The Warhol Incident Read online

  “No problem.” Given his accent, Sterling was an American or at least an ex-pat. “I was just surprised to be hired for such a simple job.”

  “Well, there have been issues lately.” Sterling lowered his voice. “The gallery has misplaced the last three pieces of art scheduled to be transported elsewhere.” The way he said misplaced led me to believe the more appropriate term would have been stolen. “Our investigators are looking into things, but since Mr. Wilkes is a high profile client, we thought it’d be best to avoid another mishap. You come highly recommended.”

  “What exactly am I here to do? I read the materials that were left at my hotel last night, but they didn’t provide much to go on.”

  “My apologies. The item you will be escorting is a small painting. All you need to do is transport it to the States, and we’ll have our people meet you at the airport and sign off on the delivery.”

  I’m just a glorified courier, I thought, but decided to be a bit more tactful than to say it aloud. I was working on being diplomatic. “Anything I need to do on this end to prepare the painting for transport?”

  Sterling smiled, pleased by the question. “You used to work for the Office of International Operations. You’re probably used to recovering art and dealing with transport issues.” I nodded noncommittally. “I must admit, we ran a background and checked your credentials. Your past is rather impressive, and we thought it’d be best to have someone so well-versed to ensure the safe delivery of the art.” This job wasn’t as simple as it originally appeared. “We were hoping you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye out over the course of the next few days just to make sure nothing happens to our precious cargo. When the exhibit closes, the painting will be taken down, authenticated once again, and our team will prepare it for transport.”

  “We aren’t talking twenty-four hour surveillance, are we? I’m one person. I can’t provide that type of around the clock coverage.”

  Sterling laughed. “No, of course not. I want to put you in contact with our lead investigator, Jean-Pierre Gustav. He’s checking into the three other missing masterpieces, and he might be of some assistance to you. The gallery is under surveillance, but it’s good to have a trained federal agent with experience in matters such as these on-site.”

  “Ex-federal agent.” I left the OIO for a reason, and chasing down art thieves was a small part of it.

  “Tomato, tomato,” he pronounced the word two different ways. “I will pass your number on to Jean-Pierre, and he will be in contact with you shortly. He can show you the gallery, and the two of you can work the details out further, concerning how to ensure the painting’s safe delivery.”

  “I have something pressing to do this afternoon.” Some disclosure might be a good idea. “Will it cause a scheduling conflict?”

  Sterling looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not at all. I’m sure Jean-Pierre won’t contact you until tomorrow.”

  Good, I thought as I went outside to hail another cab. Pulling out my phone, I dialed Martin. When the call went to voicemail, I decided to get a jump-start at the MT building and do some snooping on my own. My MT ID card was in my wallet, and it ought to be sufficient to get me into the building, even if we were in a different country. I gave the cab driver my destination, and off we went. Allons-y.

  The cab ride didn’t take long. I just entered the Paris branch of Martin Technologies when my phone rang.

  “Where are you?” Martin asked as soon as I hit answer.

  “In the lobby.”

  With perfect timing, the elevator doors opened, and Martin emerged. I hit end call and put my cell phone in my purse. Luc Guillot stood next to Martin. The two were having a seemingly jovial conversation in very fast-paced French.

  “Luc, allow me to introduce my security consultant, Alexis Parker,” Martin said once he and Guillot reached me.

  “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.” Luc kissed both of my cheeks.

  “Monsieur Guillot,” I greeted, eyeing Martin suspiciously and wondering how he made such a perfectly timed entrance.

  “I asked Ms. Parker if she would be so kind as to evaluate the security protocols in place since she was already in France on other business,” Martin explained to Guillot. Guillot agreed and made sure my ID card was programmed with unlimited access to the building.

  I glanced over at Martin and Guillot. They were wrapped up in their own little world. “I’m going to check out the equipment and procedures in place,” I announced to the two oblivious men. “Do the security guards speak English?”

  “Of course,” Guillot replied, giving me a friendly smile. “If you need any assistance, they will be more than happy to help.”

  I thanked him and threw a sideways glance at Martin before heading toward the elevators. Clipping on my security badge, I planned to start at the top and work my way down. Martin caught me before I made it to the elevator.

  “Thanks for doing this.”

  “This is exactly why you hired me. When I finish here, I’m going back to the hotel. I’ll e-mail my findings to your corporate account by the morning.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t want you to get sick of me.” I refused to explicitly answer his question.

  “Never.” He gave me a devilish grin before heading back to Luc and continuing on their way.

  The next three hours were spent evaluating the safety procedures and security protocols in place at the Martin Technologies building. The French office was smaller than its American counterpart. The building was only a few levels and designed solely for import/export. There was a large docking bay on the ground floor for trucks to load and unload materials. The top floor contained offices and conference rooms, and the middle floors held smaller offices and cubicles with basic necessities like human resources and accounting. I gave the security officers the third degree about protocols for emergencies. With the exception of the docking bay, there wasn’t much that needed improvement. The office itself seemed like a joke with limited resources, no corporate secrets, and not much worth stealing or protecting. I wondered if Martin asking for my input was just an excuse, but when it came to Martin and business, there was never any real way of knowing what he was thinking.

