Likely Suspects (32 page)

We
finished eating and cleaning my apartment. I had a large pile of clothes to bring to the dry cleaner in the morning and about ten loads of laundry to do tonight. After she left, I got started on the laundry and looked around my residence. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been here in so long, or that the sanctity of my apartment had been violated, but either way, it no longer felt like home. 

Martin and I were having our ritual weekly dinner.
This had been going on ever since we closed the case. We were discussing our upcoming court appearances and testimonies.

“Sounds like th
e fun is just beginning,” he surmised, but he didn’t seem to mind all the legal appearances. He had gotten his life back. He was working like a man possessed and loving every minute of it.

“How’s the arm?” I asked.
It was still in a sling, but he was going to physical therapy. There had been some talk of a follow-up surgery, but things were still uncertain at this point.

“It’s getting there, little by little.
The nerve damage is going to take the longest to repair, if it can be.” Great way to put a damper on the evening, Parker, I berated myself. “I’m going out of town next week, so I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner. It’s a business trip. I have to finalize an overseas acquisition since I’m still looking for Denton’s replacement.”

“I’d suggest you don’t hire anyone who wants to kill you.”

“That was really insightful,” he replied sarcastically, and I shrugged.

“And I got paid
the big bucks, how stupid do you feel now?” We finished eating and left the restaurant. He gave me a hug before getting into his town car and driving away.

*       *       *

I was standing in my new office, trying to hang some pictures on the wall. I only moved into the building a few days ago, but I wanted to get things up and running as soon as possible. It would probably be a couple of months before I was hired, considering the economy and my unknown status in the world of private eyes and security consultants. The only bright star was being able to name-drop Martin if I needed a reference.

The bell above my door dinged
, and I turned, expecting to find someone asking about a public restroom or directions to the donut shop that used to occupy my office space. To my surprise, it was Martin, dressed in his signature business attire.

“What are you doing here?” I asked,
astonished. He surveyed the small office space and my cheap press-wood furniture.

“Sparse,” he commented
.

“It’s enough to get started.”

He looked around
, assessing the rest of the room, and I sat down in my rolling office chair, waiting for him to explain his presence. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded stack of papers. He sat in my client chair across from me and carefully unfolded the paper.

“Alex,” he looked up
, very serious, “I’d like to keep you on retainer for consulting and investigation.” I looked down at the pile of papers; it was a retainer contract for Martin Technologies. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be a full-time gig, but we’d pay you a monthly stipend. And as issues arise, you can address them. I’ve added a clause allowing for expenses and incidentals.” I stared at the contract. After everything that happened, I couldn’t believe he was serious. “Oh, and absolutely no bodyguard work necessary.” He flashed a smile.

I rubbed my neck, considering the offer.
“I don’t know what to say.”

“T
hink about it.” He stood up. “Like I said, I’m gone for the week, but when I get back, we can discuss it some more. You know how much I like negotiations.” He walked around to my side of the desk and leaned against it. “Just so we’re clear, you won’t be working for me. You’ll be working for the company.”

“You ar
e the company. Or the company is you. Whatever.” He tilted his head back and forth in a so-so fashion.

“Th
e company is much greater than just me. In fact, it’s not even like I’d be your employer. Martin Tech would be your employer.” He smirked, but I was smart enough to realize he simply found another way to rephrase his previous statement.

“I think y
ou’re splitting hairs.”

He
ran his left hand through my hair, grasping the back of my neck and gently kissing me on the mouth. Why not, I thought. I shut my eyes and returned the kiss. He pulled away finally, a self-satisfied grin on his face, but he seemed a bit surprised by my reaction. He turned and went to the door.

“
Just remember, I don’t date my employer,” I retorted, and he spun around.

“We’ll see, especially since
I won’t really be your employer.” His eyes danced.

“This is not a unilateral decision you get to make,” I responded as he walked out
the door, waving good-bye. I watched him get into the car and drive away. “What the hell.” I picked up a pen and signed the contract. Things couldn’t be any more harrowing than they were the first time around.

The Warhol Incident

One

I was staring out the restaurant window completely mesmerized by the view.

“Like what you see?” James Martin asked from across the table.
I turned to him and smiled. I couldn’t help it. I was in full-on tourist mode tonight.

“It’s breathtaking,” I replied.

“Funny, I was going to say the same thing about you, Alexis,” Martin responded. He was still trying to win me over with his playboy demeanor and smooth words, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Martin sensed my displeasure at the comment and decided to select a more practical conversation topic. “So, you start work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a meeting
scheduled with the insurance executives, and I’ll take it from there.” Currently, I was Alexis Parker, international traveler.

“E
xactly what is it you’re supposed to be doing?”

“Asset retrieval
.” I made a face. “The details are limited, to say the least. Honestly, I think Evans-Sterling, the insurance company, just wants to make sure the painting I’m escorting gets back safely, so they aren’t forced to issue a payout for any loss or damage.”

“How did some insurance company in France even hear about you?”
His forehead creased as he tried to work the details out in his mind.

