Free The Warhol Incident by G.K. Parks

Evans, Ryan Donough, and Michel Langmire. All the information was perfunctory and not very helpful. The two namesakes for the company had large photo spreads and business experience listed, but the investigators were little more than names and photos.
    Jean-Pierre mentioned a source that ousted Marset’s plan to sell the Manet. Perhaps Clare would know something about that. Clare genuinely seemed upset by Jean-Pierre’s death, but a transcontinental phone call full of static wasn’t the greatest way to judge a person’s sincerity. I wasn’t ready to rule her out just yet.
    I needed details on the scene and a much more thorough list of everyone who could be involved or even remotely involved. I had no idea who comprised the Evans-Sterling security team who escorted me to the airport on Saturday morning or who the men were who signed off on the delivery of the painting Sunday afternoon. Maybe there was a way I could get access to French nationals who flew into the country between Friday and Sunday. But the list would be too long and extensive to even think about going over. It might not even help. Ski Mask could be a local, hired to make a threat, and the killer may never have left Paris. I was spinning in circles and needed to stop and get a grip.
    Changing gears, I carried my luggage into my room. I needed to do something more productive than run myself into the ground. I pulled out my dirty clothes and tossed them into the hamper and placed all my toiletries back in the bathroom. Then I put my empty suitcase into the closet.
    “I don’t see how you don’t starve living here,” Martin called from the ki tchen. Apparently my unpacking signified it was safe to attempt conversation. “It’s no wonder you’re so thin.”
    “Why? Pizza guy delivers. Chinese food delivers. Indian food delivers. There’s even a sub place around the block that will deliver.” Going into the kitchen, I sat at the table. Every single cabinet was open, as well as over half the drawers. Martin had no idea where I kept anything. “And let’s not forget, I do own a microwave. Frozen dinners can stay in their cardboard boxes for years without expiring.” I smirked, glad to get out of my own head for a few minutes. It was nice having him here, even though it was a risk he shouldn’t be taking. 
    He was making some kind of sauce and managed to find a few cans of crushed tomatoes in my cabinets, along with a box of penne. “This will take awhile to cook.” He indicated the sauce. “I hope you aren’t hungry, or I guess you could call one of those delivery joints.” I narrowed my eyes, knowing his tricks all too well. He decided to buy as much time as possible to avoid leaving me alone.
    “And if I were , what would you do?” If only he would admit to his manipulative tactics.
    “Hand you the phone and let you order whatever you wanted , my treat.”
    “I take it you’re staying fo r dinner.” It wasn’t a question since I already knew the answer.
    “That would be lovely. Thanks for the invitation.”
    “Just so you know, I am on to you and your pathetic attempts at psychological manipulation . The only reason they work is because I let you get away with them. Apparently, I’ve somehow learned to tolerate you.”
    “Duly noted.”
    I left Martin in the kitchen to continue to cook or pretend he was cooking while I went into my bedroom and called O’Connell. I updated him on the most current events and gave the go-ahead to stick my name and pertinent detailed information on the report and file it. The best way to see how wide reaching this thing was was to throw some matches at the powder keg until something exploded. O’Connell assured me patrol cars would drive past my place every now and again to see if things stayed quiet. I thanked him and hung up, heading back into the kitchen.
    “Martin, please tell me you didn’t leave Marcal sitting outside in your town car this entire time.” I hadn’t actually thought about how