Chapter 11: A New York Christmas
December 11, 2004. Saturday morning.
Neal fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep after his phone call with Henry. The next thing he knew, it was eight o'clock the next morning.
He gingerly pressed the wound on his side. It hurt more to the touch than he'd expected. Luckily, he'd been under the influence of whatever they gave him at the hospital when Peter was over yesterday. Convincing Peter he could stick to his original plans for the weekend hadn't been difficult. If Peter had insisted on canceling the brunch at La Palette, he would have ruined the surprise.
He considered taking another one of the pain pills, but he decided not to risk another bout of loopiness. He had a full day of activities ahead and needed to be sharp. Before the lecture, he planned to stop off at his studio at Columbia and make a final inspection of the painting. He and Fiona would drop it off at La Palette later in the day. He'd finished the painting the previous Sunday.
He tossed off his comforter and got out of bed. After a shower and leisurely breakfast, he was in the holiday spirit. There was the small matter of papers to finish but he'd tackle them next week. For today and tomorrow, Neal Caffrey was off duty, and he was going to make the most of it.
When he arrived at his studio, he retrieved the painting from its hiding place and placed it on an easel. Fiona was stopping by before the lecture, and he wanted to give her a chance to see it before wrapping it up. She'd only seen the paintings that he was preparing for the spring exhibition. What would her reaction be? Neal stood back to study it one last time. Would she find it too derivative?
He heard a knock on the door. Fiona must have arrived early. "Come in," he called out without turning around. Big mistake. The voice he heard behind him wasn't Fiona's unless she'd become a bass overnight.
"I thought I might find you at your studio," Sherkov said. "If you have the—what's that?" He stopped in mid-sentence when he spotted the painting. His relaxed, jovial features hardened into an intense stare. It would have been futile to try to stop him from looking at the painting, although Neal for a fleeting moment considered flinging a cloth over it and pleading for a do-over of the previous couple of minutes.
He stepped to one side and waited uneasily for what his advisor would say. He knew he'd been foolhardy to paint this in his studio. But if he'd painted it in the loft, Peter might have seen it. Now he'd have to face the consequences.
Sherkov had visited him before in his studio and had seen several of his works, but they'd all been contemporary pieces. He was too shrewd to simply brush off the implications of what he was now studying.
He ignored Neal while he scrutinized the painting first at a distance and then close up. At times his nose was almost touching it. He muttered to himself in Russian about the technique. After what seemed like hours, Sherkov wheeled around and addressed him in a rumbling voice. "Did you switch topics for your paper?"
"No, sir."
"That's unfortunate. If you'd informed me you were making an analysis of Gerrit van Honthorst and were going to present this as your paper, you might have scored a hundred."
Neal let out a sharp exhale when it became clear Sherkov wouldn't immediately pillory him, but he knew he wasn't off the hook. Before launching an attack, Sherkov liked to lull his victim into a false sense of security. Neal compared him to an immense Russian bear who appeared amiable from a distance but didn't hesitate to reveal his fangs when approached.
"If you hadn't chosen a modern subject, I very well might have proclaimed this a lost masterpiece." Sherkov sat down on a stool and motioned Neal to do likewise. "I've seen other paintings of yours, but none like this."
Neal shrugged. "My teachers emphasized copying masterpieces as a means of developing a solid foundation for my own works."
"But this is no ordinary copy. The technique, the brushwork, you captured Honthorst perfectly. It's as if you transformed yourself into the artist." Sherkov studied Neal for a long minute. "The art world should consider itself very lucky you've chosen art history rather than forgery as your career. Now that I know what you're capable of, it's up to me to make sure you succeed so you never feel tempted."
"So about that paper," Neal said with a hopeful smile. "I no longer need to write it?"
"That offer's off the table. I shall expect an even longer paper, with fresh insights into Rembrandt's technique based on your perspective as an artist. Unless ... do you intend to present me with one of Rembrandt's lost masterpieces?"
This was working out better than he'd dreamed possible. He could start work on it this morning. It'd be a tight squeeze, but he already knew the subject he'd use.
"I should clarify. That was a joke," Sherkov broke in, banishing his pipe dream to the netherworld. "I could tell from your eyes what you were thinking, and there are already far too many Rembrandt forgeries. I've no intention of encouraging you along the path of a master's in forgery."
