Chapter 4: Triage Girl

Federal Building. January 21, 2005. Friday morning.

Neal woke up early on Friday morning, eager to begin work on the Corot forgery. He was the first to arrive in the bullpen and, tossing his fedora on the bust of Socrates on his desk, he headed straight for the niche. As he walked, he repeated it in several different languages: la niche, el nicho, nisha, die Nische, la nicchia. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue. It was a matter of great satisfaction that his niche was becoming almost as accepted a designation as the bullpen or Peter's office. He'd even heard Jones say, "Meet you in the niche."

During Neal's first year at the Bureau, whenever he wanted to work in the lab he'd have to borrow someone else's workstation. In the beginning that hadn't posed a problem since none of his cases involved extensive lab work. But during the fall, he was called upon more and more to perform authentications. Having zero space to stow his supplies had become a growing annoyance. Solution? Turn it into a game of bartering favors for shelf space.

He'd already discovered his doodles and drawings had attracted a large following, and in exchange for a few sketches he quickly amassed assorted shelves and cubbyholes throughout the lab. His FBI cartoons were particularly popular—he'd been able to acquire a brand new graphics tablet for one cartoon of the bullpen. But his success had led to another problem—a ridiculous amount of time had to be spent collecting his supplies from the various storage spots before he could get any work accomplished. And he was still confronted with the challenge of finding a vacant workstation. Often he'd gone into the lab only to have to postpone his work because the techies had already snatched up all the available spaces. A permanent solution was imperative.

The campaign for a niche started in November when Neal pleaded his case to Peter, pointing out he'd been hired to consult but wasn't being providing with the means to do his job. Peter had then acquainted him with the ponderous and prehistoric procedures of office space allocation. It wasn't until late December that his request had finally cleared all the red tape hurdles with the proviso that all equipment was to be shared and any purchases had to be justified on the basis of non-art investigations. The White Collar budget had zero money allocated for art authentication which was considered to be the exclusive domain of the D.C. Art Crimes Unit. Changing that attitude had become Neal's new mission.

Upon his return from Hawaii, Neal staked out his claim to a far corner of the lab which had primarily been used for storage. For him that was what made it prime real estate. It already had the required shelving space. He was able to collect his supplies and gear from their various hiding places and group them in one location. Travis helped him scrounge a surplus computer and two excellent monitors. Between Travis's tech consults and Neal's sketches they were able to acquire more than enough equipment. His niche was born.

Much more than his desk in the bullpen, this was Neal's personal space. He had a magnetic board where he posted a few of his drawings, and that had become almost as popular with White Collar staff as the bulletin board in the break room. Recently he'd added his copy of Head of a Muse by Raphael to his board. That one might need to stay a while.

Neal planned to spend the day in his niche, studying The Dreamer. The painting was already confirmed to be a forgery but that only served to make it more of an enigma. When had she been painted? Had the forger left any clue to his identity? Was he brazen enough to sign it like Neal had on the Atlantic bonds?

The painting wasn't large—only 25 by 17 inches—and he was able to prop it up in front of his monitor. Before starting the digital analysis, Neal first wanted to get better acquainted. After all, they'd only met two days ago. He checked around to verify no one else was nearby—no need to open himself up to ridicule—and opened up a conversation. Who was she? Who had she been with? He relaxed his eyes to let the image blur. That might seem paradoxical but if she were slightly out-of-focus, details emerged from the painting that he might otherwise have missed. Neal must have spent at least a half-hour just staring at her. Lab guys came and left. He was vaguely aware of activity around him but paid no attention to it.

Then he started the light analysis, using filters to shine different spectral frequencies at her. As he worked, he gained an appreciation of the brushwork technique of whoever had painted her. One of the challenges with the painting was that it had been lost so long ago that there was no high-resolution reproduction of the original to compare it with. True, they had the accounts of several art critics from the same era who described the painting in minute detail. And luckily color photographs had been taken in 1915 shortly before its disappearance. Color photography was in its infancy then with the Autochrome system the only means of rendering colors. The color values for the Autochrome of The Dreamer when compared with the text descriptions appeared to be a faithful rendering, but the hazy appearance of the photo revealed little of the original brush technique.

