Chapter 2: Nesting Dolls

White Collar Division. New York. August 24, 2004. Tuesday.

Midmorning when a bulletin was released of a corpse discovered near Columbia University, Peter immediately suspected it might be Trifonov and knew he needed to alert Agent in Charge Reese Hughes. Fortunately Hughes was in his office, and Peter rapidly filled him in on what Neal had told him earlier that morning.

"Peter, if this is Trifonov, NYPD will want to take over the case," Hughes said.

"I agree, but the possibility of a valuable art object brings it back to us. And Caffrey's connections could be invaluable. How about a joint operation?"

"I'll see what I can do, but no promises."

It didn't take long for a positive ID to be established on the corpse, and by the time Neal arrived back at the Federal Building, Hughes had already been in touch with NYPD.

As soon as Neal entered the bullpen, Peter gave him the double finger-point to come to his office.

"Trifonov's body was found in a dumpster this morning," Peter said as he motioned for Neal to take a seat. "The sanitation workers discovered it when they made their rounds. The location is not far from the Columbia subway station, so it appears that Trifonov was attacked on his way to see your advisor."

"How was he killed?" Neal's normally cocky manner had disappeared under the weight of the first murder investigation he'd been involved in.

"His throat was cut," Peter replied. "Evidently his body had been looted as there was nothing of value on it."

"Have they established a time of death?"

"According to the preliminary findings, sometime between two and eight in the evening on Saturday."

"So what happens now?" Neal asked, looking worried. "Does Homicide take it over?"

"Normally it would. But because of the art connection we may be able to run it as a joint operation. Tell me what you learned."

"I spoke with the assistant, a woman by the name of Vera Bok. I mentioned that I was a colleague of Sherkov's and that Sherkov had asked me to relay a message to Trifonov, but . . . I didn't mention my connection to the FBI," Neal admitted.

"That's not the proper way to conduct an interview," Peter said, shaking his head. "You really should have identified yourself first."

"I was going to, but she looked like the type who wouldn't have given the time of day to a cop. To an art connoisseur, on the other hand"—Neal shrugged with a smile—"she was very accommodating. Vera said she'd been expecting him that morning and was surprised when he didn't show up, but of course that's moot now. As for the egg, I was also able to find out that only one object had been left for appraisal during the past week. Vera searched for it, but it wasn't in the store. The receipt, dated August 21, was for a 'golden hen and stand.' "

"That doesn't sound like an egg to me. Were you able to get a description of the customer who had brought it in?"

"No, unfortunately Vera hadn't been present during the transaction, but I was able to get the contact information. The receipt was made out to Sonya Pashkina."

"What about Trifonov—did you find out anything more?"

"Turns out he lives . . . lived in an apartment over the store. We had just left it when you called."

Peter held up his hand disapprovingly.

Neal quickly added, "She had a key, Peter, and she was the one who offered to check to make sure he hadn't suffered an accident in his apartment. She wanted me to go with her. We didn't touch anything."

"And just how did she get the idea he may have had an accident?"

Neal gave him an innocent look. "She may have picked up on something I said. Hard to tell for sure."

Vowing to himself that the next time he said "by the book" he was going to clarify that meant by his book and not Neal's book, Peter asked, "And what did you learn from this side excursion?"

"There was an open book on the table," Neal replied excitedly. "It was in Russian, a book on Fabergé eggs, and here's the key part. It was opened to a page describing the second imperial egg, a golden hen with sapphire pendant. Peter, the item brought in for appraisal was a golden hen. That particular imperial egg has been lost since 1922—it would be worth a king's ransom. Forget what I said about twenty million, this would bring in even more. I didn't touch the book, but I did take photos of the pages."

At this point Hughes walked into the office. "Caffrey, this is one fast-breaking case you brought us. I spoke with NYPD and they're receptive to the idea of a joint operation. In fact, they're sending over a detective now. Peter, come to my office. I want to go over the details of the case before the detective arrives."