Been there, done that. Neal contented himself with a good-natured laugh. "No fears on that score. You'll get your analysis in writing."
"Good." Sherkov fixed him with a no-nonsense look that was out of Peter's playbook. "And be advised, if the art world ever announces that a lost masterpiece by Honthorst has been discovered, I'll remember this discussion." The bear retracted his claws as his expression softened. "Tell me about this painting. What's the story behind it?"
#
"Those were the best windows yet," Fiona said with a final admiring glance. She and Neal had spent the past hour strolling along Fifth Avenue looking at the holiday displays. The sky had been a brilliant sapphire blue when they started. Now the sun was low on the horizon, and their breaths came out in white puffs, but they were enjoying their walk too much to mind. Their coats were warm, and Fiona was wearing boots. When she walked, her coat parted to reveal a short red dress underneath.
"Better even than Barneys?" Neal asked. "Or Bergdorf's? I especially liked their vaudeville scenes."
"The one with the magician pulling the rabbit out of the hat? That could have been you. After seeing that painting you created out of starlight and fairy dust, I'm tempted to call you Merlin." She slanted her head and scanned him appraisingly. "Perhaps Neal the Wizard?"
Neal broke into a grin. "Did I ever tell you, I was once mistaken for the main character in the School for Wizards series?"
"Of course, I should have seen the resemblance! I can't wait to tell my niece in London that I'm dating the chosen one."
They continued their stroll, stopping to look at Henri Bendel's display. "I still give the prize to Bloomingdale's," Fiona remarked. "How could you not go with Phantom of the Opera? Their windows were truly magnificent. You know I've never seen the musical. Maybe this year in London." Fiona was going to like her Christmas present. He planned to tell her over dinner.
"My wizard has a mysterious smile on his face," Fiona said. "It wouldn't have anything to do with our plans this evening? You've been resisting all my efforts to coax it out of you."
"All in good time," Neal said. "It's still early to go to dinner. We could hit one more store. Where do you want to go?"
Fiona hesitated. "You're sure you're not overdoing it? I don't want to get in trouble with Peter."
"He got a little carried away." Neal waved airily with his hand. "There, I just cast a magic healing spell."
Fiona wasn't dissuaded that easily. "How exactly did you injure your side? I didn't think white-collar crimes were violent."
"They're not generally. This was a fluke incident. Not worth mentioning." Fiona had more than once expressed her concern about the crime situation in New York. Hearing about an attempted bank robbery and the Yakuza wouldn't ease her fears. "So where to next?"
She put her arm through his. "Okay, my wizard with magic powers, how about whisking us off to Regnier's? It's only a block away. I've been so busy at work I haven't had time to see The Queen's Jewels exhibit. It's been on my list ever since you told me that your group recovered Marie Antoinette's diamond earrings."
Fiona knew the earrings had been stolen from the truck delivering them to Regnier's from the Smithsonian, but she knew nothing about how the earrings had been used to frame him. And the forgery he'd made of the queen's ring would also remain a closely-guarded secret.
The interior of Regnier's—with its colonnades, tall vaulted ceilings, and chandeliers—sparkled any time of the year, but over the holidays it was a winter fantasy. Lavish displays had been a seasonal highlight for decades. The theme this year was Marie Antoinette at Versailles. Replicas had been built of several of the rooms as well as the more rustic retreats on the palace grounds where the queen led a simpler life. The jewelry exhibit included copies of her famous diamond necklace and the Hope Diamond in addition to the earrings and ring.
As they studied the items on display, Neal heard their names being called out. When he whirled around, he saw Sara and Bryan approaching them.
"Are you two following us?" Fiona asked with a laugh. "First the gala and now here!"
"We're combining work and pleasure," Sara replied. "Regnier's is a client. After a recent robbery, they called on us to advise them on strengthening their security. We decided to get in some Christmas shopping. Are you shopping, too?"
"Only the window variety," Neal said. Sara was carrying a couple of Regnier's lacquer-red shopping bags.
"Have you seen their purses?" Fiona asked Sara. "Some of them look like museum pieces."
"Sara now owns one," Bryan said. "I bought her a Lana Marks clutch."
Fiona's eyes widened. "Not the one encrusted with diamonds?"
