away from this particular endeavor.” My breathing was harsh as I stared at this guy. His eyes seemed off, and I suspected he was wearing colored contacts to further disguise his physical appearance. “This is your one and only warning to walk away.”

“
Kinda hard to go anywhere with this monkey on my back.” I didn’t take kindly to threats, especially by some asshole in a ski mask that ambushed me in my own apartment. Ski Mask stepped back and nodded almost imperceptibly to my captor. He grabbed both of my wrists in one hand and used his other meaty paw to slam my head against the wall. Pain erupted through the side of my face, and I crumpled to the ground once he released my wrists. Fighting away the waves of blackness, I was taken by surprise when the man slammed his boot down on my stitched-up thigh. White hot pain shot through me, and I screamed as every single stitch ripped through my flesh. Instinctively, I curled myself into a ball as he delivered another few kicks to my injured leg.

“That’s enough.
We need to go before the neighbors report her screams,” Ski Mask commanded, and the onslaught stopped. Ski Mask then leaned down, grabbing a fistful of my hair and jerking my head off the ground. “Remember what I said.” He slammed my face against the ground for emphasis. As soon as he stepped away, I opened and closed my mouth carefully, checking to see if my jaw was broken. Two sets of footsteps walked to my door, and then the door opened and closed.

I forced myself into a
seated position and looked around the room cautiously. When no other attackers presented themselves, I dragged myself to my desk drawer and pulled out my nine millimeter. Loading a clip into it, I leaned against the desk and waited for them to return. After a few minutes passed and no one came back to finish the job, I got off the floor. Using the desk for support, I slumped into my chair. My leg was bleeding profusely, and my vision was impaired by my quickly swelling left eye.

“Holy shit,” I gasped
, reining in my thoughts. The painting was delivered. My job was finished, so why did some goon and his henchman threaten me? “I’m just going to sit here for a minute and regroup,” I said aloud to myself. Between the bloody, sticky mess that was my leg and my damaged, swollen face, I couldn’t bring myself to move. Finally, I got up, limping, and made my way to the front door. No one was in the hallway. Locking the door, I put the small security chain into the latch and picked up the phone to call Detective Nick O’Connell. He had helped me before, and I knew I could trust him.

“O’Connell,” he answered as I slowly made my way through my apartment, making sure Ski Mas
k and his friend didn’t leave any other unpleasant surprises.

“I
t’s Alex Parker. How good are you at changing some locks?”

“W
hat’s wrong?” He knew I would never call unless the shit hit the fan.

“I
need your help. I don’t know if I want this to be official.” I was uncertain how well-connected Ski Mask was and if he’d know I ratted out his conversation to the cops.

“Ok
ay, I’ll meet you. Where are you?”

“At home.”

Sterilizing a pair of manicuring scissors and tweezers, I was in the process of removing the remnants of my stitches. Having pieces of thread attached to only one side of my injured flesh wasn’t doing me any good. “Holy fucking hell,” I cursed, pulling the last piece of thread out of my leg. As I poured rubbing alcohol over the gaping hole in my thigh, I tried not to scream. Finally, I wrapped it in gauze and taped it in place, anything to avoid a trip to the ER after being awake for the last twenty-four hours.

After slipping
on a pair of loose fitting shorts, I assessed my face. My left eye was swollen shut, and the area from my eyebrow to my cheekbone was red and swollen. I was about to go in search of an icepack when there was a knock at my door. Immediately tensing up, I grabbed my handgun off the bathroom vanity and headed toward the door.

“It’s Nick,” O’Conn
ell called from the hallway. Cautiously, I unlatched and then unlocked my door, stepping aside and allowing him to enter. “What’s the other guy look like?”

“I wouldn’t know.
This was a present from my welcome home party,” I retorted, relocking the door. From the freezer, I pulled out a bag of peas. Taking a seat on the couch, I gave Nick a summary of what happened.

“You sh
ould file a report.” He carefully assessed my face, gingerly touching the damage in order to determine if anything was broken.

“I don’t know who this guy is or how connected
he might be.” I winced at his touch. “I don’t want to start stirring the pot until I know what’s cooking.” O’Connell thought it was a bad idea not to implement any official channels.

“I’ll
write up a report but keep your name off of it. In the event anything happens, at least we’ll have that much.” He would simply follow the same procedures in place for dealing with confidential informants.

“Fine,” I acquiesced and gave him a more thorough description of the man and the events surrounding my assault.
O’Connell walked around my apartment, checking for any evidence. “Ski Mask was wearing gloves. They both were wearing gloves, actually,” I commented, thinking about the man’s hands against my arms.

“Professionals
?” I nodded. He went into the hallway and checked the lock. There were no signs of a break-in. “Were you wearing the same clothes?” My bloody jeans were on the bathroom floor, but my shirt was the same. “Get changed. If you were that close to the guy, maybe you got some kind of transfer on you.” Limping to my bedroom, I changed my shirt carefully, and he bagged it.