When Hughes left, Peter turned to Neal. "While I'm with Hughes, you research this Sonya Pashkina. See what you can dig up."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

At 1 p.m. NYPD Detective Larry Wright arrived at the White Collar Division and joined Peter in Hughes' office.

"Frankly," said Wright, "I'm glad to have your help on this case. I stopped by the antique store and spoke with the assistant manager on my way here. What a tough nut. Even with her boss discovered dead, she was very hostile to having the police around. It was like we were the enemy." Sighing in obvious frustration, he continued, "We were hardly able to get anything out of her. He hadn't been at work on Monday. He was expected there on Tuesday but didn't show up. Not a hell of a lot to go on. If you hadn't contacted us, we would have called this a random mugging gone bad. So what have you found out?"

"My consultant, Neal Caffrey, was informed Monday evening by his advisor at Columbia that Trifonov missed an appointment to see him on Saturday evening," Peter said. "According to the advisor, Trifonov was bringing what he believed might be an extremely valuable art object, a Fabergé egg, to show him."

"Nothing found on the body," Wright muttered as he made a note. "This certainly puts a different spin on the case. He could have been followed and murdered for the egg. Just how valuable was it?"

"If it's genuine, many millions of dollars."

Wright whistled in disbelief at the news.

"Supposedly it had been brought in for appraisal," Peter continued. "Caffrey stopped by the store this morning—this was before the body was discovered—to learn more."

"Did Caffrey have any better luck with her?" Hughes asked.

"Oh yeah." Peter couldn't resist a smiling. "He discovered that an object had been dropped off for appraisal on Saturday but was no longer at the store. He also obtained the contact information of the customer."

"Mind clueing me in—what's Caffrey's secret?" Wright asked.

"I think he may have flirted with her," Peter admitted, rolling his eyes.

"Well that's a non-starter," Wright said with a grimace. "Next time I talk with her, I'm taking Caffrey."

Hughes wrapped up the meeting, ordering Peter and his team to pursue the art angle while NYPD would manage the murder investigation. Wright headed back to check the surveillance camera to see if anything had been picked up.

Peter swung by Neal's desk on his way out. "We've got the green light to proceed on the art investigation while NYPD works the murder. Detective Wright was happy to let us handle it—apparently he didn't find Ms. Bok quite as forthcoming as you did."

"Oh really? Gee, I wonder if he started off by showing her his badge?" Neal nonchalantly tossed a rubber band ball into the air.

Snatching the ball before Neal could catch it, Peter said, "Okay, smart guy, what did you find out about Sonya Pashkina?"

"Age: twenty-six. She's a violist with the Metropolitan Opera Orchestra. She immigrated to the United States ten years ago and attended Julliard before she was hired by the Met. She's a U.S. citizen now. Shares an apartment with a fellow musician in Brooklyn."

"We need to talk with her."

"Already called her. She's rehearsing today at Lincoln Center, but offered to meet us during her break at three o'clock."

"Confirm the appointment. I'll go with you this time—no more flying solo on this case."

"You got it, mon capitaine," Neal said airily.

Jones, who was passing by, laughed. "Good one, Caffrey! Peter's got too much hair to be Picard, but you got Q nailed!"

"Oh no, you don't," Peter retorted. "Not in this universe. I'm not playing Jean-Luc to your Q!"

"Killjoy."

Lincoln Center. August 24, 2004. Tuesday afternoon.

"This is nice—I'll have to bring El here," Peter said looking around as he sipped his macchiato at the sidewalk café. Neal and Peter had arrived early at Lincoln Center for their interview with Sonya Pashkina, and Neal suggested stopping at a nearby café first. The café was strategically located on Columbus Avenue with excellent views of the Lincoln Center plaza and fountain. "Should have guessed you'd know the best place for coffee around here. Come here often?"

"Not recently. Used to come here a lot though." Neal hesitated. Putting down his panini, he added, "Kate loved the opera, but we couldn't afford to go very often. Sometimes when we didn't have tickets, we'd come here just to sit, drink espresso, and people watch." He grew silent and gazed off toward the plaza fountain.