At 10:30 Neal called a time out. He'd become bleary-eyed from too much painting-staring. He turned off his equipment and wandered out into the break room, refilling his mug with FBI swill. The break room was empty at this hour. No one to talk to, but that may have been for the best. He was still conducting an internal conversation with The Dreamer. Taking his mug with him, Neal returned to his desk in the bullpen to catch up on emails before going back to the lab. Standard announcements. An evaluation request for the ethics presentation he'd sat through yesterday. He decided to go ahead and fill it out before returning to the niche. Neal scanned through the options given for overall impression. Jeez, snoozefest wasn't listed. Simply thinking about it made his eyes close. He decided to add snoozefest in the additional comments section along with a few apt comparisons.

Peter strolled over as he was finishing his comments. Quickly deleting what he'd just written he turned to face Peter.

"I came by to see you earlier," Peter said, "but you were so focused on the painting, I didn't want to disturb you."

Neal shrugged. "I know what you're wondering and I don't have any answers yet. No hidden signatures that I've discovered. If I had one of the Dutchman's other works to compare it to, I might find something. I can tell you I've developed an intimate appreciation of his brushwork, but that doesn't help identify who the brushwork belongs to. I'm going to tackle a spectroscopic analysis next. If the forger were careless enough to use that stamp, he may also have been sloppy with his pigments, and I'll be able to date the forgery."

"You have a few more hours to work. At two o'clock join us in the conference room. Jones and Diana have been researching the man who discovered the painting and will report their findings. We also have a guest participant."

Something in Peter's smile made Neal wary. "Anyone I know?"

Peter pursed his lips and nodded. "That's a safe assumption. Sara Ellis. Since she's serving as Sterling-Bosch's liaison to Weatherby's, she's asked to consult with us. No doubt she'll also want to talk with you about the painting. I assume that's not a problem?"

Neal shook his head. "Two professionals working together, what could go wrong? I'll enjoy seeing her in action."

"Good," Peter said, clapping him on the shoulder. "She may be working closely with us. I don't want there to be any friction." He paused and pointed his forefinger accusingly at Neal. "No 'Sighin' Bryan' in Sara's presence."

Peter knew him too well. "I'll control myself. Actually, I saw Sara a couple of times in December. Turns out she's friends with Fiona. I even met Bryan and although I wasn't sighing over him, I behaved myself admirably. You have nothing to fear."

"Glad to hear you can handle this as a mature adult." Peter strode off with a satisfied expression on his face. Neal permitted himself the hint of a smile. Just because he couldn't tease her about Bryan, didn't mean other subjects were off limits. What would Diana make of her? Would the two of them spar at each other or would they both gang up on him? Either way could be entertaining.

Neal returned to his niche to work on the painting with renewed enthusiasm. An idea occurred to him on the way back. If it worked, he could make the announcement at the meeting.

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Midday, Neal bid au revoir to The Dreamer and left to grab a sandwich. Originally he'd planned to work through lunch, but now there was no need. The Dreamer had divulged one of her secrets and Neal could relax while waiting to reveal it at the meeting. He reviewed his options for lunch. Normally the cafeteria in the basement was a place he frequented only under the most dire of circumstances, but the frigid conditions outside warranted extreme measures. That was the problem with spending Christmas in Hawaii. Since his return he was more sensitive than ever to the cold. Unlike Peter the Polar Bear, winter had never been his favorite season and now it was like he was being punished for taking a modest respite.

Most of the other employees must have had the same idea since the cafeteria resembled intermission at the opera. It looked like every employee in the building had descended to the basement at the same time with long lines at the various food stations. Neal spotted Jones in the sandwich line and went over to join him.

"Too cold to go out, Caffrey?"

"Still dreaming of Hawaii."

"I hear ya. Helen was saying the same thing yesterday about coming back from her hometown of Jacksonville, Florida. I was there over Christmas. It was like being in the tropics."

Neal looked at Jones in surprise. He'd been dating Helen Broussard in the D.A.'s office for a couple of months, but that seemed scarcely long enough to be visiting her parents. "I didn't know you two were that serious."

Jones held up a hand. "Whoa. Don't get ideas. I was in town visiting some buddies at the Naval Air Station there and just stopped by for lunch. Did a little sightseeing afterwards."

"So no wedding bells yet?"

"Hardly. Maybe when I'm as old as Peter's brother."

Neal laughed. "Smart man. Keep your options open."

When they reached the head of the line, Jones picked up a roast beef sub. Neal debated over which sandwich they'd be least likely to ruin and decided on a turkey club. As they walked over to a table, Jones said, "I heard Sara Ellis will be joining us at the meeting this afternoon. Isn't she the one you were dating last fall?"