“You al
ways come prepared?”

“You always in such a good mood after getting the shit knocked out of you?” he replied.

“No, it must be your bubbly
personality.” Sarcasm was my attempt to hide the exhaustion and fear. “Know any good locksmiths willing to work Sunday nights who can install a deadbolt or four?”

O’Connell made a call to a retired cop he knew who was nice enough to come over and install two deadbolts and a security bar on my door.
The man looked at me suspiciously. He probably thought I was the victim of domestic abuse. That really served as a great commentary for how often crimes and abuse happen against women, I thought cynically. I wrote the man a check, and he left without another word.

“Are y
ou going to be okay by yourself?” O’Connell asked.

“Of co
urse.”

“I’ll have a few cars keep an eye on things tonight in the neighborhoo
d, just in case.”

When he left, I locked
each of my new locks and turned on all the lights in my apartment. It was the only way I would feel secure enough to sleep. My nine millimeter was on the nightstand for easy access. I changed the gauze on my leg since I already bled through it and grabbed the bag of peas and put them on top of my face before closing my eyes and going to sleep.

I awoke late Monday a
fternoon, sleeping for almost eighteen hours straight. The gauze on my leg was soaked through with blood, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. And my thigh didn’t look as bad as it did the day before. Despite the fact my pillow was a bit soppy from the melted peas, my eye was no longer swollen shut. However, it still appeared as if I went twelve rounds in the ring with a heavyweight champion who mistook my face for a punching bag. I showered and dressed, re-bandaging my leg.

When I c
hecked my phone, there were four missed calls. Glad I’m so popular, I thought as I listened to my voicemail messages. The first was from Martin, asking where I was.

“Shit.”
I completely forgot about the meeting. The second was from Evans-Sterling, asking for a call back. The third was from Jean-Pierre, but the words were garbled from a bad connection. The fourth message was Martin again; he sounded worried and wanted me to call him back immediately when I got the message.

Deciding to prioritize, I
dialed the home office of Evans-Sterling. The receptionist transferred my call to Mr. Evans, the namesake partner in charge of the American branch.

“Ms. Parker,” he sounded frustrated.
Join the club. “The painting you delivered yesterday was a fake. Can you please account for your whereabouts surrounding the sixteen hour delivery delay?”

“What?
What do you mean it was a fake? It was authenticated Friday afternoon. The paperwork is included in the briefcase. It never left my sight. Evans-Sterling security transported the painting to the airport. It was a carry-on, and I had it with me the entire time I was waiting for the flight to be rescheduled. Your guys signed off on delivery at the airport.” I was recounting all of the events. Suddenly, the threat from yesterday made a lot more sense. Goddamn, I thought angrily.

“I see,” Mr. Evans sounded condescending.
“Can anyone verify the authentication?”

“Jean-
Pierre Gustav was present when the painting was authenticated and transported to my hotel room.”

“I have some other things
to check, but we’ll be in touch.” Evans disconnected the call.

I rubbed the intact portion of my face.
How the hell could they think I stole a painting? My mind was racing around my threatening houseguests. I was never one to frighten easily, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure how far down the rabbit hole I was willing to go for a painting, especially when my employer was accusing me of the theft. It was a good thing I called O’Connell yesterday, and he insisted on making a report, even if it wasn’t filed through the normal channels. At least I had a paper trail and some corroboration.

Glancing at the clock,
I hadn’t eaten since the London airport, and I needed to get some pressure bandages and other first-aid supplies. Clipping on my shoulder holster and handgun, I put on my jacket and made sure to take my wallet out of my still packed bags. I placed my P.I. license and carry permit inside. Trying to obscure as much of the left side of my face as I could, I parted my hair on the side and put on a pair of oversized sunglasses. With my two new keys, I exited my apartment and made sure to lock the deadbolts. There would be no more surprise visitors for me.

Each step d
own the six flights of stairs was painful. I didn’t want more stitches after having the last set ripped out and then removing the remnants myself. Truthfully, I was a bit of a baby when it came to doctors. After stopping at the deli on the corner for a quick sandwich, I bought some antiseptic, bandages, and a few icepacks since peas weren’t practical when they had a habit of melting into goo. I returned to my apartment building and hobbled back up the steps. Why couldn’t I live on the first floor or even the second, I thought as my leg repeatedly threatened to give out on me. Emerging onto the sixth floor, I was confronted by a man in an expensive suit, standing outside my door.

“Go home, Martin,” I ordere
d. If Ski Mask and his friend were keeping an eye on me, then Martin could inevitably get caught in the crosshairs.

“Alex?”
He was confused by my odd appearance. “Where have you been?” he asked angrily. “You missed the meeting. You’re always so punctual. If Marcal hadn’t picked you up yesterday, I might have thought you were still in Paris.”