Chapter 2: Suspicious Behavior

January 18, 2005. Tuesday evening.

Neal stayed later than usual at work to discuss the contents of the flash drive with Peter. Afterward, he headed straight for his class at Columbia. From the moment he exited the Federal Building, Neal paid more than the usual amount of attention to his surroundings. "Somebody's Watching Me" was playing in the back of his mind.

How had Azathoth's agents managed to conduct their surveillance without being spotted? He suspected much of it had been done through cameras set up at strategic sites. The photos had all been taken in areas close to known locations—the Federal Building, Columbia, their homes. Initially, they might not have been tailed, but they could be now.

And the result of this heightened awareness? Nothing in the downtown area. Zilch for the subway ride. It was only after he'd exited the Columbia University subway station at 116th Street and was walking through the quad that he discovered a tail, and it was of the long, furry variety. It belonged to a squirrel who followed him the length of the quad in hopes of getting crumbs from the sandwich he was eating on the way to class. Neal rewarded the squirrel's diligence by tossing him a piece.

The piles of snow bordering the paths made Neal eager to lose himself in warm Italian landscapes in class. This was the first session of his course on Italian Renaissance painters, and Neal predicted it would be his favorite. The subject matter was one he was passionate about, and it was in his advisor's specialty. Neal had initially selected Sherkov because of his expertise in Western painting. When Sherkov found out he was fluent in Russian their friendship was sealed. But that friendship also made Sherkov more demanding in class. That wasn't a concern. The Italian Renaissance was Neal's playground.

Neal opened the door to Schermerhorn Hall. Currently the person he was looking forward to wasn't a white-haired advisor but a certain green-eyed blonde.

When he entered the seminar room, Fiona was talking with Sherkov at his desk. Neal helped himself to a cup of coffee from the carafe Sherkov supplied at his seminars and chatted with some of the other students while waiting for the seminar to begin. He knew most of them as they'd also attended Sherkov's course last semester.

When Fiona finished her conversation, she joined him. Greeting her, he asked about her discussion with Sherkov.

"I'll let him make the announcement," she said with an impish smile.

"So you're the one being mysterious now?"

"A pleasant change, don't you think?"

"I'll take that under advisement. After all, I thought I had the man of mystery act cornered."

"How are you at solving one?" she countered. "Last weekend I browsed through some of the second-hand stores near Washington Square. Any ideas as to what I found?"

Neal thought for a moment. "Here's a stab in the dark. Something that makes a sound and can be played in a band."

"I've become too obvious," she said with a laugh. "Still, I bet you can't guess which one." Fiona's look of elation told him she wouldn't be able to keep it a secret for long. She'd last by his reckoning three seconds at best. "It's a tin whistle," she added. "I'll bring it to band rehearsal on Sunday."

A tin whistle was a Celtic instrument so Neal understood her enthusiasm, but he did detect a roadblock. "Do you know of anyone who can play a tin whistle, flute, or anything similar?" he asked mildly.

Fiona with a flick of her hand dismissed his reality check. "A mere trifle. I plan to encourage Michael to take it up."

"Seriously?" Michael was the most nonmusical member of the group. Up to now, he'd been playing the tambourine and his enthusiasm more than made up for any minor misses on musicality. But learning to play the tin whistle would be several magnitudes more difficult.

"Ever since our Thanksgiving concert, he's been after me to suggest an additional instrument for him to play. I was originally going to suggest a recorder, but a tin whistle is more authentic. Have you persuaded Angela to come?"

"I believe so. She's nervous, though. She worries that she's not good enough on the dulcimer." Last summer Angela had the chance to meet some of their distant Caffrey relatives who were itinerant folk musicians. That encounter sparked an interest in ethnomusicology. Last fall, she abandoned rock for folk music, even buying a hammered dulcimer from one of the relatives who made folk instruments. Angela was a gifted pianist but the dulcimer proved to be more challenging than she'd anticipated. For the first time in her life, she had to learn how to tune an instrument. "Once I tell Angela about Michael and his tin whistle, she should have no more qualms."

"It's crazy for her to stress," Fiona remarked. "She's performed at a professional level for years."

"That's part of the problem. She's used to being an expert, not a beginner."