“It’s not a French insurance company
. They’re international with offices all over the world. The owner of the painting is American. One of your board members may have mentioned my name since people of your status tend to travel in fairly small circles,” I pointed out. Martin finally understood. “The real question,” I gave him a suspicious look, “is why you suddenly needed to take a trip to Paris which coincided so perfectly with my travel itinerary.”

“I needed to make sure the Paris branch of Martin Technologies was operating efficiently.
Plus, I’ve been hearing really good things about my French counterpart. I might just have to offer him the VP spot since it is still available.” Martin was the consummate workaholic, so the fact he was globetrotting with me at the moment still seemed a bit suspect in my mind.

It had been a few months since I had worked for Martin as a security consultant and personal bodyguard.
Over the course of several weeks, I had discovered a conspiracy in his company. After exchanging gunfire with some contract killers and watching as Martin almost bled to death in his office, his company kept me on retainer for their other security consulting needs. I had opened up my own small firm, thanks in large part to the money Martin had paid me, and was now taking smaller, less dangerous jobs on the side.

“Well, you didn’t have to fly me over w
ith you on the company jet. I was given a travel allowance.” Martin waved my protest away, which he often did.

“Yes, but you have to admit, a private jet is much nicer than commercial business class.
And the nuts are actually warm.” He smirked. 

“I wouldn’t know,” I replied, “nor do I want to know.”
Martin chuckled. He was the only person amused by his own play on words. For a brilliant, capable CEO, in his mid-thirties, Martin often reminded me of a teenage boy.

“Ready to get out of here?”
he asked, glancing at his watch. I nodded, and he called the waiter over, spoke perfect French to him, and paid the bill. We exited into the cool night air and strolled slowly back toward our hotel.

“Where’s Bruiser tonight?”
I asked while looking out over the water of the Seine.

“I gave him the night off.
We are in Paris after all,” Martin replied, likely expecting some type of protest from me, but I remained silent. The city was too beautiful for an argument. “You do realize Bruiser really isn’t his name, right?” Bruiser was the nickname I had insisted on giving his current full-time bodyguard.

“He’ll always be Bruiser to me.”

Martin a
nd I reached our hotel and headed up in the elevator. Catching a glimpse of our reflection in the mirrored doors, Martin was impeccably dressed as always, tonight in a black Prada suit, with his stylish dark brown hair, amazing good looks, and toned athletic build. Despite the jetlag, I was impressed how pulled together I appeared, wearing a black skirt, a silk blouse, and the Jimmy Choo’s Martin had left in my possession from my previous stint working for him. My brown hair was pulled back and curled as it cascaded down my shoulders. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought we were a couple. Luckily, I knew better.

“Come up for a nightcap?”

“I’ve got that meeting in the morning,” I repli
ed,” and mixed in with the jetlag, I’d probably sleep through the alarm and miss the entire thing.”

“You could stay with me tonight.
I’ll make sure you get up in the morning.” Martin’s green eyes seemed to sparkle.

“Ha.
Ha.” Martin was the ever-optimistic lothario. “I don’t date my boss, remember.”

“But I’m not your employer anymore, Martin Technologies is, and I didn’t say anything about dating.
I just asked you to stay the night, on the couch, if you prefer. I remember how much you like to sleep on those.” I narrowed my eyes at Martin. “Fine,” his speech pattern became slightly more formal, “but there was something else I wanted to discuss with you. Business related, I promise.”

“Okay,” I cautiously agreed.
“You didn’t have to wait this long.”

“Why
ruin our weekly dinner, especially when we’re in this exotic locale.” Martin smiled. The elevator doors opened on my floor, and we both looked out into the hallway. “Plus, I want you to see the view from my room.” Martin pushed the close door button, and we continued the ascent up to the penthouse suite. Classic Martin, I thought.

“Can’t you just tell me now?”

“What fun would t
hat be?” The elevator doors opened again, and we exited onto the top floor. Martin pulled out his room key and unlocked the door, holding it open for me to step inside. Walking into the incredibly large and lavish suite, I was immediately impressed by the magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower lit up in the night sky.

“Okay, so maybe the ride up to your room wasn’t a complete waste of my time,” I gave in as I turned around to find Martin
already pouring drinks from the mini-bar. “I’m not drinking.” He ignored my protest and mixed a martini for me and poured two fingers of scotch for himself.

“In case you change your mind.”
He brought the glasses over and handed them to me, so he could open the balcony door. We sat outside at the small table with our drinks. I was slowly spinning the glass around on top of the table, waiting for Martin to tell me what possible business agenda he needed me for now. He leaned back and took off his tie, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt, a bit awkwardly, using only his left hand. Once he was situated, he picked up his scotch and took a small sip.

“Anytime now.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to begin.

“
I was thinking,” Martin began slowly, prolonging this as much as possible, “if you have the time, maybe you could just give the Paris branch of Martin Tech the quick once-over. Make sure the place is secure, no obvious security leaks, and check out Luc Guillot, my French counterpart, and make sure he isn’t a murderous, conniving son-of-a-bitch before I offer him the VP position.”