Neal rarely spoke about Kate, especially since the disaster last March, and Peter was glad to hear him bring her up. He took that as a healthy sign that Neal was starting to move on. Trying to keep him talking, he asked "What operas did she like?"

"Puccini was her favorite composer: Tosca, Madame Butterfly. I used to joke we should leave during the intermission so we'd have a happy ending." Neal looked over at Peter and winced. "Guess she should have taken my advice."

"Or maybe you just need to change your composer."

"Not a bad idea. I was starting to think I'm more of a Mozart guy anyway. Rousing chorus at the end, good triumphing over evil … even if it does take a deus ex machina occasionally."

"Sounds good to me. I'm not a particular fan of sad endings—all that sobbing gets on a guy's nerves."

"Right—you would have told Tosca to cowboy up."

"You better believe it."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

When the time came for the meeting, it was a short walk to the Metropolitan Opera House where they were directed to a small room in the business wing. Sonya Pashkina was waiting for them. Slim with brown eyes, her long brunette hair casually swept up with a hair clip, she was simply dressed in chinos and a white shirt.

"Thanks for meeting with us, Ms. Pashkina. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, and this is my consultant Neal Caffrey."

Sonya, obviously nervous, said, "Call me Sonya, please. Mr. Caffrey explained that you wish to talk to me about an object I had left for appraisal with Mr. Trifonov, yes?"

Peter said, "That's right. Could you describe the object?"

"I can do better than that—I have photos on my laptop." Sonya pulled out her computer and quickly pulled up the photos. They showed a gold hen sitting on top of an enamel and gold basket studded with diamonds. The egg-shaped body of the hen was also covered in diamonds. A small clasp apparently could be used to open the hen. The hen's beak held a large dark blue egg-shaped faceted gem.

Neal examined the photos with rapt attention. "You know what this appears to be, don't you?"

Sonya nodded. "I went to Mr. Trifonov to see if he thought it was genuine. He has the reputation for being one of the foremost experts on Fabergé. I met with him at his store on Saturday at one o'clock and left the piece with him for appraisal."

"What's inside the hen?" Neal asked.

"I don't know. I tried to open it, but the clasp appeared to be stuck and I didn't want to damage it. I'd hoped Mr. Trifonov would be able to. But I must ask—has something happened at the store? Why are you asking me these questions?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you," Peter said, "but Mr. Trifonov was murdered, most likely on Saturday evening."

"Bozhe moi!" Sonya's eyes widened in horror.

Peter poured her a glass of water. "It's possible you were the last one he talked to before he was killed. Did he discuss anything else with you?"

Sonya shook her head. "No. We spoke only briefly. What do you advise I do now? Should I go back to the store to reclaim it?"

Peter exchanged glances with Neal. "Unfortunately, the hen wasn't found in the store, Sonya. We suspect it was on Trifonov when he was attacked."

Sonya sat back in dismay. "This can't be happening."

Neal picked up the thread. "You see, Trifonov made an appointment to meet with Ivan Sherkov, an expert at Columbia, to show him your hen. He never arrived. His body was found near the Columbia subway station, and so the assumption is that he was attacked on his way there. It appears the body had been looted, as there was nothing of value on him."

Peter's phone buzzed, and he excused himself to take it in the hallway.

Neal continued, "We're going to do our best to recover it for you." Looking at the anguish in Sonya's eyes, he sought to distract her. "Could you tell me a little about the hen's history? We know you immigrated here from Russia several years ago. Did you bring it with you?"

"No, I had only discovered it last week. You see, I grew up in Moscow. When I was sixteen, my parents were both killed in a car crash. At that time, my grandparents who lived in Cleveland brought me to the States and then adopted me. I felt so lucky. I had never met them and we had only exchanged letters. I couldn't believe they would be willing to bring me to this country. But you don't want to hear all this." Sonya looked nervously at Neal.

"No, this is extremely helpful," he assured her. "Whatever you can tell us may be very useful."

"Very well, my grandfather was Russian and immigrated to the United States after the war. My grandmother was American."

"How did they meet?"