Sherkov's call to have the students take their seats interrupted their conversation. After a brief introduction to the subject matter, he summarized the syllabus of the seminar, explaining that each of the ten students would be responsible for one of the giants of the period. Sherkov went over to a side table where a brass samovar was displayed. Picking it up, he returned to the conference table and placed it beside him. "I want each of you to come up and have a turn at the samovar. Rubbing it will bring you good luck for the semester. I fully expect to be edified and enlightened by all the penetrating insights you'll make throughout the semester, and I know you don't want to disappoint me." He lifted the samovar lid and pointed inside. "Within the samovar are the names of fifteen artists. Reach inside to discover who you'll focus on. Your fate awaits you."

"Are the names written in Cyrillic?" Neal asked.

Sherkov took the question in stride. "No, but if you'd like to write your paper in Old Church Slavonic, please be my guest."

Fiona went first and selected Botticelli. When it was Neal's turn, he sauntered over to the samovar and gave it several slow, dramatic rubs. By the time he finished, the other students were chanting for him to pick something. He grinned when he read what was on the slip of paper. "Your samovar is already bringing me luck. I got Raphael."

After everyone made their selections, Sherkov explained that each student was responsible for preparing a detailed analysis of a different painting by the artist each week. Midsemester they'd pick another artist. He then launched into an overview of the period.

Only Fiona wasn't surprised by Sherkov's final remarks. "In three weeks Weatherby's auction house will hold its European Masters Auction. Thanks to Fiona, we have the opportunity for an off-hours screening. Included in the auction are a few works by Italian Renaissance painters, including Francesco Vanni of the Sienna School and Costanzo Cattaneo. The highlight of the auction is a work by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, The Dreamer at the Fountain. The painting, circa 1860, was thought lost. It was described in publications of the time but subsequently disappeared during World War I. Last month, it was found in Newark. The painting had been gathering dust in their attic for decades, and they had no idea of its value until they took it to an appraiser. A good lesson for all of us to examine our attics."

"The paintings are currently being prepared for display," Fiona added. "Some haven't been hung yet. We'll be able to get close-up looks. We've scheduled the viewing for five o'clock tomorrow evening. Don't arrive any later than five since the guards will lock the doors to the public at that time. I know that will be difficult for some of you with your work schedules, but that was the latest time I could arrange."

"Were there any doubts about the authenticity?" Neal asked Fiona at the end of the seminar. "There must have been questions. Corot is known as the most frequently forged painter in history, with thousands of known forgeries already documented."

"We were skeptical at first, but the painting was researched and verified by Sterling-Bosch experts in France. At Weatherby's, we rely upon our insurer for authentication. That way, if ever there is any problem, it's their responsibility. Will you be able to attend the viewing? Weatherby's isn't close to your office."

"I'll go in early tomorrow and if nothing pressing comes up, I should be able to make it." Weatherby's was on the Upper East Side not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He'd have to leave no later than four to make it. Peter would probably agree if he started an hour early and dazzled him with his love of paperwork.

#

During the drive home, Peter had debated whether to mention anything to El about Azathoth. As it turned out, her event-planning business made the decision for him. An afternoon reception lasted longer than she expected and by the time she came home, she was ready to collapse on the couch. Definitely not the right moment to bring up a series of events that had happened months in the past. Peter ordered a pizza and they spent what was left of the evening relaxing while watching a movie. Peter let El choose and assumed she'd select a chick flick. Instead, she surprised him with The Raiders of the Lost Ark. She claimed watching Indy's hair-raising exploits made her own issues seem trivial in comparison. Peter found himself wishing he could dispatch Azathoth with the ease of Indy.

When he arrived at work the next day, Hughes called him into his office for an update.

"I spoke with Interpol this morning and informed them of the latest development," Hughes said. "They also had news. Another theft has been uncovered—the earliest so far. This one was at the National Gallery in Prague in February 2004. They tell me a less sophisticated version of the malware used at the Met was found in the museum security program. They theorize it may have been a test case."

Peter sat back, revisiting his recollection of the malware history. "The Prague connection increases the likelihood that the Kolars are involved in the malware's development." When Neal worked undercover for Klaus Mansfeld in September, the two tech experts Mansfeld employed were a Czech couple, Jacek and Marta Kolar. They returned to Prague before Mansfeld attempted the theft. Since they hadn't committed any crime, they weren't held.

Hughes turned to face his computer. He pulled up the case as Peter reviewed their involvement. After a rapid search of the file, he said, "Interpol investigated them at the time and concluded their programming skills were not sufficient to have designed the program. The Kolars claimed Mansfeld supplied them with the program and they didn't know who'd written it. I'll remind Interpol about them, but since they were already questioned, I suspect there's not much further action they will take. At the very least they should be kept on the watch list."

