Chapter 8: The Impaler

Lexington Hotel, Manhattan. December 8, 2004. Wednesday evening.

At the end of work on Wednesday, Neal left the bank for the daily briefing at the Lexington Hotel. When he arrived, he found Peter had already joined Jones and Diana in the room.

"How many martinis for lunch today?" Jones asked. "Or was it sakes?"

Neal took off his coat and lounged into a chair. "Martinis. We slummed it at Vitae's."

Diana made a face. "While I was eating tuna salad? That's Christie's favorite restaurant. Did you get their burrata appetizer?"

Neal nodded. "And the duck confit with endive marmalade."

"I can't stand it," Diana moaned. "I'm calling her up. We're going there tonight."

Neal crossed his arms behind his head. "Brown-bagging it once this op's done is going to be a real comedown, but I want you to know that lunch was well earned. They challenged me to distract a co-worker for ten minutes so he wouldn't notice Shogo carrying off his backpack and later returning it. The results were never in doubt as far as I was concerned, and lunch wound up being on them."

"I'm not surprised they wanted to test your ability," Peter commented. "Aside from poisoning your liver, did the lunch produce any results?"

"Why, yes, I'm glad you asked. You see Nick had grown skeptical that anything was actually being planned. He accused them of stringing him along. Tiffany, the babe I'd created, had rung Nick up and invited him to a party that night. He told them he'd decided to skip the bank event, which undoubtedly would be much too staid for a playboy like Nick."

"Smart move, Caffrey," Jones said. "How'd it play?"

"Now that they know I can deliver, Shogo and Hiroki fell over each other in their efforts to persuade me to change my mind. First of all, this is no ordinary fruit punch and cookies affair. Azuma has the tradition of combining a bonenkai with the holiday party."

"Bonenkai?" Peter repeated. "Never heard of it."

"A bonenkai is a Japanese tradition, a drinking party held at the end of the year. The idea is to drink to forget your troubles and woes from the past year and celebrate moving on."

"We need those at White Collar," Jones commented. "I'll add it to the suggestion box."

Neal looked hopefully at Peter, but Jones's comment didn't cause a ripple of a reaction. Apparently he'd have fruit punch and cookies to look forward to at the White Collar event.

"The Japanese businessmen I've met are very reserved," Peter said. "It's hard to imagine them as party animals."

Neal shrugged. "Almost everyone has a hidden side. I researched the subject this week and bankers are renowned for their elaborate holiday parties. The ones Azuma throws are rated among the best. As for my role during the heist, Hiroki told me that he and Shogo have a major bet with the traders on the floor that they can sneak into the vault and—you'll like this—leave an inflatable Santa Claus in the vault without the guard knowing about it. They're paying me five grand to distract the guard."

"You're joking," Diana scoffed. "Five thousand dollars for a simple diversion?"

Neal shrugged. "I suspect they sweetened their offer to convince me to do it since I was holding out on them. They claim to belong to an investment club with eight traders on the floor. They set aside a certain percentage of their gains over the year as prize money for an outrageous holiday prank. This year Shogo and Hiroki drew the lucky number."

"It's crazy enough that it almost sounds plausible," Diana said. "For a gullible patsy like Nick Halden, not a bad hook."

Jones looked thoughtful. "I've been researching the other thefts, but so far haven't detected any common link. An investment club could make an ideal recruiting tool."

"I agree," said Peter. "Once this op's concluded, you should take it up with our Interpol contacts. The timing's too sensitive to pursue it now." Peter then proceeded to review the plans for the joint operation.

Neal knew that they were consulting with Organized Crime, but it was disappointing to hear White Collar wasn't in charge of the takedown. He'd hoped the other team would only be involved in an advisory capacity. He didn't like working with unfamiliar associates on a con. They were too unpredictable. But a dry run was out of the question in this case. "What kind of presence will White Collar have?" he asked.

"We'll have support people at the party and will coordinate communications both with Organized Crime and NYPD," Peter said. "I'll stay close to Stratton. Diana will be undercover as a cocktail waitress, Jones as a bartender."

Neal glanced over at Diana. "Have you seen your costume?"

Diana glared at him. "There aren't any costumes. Going undercover doesn't imply that I'll need to dress up in some ridiculous outfit."

"Hey, I'm just trying to give you a heads up," Neal said. "My buddy Vijay on the trading room floor told me about the party last year. He also showed me some photos. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"The catering company didn't mention anything in particular when we talked with them," Jones remarked, "although I have to say they appeared very pleased when they interviewed Diana."