"My grandfather grew up in Saint Petersburg. He got married in 1938 just before World War II broke out. My grandmother gave birth to my mother while he was serving on the western front and she later died during the siege. He never even knew she was pregnant. He was later wounded and taken to an allied hospital where he met my American grandmother, Anne."

As Sonya continued to relive her family history, the words began to pour out. "They fell in love. He defected, married Anne, and eventually settled in Cleveland. My mother was raised in an orphanage and my grandfather only found out about her later through relatives. They had assumed he had died during the war, and it was many years before they reconnected. Once he knew, he tried to bring my mother to the United States but never succeeded in gaining permission from the Soviets. Through all these years he maintained correspondence with first my mother and then also with me. He and Anne never had children of their own, so I was their only grandchild."

"That's a remarkable story." Neal smiled in sympathy. "They must have been wonderful people."

"They were," Sonya agreed softly with a sigh. "My grandfather passed away four years ago, and last month my grandmother died. I'm the executor and have been settling their estate. Their house was stuffed with bric-a-brac. I don't believe they ever threw away anything. In an old trunk, I found many souvenirs from my grandfather's family—old photographs, diaries, souvenirs. I discovered from an old shipping label on the trunk that they had been sent by my grandfather's cousin to him in the 1950s. In the trunk were several old matryoshki. Some of them were quite large. I found the hen inside one of the matryoshki. It probably had been hidden there a long time ago and completely forgotten about. Are you familiar with matryoshki? I believe Americans call them nesting dolls."

Neal responded in Russian, "Of course. Your matryoshki must be quite old and could be valuable themselves. To find a Fabergé egg inside of one is incredible."

"Yes, I couldn't believe it. It was so beautiful, I thought it must be very valuable. I was sure Mr. Trifonov would be able to answer my questions."

"You may need to wait a little longer, but hopefully we'll get those answers for you," Neal said reassuringly. He was glad he had continued to talk in Russian as Sonya had noticeably relaxed.

"How about your story?" she asked. You're not an agent. What do you consult on?"

"Oh, art, antiquities, this and that." Neal waved vaguely.

"Do you know Mr. Sherkov? Can he be trusted?"

"Absolutely." Neal assured her. "He is my advisor at Columbia. He's a specialist in western European art."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Outside in the corridor, Peter was finishing his phone call with NYPD. He glanced in through the glass door and saw Sonya deep in conversation with Neal. The way she was gesturing with her hands it must have been something quite dramatic.

Peter took the opportunity to give a quick call to headquarters then walked back into the room. Sonya was laughing as Neal said gleefully, "Glubokum golosom on rasbubil—"

Responding to Peter's raised eyebrows, Neal said, "Sonya has just been filling me in on how she obtained the hen."

Pleased to see she no longer looked like the spooked deer of a few minutes ago, Peter said, "Only a couple more questions, Sonya. Have you told anyone else about the hen?"

"No, no one."

"Did you notice anyone else in the store when you were there?"

"I believe there was a person in the back storeroom, but I didn't see who it was. There were no other customers."

Peter asked, "Was the hen insured?"

Sonya shook her head. "Not yet. I wanted to have it appraised first."

"That's understandable; however, I have to warn you that it may be difficult to recover."

Neal asked, "Would you be willing to offer a finder's fee for its recovery? That would improve our odds significantly."

Sonya nodded in agreement. "But of course. At this point, I have nothing to lose."

"That will be a big help," Peter agreed. "We'll start the arrangements. I'd like you to come by the office to fill out some forms, both on the hen and the finder's fee. Could you do that tomorrow?"

Sonya nodded mutely.

"Excellent. Also go ahead and send us copies of your photos. My email address is on my card. If you hear or think of anything else at any time, please contact me immediately." Peter handed her his card as they made their departure.

Exiting the Opera Center, they paused at the plaza fountain. Neal asked, "Was the phone call about Trifonov?"

"Yes. That was NYPD. They'd looked at the footage from the surveillance camera, and no one else had been photographed during the time of the meeting. But the camera had only a very limited field of view, so I don't know that it means very much. This may be a very difficult case to solve," Peter cautioned. "Be careful not to raise Sonya's hopes too much."