"Trying to coordinate an effective response with Czech authorities through Interpol can turn into a bureaucratic quagmire," Peter warned.

Hughes nodded in agreement. "Interpol's main focus is fighting terrorism. And what leftover resources they have, they allocate to drugs and the illegal arms trade. Art crimes often get the short end of the stick. But their situation is no different from what we have in the States." Hughes leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "Phil Kramer is none too pleased that you're leading up the Azathoth investigation for the Bureau. If it weren't for the kidnapping, he would have taken it over."

"I realize that," Peter said. His former mentor, who now headed up Art Crimes, had called him about it. Although Phil's tone had been generally friendly, he made little attempt to hide his irritation at not being in charge.

"Since the budget requests have been so minor, nobody's raising a flag." The lines on Hughes's craggy face deepened as he added, "Fortunately I've not had to explain to the assistant director why agents under my leadership are infiltrating Lovecraft fan groups as part of their regular duties."

Peter didn't blame Hughes for his skepticism about the tactic. His own first reaction had been the same. "Azathoth is unlike a corrupt hedge fund manager or a crooked developer. To succeed we need to employ unconventional methods." He hesitated. "Are you ready to sign off on Tricia? I've got an appointment with her this morning and would like to go ahead and inform her.''

Hughes nodded his approval. "Go ahead. Azathoth poses a significant risk and her expertise will be invaluable."

An hour later, Peter took the elevator down to the Investigations and Operations Support floor to meet with Agent Tricia Wiese. Last year Tricia had been his second-in-command at White Collar. This month she'd joined the newly created regional Behavioral Analysis team. Peter missed having her on his team, but at least she was still stationed in New York and could be called upon to work with them. Starting back in November, Tricia had been assigned to the Fowler investigation as part of the training for her new job, and he hoped to make even greater use of her profiling skills now.

Tricia's smile was warm as she greeted him. "Welcome to my office. It probably looks familiar."

Her office was a duplicate of his. The window even had the same view. "You've settled in quickly," he commented, dropping into the chair opposite her desk. The bookcase was already full. Peter noticed among the books a few that her husband Mitch had written. Tricia had placed a couple of photos on her desk. One was a family shot of her, Mitch, and their two sons in front of a fireplace, and the other showed them in the middle of a field in winter gear with binoculars. "I haven't seen these photos before."

"They're from this past Christmas. Mitch and I both took two weeks of vacation."

Peter picked up the outdoor photo. "Where was this taken?"

"Floyd Bennett Field." A smile crossed her face. "If I take time off in December, the family understands that Christmas Bird Counts will be in their future. We participated in both the Brooklyn and Montauk CBCs. It's character-building to stand outside in thirty-degree weather with the wind in your face as you try to count and identify gulls flying by."

Peter knew Tricia was an avid birdwatcher and that the binoculars she carried on assignments were not only used on human targets. "Until you educated me, I used to think of birders as wimps. No longer." He put the photo back on her desk. "Even with the birding, your kids must have been thrilled to have both parents home."

"It didn't last long, unfortunately. Mitch left on the first of the month. He's spending six weeks with the Toba tribe in Paraguay." Mitch was a professor of anthropology at NYU and was often away for extended periods.

Tricia was looking at him quizzically. "But I bet you didn't ask for this meeting simply to catch up."

"No, we've had another development with Azathoth." Peter proceeded to relate the findings from the Flushing apartment. "Your familiarity with the autumn incidents makes you the ideal choice to be profiler. Hughes has already given it his blessing. I have the paperwork prepared and plan to submit the request today."

Tricia chuckled. "I may have to fight off my fellow analysts to be named, but the BAU should grant it. When I worked with them on developing the Fowler profile, I spoke with my former mentor about Azathoth. For a behavior analyst, his psychological makeup presents an irresistible lure."

"No one comes close to your knowledge on Azathoth, and there's no one else I trust as much." Peter shifted his weight in his chair as he brought up his other reason for seeing Tricia. This wouldn't be so clear-cut. "Any news about Garrett Fowler?"

She shook her head. "He's disappeared just like Vincent Adler and Kate Moreau. Fowler's legal status remains the same. He's wanted for questioning by OPR in connection with the theft from the vault and the frame attempt. He's technically still an employee of OPR on unpaid suspension. I assume his status will remain unchanged for at least a year. As long as he's considered an employee, OPR has the jurisdiction to prosecute him." Tricia eyed him thoughtfully. "What about Henry? Did you talk with him about it in Hawaii?"