  Finishing my tour of the building, I went back to the hotel, double-checked there were no other messages or packages left for me, went to my room, changed out of my clothes, and collapsed onto the bed. Screw the time difference and staying awake through the jetlag, I needed sleep.

  I opened my eyes to the sound of knocking. It took a moment to remember where I was. Grabbing my robe from the chair, I tied it around my waist as I made my way to the door.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Martin asked, entering my room, uninvited. “It’s eight o’clock.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe I slept through the entire day and night. “Shit.” I was supposed to have written up the security evaluation for him, and I probably missed the call from Jean-Pierre. “How could I have slept so long?”

  “Probably because you didn’t sleep last night,” Martin pointed out, taking a seat and watching me, amused. Nothing like making yourself at home.

  “Wait. Last night?” I went to the window and pulled the curtain. It was dark. “It’s still today.” I was making no sense, and I blamed him. I slapped his good arm. “You’re such an ass.”

  “Hey,” he feigned injury, “I thought we had dinner plans.”

  “We did not have dinner plans.” Grabbing some clothes, I stomped to the bathroom and shut the door. “I told you I’d send you an e-mail.”

  “I’m pretty sure you agreed to go to dinner with me.” There was a level of swagger in his voice. “I asked about dinner, and you didn’t obviously refuse. Therefore, we have plans.” Martin’s unilateral decision-making and reasoning always irritated me. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, hoping he might be a figment of my imagination. Instead, he continued his diatribe. “Plus, you are obviously awake now and getting dressed, so there is no reason to cancel s
aid plans.”

  I opened the door. “Do you ever actually listen to the things you say?” I tried not to chuckle at how utterly insane this entire exchange would seem to normal, rational people. Luckily, neither Martin nor I was normal, and one of us was definitely not rational.

  “All the time. You must admit, I always make very valid points.”

  “Maybe to the clinically insane,” I responded, sitting on the bed and grabbing my laptop off the table.

  “What are you doing?” He genuinely seemed confused that I wasn’t grabbing my purse and announcing I was ready to go to dinner. Ignoring his question, I typed out a quick e-mail and hit send. His phone immediately buzzed, notifying him of a new message. He opened the mail and read aloud. “Martin, I am not going to dinner with you. <3 Alex.” He looked at me and smiled. “I really like the heart.”

  “I thought you would. Now, please,” I gestured toward the door, “I do have actual work to do.” Martin understood and nodded, standing up. “Thanks for waking me. If you didn’t, I probably would have slept all night.”

  He brushed my hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear. “If you finish in a few hours and still want to grab a quick bite, let me know.”

  “Okay.”

  He left the room, shutting the door behind him. I resisted the urge to follow him into the hallway and announce that I changed my mind. Instead, I opened the word processing program and typed out a formal report on the strengths and weaknesses of the Paris office. Once my report with the suggested improvements was completed, I e-mailed it to Martin’s corporate account as promised.

  It was a little before eleven. Ordering room service, I ate my dinner while watching French-dubbed American television. After I finished eating, I attempted to look into the recent art thefts and see if I could discover anything useful. The only problem was the news stories were in French, and while I managed to go through French articles last night about Luc Guillot, I only accomplished this by gleaning information from the context. Here, I didn’t understand the context. I should have paid more attention in French class. Picking up the phone, I dialed Martin. Unfortunately, he was the only person I knew who was fluent in French.

  “Change your mind?”

  “Actually, I have a favor to ask.” Further ingratiating myself to him was not something I wanted to do, especially given our history of him taking a bullet intended for me. “I need a translator.”

  “Okay, I’m upstairs.” He ended the call, and I grabbed my room key and laptop, slipped on a pair of sneakers, and headed for the elevator. Martin had changed into a t-shirt and jeans, instead of the suit he wore earlier.

  “I’m sorry to bother you with this.”

  “It’s no bother. I would have preferred getting to go to dinner than doing your homework, but whatever makes you happy.” He grinned, indicating no hard feelings.

  I provided a brief breakdown of my freelance job and the information I ascertained so far about the three other misplaced paintings. Initially, I was hesitant because of the potential for confidentiality issues, but it was Martin. He could be trusted, and I had little choice since I needed his help.

  He nodded thoughtfully and read the articles. When he was finished, he supplied a summary of the information. Basically, the art had gone missing before being transported out of the gallery. There were no leads in terms of it being sold or stolen, and as far as surveillance showed, the paintings didn’t leave the museum, leading to the theory they were simply misplaced.

  “Hmm.” A million theories formulated in my mind, but I reeled them back. The other paintings were not my problem. I had nothing to do with the investigation to find them. I just didn’t want the one I was sent to retrieve to face a similar fate.

  “You have that look.” His eyes brightened as he stared at me. “The one that says I have a gut feeling about this. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that look. It’s a good look.”

  “It’s not my problem. I’m just here to make sure the painting I’m bringing home stays where it’s supposed to be.”