White Collar Division. August 24, 2004. Tuesday, late afternoon.

Once back at the Federal Building, Peter asked agents Tricia Wiese, Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones to join them for a briefing.

"Seeing as how this was brought to my attention by our 'Columbia satellite office,' Neal, why don't you go ahead and fill the others in."

Choosing to ignore Diana's eye-rolling, Neal proceeded to go through the details of the case.

"As you know, Faberge made a number of jeweled eggs beginning in the 1880s and going up to the Russian Revolution. The ones that were made for the Russian Tsars are called imperial eggs. There were altogether fifty-two imperial eggs made and of those eight are now lost. The eggs were all studded with various gems and could be opened to reveal a surprise inside."

Neal pulled up the photos and projected them on the large wall-mounted screen. "Based on the description provided by Sonya and her photographs, it appears very likely that her egg is one of the imperial eggs. The second imperial egg was made in 1886. The gold egg forms the body of a hen and is studded with diamonds. The hen holds an egg-shaped sapphire in her bill. The stand was shaped like a nest and was also supposedly decorated with diamonds. The last documentation for the egg was in 1922 when it was in the Kremlin. There are no photographs or drawings, but the description is striking in its similarity to Sonya's egg."

Jones spoke up, "How sure are you this is a Fabergé egg? Doesn't look much like an egg to me."

"I'm convinced that's what Trifonov believed. In his apartment there was a book on Fabergé eggs which was opened on the page describing the second imperial egg. He mentioned his suspicions to Sherkov and was undoubtedly taking it to him for corroboration. And as far as it not looking like an egg, there are other examples. One egg is even a replica of the Kremlin."

Scrutinizing the photograph, Diana said, "I can see the clasp. Do we know if there's anything inside?"

"No, unfortunately. Sonya said the clasp appeared to be stuck, and she didn't want to force it."

"At this point, I can see two possible scenarios." Peter said. "One: Trifonov was the victim of a random attack. Or, two: someone knew about the transaction at the antique store, followed Trifonov on the subway, and attacked him for the egg. But since the surveillance camera provided no evidence that will be very difficult to prove. NYPD is investigating the antique store and will attempt to find anyone who may have seen Trifonov on Saturday. Any surveillance cameras in the area will also be examined.

"Our job is to locate the hen. Tricia and Diana, I want you to take the lead on checking the pawn shops and antique stores. Use as many agents as you need. You have the photographs provided by Sonya. Jones, enter the object into the National Stolen Art File, and also get in touch with Interpol about it, in case it shows up out of the country. Find out if there have been any other thefts or recent interest in Fabergé eggs."

Neal volunteered, "I'll get in touch with my contacts and New York sources."

Peter nodded in agreement. He was not concerned that Neal was bringing in Mozzie. His expertise would be invaluable. Good thing there was a finder's fee involved.

White Collar Division. August 25, 2004. Wednesday afternoon.

A day had passed since the news of Trifonov's death, and despite the efforts of both the FBI and NYPD, there had been minimal progress. On Wednesday afternoon Peter called Diana and Neal into his office for status reports.

"Any luck with the pawn shops, Diana? Tell me you found something."

"So far nothing, boss, although I have succeeded in locating a bronze rooster, a silver eagle, several ceramic owls, and more brass ducks than I ever want to count. Not one gold hen in the menagerie. What about the Columbia Satellite Office? Caffrey?"

"I'm drawing a blank too. No chatter, no whisper, no clucking on the streets," Neal reported glumly. "But Mozz and I have been in touch with several sources and something may turn up."

"Not a surprise, but still disappointing," Peter said. "I wish I had better news, but all the NYPD has been able to do is eliminate some possibilities. They made a thorough search of surveillance cams both in the vicinity of the assault and around the antique store, and nothing's shown up so far. They also inventoried the contents of the antique store. The only item that appears to be missing is the hen. It looks like—"

Jones poked his head through the open door. "Sorry to interrupt, but Neal, you got a visitor. Sonya Pashkina's asking for you."

