Two are company, three are none
by Rose de Sharon
Disclaimer: I don't own the White Collar TV show.
Author's notes:
- English isn't my native language, all grammar/spelling/syntax mistakes are mine.
- The title comes from an 1872 engraving by American landscape painter and printmaker Winslow Homer (1836–1910).
- Details about Italian painter Simone Martini (c. 1284–1344) come from Wikipedia.
Chapter 1: The green-eyed monster
"Here comes the pet," thought Special Agent Barnaby "Buck" Stone as he raised his grey eyes from the 515 form he had been faking to read for the past ten minutes. "Just look at him strutting about like he owns the place.He sure thinks he's good, that smart-mouthed piece of street trash!"
The object of Special Agent Stone's inner wrath was a person who had just pushed open the glass door of the White-Collar Crime Unit office. It was a young man in his early thirties wearing a Sy Devore suit, which perfectly fit his tall and lean frame. Stone scrutinized the young man's handsome face, his dark hair crowded with a Fedora hat, his luminous blue eyes shining with intelligence and mischief. He was greeting the other agents with a million-dollar smile, making the women swoon on their chairs and the men chuckle lightly – apart from the sulking Special Agent hiding behind a form; the little thief should be in leg irons and serving his time at Rikers Island instead of polluting the New York FBI building by his mere presence. But no, the con-man has somehow managed to earn a Confidential Informant status, proposing insights about cases involving mortgage frauds, art theft, bond forgeries and so on in exchange of an early release from his four-year prison term and working under the close surveillance of Special Agent Peter Burke.
The deal had actually been concluded. Stone remembered having spat coffee back inside his mug after hearing that Burke had agreed to grant the scoundrel a chance to work for the FBI. Peter Burke, the most highly-regarded agent of the Bureau, no less! But in a few weeks, the silver-tongue had wormed his way into the other agents' hearts, making them all blind and deaf to the fact that he was a convicted felon. Those idiots had only their eyes on the crime-solving rate of the division, which had been growing steadily up since that insufferable addition had become Burke's partner.
Neal Caffrey. Notorious con man, talented painter, master forger and sophisticated criminal. Charming, gifted, sharp, well-read... Buck Stone detested him.
Because, if it hadn't been for Telltales Caffrey, Burke wouldn't have gotten an 85% crime-solving rate!
"Hi, Jones!" said the ex-convict as he gave the dark-skinned Special Agent a hearty high five. Clinton Jones answered with a smile, his jet-black eyes flashing in amusement like every time Caffrey would waltz in the office. Stone had snubbed Jones from day one because of his Navy SEAL past; according to the resentful agent, military men could only be dumb heads and therefore had nothing to do with the subtle world of white-collar crimes.
"Diana, I salute thee!" added Neal with a flourish of his Fedora before making it roll on its brim along his extended arm to make it land on his desk, making the Berrigan woman giggle like a schoolgirl at this display of antics. Stone felt his blood boiling inside his veins: why couldn't this stupid lesbian simply pack her bags and go back to D.C.?
Jones and Berrigan started talking to the earnest about their weekend and the fun they had with their respective girlfriends, while Caffrey bragged about having being allowed to go to the Metropolitan Museum and attend a conference on Medieval paintings, giving a detailed account of art history that sounded like absolute nonsense to Stone. The man had never thought much about art in itself; for him paintings, sculptures and the likes were only objects to be recovered and he would never understand the hidden meanings of artworks by pompous intellectuals. But Caffrey could actually comprehend this rubbish and, to add insult to injury, captivate an audience with the confidence of a university graduate while he had never finished high school. The nerve of that little...
"Morning, people," interrupted a deep voice that made all agents interrupt their activities to nod at the newcomer. It was Special Agent Peter Burke, head investigator and Caffrey's handler. Smart, hard-working and by-the-book man, Burke was never unjust or impatient towards his subordinates, granting him the aura of a natural-born leader.
Stone had dreamed of being the Unit's head investigator for years, since he considered having all the needed qualities for the job. But it hadn't happened after Reese Hughes, the Director, had chosen Burke, dooming Stone to remain behind a desk and "increase his work experience". That had been a bitter blow and Stone had considered the possibility of favoritism, but Peter Burke was untouchable: good reputation, hardened professional, loved by his goons. There wasn't a whisper of scandal about his career or on his personal life. Stone knew some agents were having extramarital affairs and bragged about it in the men's bathroom but it was well-known that Burke was crazy about his wife. The office's rumor mill was buzzing about he would be nominated Director after Old Fossil Reese would deign to retire; consequently Burke was the man to "court" if Stone wanted to reach his professional goals.
Stone had thought of a perfect plan: becoming Burke's favorite agent, the indispensable right-hand man, the Watson to Holmes. After Reese would be kicked out of the picture, Director Burke would heartily recommend Agent Stone for the position of head investigator. But alas, things weren't looking bright for the moment; the rare files thrown at Stone had been boring-to-tears frauds about paintings. He had never managed to solve one case and Reese was very short of calling him an incompetent in front of the whole squad. The Old Fossil had told him many times that he was too brusque with the victims (a bunch of whiners!), too negligent with the paperwork (he deserved a secretary!) and he needed to improve his teamwork skills (all his colleagues were idiots!). This criticism had short-circuited the agent's chances to be singled out and now, Stone had to endure the show of a smarty-pants con man being Burke's partner.