"Henry continues to insist he only made a few inquiries about Fowler and has not done anything else. He claims he didn't involve any of his relatives and that no one at Winston-Winslow was informed because it was a private matter."

"Do you believe he's dropped the investigation?"

Peter shrugged. "Based on his past behavior, I'd have to say no. When I was in Hawaii, Henry never asked me about the status of the case. That in itself is suspicious."

She nodded. "It's not in his character to give up so easily. This time he has additional pressure. His father Robert had pursued an off-the-record investigation of Adler. He hoped that by bringing Adler to justice, he could secure the role of CEO in the company. I'm sure Henry doesn't want to give the appearance of following in his father's footsteps, even if his motives are different." Tricia paused and leaned forward. "Do you think Henry knows that Fowler was seen in Argentina? If he does, he'll connect Fowler to Adler just like we did."

"Henry made no mention of it, but since we were able to uncover it, I wouldn't be at all surprised that he did too. In the past month, Henry's provided himself with cover for overseas travel, both as an employee for Win-Win and as a volunteer." Peter filled her in on Henry's involvement with his company's facial recognition project and his volunteer work with the education through music initiative. "Henry told Neal he's going to Quito, Ecuador this month."

Tricia stopped jotting down notes to look up. "With a side trip to Argentina?"

Peter acknowledged his concern. "This volunteer project is suspiciously convenient. What I don't understand is why Henry insists on being so secretive about it. Why doesn't he simply go ahead and make it a legitimate case? Adler's enough of a prize that he could justify it with management. Then he could take full advantage of Win-Win's data mining tools."

"He may intend to. Perhaps he hopes to find evidence that will make it easier to justify an investigation. Through his Ponzi scheme, Adler bilked thousands of wealthy clients out of vast sums of money. It's quite possible one or more would pay for an investigation if they were persuaded there was a real chance of bringing Adler to justice."

"I hope you're right. My gut's telling me that Henry knows that Fowler's working for Adler."

Tricia smiled. "I've learned never to discount what your gut's telling you."

"But if Henry attempts something on his own—without backup and resources—and winds up in trouble, there's damned little I'm going to be able to do to help him. Adler's dangerous. Henry could easily wind up over his head—"

"Now you're talking like a dad," Tricia said pointedly. "But Henry's not your kid."

"Yeah, you caught me," Peter admitted. "He's my brother Joe's responsibility now, but Joe doesn't know anything about this."

"After his experience with Robert, Henry may not be willing to have any father figure in his life. He's an adult and you're going to have to trust he's learned from his past mistakes. Henry may not feel that he's in a strong enough position to push for making the case official. He's only been back at work for a little over a month after a prolonged absence. And given what's happened in the past, he could be concerned that Win-Win would view this as him replacing one obsession with another. But I'm confident that if he believes he can justify it, he'll make it official." Tricia paused and considered for a moment. "My best advice is not to push him. We know his heart's in the right place. And Neal's too smart for Henry to keep this a secret from him for long. He's going to want to tell Neal himself rather than being caught in the act."

"Everything you said makes sense, but this situation is doubly frustrating for me because the Bureau is limited in what it can do with Adler. He's already made two attempts that we know of to persuade Neal to work for him, first through Kate last spring and now through Fowler's frame attempt. But as long as Adler stays overseas, he's out of our jurisdiction. Win-Win's data mining skills would be invaluable in tracking Adler's movements." Peter stopped and chose his next words carefully. He didn't want it to sound too personal even if it was. "Adler's biding his time, but he hasn't given up. Next time I'll be ready for it. And if Henry wants to help on that front, I welcome it." He exhaled. It was good to get that off his chest, and Tricia provided a sympathetic ear.

Tricia cocked her head and studied him. "You haven't mentioned any of this to El, have you?"

Peter winced sheepishly. "El's very close to Henry's mom, Noelle. I don't want to place her in a position of having to keep secrets."

"Well, you're welcome to come here anytime to vent. I may be doing the same with you. Being on separate teams brings an unexpected dividend. We can use each other as sounding boards for our frustrations."

"I can't ever remember you appearing frustrated. You always seem on top of everything."

"Fooled you, did I?" she said with a grin. "I've developed hiding my frazzled nerves to a fine art. Actually it's getting easier now that the kids are older and after-school activities aren't such a challenge. I plan to take advantage of the FBI's new flex schedule to work the earlier seven-to-four shift. That'll start next month."

