Read Online The Warhol Incident by G.K. Parks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: G.K. Parks
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couldn’t feel it, probably because I was too preoccupied to notice. “It’s fine, just some ripped stitches. Don’t worry, I’m not going to bleed to death.” Great choice of words, my morbid sense of self-preservation was being callous again.
Martin went into my bathroom and came back with t he bag of supplies from earlier. He tenderly guided me into the chair and began bandaging my leg, despite my protests, when I realized something and shot up.
“Did I hurt you?” He instantly pulled his hands away.
“They were in the parking garage. No. Wait. That doesn’t make sense. They wouldn’t have known anyway.” I was talking out loud to myself which was freaking him out. This would have amused me more if I wasn’t working some details out in my mind. Who knew I had a screwed up leg? Jean-Pierre, Clare, the hotel desk clerk, the doctor, and maybe the rest of the Evans-Sterling team, if they had been paying attention. Being kicked in the exact place of my previous injury wasn’t a coincidence.
Martin grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the chair. I sat down obediently and let him finish playing doctor. “There,” he patted my knee, “little trick I learned when bandaging my shoulder. It should keep it from re-opening.” He was kneeling on the floor in front of me.
“Stay ther e,” I instructed, pulling another chair over and placing them both on either side of him. He looked at me as if I lost my mind. I walked around the chairs slowly, scrutinizing from different angles as I tried to recreate the parking garage. It had been much darker, and Marset, the gunman, and their buddy drove past quickly. None of them could have seen my injury.
“What?” Martin asked as I tapped my pointer finger against my lips.
“It’s an inside job. That’s how they got my address, knew what time I was getting in, everything.” That must have been how the painting was authenticated as real but turned out to be a fake. Perhaps the Evans-Sterling security team switched it, or the third party authenticator was on the take. I was still talking to myself as I dragged one of the chairs back to my table and sat down. They killed one of their own for what, a doodle on some canvas? My attacker was French. Could he have flown over ahead of time to lay in wait just to threaten me and then head back on another flight and kill Jean-Pierre? How many people were involved? Evans-Sterling had offices around the world. My head was spinning. Was there anyone I could trust from the insurance firm?
I went to my still packed luggage which hadn’t left the spot where I dropped it yesterday afternoon. Retrieving my laptop, I dug around, looking for my power cord. Finally, I found it and plugged my computer in, logging in to the Evans-Sterling site. Martin came around and peered over my shoulder. Automatically, I closed my laptop lid and glared at him.
“I nee d to work, and you need to leave.”
“What are you doing?” He sounded frustrated and hurt. “You went and picked up a painting and brought it back. You’re done. Why are you doing this?”
“Because a good man d ied,” I stared into his eyes, “and I can’t let that go. Not again.” He nodded. “Plus,” my tone became slightly more threatening, “I don’t take too kindly to threats.” I turned toward the computer and opened the lid. Martin was standing behind my chair and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I sighed and put my hand on his forearm.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Me, too.” He leaned down and kissed my good temple.
“Get to work. I’ll make you some dinner, and then I’ll get out of your hair. I promise.” He was being sweet which made me feel like an ass for being so harsh with him. I still didn’t like him being here, but the damage was already done.
T he employee database for Evans-Sterling listed the few people I had been in contact with: Jean-Pierre Gustav, Clare Olivier, Clyde Van Buren, Salazar Sterling, Ronald
Martin went into my bathroom and came back with t he bag of supplies from earlier. He tenderly guided me into the chair and began bandaging my leg, despite my protests, when I realized something and shot up.
“Did I hurt you?” He instantly pulled his hands away.
“They were in the parking garage. No. Wait. That doesn’t make sense. They wouldn’t have known anyway.” I was talking out loud to myself which was freaking him out. This would have amused me more if I wasn’t working some details out in my mind. Who knew I had a screwed up leg? Jean-Pierre, Clare, the hotel desk clerk, the doctor, and maybe the rest of the Evans-Sterling team, if they had been paying attention. Being kicked in the exact place of my previous injury wasn’t a coincidence.
Martin grabbed my hand and pulled me back toward the chair. I sat down obediently and let him finish playing doctor. “There,” he patted my knee, “little trick I learned when bandaging my shoulder. It should keep it from re-opening.” He was kneeling on the floor in front of me.
“Stay ther e,” I instructed, pulling another chair over and placing them both on either side of him. He looked at me as if I lost my mind. I walked around the chairs slowly, scrutinizing from different angles as I tried to recreate the parking garage. It had been much darker, and Marset, the gunman, and their buddy drove past quickly. None of them could have seen my injury.
“What?” Martin asked as I tapped my pointer finger against my lips.
“It’s an inside job. That’s how they got my address, knew what time I was getting in, everything.” That must have been how the painting was authenticated as real but turned out to be a fake. Perhaps the Evans-Sterling security team switched it, or the third party authenticator was on the take. I was still talking to myself as I dragged one of the chairs back to my table and sat down. They killed one of their own for what, a doodle on some canvas? My attacker was French. Could he have flown over ahead of time to lay in wait just to threaten me and then head back on another flight and kill Jean-Pierre? How many people were involved? Evans-Sterling had offices around the world. My head was spinning. Was there anyone I could trust from the insurance firm?
I went to my still packed luggage which hadn’t left the spot where I dropped it yesterday afternoon. Retrieving my laptop, I dug around, looking for my power cord. Finally, I found it and plugged my computer in, logging in to the Evans-Sterling site. Martin came around and peered over my shoulder. Automatically, I closed my laptop lid and glared at him.
“I nee d to work, and you need to leave.”
“What are you doing?” He sounded frustrated and hurt. “You went and picked up a painting and brought it back. You’re done. Why are you doing this?”
“Because a good man d ied,” I stared into his eyes, “and I can’t let that go. Not again.” He nodded. “Plus,” my tone became slightly more threatening, “I don’t take too kindly to threats.” I turned toward the computer and opened the lid. Martin was standing behind my chair and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I sighed and put my hand on his forearm.
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Me, too.” He leaned down and kissed my good temple.
“Get to work. I’ll make you some dinner, and then I’ll get out of your hair. I promise.” He was being sweet which made me feel like an ass for being so harsh with him. I still didn’t like him being here, but the damage was already done.
T he employee database for Evans-Sterling listed the few people I had been in contact with: Jean-Pierre Gustav, Clare Olivier, Clyde Van Buren, Salazar Sterling, Ronald
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