"Hi, Peter! Good weekend?" asked Neal.
"Fine, how about you? Nice time at the Met?"
"Oh, it was grand! Thank you for allowing me to attend Professor Sanvitale's conference; his lecture about Martini was fantastic and it gave me an idea about the Anderson case."
Special Agent Peter Burke smiled at those words, making Stone's stomach churn in disgust; every time Caffrey would have one of his out-of-the-box ideas, it would generally lead to the solving of a difficult fraud – making Burke look good at the eyes of the Old Fossil and the rest of the unit, but the agent never forgot to thank Caffrey for his input. For the life of him, Stone couldn't understand why in the world a FBI agent would ever bother to reform an acknowledged criminal; and Caffrey was a nobody, plain and simple. A good-for-nothing!
The bitterness made Stone harrumph loudly, and Burke turned his head towards the sulking agent.
"Is there a problem, Stone?" asked Peter, his voice neutral but his chocolate-brown eyes hardening slightly.
"Nope," grumbled the man behind his form.
The blatant rudeness made Peter frown, and Neal looked slightly alarmed; he knew Agent Stone didn't appreciate his presence within the FBI building along with some other persons – like Ruiz of the Organized Crime Unit, Rice from Missing Persons and Kidnapping and even Jacobson at the Archives – but so far, the man had contented himself with giving Neal the cold shoulder whenever they happened to meet in the office's coffee machines or in the corridors. Stone had never expressed his dissatisfaction out loud until today, making the ex-convict a bit uneasy as he was always worried about people complaining about him and prompting his quick return to prison.
"Er, Peter… Maybe we should continue this conversation in your office?"
"Stone, I am repeating my question: is there a problem?" asked Peter, ignoring Neal's attempt at peace offering.
"Why should I have a problem, since Caffrey has solved the case I was working on?"
Neal unconsciously bit at his lower lip; it was true the Anderson case was Stone's and he may have trend on the other man's shoes without meaning it. But a quick glance around told him there was more than meet the eye: Jones had locked his dark eyes on the belligerent colleague like a sniper zooming his sight on a target, Diana looked like ready to butcher Stone on the spot and even Agent Price had stopped short on his tracks to stand behind Burke, acting like back-up on an upcoming gunfight.
"Well, that's not exactly what I've meant," said Neal to Stone, trying to defuse the situation. "What I was saying was, during the conference, I got an idea about your case that might be helpful and I wanted to talk about it with Peter before submitting it to you, because if this idea was irrelevant then it wouldn't have made much sense wasting your time telling you about it, and…"
Stone snickered nastily: "And how an idea about a cocktail would help me solving a case about a worthless daubed wood plank given to a retard?"
It was Neal's turn to frown; he was a man deeply in love with art and he resented hearing someone comparing an artwork to something as trivial as a painted piece of wood. The Anderson case was a delicate one: seventeen-year-old Jonathan Anderson was mentally deficient and heir apparent to a medieval painting which had belonged to his late parents. But Jack Anderson, Jonathan's uncle, had claimed ownership over the painting, as stated by an inscription written on the back of the panel. Besides, according to the uncle, the painting was just a nice copy dating from the nineteenth century. The analysis of surface pigments, made by an expert hired by Anderson, had indeed revealed they were modern. Peter had thought nothing more could have been done about it, even if his gut instinct had screamed the uncle couldn't be trusted. If Neal had found something odd about this case, more power to him.
"A cocktail?" asked Neal. "I was talking about the painter Simone Martini, who has lived in Sienna during the twelfth century!"
Stone's eyes went huge, making Diana smile behind her hand. Trust that blockhead to make such a goof!
"Simone who?" asked Peter.
"Simone Martini had contributed to the development of international gothic art. His major works were religious paintings on wooden panels, and he privileged the Sienese tradition of sinuous lines, courtly elegance and decorative arts inspired by the Byzantine, like gold backgrounds and almond-shaped eyes."
"And why are you telling us this?"
"Well, according to Professor Sanvitale, there is some contestation about artworks attributed to Martini; there is a probability that some of them have been indeed made by other artists (like Martini's brother-in-law, Lippo Memmi, who often worked with him). That's why experts are currently X-raying and doing carbon 14 tests on the paintings to make sure they're genuine. I know the Anderson wood panel has been analyzed and so far, it appears the uncle is right but I've been thinking… What if the original painting has been covered with modern pigments?"
A sparkle of pride made Peter's eyes shine more brightly. Neal certainly had a knack in finding out-of-the-box ideas!
"Covered? You mean someone would deliberately put some recent paints on a twelfth-century artwork, to make it look like a fake?"
