Chapter 3

A visit to David Bateman's Brooklyn apartment house was next on Peter Burke's agenda. Walking up the short flight of stairs in front of the Cobble Hill Historic District brownstone, Neal paused to admire the neighborhood.

"Nice area. Nineteen century homes, charming streets, close to shops and Manhattan."

"Don't tell me you're in the real estate business now."

"No, Peter. But Mozzie's a broker—"

"Of course."

Neal glanced down the step at his partner. "He's scouted out this area many times. As you well know, it's one stop closer to Manhattan than Brooklyn Heights, rental can be several hundred dollars cheaper per month and it's trendy. Desirable real estate. Either this guy makes a good living, has a rich friend or is using this place for an investment."

"Wait! Back up," Peter exclaimed, casting a shocked look at Neal. "Mozzie scouts out Brooklyn real estate? Don't you mean he cases Brooklyn real estate?"

Neal didn't have to tell him a thing, he knew, but if he didn't, the agent might decide to check into his small friend's licensing history. Definitely not a good thing.

"Now I'm really worried," Peter continued. "How often does he visit my neighborhood?"

"Peter! I said he looks for desirable real estate. Selling price starting over two million. As charming as your quaint little home on DeKalb Avenue is, I don't believe his brokering pursuits lie anywhere in your backyard."

Peter frowned thoughtfully. "So you say."

Turning back, hiding his grin, Neal eyed the heavy lion head brass knocker on Bateman's door. Exquisitely hand crafted, it matched the patina of the equally unique and polished brass mail slot. The entire front façade of the brownstone had been authentically and expertly restored, maintaining visual unity with the neighborhood homes up and down the attractive tree-lined street.

Brushing past him, Peter lifted the knocker pull handle, letting it resound repeatedly against the metal plate. "Ornate," was Peter's only comment.

Standing on the front platform, Peter rubbed his fingertips against his forehead, shifting impatiently back and forth on the balls of his feet. Crossing his arms over his chest, glancing at pedestrians on the street, he began exhaling noisily through his nostrils.

"You did say he was expecting us?" asked Neal.

"Yeah. I had Diana call ahead to arrange the visit. This is our first chance to talk to this guy. The NYPD interview was conducted at the hospital. Seems our Mr. Bateman is still recovering from his ordeal. Some facial bruising and a mild dislocated shoulder. When Diana asked him to drop by the office for an interview, he refused, cited doctor's orders to remain at home and rest. He said the trip into Manhattan would be out of the question, at this time."

"Interesting," said Neal. "You'd think he'd be anxious to move the investigation forward."

"Bateman's known for his disagreeable personality. Very successful jewelry salesman, holds the coveted position as buyer and seller for Neiman Marcus, Saks and numerous privately-owned jewelry shops on 5th Ave. Tiffany & Company described him as one of their favorite salesmen. Colleagues' scuttlebutt implies Bateman's rise to the top was due to ambition, drive and cutthroat methodology. He's obviously skilled in observation; I want his first-hand description of the assault."

Neal, taking over the admittance initiative, began to knock repeatedly on the door.

"That is … if he ever opens his damn door," grumbled Peter, a dangerous glint in his eye. Letting out a loud exclamation, in the nature of a "harrumph", he resisted the urge to land a swift hard kick to the beautifully polished mahogany obstacle in front of them.

Grinning at his friend's impatience, Neal slowly eased his body to the right side of the entrance, extending his arm in a theatrical gesture. "Did you bring the battering ram?" he asked in mock seriousness.

Peter's frown deepened. On the verge of pulling his cell phone out of an inner suit coat pocket, the door opened suddenly inward.

Just in time, thought Neal. From the look on Peter's face, he figured his colleague had been seconds away from ordering up the medieval siege engine.

The entryway revealed a tall, slim, elderly woman wearing stereotypical gray and white maid attire. Her gray dress with white collar, pocket and apron seemed more in line with a first-class Manhattan hotel than an elite residence of Cobble Hill.

"Yes, gentlemen?" she inquired, a scowl appearing on her lined face.

"FBI," replied Peter, displaying his badge, "we here to see Mr. Bateman, please."

"Of course," she slowly replied, scanning Peter's ID and badge, finishing up a quick one-two observation of his entire wardrobe, as if confirming within her own mind that he passed her scrutiny of what a federal law officer image should be.

