The Warhol Incident Read Online Free PDF

vehicles were being used for surveillance but decided it was best to call Jean-Pierre rather than to surprise someone who may or may not be armed.
    “Ali,” he said from behind and opened the side door of a nondescript gray van. Climbing into the passenger’s seat, I assessed the equipment and vantage point. “It ought to be an exciting night. The guys think the art restorer is moving one of the missing paintings.”
    “Why?” I stared out the window at the gallery.
    “Watc h and see.” Jean-Pierre picked up a camera and snapped some photos as a man exited the building with a large portfolio.

Four
     
     
     
     
    Jean-Pierre and I were sitting in the surveillance van outside Jacques Marset’s residence. Marset was the art restorer employed by La Galerie d’Art et d'Antiquités. The other four Evans-Sterling investigators were in two other vehicles. One was still monitoring the gallery, and the other was parked farther down the street in a black sedan. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard, we had been here for two hours, and so far, nothing happened. Maybe Mr. Marset went home and straight to bed.
    “Why are stakeouts always so much more exciting in movies?” I mused aloud as I continued to stare out the window.
    “Don’t jinx us.”
    “Sorry.” I adjusted the seat into a more comfortable position. “Give me the rundown on why you thought tonight would be so eventful.”
    “A fence I know heard the first painting, a Manet, was being moved out of the country and going up for auction in Luxembourg in three days.”
    “Reliable source?”
    “I wouldn’t consider him a s ource otherwise. Anyway,” Jean-Pierre was trying to make polite conversation and kill some time, “enjoying your trip so far?”
    “It’s okay. No sleep. Lots of work. The fun just doesn’t stop,” I responded sarcastically, and he smiled.
    “You can sleep when you’re dead.” Hopefully, that wouldn’t be for a long, long time. My phone buzzed loudly. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the display. It was Martin, and I pressed ignore. Jean-Pierre watched me suspiciously. “Who was that?”
    “No one,” I replied just as my phone beeped , announcing a new voicemail message.
    “No one se ems persistent.”
    “You have no id ea.”
    “Boyfriend?”
    “No, just a lonely American tourist I met in a bar.” Martin’s story might as well come in handy for something.
    “Slut,” Jean-Pierre teased .
    “He wishes. What about you? Wife and kids or are you still keeping a girl in every port?”
    Jean-Pie rre smiled but shook his head. “I got out of the business for a reason. Settling down is the plan, but I haven’t made it happen yet. I’m only on step one or two.”
    “Intrigue. Is there a lucky lady?”
    “Clare. ” He smiled like a schoolboy with a crush. “She’s actually working for Sal, too. She’s in the other car with Van Buren.”
    “Sorry , I ruined your ideal stakeout fantasy.” My phone buzzed again. Martin, you are killing me. I fished the phone out of my pocket. “I’m going to take this, so I can get this guy off my back.” Hitting answer, I held the phone against my ear, decreasing the volume.
    “I am so sorry. ” Martin’s voice was full of remorse. “I never should have left.”
    “It’s okay. The real world came knocking. Those two lonely tourists have lives they need to get back to. We would have regretted tonight.”
    “Alex, please. ” He understood the implications of my words. Tonight was an accident based on being in a foreign, romantic city and drinking too much wine. “Stay safe.”
    “A lways.”
    “See you when yo u get home?”
    “Have a safe flight. I have to go.” Disconnecting the call, I blew out a slow breath.
    “Think he got the message?” Jean-Pi erre asked. I nodded. He got it, loud and clear.
    “Whoa,” I said, sitting up straighter and grabbing the binoculars. “We have movement.”
    Jean-Pierre was on the radio to the other surveillance team. An SUV