"Not quite," Sara said with a laugh. "She designs some that Bryan didn't have to ransom his soul for." Evidently, Fiona shared Sara's love for purses as she continued to ply Sara for details. Sara's clutch had already been gift-wrapped so Fiona insisted on Sara showing her which one she'd chosen from the display.
When they took off, Neal exchanged wry smiles with Bryan. He'd vowed to make an effort to get to know the guy better. This was a good opportunity. But it wasn't easily accomplished. Bryan deftly evaded Neal's questions, riposting with several of his own. "I heard about how your team was instrumental in the recovery of the earrings," he said. "White Collar is building up an enviable record. Your skills must be impressive to be hired as a consultant. How did you acquire your expertise at such a young age?"
"I lived in Paris for many years," Neal said calmly. The marshals had provided him with a history going back for ten years which was adequate for such questions. He redirected the topic to Sterling-Bosch's authentication methods which Bryan in turn deflected into a discussion of Neal's art. Anyone listening to Bryan would believe he was simply engaging in polite conversation. But Neal's distrust of him was growing with each question.
"Have you exhibited anywhere?" Bryan asked.
"Sara must have exaggerated my skill. I'm not ready for that yet."
Bryan eyed him speculatively. "You're being overly modest. If what I hear is true, your talents are considerable. That was a complicated case around the earrings. The manager said they'd been stolen from the FBI vault and then recovered, but he was unsure of the details. Can you fill me in?"
That distrust was turning into warning pings to tread carefully. "The case is pending. I'm not allowed to discuss it—sorry."
"Quite a black eye to have such valuable items stolen from your own vault."
"We've improved security measures to ensure it doesn't happen again."
What was behind this interrogation? Bryan's smile stopped at his mouth, and his eyes were sizing him up as if he were a fencing opponent. Did he consider Neal a rival? Had something leaked out about him being suspected of the theft?
It was a relief to see Fiona and Sara return. The conversation became much more congenial as the four of them resumed their stroll through the jewelry exhibit. They'd almost finished when Bryan's cell phone rang. He said it was a business call and went over to a less noisy area of the showroom to take it.
Sara shrugged as she watched him depart. "I've learned to expect that. I've never seen anybody get so many calls on weekends. I hope that won't be my fate at Sterling-Bosch." Looking over at Neal, she added, "Fiona mentioned you'd been injured on a case. Nothing serious, I hope?"
Neal waved it off. "A couple of stitches and I'm as good as new."
She smiled understandingly at him. "Danger follows you wherever you go, Mr. Bond."
"The same could be said of you, Tiffany. Done any diamond smuggling recently?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm hot on the trail of a jewel thief in Paris," Sara said, looking pleased. "If I manage to corner him, I just might be covered in diamonds myself."
Fiona listened to their banter with an amused smile. "You're two of a kind. My life at the auction house pales in comparison."
When Bryan returned, Sara said, "We should take off. Bryan's never seen the Christmas tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then we have reservations at La Grenouille." That was one of New York's most expensive French restaurants. Just how much did Sterling-Bosch pay its agents?
With a final exchange of holiday wishes, they went outside to hail taxis. Neal was taking Fiona to a restaurant near the Theater District for dinner. It might not be as prestigious as La Grenouille, but Neal consoled himself that the restaurant he'd selected had live jazz for Fiona, the music lover. Located on the ninth floor of the Museum of Arts and Design, the restaurant also had panoramic views of Central Park and Columbus Circle.
During the taxi ride, Fiona said, "Sara and I worked on the same project this week—the insurance arrangements for an upcoming auction."
"Which one?"
"A February event focusing on European Masters. Sara said she may come back for the auction. We should go out together, perhaps go to a play."
That was welcome news. Neal enjoyed being in the friend zone with Sara and was glad Fiona liked her too. But at the moment all he wanted to think about was the green-eyed blonde sitting next to him.
#
On Sunday morning, Peter was in a festive mood. The bank case had been successfully resolved, Neal had made a quick recovery, and El was glowing from the favorable reviews of her play. It was time to celebrate the moment.