"Please step inside and proceed to the parlor. I'll inform Mr. Bateman you're here."

The agent and his CI stepped into a welcoming yellow foyer, lined with a stunning white floor-to-ceiling built-in wall unit display. The room opened up to an long, white parlor with original wide plank hardwood floorboards, highlighted by an impressive fireplace and ended, with a walk-out balcony.

The housekeeper swept past the two men, proceeding to climb an elegant curved staircase. Before she reached the upper level, a short, balding man in his mid-forties, appeared at the landing.

"Mr. Bateman, the FBI is here to see you."

"Yes, thank you, Andrea," Bateman answered with a smile, dismissing his employee with a slight nod of the head.

Bateman slowly descended the stairs, wearing a deluxe sling prominently supporting his right arm and two shoulder straps with chest wrap of soft foam material securely immobilizing the shoulder joint. As he walked toward Peter and Neal, both men spotted a conspicuous black eye.

"Hello gentlemen," greeted Bateman.

"Mr. Bateman, I'm Agent Burke and this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey. We're here to talk to you about the jewelry robbery."

Bateman nodded, gesturing with his uninjured arm for the men to take a seat on the divan in front of the fireplace. Slowly seating himself upon an upholstered arm chair, he grimaced with discomfort.

"I'm not well, Agent Burke. I don't know why this interview couldn't have been delayed. I already gave the police my story. Didn't you read it? I don't have anything more to add." Bateman stared into space, his body language decidedly hostile.

Sharing a glance with Peter, Neal took up the challenge. "This is a lovely home, Mr. Bateman. Obviously a great deal of historical research went into this costly restoration. I'm not surprised you enjoy recuperating in this home."

Sitting up, David Bateman's somber countenance instantly vanished. "Ah … the charm of Cobble Hill; no modern or contemporary homes here. Are you interested in nineteen century architecture, Mr. Caffrey?"

Neal nodded.

"It's one of my passions, aside from jewelry sales and appraisal, of course." Bateman paused, jutting out his chest. "Much of this home's historic stonework has been preserved and I restored the façade and color scheme according to accurate documentation."

"Such an eye for detail is quite a gift," cut in Peter. He swept his arms outward, indicating the room they were seated in. "This home is evident of that".

Peter moved in with additional flattery, leaning forward with rapt attention. "Observation is a highly important skill, developed and honed through training, reasoning and memory. I understand, a jewelry salesman's success depends upon accurate observation. Isn't it true that a diamond's value is its rarity and no two diamonds are alike?"

Bateman nodded.

"That rarity is determined by a diamond's special characteristics during its appraisal? As such, you must have remarkable observational skills. My colleague and I are anxious to hear your first hand recollection of the robbery."

"Scoundrels," exclaimed Bateman. "Common thugs and cowards. They were waiting for me at my car. Four Spanish speaking men, in their thirties to forties. I picked out a couple of faces from the police files. One of the men was obviously the ringleader. Heavy set with a scar on his left wrist. When I wouldn't give up the sack of gems, he motioned for the others to attack me. Almost ripped my arm out, viciously grabbing the case from me!"

"Had you seen any of these men prior to the assault?" asked Neal.

"I didn't mention it at the hospital but now that I've had some additional time to mull over the details. Well, yes. I might have seen one of them."

"When?" asked Burke.

I often stop by Tanger's Jewelry Store on Seventh Avenue. The owner's an acquaintance of mine. He shows me his new stock, and I give him a quick appraisal. About a month ago, I dropped by and noticed a man hanging around my car when I was ready to leave. Gave him the quick once-over since he seemed to be loitering. In my business you can't be too careful."

Peter was curious. "What makes you think he might have been one of your assailants? Was there an identifying detail?"

"Short," replied Bateman. "He was unusually short. And he stared at you with an annoying gaze."

Peter and Neal asked a few additional questions and took their leave. Heading over toward the agent's car, Neal reached out, pulling Peter to a stop.

"You're wrong you know."

"About what?" asked Peter softly. Innocence radiated from his demeanor.

"Mozzie is not into jewelry theft - at least at the moment. And he's not Hispanic or violent."

"I must admit the description momentarily caught my attention," replied Peter with a grin. "However, I think he's off the table on this one."