"We weren't ever dating—the timing was off. But Sara's a friend and she's smart. I'm looking forward to hearing her explanation of what went wrong." Neal was careful in his choice of words to not give away the grand reveal he'd planned. No need to dilute the effect.

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At the appointed time for the briefing, all the White Collar participants—Peter, Diana, Jones, and Neal—had gathered in the conference room. Sara, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Jones and Peter were passing the time by discussing the public housing bid-rigging conspiracy case. Fortunately the Corot forgery had allowed Neal to be excused from that exercise in boredom. Pulling out a pen, he got out his notepad and started sketching. He already had the concept in his head. Rendering fog with a pen was tricky, but the effect would work well when he recreated it in watercolors for his board in the niche. . . .

Diana leaned over to take a look. "What's that you're drawing?"

"A ghost ship emerging from the fog," he replied, pausing to scrutinize it.

Peter looked up at his words. "The Dutchman's taken hold of you too, I see."

"This time's going to be different, Peter. We won't let him disappear." Neal turned to Diana. "Have you heard of the Dutchman?"

"Jones, why don't you fill Diana in?" Peter suggested. "You did the original research on him."

A knock on the door announcing Sara's arrival interrupted Jones's remarks. Apologizing for her lateness, Sara added, "You know how it is with jet lag. I seem to be perpetually out of phase today." Under other circumstances Neal might have joshed her about it, but she was already looking frayed and he settled for a sympathetic smile. All teasing was on hold.

Peter introduced her to the others and asked Jones and Diana to fill them in on the background of the seller.

Jones projected the photo of a middle-aged man on the wall monitor. Heavyset, his hair thinning on top, he reminded Neal of Tony Soprano on The Sopranos. "This is Artie Klossner," Jones said. "Plumbing contractor. Lives in Newark. Three children, ranging between twelve and seventeen in age. Klossner had taken the painting to an art dealer in Newark in November, claiming not to know who'd painted it. Said it had been brought over by his father when he immigrated from Germany. The painting had been lying in his attic for over twenty years. One evening his wife watched Antiques Roadshow on TV and began nagging him to take it in to be appraised. He finally relented in December. The dealer thought it might be a Corot and sent a photo to his home office where they recognized the painting. At that point Klossner approached Weatherby's."

"What we don't know is if Klossner was aware it was a forgery," Diana added. "He could easily claim he was innocent of any deliberate deception. He doesn't seem like the type of person who'd be able to distinguish a genuine Corot from a fake."

Peter turned to Neal and requested he update the others on his work.

"The Met didn't have time for a thorough analysis. Once they'd confirmed the evidence of the stamp, they passed it on to us. I've been conducting my own research. The stamp was, of course, a giveaway. It makes me think that whoever the forger is, he's overconfident in his own abilities. He had no reason to add the stamp in the first place. Looks to me like he was showing off. He wanted to demonstrate his contempt for authenticators and dare someone to challenge it. There's no doubt he's talented. The brushwork technique and the canvas correspond very well to Corot's late period."

"The number of Corot forgeries is very high. Many honest mistakes have been made," said Sara. "The question of whether or not there was any fraud involved will be difficult to prove."

"Not necessarily," Neal countered. "Most of the Corot forgeries were done before the second World War. If the painting can be dated to that period, I agree, there's no case. But what if the forgery were done recently? Within the past several years, or even"—Neal made a dramatic pause—"within the past few months? If that can be proved, the evidence would contradict Klossner's statement and point to deliberate fraud. "

"How difficult will it be to date the painting?" Peter asked.

"The clues are there. It's a question of being able to read them." Neal could have prolonged the suspense but Peter was giving him one of his cut-to-the-chase looks. "Our forger was sloppy. The Terre Verte pigment—that's an earth-green color—dries more slowly than most other pigments. Adequate time must be left between successive applications. The forger rushed the layers and in the process left a marker for the age of the painting. By calculating the rate of oxidation, I can assert confidently that it's less than four months old." Neal sat back and blinked winningly at the group who had all focused their eyes on him.

"You're sure?" Peter challenged.

"Positive. But, if you like, let the Met reexamine it. They'll corroborate what I say."

Peter turned to face Sara. "What can you tell us about how the authentication was conducted?"