When he and El entered La Palette, they spotted Neal at the bar talking with the owner, Jacques Legault. Neal had mentioned El would like the Christmas decorations, and he was right. Her eyes widened as she gazed around the interior. Peter knew that look. She was already getting ideas to copy for her parties. Grapevine garlands woven with twinkle lights and birds had been strung between the rustic wood beams of the ceiling. Holiday greenery decorated with red velvet bows added warmth to the wood paneling and paintings. A large Christmas tree next to the bar was decorated with antique glass ornaments.
The walls of La Palette were covered with art. Jacques gave the artists who had been chosen to display their works a discount off their tabs, a winning strategy that provided publicity for the artists and a unique attraction for the bistro. Peter knew Neal had a painting on permanent display but he'd yet to figure out which one. Neal wasn't making it easy and hadn't given any hints. Today Peter was determined to solve the puzzle. In the spirit of the holidays, Neal would have to share at least one clue. Peter had already discussed it with El. She planned to initiate a stroll among the paintings so Neal wouldn't be suspicious. A carefully dropped hint or two should suffice and he'd be able to check off another one of Neal's secrets.
Over greetings, El took the first step. "Before we sit down to eat, let's look at the paintings," she suggested. "Peter won't mind if our shopping's a little delayed."
"Good idea," Neal agreed readily. "The origami workshop I'm leading doesn't begin for several hours." He ordered glasses of wine for them to have while they strolled.
The walls on all sides of the bistro were thick with paintings. Peter knew he'd have his work cut out for him. Watercolors, oils, landscapes, abstracts, the assortment was far-ranging. His eyes narrowed as he wrestled with what style Neal would have chosen. Nothing realistic. Maybe something with a lot of splotches? Peter looked over at El who was having a great time discussing the works with Neal. When he caught her eye, he nodded toward the paintings. It was time to wheedle a clue.
Several minutes later, he was forced to admit that it was not going as well as he'd hoped. Despite El's efforts, Neal remained annoyingly vague and charming. Peter sighed as he continued his search. He already knew Neal hadn't signed his work, although it would have been just like him to sign it with Henry's name.
The bistro was already crowded with brunch patrons, many of whom were also checking out the art. A group of people had gathered around a work in the back. El nudged Neal. "That painting's getting a lot of attention. Do you know what it is?"
Neal looked over to where she was pointing. "Probably a new work."
"Let's go over," she said.
As they approached they could hear the people talking. "Amazing piece." ... "It reminds me of Caravaggio." Peter knew the crowd at La Palette tended to be an artsy one. If they liked it, it must be good. The Italian Renaissance wasn't known for abstract works.
Glancing over at Neal, Peter saw a half-smile flit over his face. As they got closer, one of the patrons caught sight of Peter and exclaimed. "You're the one in the painting! You have to tell me about the artist."
Peter looked at the painting in astonishment. No doubt who the artist was ... or the subjects. Neal had recreated their night of stargazing at the family cabin in the Catskills over Halloween. The three of them were seen in a close-up, their faces reflecting the glow of the red-filtered lantern. Peter and El's faces were clearly visible; Neal's profile was in the shadows. The telescope was next to Peter. The night sky rose high above them with faint stars in a midnight-blue sky. As Peter got closer, he saw the three constellations. That night Peter had explained he was the herdsman Boötes protecting El, the mama bear or Ursa Major, and they'd joked about Neal being Perseus. The constellations were all there, faint but recognizable. The scene moved from the chiaroscuro of the people to the midnight blackness of space.
Peter stood speechless staring at the painting while El wrapped Neal up in a hug. "It's beautiful!"
Neal gazed over at Peter nervously. He still hadn't said anything. "Do you like it?" he asked.
Peter finally spoke, his voice rough. "I love it."
"It's yours. An early Christmas present."
Jacques came up. "But don't feel that you need to take it home right away. You're welcome to display it here as long as you like."
"Sorry, Jacques, this is coming home with us today," Peter said firmly.
Jacques laughed. "I'm not surprised, but I thought I'd try." He removed a Reserved card from the table in front of the painting. "This is your table. When you're ready to order, let me know."
They sat down but Peter continued to stare at the painting. "The style? You're going to mock me, but it reminds me of Honthorst."
Neal was unexpectedly serious. "You told me how much you liked the style I'd used for the documentary paintings of Azathoth's house of horror. I wanted to give you something in that same style that was not of terror but happiness. Besides," he added with an impudent grin, "I figured it was time you had an authentic Neal Caffrey forgery."