"You won't be alone. I know Neal will opt for the early shift too. Our current hours make it difficult for him to get to his classes on time. He came in early today, hoping he could leave early for a class visit to an auction house." Peter chuckled. "He's kept his nose to the grindstone all morning on his paperwork. As if I'd be hardhearted enough to deny his request."

Tricia smiled as she pointed out, "You may be sorry when he switches to the early schedule. His paperwork output may suffer."

"You should have seen his face when I reminded him he was scheduled to attend a mandatory ethics presentation this afternoon. I let him hang for a couple of minutes before relenting with grave managerial reluctance."

"He'll be so grateful you'll be rolling in completed paperwork for a week."

They concluded their meeting with Tricia promising to notify Peter as soon as she received clearance to work on Azathoth. Peter left, more hopeful than ever that he'd put together the right team to bring Azathoth to justice. The next time he—or she—struck, they'd be ready.

#

When Neal arrived at Weatherby's, Fiona was standing at the entrance waiting to greet him. "I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it. Thank you, Peter!"

"He let me duck out from an ethics presentation," Neal said, catching his breath after his dash up Madison Avenue from the subway stop. "I have to sit through the recording of the entire session tomorrow, but it's worth it. Am I late?"

"No, Sherkov only arrived a few minutes ahead of you. You'll have to come back during business hours sometime so I can give you a full tour."

"I'd like that. We'll combine it with lunch. This is perfect weather for a curry."

Fiona led him to the main gallery. "You're on. My favorite Indian restaurant is only a couple of blocks away. In the evening they have live sitar music."

They joined Sherkov and the rest of the class in the main auction gallery. Weatherby's was one of the preeminent auction houses in New York. Inside the patrician mansion were five floors of exhibit halls and auction spaces. The main gallery resembled an exhibit hall at the Met, with high ceilings and partitions to display artworks. After Neal and Fiona joined the others, Sherkov led a short discussion of the Italian Renaissance works scheduled to be auctioned. Afterward, the students were free to study the other works.

Neal headed straight for the Corot. The small painting was prominently displayed on a wall by itself. The Dreamer at the Fountain had been painted during the artist's late period. He used a palette of somber grays and muted greens for the background. The head of the young woman was in the shadows. She rested her chin on one hand while her other arm was extended in a languid gesture to the fountain. The rich umber and Venetian red of the dreamer's skirt and apron were in sharp contrast to the muted tonal range of the rest of the painting. Neal stood in front of the painting and cleared his mind of any extraneous thoughts, absorbing the paints, the textures, and the technique.

Corot was known for his aversion to bright colors, and this painting was a testimonial to it. He'd been accused of painting in only one octave in a minor key and knowing only one color—pale gray. Corot retorted that he aimed for a harmonious palette. This work was a Chopin nocturne, filled with poetry and lyricism. Or it should be ...

"Why are you shaking your head?" Fiona's voice came from behind him, breaking through his reflections.

Without turning around, he said, "It's not right. Corot couldn't have painted this."

A deep voice rumbled behind him. "What leads you to that conclusion?" Neal spun around. Sherkov had approached and was standing next to Fiona. He was studying Neal instead of the painting.

"The brushwork," Neal said. "It looks like Corot, but it's not. Corot's technique has a sensuality that you can detect even in the marks of the bristles. This doesn't have a soul." Neal paused, searching for the right words. Something about the work bothered him when he first looked at it, and the more he studied it, the more wrong it appeared. In his mind, there was no doubt the painting was a forgery.

He pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket. He'd picked up that Boy Scout trick from Peter at Christmas time, and this was his first opportunity to impress someone with how prepared he was. "May I?" he asked Fiona, nodding at the painting.

She looked concerned but nodded her assent.

Neal removed the painting from the wall and turned it over to examine the back of the canvas. It was marked with faint stamps indicating previous owners and sales. After surveying the stamps, he drew their attention to one in particular.

"That's the stamp of a Parisian colorman named Paul Contet. He prepared canvases around the turn of the century for some of the leading artists of the time, including Pissarro. He began using this stamp when his shop opened up in 1886. This work has been documented to have been painted around 1860. Corot died in 1875." Neal turned to Fiona. "You see the problem. It's simply not possible that Corot used a canvas prepared by Contet. If I were you, I'd get this painting reexamined."

Notes: I've taken dramatic liberty with the history of Corot's painting but the actual history also includes a mystery. In 1972, it was stolen from the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts and so far hasn't been recovered.