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Authors: G.K. Parks
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Mark Jablonsky, my former boss and colleague at the OIO, to keep an eye out wasn’t going to be helpful.
“But you called O’Connell, and he just left you here. Alone.” Martin was angry.
“He took care of things. I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.” I gave him my most lethal glare. “So you can go.”
Despite my insistence, he remained unperturbed and took a se at on the couch in my living room. “Sorry, can’t do that.” He was loosening his tie.
“ Do you want me to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing?” He shrugged his shoulders, contemplating the threat for a moment.
“Not really, but you can do what you have t o do.” He nodded his head resolutely. “Given the excellent job Detective O’Connell’s done so far, I doubt he’d arrest me.” Martin’s tone was disdainful. Sitting on the other end of the couch and glaring at him, I tried to remove him with the power of my mind. Unfortunately, the blow to the head last night obviously impaired my telekinetic powers because he remained seated. Eventually, the glaring and quiet got a little too boring for him. “I rescheduled the security equipment meeting until next week. Think you’ll remember to show up this time?”
I snort ed and shook my head. He was unbelievable. “You really need to get out of the office more,” I muttered, pausing briefly. “Fine,” I sighed. Maybe now, he could leave. Instead, my phone rang. “Parker,” I answered. The number had a French country code. The call was staticky, and I moved around the room, trying to get better reception.
“Jean-Pierre…” I recognized Clare’s voice on the other end of the line. “I needed to call…was a fire…”
“Clare, you’re breaking up.” Her voice sounded on the verge of hysterics, but it was hard to tell with all the static.
“Jean-P ierre’s dead.” There were sobs and French spoken quickly by someone else.
“What?” This couldn’t be right. He left a voicemail message earlier today. “How?” I was pacing the room.
“Body…car fire…erre’s wallet.” The reception wasn’t getting any better, and Clare’s words were getting more garbled. “Wanted you to know…call later.” She disconnected.
“Alex, what’s wrong?” Martin was speaking to me, but I was having issues processing his words. I shook my head and continued pacing the length of my apartment. Jean-Pierre was dead. He died in a car fire. That was all I got out of Clare, but it made no sense.
“Oh g od.” Whoever tried to scare me off did even more than that to Jean-Pierre. Could this all be about the authentication of Mr. Wilkes’ painting? Poor Clare. I dialed the OIO offices and waited for Mark to answer the phone.
“Hey there, stranger,” he greeted.
“Mark, I need you to get everything you can on a car fire in Paris that occurred sometime today. The decedent is Jean-Pierre Gustav. Maybe you remember him. He helped us out on that art smuggling case four years ago.” My voice broke slightly, so I shut my eyes and took a breath to steady myself.
“Alex?” Mark asked , concerned, “Is everything okay?”
“No . Just see what you can get.” I hung up, still pacing back and forth, trying to piece together everything I knew. According to Mr. Evans, the painting was a fake. It had been authenticated in France; Jean-Pierre witnessed it just like I did. It was delivered to the Evans-Sterling employees at the airport. But when I came home, Ski Mask and his lackey were in my apartment, instructing me to back off, and now Jean-Pierre was dead. What the hell is going on? I absently bit my lip and continued to think as I strode the length of my apartment.
“Alex, stop.” Martin was suddenly standing in front of me, but his tone was gentle. He pulled out a chair and placed it in my path. “Sit down. You’re bleeding all over the place.” Looking down, there was a small stream of blood running from my thigh to my ankle.
“Hmm.” I
“But you called O’Connell, and he just left you here. Alone.” Martin was angry.
“He took care of things. I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.” I gave him my most lethal glare. “So you can go.”
Despite my insistence, he remained unperturbed and took a se at on the couch in my living room. “Sorry, can’t do that.” He was loosening his tie.
“ Do you want me to call the police and have you arrested for trespassing?” He shrugged his shoulders, contemplating the threat for a moment.
“Not really, but you can do what you have t o do.” He nodded his head resolutely. “Given the excellent job Detective O’Connell’s done so far, I doubt he’d arrest me.” Martin’s tone was disdainful. Sitting on the other end of the couch and glaring at him, I tried to remove him with the power of my mind. Unfortunately, the blow to the head last night obviously impaired my telekinetic powers because he remained seated. Eventually, the glaring and quiet got a little too boring for him. “I rescheduled the security equipment meeting until next week. Think you’ll remember to show up this time?”
I snort ed and shook my head. He was unbelievable. “You really need to get out of the office more,” I muttered, pausing briefly. “Fine,” I sighed. Maybe now, he could leave. Instead, my phone rang. “Parker,” I answered. The number had a French country code. The call was staticky, and I moved around the room, trying to get better reception.
“Jean-Pierre…” I recognized Clare’s voice on the other end of the line. “I needed to call…was a fire…”
“Clare, you’re breaking up.” Her voice sounded on the verge of hysterics, but it was hard to tell with all the static.
“Jean-P ierre’s dead.” There were sobs and French spoken quickly by someone else.
“What?” This couldn’t be right. He left a voicemail message earlier today. “How?” I was pacing the room.
“Body…car fire…erre’s wallet.” The reception wasn’t getting any better, and Clare’s words were getting more garbled. “Wanted you to know…call later.” She disconnected.
“Alex, what’s wrong?” Martin was speaking to me, but I was having issues processing his words. I shook my head and continued pacing the length of my apartment. Jean-Pierre was dead. He died in a car fire. That was all I got out of Clare, but it made no sense.
“Oh g od.” Whoever tried to scare me off did even more than that to Jean-Pierre. Could this all be about the authentication of Mr. Wilkes’ painting? Poor Clare. I dialed the OIO offices and waited for Mark to answer the phone.
“Hey there, stranger,” he greeted.
“Mark, I need you to get everything you can on a car fire in Paris that occurred sometime today. The decedent is Jean-Pierre Gustav. Maybe you remember him. He helped us out on that art smuggling case four years ago.” My voice broke slightly, so I shut my eyes and took a breath to steady myself.
“Alex?” Mark asked , concerned, “Is everything okay?”
“No . Just see what you can get.” I hung up, still pacing back and forth, trying to piece together everything I knew. According to Mr. Evans, the painting was a fake. It had been authenticated in France; Jean-Pierre witnessed it just like I did. It was delivered to the Evans-Sterling employees at the airport. But when I came home, Ski Mask and his lackey were in my apartment, instructing me to back off, and now Jean-Pierre was dead. What the hell is going on? I absently bit my lip and continued to think as I strode the length of my apartment.
“Alex, stop.” Martin was suddenly standing in front of me, but his tone was gentle. He pulled out a chair and placed it in my path. “Sit down. You’re bleeding all over the place.” Looking down, there was a small stream of blood running from my thigh to my ankle.
“Hmm.” I
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