#
They took their time over a brunch of Gruyere cheese soufflés followed by crepes with raspberry-cassis sauce. Peter sat back with a sigh of contentment as the waiter whisked his plate. Now if he could only talk El out of shopping, the day would be perfect.
El's mama bear side surfaced when she quizzed Neal about his injury. "Any redness? Does it appear swollen?"
Neal appeared amused by the interrogation. "Do I hear more clucks?" He waved a hand in Peter's direction. "Peter's already done a remarkably good imitation of a mother hen. Not that I mind. But there's no need for ruffled feathers. No signs of inflammation and I'm behaving myself. Even yesterday," he added in response to Peter's raised brow. "Fiona remembered to be gentle with me."
"Peter explained he'd dropped the hint," El said. "That was clever of him."
"I loafed around the loft all morning. Called Henry. He'd phoned Friday night and insisted on knowing what happened. I figured if I didn't call in with a progress report, he'd be checking on me, too."
"What's Henry up to these days?" Peter asked.
"He's joined the facial recognition team at Win-Win. They're focusing on the global airport security market. Early next year they'll start beta trials. Henry's also signed up to volunteer for a UNESCO project. Have you ever heard of GEMI?"
El looked thoughtful. "Isn't that the education-through-music group? I recall reading something about them in the paper. "
"That's right. GEMI stands for the Global Education through Music Initiative. Henry heard about them when he was in India last fall."
"I missed the article," Peter said. "What's it about?"
"They work primarily in underdeveloped regions with a high rate of illiteracy," El explained. "The theory is an intriguing one. Kids make music whether or not they can read. Music can help educate them and lift them out of poverty."
"Henry's sitar teacher is involved in GEMI," Neal said. "Supposedly, rock musicians are getting involved. They help groups make CDs and provide promotional assistance. Henry contacted GEMI last week to offer his services. He's been looking for a way to do outreach and this is a good fit."
"That's a wonderful way for Henry to give back and it's an area he has experience with," El said. "Does he have any specifics on what he'll be doing?"
"Not many. He thinks a fair amount of travel could be involved. Since he'll be traveling with the facial recognition project, he could volunteer his services while on the job. GEMI's headquarters is in New York at the UNESCO Liaison Office, so I'll get to see him more often."
While El and Neal continued to talk about GEMI, Peter made a mental note to contact Tricia. If Henry had discovered Fowler's connection to Adler, he'd set himself up with an excellent cover to travel to Argentina. Adler had been on the FBI's radar for years, but as long as he remained out of the country, they had to rely on Interpol working with local authorities for assistance. So far they'd had zero success. Henry told Peter he'd dropped the case, but was that just an act?
When Peter's focus returned to the conversation, El was saying, "When Peter told me about you and Keiko leading an origami workshop, it reminded me of something I've meant to ask. How did you get interested in origami?"
"I started doing origami when I was a kid in St. Louis. The same person who introduced me to fencing taught me."
Peter gestured to the waiter to bring more coffee over. "I'm sensing a story, and what would Christmas brunch be without a Christmas tale?"
Neal stroked his chin. "Let me see ... 'Twas the night before Christmas."
"Not that Christmas tale," El said with a laugh. "I want the one with three origami cranes and two fencers leaping."
"How about three fencers leaping? When I was in the fourth grade, there was a Japanese girl named Asami who was in my class. She lived down the street from me. Her dad worked at a Benihana restaurant as one of the chefs. They'd been in the States only a year—Benihana used to bring in teppanyaki chefs on temporary work visas— and she wasn't very fluent in English." Neal hesitated for a moment. "As you know, I had my own issues with speaking at the time. This was in the fall and my first term to be back at school."
Peter nodded in sympathy. After Neal had been hospitalized for child abuse, he'd been too traumatized to speak for a couple of months.
"Anyway, we became friends. Some of the other kids gave her a hard time over her broken English. One, in particular, appeared determined to make her life miserable. At the end of class one day, she and I were talking when he began taunting her. I got mad and tried to get him to stop. He was a lot bigger than I was and fisticuffs have never been in my skill set." Neal winced. "It wasn't my finest moment."
Peter could well imagine Neal as a slender kid trying to fight some bully bigger than he was and what the results would have been.