"We'll pick the uniforms up tomorrow," Diana said. "They can't be worse than our costumes for N-Con, can they?"

Neal simply smiled.

"He's teasing you," Peter said. "I'm sure they're standard wait staff uniforms."

#

At the conclusion of the briefing, Jones volunteered to drop Diana off at her apartment in Chelsea on his way home, and Peter offered to give Neal a lift to Columbia. He'd caught Neal glancing down at his watch several times during the briefing and suspected he was running late. "Sorry the meeting took so long," Peter said as he unlocked the Taurus. "You got something special on tap this evening?"

"I was hoping to make a final run-through of a presentation scheduled for tonight," Neal admitted, "but I still have time to practice the key parts."

On the way to Columbia, Peter took advantage of the stop-and-go traffic to bring up the subject of Ruiz. He hadn't wanted to discuss it in front of the others, but the issue needed to be addressed. He'd watched Neal closely when he explained the joint operation to the group, and it didn't seem to bother him, but Neal could have masked his emotions.

"Ruiz was present for the briefing," Peter said. "Travis came to me afterward and described the confrontation he'd witnessed between you and Ruiz. He said he only saw the tail end. Care to give me the specifics?"

Neal shrugged. "I didn't report it because I didn't want it blown out of proportion. It was just a group of agents trying to intimidate me. There were no specific threats. They resent me over what happened with Fowler and wanted to be sure I knew it. I'm not concerned, and you shouldn't be either."

"Hughes talked to Ruiz." When Neal started to protest, Peter quickly added, "Don't worry. He didn't mention the incident. He reminded Ruiz that as a civilian consultant you're unarmed. Hughes expects Ruiz's men to provide due diligence for your safety. He also may have noted that anything less would be a black mark on his file."

They'd stopped at a traffic light, and Peter glanced over to assess Neal's reaction to his words. He was staring gloomily out the window.

"If you're concerned about Ruiz, I can have Hughes request a replacement." Neal didn't answer but his mouth tightened into a frown. If he hadn't said he needed to be at Columbia, Peter would have pulled the car over. Neal was more clearly more upset than he'd admitted. "After what went on, I can easily justify his removal. Ruiz brought it on himself. Should I go ahead?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, waving him off. "Wait, I take that back." Neal grinned sheepishly. "What was it I almost agreed to?"

Crisis averted, Peter tried again, "Agent Ruiz, the guy who harassed you. Do you want me to file a complaint?"

"Nah, I'm not worried."

"Something's got you on edge. What is it?"

Neal exhaled noisily. "Tonight. My doom awaits me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Myra Stockman, the Dragon Lady as Keiko calls her. She has many other names. My personal favorite is the Impaler. I'm scheduled to have a one-on-one with her tonight. She's going to review my works for the exhibition."

"Your art's fantastic. I've seen those pieces. She'll sing your praises."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but Myra's a harsh critic. She gave Richard his review on Monday and he told me about it afterward. He said it was the most ghastly ordeal he'd ever endured. You remember that kinetic sculpture he's been working on for the past three months?"

Peter had seen it in Richard's studio, a complex mobile of steel balls suspended by thin wires. The balls were electronically controlled to form abstract patterns. "What about it?"

"She castigated him for attempting to pass off an Erector Set as art."

"Ouch."

Neal nodded glumly. "On the other hand, he'd whipped together a clay model of a space alien for Tac-Con—just a rough, preliminary design—with no plans to use it in the exhibition. She spotted it and raved over it. Called it 'evocative of primitive eroticism.' Now he's so confused, he doesn't know what direction to go for the exhibition. She could do the same with me. Axe all my works and I'd have to start from scratch." Neal resumed staring out the window as if the solution to the crisis was written on the doors of the passing cars.

Instead of worrying about the heist and Ruiz, Neal was stressing to the point of obsession over his art. If Henry only knew, he'd be taking on Stockman rather than Fowler. Maybe Peter should tell him. Then his own life would be so much simpler. "Look at the bright side. You've dealt with a lot worse. She can't be as bad as Azathoth, right?" Neal didn't answer him, so he repeated the question. "Right, Neal?"

"Don't rush me. I'm thinking."

#

"Walk me through your concept," the Impaler said.