“That can be arranged.”
Making a quick mental assessment, I tried to determine the most efficient way of doing things. “The painting isn’t being moved until the end of the week, so I can probably swing by tomorrow after my meeting, or…,” the time difference and jetlag were getting to me, “what’s today?”

Martin chuckled.
“Monday.”

“Okay, so Tuesday afternoon or Wednesda
y at the latest. When are you flying home?”

“Thursday or Friday, depending on how things go with Guil
lot. The Board has already granted permission to offer him the position, and they’ve got the paperwork all ready to be signed. I’m just a bit reluctant.” Martin finished his drink, rubbing his right shoulder absently.

“Still going to physical therapy?”

“Uh-huh, it’s getting there, slowly. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the patient type.” He smirked. “A follow-up surgery is always an option.” Picking up the martini and taking a larger gulp than I should have, I wanted to wash the images of Martin being shot and almost bleeding to death out of my mind.

“I’ll check into things
and give you my assessment of Monsieur Guillot by Wednesday evening.” I stood up and headed toward the door, but I couldn’t just leave, not when we had skirted the edge of the dangerous precipice that had been our past history of death and mayhem. “Martin.” My voice was soft as I turned back toward him, but he was already up and behind me at the door. Our eyes locked.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into my ear as he reached around me and pulled the door open.
The closeness of his body to mine was almost intoxicating. I swallowed slowly and turned, walking purposefully back into the hotel room.

“I’ll call you tomorrow after my meeting and let you know w
hen I can check out MT of Paris.” I headed for the door.

“Okay.”
Martin was slightly distracted as he poured himself another drink.

I stopped at the door and turned around
. “Good night.”

“Bon nuit, Alex.”
He winked at me.

My room seemed much smaller now.
Thanks a lot, Martin. I tossed my purse onto the table and kicked off my shoes. Turning on my laptop, I changed out of my clothes as I waited for the computer to start-up. Might as well run a background check on Mr. Guillot while it was fresh on my mind. I entered in the appropriate information and clicked the submit button, scanning through the information. Guillot had a few minor traffic violations, but nothing that screamed out psychopath. I knew Martin Tech was stringent in their hiring policies, but it never hurt to double check these things. I sat staring at the screen for a few minutes.

“The more you accomplish tonight, the less you have to do tomorrow,” I said
out loud to try to psych myself up because, at the moment, the only thing I really wanted to do was crawl under the covers and sleep for a week. It was only eleven Paris time which meant it was five o’clock at home, but considering the fact I hadn’t slept on the flight or very much the night before, I had a legitimate reason to be exhausted. Performing a quick internet search on Guillot before going to sleep was all I was really willing to do at the moment. I was checking news sources and other websites for any type of scandal. Luc Guillot appeared to be an upstanding, scandal-free citizen. I shut down my computer and was getting ready for bed when there was a knock at the door.

“Y
ou’ve got to be kidding me,” I yelled as I walked to the door. Opening it, I expected to see Martin; instead, it was the hotel concierge.

“Madame, sorry to bother you so late,” the concierge apologized.
At least in French, being called ma’am sounded classier. “This package was left for you and marked urgent. I thought it would be best to deliver it tonight.”

“Merci.”
I took the package and handed the man a few Euros which were scattered on top of the dresser. Shutting the door, I stared suspiciously at the large manila envelope in my hands. My name was written on the front, but there was no other information provided about the sender or the contents. I opened the flap carefully. Paranoia had become my constant companion, probably given my previous career working as a federal agent at the Office of International Operations. Luckily, nothing exploded.

As
I dumped the contents unceremoniously onto the small table, I flipped on the floor lamp. The package had come from the Paris office of Evans-Sterling and contained information on the painting, the owner, the insurance protocols and claims procedures, and proper methods of transportation. It was now midnight, and I needed to be well-versed on all of this information by the morning. Settling down in the chair, I began reading and taking notes. By the time I was finished, it was a little after three a.m. I set the alarm for seven and crawled under the covers.

I
t was 5:18. Damn time change, I cursed inwardly. I hadn’t slept at all, despite how tired I thought I had been. I twisted and turned for another thirty minutes and finally gave up and dragged myself out of bed. Flipping the computer back on, I did a more thorough search on Guillot; still nothing negative turned up. It was just barely after six when I got into the shower and dressed for the day. The plan was to get some caffeine pumping through my system as soon as possible. Heading for the small café across the street, I figured I’d stop back by my room before leaving for my meeting at Evans-Sterling.

Finding a seat
at one of the outdoor tables, I ordered an espresso. As I was waiting for the server to return, I noticed Martin, head buried in a newspaper, seated a few tables over. I got up and walked over to him.

“Give Bruiser the morning off, too?” I asked a bit more combatively than I should have.
Lack of sleep had the unfortunate side effect of making me bitchy.