"Thanks," Neal said, looking at his watch. "She called this morning. Said she was going to come in to sign the forms. Okay if I . . . ?"

"Sure, go ahead," said Peter. "We seem to be done here."

Jones whispered to Neal as he left, "Nice!"

Sonya had come straight from rehearsal and had her viola with her. She was waiting uneasily in the central area of the bullpen and looked up at Neal with relief when she saw him come down the stairs.

Neal flashed a smile as he greeted her. Leading her to his desk, he pulled up a chair for her with a flourish. "Have a seat in 'my office.' Most of the information is already filled in, so this shouldn't take very long. Are you managing okay? I know it's been rough."

She nodded. "I can't stop thinking about what happened. It's beginning to seem like a dream that I even found it. Have you discovered anything yet?"

"Not so far, unfortunately, but we've only been searching a day. It may not be much consolation, but everything from your photographs suggests that this was the second imperial egg. Had you thought about what you were going to do with it?"

"That was about all I thought about!" Sonya smiled wistfully. "I was going to have it auctioned off. I was trying not to get too carried away, but it's very hard not to. Paying off student loans, moving to an apartment close to Lincoln Center, buying a Guarneri viola . . . ."

"A good start," Neal nodded in approval. "And then there's shopping for clothes in Paris . . . ."

"Shopping for antiques in Vienna!" Sonya quickly added, her face brightening.

"Skiing in the Alps—"

"—The Verona Opera Festival—"

"—and won't you need your own villa when you're in Verona?"

Sonya burst out laughing. "Oh you're good! I should hire you to be my consultant too."

"Yes, spending money is definitely one of my specialties," Neal said smugly.

"I'd like to make it mine as well." Sonya added dejectedly, "But there's no point now in thinking about this. Plenty of time later if some miracle happens."

Neal shrugged. "You have to dream before your dreams can come true. And at least now you have the FBI working on making them a reality. How 'bout a cup of the FBI's finest java while we finish the paperwork?"

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Elizabeth Burke looked at her watch. Two o'clock and Peter still hadn't shown up. Surely he hadn't forgotten? He was supposed to meet her at the bank to sign a loan application for Burke Premiere Events.

Her phone buzzed—it was Peter. "El, I'm so sorry. I got wrapped up in the case and time slipped away from me. I'm coming right over."

"Don't worry about it, hon. Let me bring you the application to sign. The bank's not that far away and my schedule's not as packed as yours."

After having picked up the application from a loan officer, Elizabeth set off for the Federal Building.

A short time later she exited the elevator on the White Collar floor. The bullpen was bustling that afternoon, filled with the sounds of phone calls and conversations as agents worked on their cases. She started toward Neal's desk to say hello then thought better of it when she saw the attractive brunette with him. They were deep in animated conversation, speaking what sounded like Russian.

She headed up to Peter's office and was greeted by her remorseful husband.

"Sorry, El. I had it on my calendar."

"You're forgiven. You can make it up to me by picking up Chinese takeout on the way home." She paused and nodded toward the bullpen. "Who's that with Neal?"

"Sonya Pashkina, the violist I was telling you about."

"Hmm. She's attractive. He seems to enjoy talking with her."

Peter groaned. "First Jones and now you. I know what you're thinking, and I'm not going there."

El laughed. "Just saying it's refreshing to see Neal with her. After what happened with Kate, I'm anxious to see him move on."

"I know. I am, too. But he will when he's ready." Gazing over at Neal and Sonya, he added, "I think Neal sees her as his damsel in distress. Don't know if there's anything else there. Now where's that loan application for me to sign?"

Notes: In next week's chapter Neal resurrects his Gary Rydell alias and Mozzie joins the hunt. If you'd like to read about the events concerning Kate, they're covered in Caffrey Flashback by Penna Nomen.

Many thanks to Penna for her help with this chapter. She somehow manages to squeeze me into her already overstuffed schedule.

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals: The Golden Hen board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website