"The painting was sent to an expert in France for confirmation," she replied. "He's worked with Sterling-Bosch on several other authentications and up to now there have never been any issues."

"Why wasn't the authentication performed in New York?" Diana asked. "With all the museums we have, surely the authentication could have more easily been conducted on site."

Sara looked frustrated. "I feel the same way. But Sterling-Bosch thinks in global terms. Our office in London has traditionally managed art insurance and claims. It's built up an extensive network of European experts to act as consultants. We've sent an investigator to interview the expert who was used for the Corot. I'm in town to liaise with Weatherby's. The likelihood of fraud in this case is a major concern. It's not only against Weatherby's but also against Sterling-Bosch. Our reputation's on the line."

"But this isn't the normal type of fraud that's worked against insurance companies," Neal pointed out. "The typical pattern these days is to have a painting stolen and then later returned by a so-called discoverer for the reward money. That can be far more lucrative then selling the painting on the black market and also less risky. What was done here—forging a lost masterpiece—is much less common."

"Sara, I'm counting on you to keep us informed of the status of your investigation into the authenticator," Peter said. He picked up Klossner's file and quickly scanned it. "Jones and Diana, research Klossner. He's a plumbing contractor. His wife's a saleswoman at a local department store. This doesn't sound like someone who'd commission an art forgery. Where and how did he acquire it?" Shaking his head, Peter looked troubled. "This doesn't add up. There are some missing pieces to the puzzle out there, people. Find them."

Peter didn't bring up the Dutchman, but Neal knew what he was thinking. Peter had been hoping to establish a connection between the Dutchman and The Dreamer, but the Klossner profile was throwing a wrench into his scenario. While the Corot was certainly valuable, it seemed unlikely that someone like Klossner would have associated with the Dutchman, an internationally renowned criminal who'd worked on high-value items in the major capitals of the world.

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At the conclusion of the meeting Sara pulled Neal aside and asked if she could see the lab. Neal was happy to agree. He was still riding the high from establishing the age of the forgery. Spending time with her was going to be much more enjoyable than the paperwork that otherwise awaited him.

Neal gave her a quick tour of the equipment he used to analyze the paint pigments. He'd planned to give her a high-level overview without going into details, but Sara pumped him for more information. Stopping in front of the Raman spectrometer, he explained how it allowed him to investigate artworks by shining a laser light on an object and avoid the need for sampling.

Sara looked up from studying the display monitor. "I've never had the chance to visit an authentication lab. This is impressive, Neal. I knew you were an artist. But after seeing all this, mad scientist may be more accurate."

Oops. Cool it on the self-promotion. That wasn't the image he aimed to project. "Don't get the wrong idea. It's rare I get the chance to use the equipment for art authentication."

"I wish it'd been some other company that was giving you such a great opportunity," she said with a wry smile.

Leading her to his niche, Neal rolled over a chair for her. "This has to be painful for you. How is Weatherby's taking it?"

"Not well. Their management's taking out its frustration with Sterling-Bosch on me and is threatening to switch insurers. Sterling-Bosch is determined to salvage the situation. They're sending in their regular team next week, but right now I'm on my own. This is the first time I've had to deal with irate customers. I feel like I should have taken a course in diplomacy first."

Neal winced in sympathy. Sara looked exhausted. She probably hadn't slept much on the plane coming over and the grueling meetings had taken a toll. "You against the wolves? A baton's not going to be much help."

She chuckled ruefully, "Sad to say." She sat up straighter in her chair. "Don't mind me. It's just the jet lag talking." Sara glanced around his niche. "You look comfortable here." Pointing to his most recent drawing, she asked, "Did you make that?"

Neal nodded. "It's a copy I drew of Raphael's Head of a Muse."

"She's mesmerizing. A vision from another time in this high-tech world of electronic gear."

"Exactly." Neal was surprised to hear her comment. He hadn't expected her to express the same feeling he had about the drawing.

Sara got up to examine his muse more closely. "If I were an artist, she'd inspire me. She's beautiful."

"Wouldn't you rather have Hercules as your muse?"

"Most depictions have him too muscle-bound for my taste."

"You could always go with the noble Apollo, suave and self-confident." That should please her. Bryan seemed like the Apollo type.

She shook her head slowly, as she continued to study the Raphael. "Not Apollo. He might be too arrogant. Maybe Hermes . . . Yes, Hermes, definitely. Fleet-footed, resourceful, witty, and reminds me of one my favorite stores." She broke into a disarming laugh. "I've found my muse."