Promptly at seven o'clock, Myra Stockman had marched into Neal's studio. He'd spent the past several minutes arranging and rearranging his pieces while rehearsing his pitch. Neal gave her a bright smile while swallowing down the hordes of butterflies threatening to escape from his mouth—and wouldn't that make an interesting painting.

Myra didn't look as fierce as her reputation. Short with a bouffant Afro, she wasn't much older than the grad students she oversaw. She seemed too young to have already added so many one-woman shows to her resume, but underneath that sweet exterior lurked a dragon poised to strike. Myra's works were known for her exploration of race, gender, and sensuality. Neal didn't want to contemplate what terms she'd use for his works.

Tonight's torture was designed to update her on the status of his paintings for the first-year exhibition which would be held in May. Neal had been working on seven pieces: Exposed, The Rock, Spheres, The Shapeshifter, Sandpipers, The River, and Bicycles. They were in various stages of completion. Myra had recommended students focus on their personal journeys, and so he had. He'd started Exposed right after watching Klaus plunge to his death. Sandpipers had been inspired by Jones Beach where he and Peter had been kidnapped. Spheres was an abstract of the Rose Space Center at the Museum of Natural History. Surveying the works propped up on the walls of his studio, Neal felt they encapsulated his own experiences over the past three months. But what would she say about them?

Myra didn't waste any time on pleasantries but launched into a rapid-fire barrage of questions on each work. How did the technical elements contribute to the mood? Why had he selected those particular shapes, colors, and textures? What he was trying to express in each work? She particularly grilled him on The River, the one he'd started when he was wearing the tracking anklet and felt that his world was crashing around him.

Myra had claimed possession of one of the rolling work stools in the studio. Sitting on it like a Grand Vizier thirsting to impale him at the first hint of a misstep, she launched her volleys at him. "You call this The River. Which river?"

"The Hudson along Riverside Park," Neal said. He'd perched on the edge of the other stool but stood up to defend the painting.

"What made you decide to paint it?"

"I got the idea during a morning run along the river."

Myra gave a dissatisfied huff. "What idea? Why then?"

Neal thought back to that morning. His resentment at being forced to wear the anklet. His anger. His fear that his life was being ruined. How could he possibly explain that to Myra?

"I'm waiting," she said impatiently.

"I felt a kinship to the river, to its movement." The words began to flow in a torrent as Neal relived the emotions. "I longed to run free, but I was being constrained by the riverbanks. I was being channeled to follow a direction I had no desire to go. I wanted to spill over those banks and flood the park and the streets." Neal stopped abruptly and waited uneasily for her reaction.

She jotted a few notes on a pad of paper. "Take a seat. Let me tell you what I see in these pieces. Normally at this stage, I expect to have a fairly good idea about a student's style and his identity as an artist. But not you. Your technical expertise is not in question, but your identity ... What identity? I look at your works and it's as if they're painted by seven different artists. The styles have very little in common. The brushwork only has occasional similarities. I joked that one of your pieces should be called Lost in Space but I could say that for you in general."

Here it comes. Neal braced himself for the onslaught. The dragon was rearing back, ready to launch her flames at him. He'd soon be a singed lump of charcoal.

"Take this latest painting. I wouldn't have recognized it as yours. It expresses a rage that is lacking in any of your other works. I like it, but it also points out your greatest weakness. How could the same artist who paints The River toss off a work with bicycles floating through the clouds? If I had to say what your identity is, I'd be at a loss. There's no cohesion. You express it yourself in The Shapeshifter. You didn't mention it but that's a self-portrait, right?"

Neal nodded.

Tell me about your teachers. What methods did they employ?"

"I learned through copying the art of the masters."

Myra shook her head unhappily. "I suspected as much. That method's held in disfavor and you're a prime example of why. Were you ever encouraged to develop your own style?"

"No," said Neal briefly. Telling her that his technique was based on the experience he'd gained as a forger was not on the agenda. Neal eyed his works as she talked. He couldn't dispute what she was saying. Was she even going to let him exhibit? What happened then? Could she throw him out of the program?

"With any other student, I'd order them to halt what they're doing immediately and perform an intensive self-analysis to understand who they are before taking up any more of my time." She fixed her probing eyes on him. "With you, on the other hand, I'm beginning to believe that your identity is the lack of one."

Neal shot her a startled look.

"This painting you call The Shapeshifter has something in common with The River. In both, you've captured the essence of motion in a static medium. In The Shapeshifter the medium is gas, in The River, liquid. I'd requested you paint something which expresses how you regard yourself, what you view your essence to be. And what do you give me? The Shapeshifter. Do you know what this tells me?"