"I walked her home afterward. Mom had taught me a little Japanese, so when I met her dad, I used it. It turned out his English was worse than my Japanese. Mr. Yamamoto was grateful for my help with Asami. He cleaned me up, gave me a snack, and I wound up staying there till he needed to leave for work. I started going over to their house more and more. He'd fenced in Japan and began giving me lessons along with Asami. I helped him with English, and he taught me Japanese. Asami loved origami and the three of us used to practice together. That was a period in my life when I didn't want to spend any more time than necessary at home. I used to go to their house every day after school. About two years later they moved away when his visa expired and he wasn't able to renew it. I never saw them again." Neal's voice trailed off as for a moment the shadow of an abandoned kid crossed over his face. But he quickly replaced it with an easy smile as he looked up at them. "And thus concludes the tale of Three Fencers Leaping."
"And a lovely tale it was," El said approvingly. "Do you have any pictures of Asami and her father?"
Neal took a sip of his coffee. "No, I don't have any pictures from my childhood. Scrapbooks weren't my thing."
Neal's tale was more revealing than Peter had expected. That had been a difficult period in his life when he was forced to deal with the issues of an alcoholic mother. The Yamamotos must have provided a welcome escape. Peter had wondered about Neal's familiarity with Asian cultures. He'd assumed it was at least partly due to the Asian federal marshal who'd befriended him in St. Louis. Neal had just filled in a few of those troubling blanks in his life. "Disclosures make the best stocking stuffers," Peter declared.
Neal grinned. "Remember that. I expect my stocking to be stuffed with Christmas tales from your childhoods."
#
The American Museum of Natural History was a short drive away from the restaurant. El had already expressed a desire to visit the museum shop for presents for her family and after hearing Neal describe this year's origami tree, they both wanted to see it for themselves. The tree was impossible to miss. It was in the center of the ground floor lobby. Neal told them it was thirteen feet tall with over five hundred origami models.
"Are any of the origami ornaments yours?" El asked.
"A few." Neal pointed out a blue peacock. "That one's mine."
"Isn't that your Columbia lion?" Peter asked.
Neal looked pleased. "You remembered. That's a larger version of what I made for you when I found out I'd been accepted at Columbia."
"It's on our tree too," El said. "We didn't put up a big tree this year, but I decorated a small one where it has a place of honor."
"You kept it?"
"Naturally," she said. "When I insisted you refold it for me, did you think I was going to throw it away?"
While they talked, Peter circled the tree, scanning through the models.
"On the prowl for dinosaurs?" Neal asked.
"There's a stegosaurus from last year I particularly admired."
"I'll help you search," El said. "Didn't you say it was green with red plates?"
"Yes, I believe I did. Let me know if you find any bumblebees hovering around it."
Neal stopped searching to roll his eyes at Peter. "Any chance of escaping dinosaur and bumblebee purgatory?"
Peter nodded slowly. "We may be able to negotiate an acceptable arrangement. Perhaps a trade for no more Wookiee jokes?"
"It will be a sacrifice but under the circumstances, I think it'll be worth it." He smiled mischievously. "Besides, I'm counting on you supplying me with new material next year."
The three of them continued to scan the tree for Peter's stegosaurus. "Found it!" El called out and began giggling.
Peter went over to look. "Neal, did you put that bumblebee next to my dinosaur?"
Neal didn't answer but stayed rooted in place, his eyes fixed on something on the tree. Peter went over to see what he'd found.
"Got any latex gloves with you?" Neal asked.
"Yeah, why?" He'd acquired the habit long ago of always carrying a pair in his jacket. He'd lost count of the number of times he had an unexpected need for them.
Neal slipped on the gloves and reached into an inner branch of the tree. "What do you make of this?" He held out an origami shield on the palm of his glove. Peter studied it. There was no doubt. Painted on the shield was the glowing branch, the symbol of the cybercriminal Azathoth.
Neal arched his eyebrows. "Holiday greetings from Azathoth? What's he trying to tell us?"
Notes: Whatever Azathoth is plotting will wait till the new year to unfold. The next Caffrey Conversation story is Caffrey Aloha by Penna Nomen where Neal and his friends celebrate Christmas as well as Noelle and Joe's wedding in Hawaii. Azathoth returns to plot new devilry in my next story The Dreamer. The action begins in January 2005, as Neal starts a new term at Columbia.