Her laughter was infectious and Neal joined it. Sara liked Hermes. Intriguing. Bryan might be Apollo but he'd make a much better Hermes, patron of thieves and poets. Neal didn't picture Bryan as a swift-footed thief and imagining him as capable of inspiring poetry was a non-starter. At least for Neal it was, but maybe that was the way Sara saw Bryan. Love could do strange things.

Neal glanced at his watch. "It's almost quitting time. After the day you had, you could use a break and after working on this painting all day, so could I. There's a new tapas and wine bar that's opened up nearby. My treat."

"That's the best offer I've had all day," Sara said gratefully. "It will be like old times."

On their way out, Neal stopped by Jones's desk to let him know where he was going and put a note on his desk. He'd started early that morning so no one should mind. In any case next month he'd be on the early shift, and by that standard he'd already worked more than he should have. As he and Sara walked to the tapas bar, Neal felt an unusual spring to his step. Was he growing wings on his shoes?

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Malaga Tapas was on a narrow side street near the Federal Building. It had only been open for a few minutes when they arrived, and they were able to get a table for two. Neal ordered a bottle of Ribera del Duero and soon they were sipping wine and munching on an assortment of cheeses with grilled bread. Sara had been running all day with little time to eat so they went ahead and ordered a paella to split.

Judging by the frustrated expression on Sara's face, what she needed most, though, was a sympathetic ear, and Neal guided the conversation to let her open up. For several minutes she gave him an earful about the difficulties of dealing with Weatherby's.

"You've every right to be upset," he said. "It wasn't your fault what happened, but you're the nearest available target and they're taking it out on you." The waitress had placed the pan of paella on their table and Neal spooned some out onto Sara's plate.

She sniffed the paella appreciatively. "This is going to be my new favorite comfort food." Between bites she added, "Thanks for listening to my rant. I feel better now. That's what I came to New York for—to let Weatherby's vent at me, and I shouldn't have dumped it all on you. It's the first time I've had to perform an emergency triage like this, and I must say I have a lot more sympathy for those who do this full time. It's so much more enjoyable recovering stolen merchandise than hearing how we messed up."

"I bet," Neal agreed, as he refilled their wine glasses.

"Weatherby's regular team is in Berlin on another assignment. When they arrive, I'll head back for London."

Neal noticed she hadn't mentioned Bryan the entire time. For a moment he wondered if they'd split up. "How's Bryan?"

"He's fine. He was in Paris when the news broke or I think they would have sent him rather than me."

"Sterling-Bosch isn't dumb. They realize you're a much more sympathetic listener than he would be." That sounded harsh. Neal added quickly, "Not that I'm criticizing Bryan."

A small smile flitted over her face. For a moment she looked like the Sara from last summer. "No Sighin' Bryan jokes? You're showing remarkable restraint, and I appreciate it. You know, I still can't get over how impressive you were at the meeting. I'd no idea you were such an expert in art authentication."

"It shouldn't be that surprising. After all, I'm going for a master's in art history."

"I realize that, but from the way you were expounding on Corot, you sounded more like a professor than a student. When did you acquire all that knowledge?"

"Corot's so frequently forged, he's a textbook example of the complexities of authentication."

A shadow crossed over her face. "Why do you always do that? Don't deflect, Neal. If you don't want to tell me, just say so."

"It's not that. I don't mind." Liar. What should he tell her? That his experience in creating forgeries gave him an insider's knowledge on authentication? Sara knew nothing about his criminal life and Neal had every intention of keeping it that way. The cover the Marshals provided should be adequate. "I grew up in Paris. My art teachers believed the best technique was copying the masters." Neal shrugged. "Picked up a lot of inside knowledge about the artists in the process."

"Well, I repeat, it's very impressive. The FBI's lucky to have you." Sara picked up a square of toasted bread and dipped it into the olive oil.

Neal hesitated. Her earlier rebuke had stung. On this subject at least he could be more open. "I'm not sure they feel that way."

"Why do you say that?"

"Art crime investigation is run out of the FBI's main office in Washington. Trying to get clearance to conduct an investigation in New York is difficult."

"With all the art cases here, I find that hard to believe. I would have thought they'd be thrilled to have a branch office in New York."