She waited, but Neal didn't think she really expected him to say anything. It probably would have been gibberish anyway.

Jabbing her finger at him, she continued. "It confirms my theory. You're like water, molding yourself to whatever container you're in, be it a riverbank, a bottle of wine, or a jelly jar. You're an enigma, Neal Caffrey. And if I were to name your exhibition, that's what I'd call it: Enigma."

Myra exhaled sharply. Neal couldn't tell if it was out of disappointment or disapproval, probably both. "In the exhibition catalog, we include a photo of each artist. With you, I'm tempted to use a fedora resting on the corner of an easel, like what you've done tonight. All I can say is continue with what you're doing."

Neal gave her a smile of relief.

"Yeah, yeah. That Cheshire cat smile of yours. You're probably going to vanish and leave the smile behind. Perhaps that's what I should use for your bio."

Myra stood up and stored her notes in her tote. As Neal opened the door for her, she glanced at a painting that had been stacked behind one of his exhibition pieces.

"What's that?" she demanded.

"Just a preliminary sketch," Neal said, dismayed that she'd noticed it. "Trust me, you don't want to see it."

"Oh, yes I do." Her eyes glittered malevolently.

Neal reluctantly retrieved the canvas. Only a few sections had been painted. Luckily, he'd hidden the one he was finishing for the weekend. If she saw it, he'd be pilloried.

"What did I just say?" she said triumphantly. "Look at this. You've switched over to what appears to be a Pre-Raphaelite palette. Don't tell me you aim to resurrect Rossetti as a cubist? Do you know the meaning of the word focus?" She held up a hand, "Don't answer that, but I want to see it when it's further along. I'm leaving now. You can tend to your wounds."

At Neal's relieved chuckle, she broke out in a small smile herself. "You're on the right path. Although the collection isn't cohesive, each of the pieces is revealing. You're showing us your heart. You're breaking the mold, and that's always a good thing."

After Myra left, Neal stowed his paintings, feeling almost lightheaded. He'd squeaked through. Thankfully, she hadn't quizzed him on The Bicycles. Explaining that he'd painted it while Mozzie led federal marshals on a wild goose chase wouldn't have impressed her.

Neal was putting away his final painting when his cell phone rang.

"How did it go?" Fiona asked.

"Still alive and in one piece."

"I knew it," she said happily. "I told you, you had nothing to worry about." He could hear her turn down the music playing in the background. It had a soft, harp-like quality to it, but it sounded more percussive. Maybe a dulcimer?

"I wasn't nearly as confident." Neal sat down cross-legged on the floor against the wall. "I was blithering."

"Sorry, but I can't imagine you blithering. I've seen your presentations. You don't show a trace of nerves."

"This one wasn't the same." Fiona thought he was exaggerating, but he'd felt more exposed with Myra than he ever had during a con.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I first performed one of my own pieces? I was so nervous I forgot half the lyrics—lyrics that I'd written myself. I was mortified. Simply thinking about it makes me blush." Neal could hear her taking a sip of something, probably tea. Fiona liked to drink herbal tea in the evening. "You didn't let her see the painting that we're delivering on Saturday, did you?"

"No, fortunately. But she did want to talk about The Token."

"You showed her your Pre-Raphaelite? Brave move!"

"It was unintentional, believe me. I hadn't hidden it as well as the other one."

"I think that painting took matters into her own hands. You're too hard on yourself about it." Fiona and he continued to talk for a half-hour, switching from art to their plans for Saturday.

He'd intended to call Henry that evening but by the time the call with Fiona ended, it was late. He could hear Peter lecturing him in his head to get to bed for a decent night's sleep before the op tomorrow. The call could wait till the weekend.

Despite Peter's confidence, Neal suspected the transition back to the daily grind at Win-Win wouldn't be an easy one for Henry. He'd been driven for years by his desire to take down a corrupt music company, and now that case was over. Would he be bored by the Win-Win routine? How would he channel his restless energy? Neal hoped he'd found a challenging case to focus on.

#

Peter had scheduled a final pre-op check with his team at his hotel room during the lunch hour on Thursday and had ordered box lunches from the hotel restaurant. Jones, Diana, and Neal were gathered around the round table that Jones had shoved into the center of the room.