  “Sounds like a decent plan.” He opened the mini-fridge. “Can I get you anything?”

  I looked at the clock. “I don’t want to keep you, if you have an early morning.” I moved to get off the couch.

  “Stay put. It’s only six at home. Trust me, you aren’t the only one having trouble sleeping.”

  I laughed, and he pulled out a bottle of French wine and two glasses. He handed me a glass as he took a seat next to me.

  “Are you offering Guillot the job?”

  “I already did. He has to find a permanent replacement, arrange for VISAs, and finalize the paperwork. I spoke with a couple of board members, and they are working on travel arrangements, finding him and his family a residence, and all that other fun stuff.”

  “He accepted the offer?” It was more a statement than a question.

  “Yes. He realized it was the point of this trip and expected it. He’s signing the official paperwork tomorrow, and I’m flying back Thursday morning to get the ball rolling on our end.”

  I studied Martin’s reaction, but I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t pleased by this decision. “And you’re okay with this?” I had issues keeping my mouth shut and minding my own business.

  “It’s great.” He glanced at me, and I looked at him skeptically. “Well, it’s good. It will be less traveling I have to do. Far fewer business trips and service calls. I’m just having issues adjusting to…,” he paused, trying to determine how to verbalize his misgivings.

  “Trusting people,” I supplied the words for him. “It’ll come back with time.” Reaching for the bottle of wine, I refilled our glasses.

  “Thanks,” Martin said, lost in his own world. Once again, I managed to bring the conversation to a crashing halt. Great talent you have there, Parker.

  “Dinner, tomorrow night? It is your last night in Paris, after all. Plus, you did help me with my homework.” I shot him a brief smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Sure, but don’t stand me up this time.”

  Three

  “Ali Parker?” the undeniable voice on the other end of the line asked, sounding completely confused. There was only one person who ever called me Ali.

  “Jean-Pierre?” I didn’t connect the dots until now. “You aren’t working for Interpol anymore?” I was astounded. Not to mention, Gustav wasn’t Jean-Pierre’s surname when I worked with him years ago. Of course, that might have been because he was undercover at the time.

  “No, I went private sector, same as you. Things change, chére,” Jean-Pierre said into the phone. The prospect of working this job significantly improved since I’d be working with an old acquaintance.

  “My, my.” I gave him the hotel name and my room number. We planned to meet in an hour, so he could fill me in on the investigation and take me to La Galerie d’Art et d'Antiquités.

  My first international smuggling case had landed me in Paris, and the OIO had been partnered with Interpol to track down a ring of art forgers. Jean-Pierre had been working undercover, having made strong black market ties to illegal art sales. It was his expertise and contacts that helped bust the case open for us and led to the arrest of several key forgers and illegal art dealers. He had been an incredibly impressive UC operative. I couldn’t imagine why he would have willingly left Interpol. Arguably, people said the same thing when I left the OIO. Things really did change.

  Jean-Pierre knocked on my door, and I let him in. The last four years hadn’t altered his look much. His blond hair was gelled into some slight spikes, and he still had the musculature of a military man. He wore a black leather jacket and jeans with wraparound sunglasses hooked behind his neck.

  “Ali,” he greeted, kissing me on both cheeks. Upon closer inspection, he had a few new scars on his face and neck. It appeared someone had gotten too close with a knife, but I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re working permanently for Evans-Sterling now?”

  “T
hings got too rough, and the pay wasn’t cutting it anymore,” he responded. “It was time for a change. I can’t be running around, playing a badass every minute of the day.” I laughed. “It is good to see you.”

  “It’s been too long.”

  Jean-Pierre explained the layout and situation at the gallery concerning the missing pieces of art. Obviously, all of them were insured by Evans-Sterling, but the painting I was escorting was the most valuable.

  After arriving at the gallery, I wandered the hallways and studios, pretending to be a patron in order to get a feel for the security measures in place. The gallery, while small and fairly unknown, did possess quite a few expensive pieces that dated as far back as the Renaissance. Security cameras covered all of the rooms, and tripwires were attached to the frames. I agreed with his assessment that the paintings were relatively secure, at least during business hours.

  “Any leads on who misplaced the other three paintings?” I asked once we were outside and a couple of blocks away.

  “I’ve been conducting surveillance at night, along with a few other Sterling employees. If I had to make a guess, it’s either the curator or the art restorer. They are always the last two people to leave, never together, and given their positions at the gallery, they’d each have the access to pull it off.” Jean-Pierre’s gut instincts were good. He had been doing this for a long time, and I had no reason to question his assessment.

  “How’s the security? Do they have night guards on duty?”

  “They have a couple of guys who work the desk and watch the security feed. Each of the individual studios inside has its own laser grid and metal gate. That’s probably why nothing goes missing until after being moved into the back room for prep and transport.” He seemed bored giving me the details since he’d already had this conversation with various other people, including the Police Nationale.

  “Sorry, just trying to catch-up.”

  He nodded, unperturbed. “It’s fine.” We got into his car. “Why don’t you come out with me tonight? The gallery is under surveillance, and you can witness firsthand how things are running.”