"They're protecting their turf. White Collar crime in the FBI's eyes is not art crimes, but copyright infringement, finance frauds, mortgage frauds . . . You wouldn't believe how many mortgage frauds." Neal huffed his frustration.

"Do you want to transfer to D.C.? Sounds like a better fit."

"That's just it. I don't. I like New York. I like the team I work with. And until I finish Columbia, I'm certainly not leaving. But afterwards …" Neal shrugged. "But enough about me. How about you? Are you still enjoying your work with Bryan?"

"Yes, in general." Sara bit her lip. "It's not all I as I'd imagined but we're good."

A little teasing wouldn't hurt. "Has he taught you any new aikido moves?"

"A few," Sara said, tilting her head with a grin but she declined to divulge any details. "Fiona and I got together in London over the Christmas holiday. She told me about the band. I didn't realize you were such an excellent musician. She raves about you."

Now who was the one deflecting? But even so, hearing that Fiona had been praising him to Sara was welcome news. Maybe those were wings growing out of his shoes. "It's been enjoyable. The band's been a great way to unwind. Do you play anything?"

Sara brushed back a lock of her hair. "Would you believe cello? My mom was a great proponent of exposing her kids to everything to see what would take. She enrolled my sister in violin lessons when she was five."

"The Suzuki method? Did your mom take lessons along with her?"

"Yep. I couldn't wait till I was old enough to start too. I insisted on being different so I took up the cello, and Mom gallantly attempted that too. We used to perform trios." Sara's voice trailed off, her fork still in the air. Rousing herself, she said, "God, I hadn't thought about that in a long time."

Sara seldom talked about her sister who had run away when Sara was thirteen, but Neal knew how devastated she'd been. Seeking to lighten the mood, he asked, "Do you still play? If Fiona finds out, she'll insist that you join us."

Sara rolled her eyes, laughing. "That would be a big mistake. I'm not in your league. It's my own fault for not practicing. After my sister left, I refused to play, but Mom persuaded me to pick it back up. She said if we played duets, Emily would hear us. At first I was too stubborn to give it a try, but she kept working on me and I eventually relented." Her expression softening, she added. "I still play occasionally, if for nothing else, to be reminded of her."

For the next hour they continued to catch up on each other's lives. This was the first real chance they'd had to talk since she left for London in October.

"I've enjoyed this," Neal said, motioning to the waitress for the check. "We'll have to come here again. Next time I'll plan ahead so Fiona can join us."

"I'd like that." She paused and cleared her throat. "I know you're probably not thrilled with Bryan. . . ."

"Hey, as long as he treats you right and you're happy, that's good enough for me," said Neal.

"Thanks, I know I didn't make it easy for you. It must have seemed like a bolt out of the blue when I told you I was seeing Bryan and moving to London. I should have explained it better, and earlier. Fiona's been good for you, I can tell," she added.

"We're trying not to rush things along. We're enjoying being together and that's enough for both of us."

"That sounds like a wise strategy," Sara said with a wistful look in her eyes. Neal was picking up vibes that she wasn't that happy with how things were going, but perhaps it was simply that her work was casting a shadow over her personal life too.

After they left the restaurant, Neal helped her catch a taxi to her hotel then he headed for the subway station. While waiting for the train, Neal thought about the conversation they'd had. This was a different Sara from the one he'd expected. She'd always been so upbeat and positive, with a smugness that rivaled his own. Her teasing sometimes reminded him more of a friend than someone he could be romantically attracted to. Before, he would have painted her in enamel-bright oils. Today she was in pastel watercolors. How much of that was fatigue and how much was the London influence? Or was it because of Bryan?

Relationships change a person. She said she could tell the difference in him because of Fiona, even though he didn't think he'd changed that much. How much had Bryan changed Sara? Neal liked her softer edges, but part of him also missed Sara the spitfire. Bryan better be good to her.

Notes: Penna Nomen and I have had our plot-spinning wheels working on overdrive for the mystery surrounding Sterling-Bosch and the Dutchman. We hope you enjoy what we've come up with. Some of you have wondered about the colorman's stamp that was found on the canvas. I based the stamp on an actual incident where the forger used Contet's stamp on a Corot forgery. The painting was authenticated by several experts as being a genuine Corot until finally someone realized the problem with the stamp.

In next week's chapter, The Insect Perspective, Neal attends Janet's exhibition where Mozzie has a reunion with Neal's Columbia friends.

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website