"Hiroki told me to be ready by 6:45," Neal said. "He said they'd figured out how to hack into the security system of the elevator. When they give me the signal, I'm to take the elevator down and keep the guard from looking at his monitors for fifteen minutes."

"During the party, I'll stay close to Stratton," Peter said. "Neal and I won't be able to use our earpieces at the party—they're simply too obvious—so we'll only have one-way communication through our watch-communicators. But we'll carry the earpieces with us to use if needed. Travis and Badillo will coordinate communications and surveillance from the van which will be parked near the bank entrance. Additional agents will be stationed outside and available if necessary."

"Travis told me to remind you to treat the watches carefully," Jones said. "This new model is less rugged than the old one but it has better GPS."

"When will the Organized Crime unit move into position?" Diana asked.

"At 5:30. They'll use the service entrance in the back."

Jones ripped open a bag of pita chips and passed them around. "Diana and I will be there beginning at 5:00 to help with the party preparations. What's the panic phrase again, Neal?"

"Wild Party," Neal said, raising his soda to the others. "Relax. Everything's covered. Peter, you got your holiday hat ready?"

Peter eyed him suspiciously. When he'd read the notice that employees were encouraged to wear holiday hats, it sounded so much like something Neal would have dreamed up that he wondered if Neal hadn't instigated it. "You didn't happen to have a hand in that, did you?"

"Not me. Perhaps it's another bank holiday party tradition?" Neal turned to face Diana. "How do you like your uniform?"

She grimaced. "You did warn me. I'll give you that."

"Nothing wrong with mine," Jones said smugly. "In my role of expert bartender, I've had an excuse to practice my shakes and twists."

"So when I saunter up to the bar, I can order my martini while doing this." Neal tapped with his index finger on the table.

"Right back at you, Caffrey," and Jones tapped a reply.

Peter put a stop to it, tapping his own message.

"You're going too fast," Diana complained. "When did you become such experts at Morse code?"

Jones chuckled. "Caffrey and I've been practicing during lunch hours. I figured it might come in handy."

"Didn't they teach you Morse code at Quantico, Diana?" Peter asked.

"A brief overview, but I didn't become proficient."

"Back in my day, competency was required for all the plebes at Quantico," Peter said. "It can be a vital tool in emergency situations."

Diana turned to face Neal. "So what urgent message did you just send?"

Looking pleased with himself, Neal said, "Hot chick on the right."

"And you, Jones?"

"Babe on the left," he admitted.

She glared at Peter. "And you were a party to this?"

"Don't look at me," Peter protested. "I transmitted Cut the crap. And that goes for tonight. Stay sharp, everyone."

#

In Neal's view, the holiday party couldn't start quickly enough. Today he'd nearly lost it when the ninth revision to the presentation he'd prepared for one of the managing directors came back with yet more demands for rewrites. He was sorely tempted to replace all the charts with cartoons—he'd amassed quite a collection of sketches over the past week and personally found them much more edifying than the charts he'd been obliged to insert. Still, the pain he'd endured had its upside. He'd gained valuable knowledge for any boiler room scam in his future and stock trading would be a lucrative way to gain extra funds—a legal way to gamble that the FBI couldn't give him grief over.

Vijay leaned over from his workstation. "Do you have your hat ready? I'm glad the planning committee recommended employees wear holiday hats. I'm in the mood to party."

"Vijay, you're a wild man." Slight exaggeration there. Vijay had donned a snowman Laplander hat, which made him look like an elf from Santa's workshop. Neal reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a red felt fedora.

They ran into Shogo at the elevator bank. "I have a feeling this will be one party to remember," Vijay said excitedly. "I found a website that reports on the most outrageous investment banking holiday parties. Do you think we'll make the list this year?"

"I hope so," said Neal. "Last year in L.A., Azuma rented out a Hollywood western set and had the party at a saloon. It got so wild the police had to be called in. Now that was a party."

"In Tokyo one year, they had a pole-dancing act," Shogo said. "I heard rumors there was even a lust room with a twenty-foot wide bed covered in purple satin."

Vijay's eyes widened. "I wonder how difficult it would be to get transferred to Tokyo."

The elevator arrived, and Shogo stepped in first. He flashed them a grin as he adjusted his red and green plush jester cap. "Let's make this party happen."

Notes: The accounts of wild bank holiday parties are based on actual news reports, but I can't vouch for their accuracy. This story takes place before the financial crisis of 2007-2008. Supposedly, holiday parties are now much more subdued.