"Exactly! And it's not a bad con, when you think of it: you claim a painting is worthless, expert analysis based on surface pigments prove you're right, and you walk away with an artwork evaluated for $50 while it is worth at least $500,000, and even more on the black market if you play your cards right. We also know by checking his accounts that Jack Anderson has lost a lot of money after the latest Wall Street crash and he has a high-rolling lifestyle. That makes about five hundred thousand reasons why he wants this painting so much."
"That's rubbish!" yelled Stone, making a passerby clerk jump a feet up the air.
"Enough!" snapped Peter back.
"But wouldn't the new pigments deteriorate the original paintings?" asked Jones.
"Not if you know a good painting restorer, and they are some in New York who wouldn't mind earning a little extra cash on the sideline. Besides, the added pigments are relatively fresh so it wouldn't be too difficult to erase them without damaging the painting beneath," answered Neal.
"Said the master forger," growled Stone.
"Alleged master forger," corrected Neal. "Anyway, what I was trying to say is, if a counter-expertise could be done on the panel – and this time, with insisting on analysis the pigments on a deeper scale – and find out the paints just above the wood surface are genuine, then we are in presence of a blatant fraud."
"Jack Anderson gets the painting, get it restored, sell it for a fortune and then he flies to a non-extradition country while his handicapped nephew is left with nothing," summarized Peter, his dark gaze getting ever somber.
"Yes, and the painting is Jonathan's only life insurance. Since he is mentally deficient with no-one to look after him, he won't last long in a low-grade institution. Maybe Uncle Jack would even arrange to have his nephew beaten to death or poisoned, so there could be no further contestations about him being the sole heir of the medieval painting."
"Okay, but the inscription on the back of the painting clearly stated: "To my son Jack," and signed "W. Anderson"!" objected Diana.
"Believe me, Diana, forging handwriting isn't difficult," said Neal with a smile. "Do you want me to imitate Peter's signature on your writing pad?"
"Ahem! I would rather not find you imitating my signature!" grumbled Peter. "But it's a plausible theory, Neal. Now there is only the matter to prove it. I will ask for a counter-expertise at once, and this time it will be made by the FBI lab since I don't trust the expert hired by Anderson."
"But Sir, it's my case!" protested Stone.
"Good! Then you will deal with the procedure in having the painting examined by our guys, and tell Jack Anderson to ready himself for a long delay. I want this painting examined thoroughly, from the atoms of the wood panels to the composition of the paints, and report to me any abnormalities, you got that? We won't leave any pebble unturned – or, in this case, any pigment unexamined – until we are a hundred percent sure the artwork is genuine, and I don't care how many work hours we will have to do. I will have no slapdash job on this case!"
"Very well, Sir," mumbled Stone, sinking back on his office chair.
Peter glared at the subdued agent for an instant, and then he put his hand on Neal's shoulder and squeezed it gently.
"That's good thinking, Neal."
"Er, Peter… We don't know yet if my theory is worth something…"
"No, I think you're right. There's something fishy about Anderson and we both know it. A big-spender guy wouldn't waste time claiming a supposedly fake painting just out of love for his father, who had died more than twenty years ago. Anderson is nearing bankruptcy, he has debts and he's desperate; more the reason to steal a potential fortune from the hands of his 'retarded' nephew who hardly has a clue of what's going on. Thank goodness his parents have hired an honest attorney! Come, we'll discuss more about it around a coffee…"
Stone watched in quiet hate Burke leading Caffrey to his upstairs office, his hand still resting on the con man's shoulder. The little twerp was saying something that was muffled by the office's constant buzz of conversations and phones ringing, but whatever it was made Burke smile again and…
Oh, no!
This time it was the "Proud Papa" grin, the one that made Stone hit the ceiling every time he saw it. Burke was actually smiling in pride at his young partner, a criminal!
How could Burke have any respect for the nonsense flooding from Caffrey's mouth? His theory about the medieval painting was a perfect illustration that nothing good could come from the ex-convict! Jack Anderson, trying to make a genuine painting look like a fake so he could have it and then sell it for millions, what kind of nonsense was that? Stone had a few drinks with the man and he considered him to be a decent sort. Even his disastrous financial situation, his string of high-priced girlfriends and his Ferrari "mysteriously" disappearing in Upper Manhattan haven't changed the Agent's opinion about Anderson. Alas, Burke had gone completely under Caffrey's spell, refusing to hear anything that would contradict his pet convict.
That wouldn't do; Caffrey had to disappear from the FBI bureau and the sooner the better. Stone would prove from A to Z that the pet had to be disposed off – in jail preferably, or at the bottom of the Hudson River if needed – and his bad influence would disappear as well. Stone would become Burke's real partner and then nothing will stand between him and promotion, not even Old Fossil Hughes.
His decision made, Stone grabbed a few forms and started to fill them to request for a counter-expertise of the Anderson painting. His writing was hardly readable and the paper was in constant danger to be torn apart from the ballpoint's harsh attack, but the agent couldn't possibly care less. Paperwork was a hassle and should be treated accordingly – it was a clerk's job, not his!
While furiously writing, Stone was unaware that a pair of blue eyes was watching him from the glass panel of an upstairs office.
TBC…