Chapter 3: Out from the Shadows

Neal's loft. January 19, 2005. Wednesday evening.

Neal stayed late at Weatherby's to document his suspicions and then raced to Columbia. He arrived barely in time for his evening visual arts workshop. This was the first evening of the new semester for art critiques, and Professor Myra Stockman plainly had replenished her arsenal of flaming arrows over the holiday. Neal's works were not spared. By the time she left his studio, several of what he considered to be his best works bore the scorch marks of her criticism. If Neal hadn't been so rushed in getting back, he might have been better prepared to defend them. As it was, all his brilliant repartees didn't occur to him until thirty minutes after she'd left. By the time he got home, he was drained. A glass of wine, a little reading, then bed.

Ah, fond delusions.

He opened the door to find Mozzie had taken possession of his dining table and covered it with books and diagrams. He was typing at a frenzied pace on his laptop when Neal entered. An opened bottle of wine was next to him, with most of the contents gone. Mozzie really did need his own office.

"Mozz?"

He didn't look up from his laptop. "Pull up a chair," he ordered. "I need your help. We may be up all night."

Neal groaned. "Not tonight. Can't this wait till tomorrow?"

Mozzie paused typing to glare at him with bloodshot eyes. "Oh sure, go right ahead and fiddle while Rome burns. What's one more species lost to mankind? As the lehua flower dies on the tree, slumber away, oh you—"

"Forgive my ignorance," Neal said, quelling his rant, and took a seat at the table. He gloomily studied the wine Mozzie had appropriated: a velvety Merlot with blackberry overtones he'd been saving to have with Fiona. In addition to acquiring his own office, Mozzie also needed to start drinking his own wine. "Which conspiracy are we talking about?"

"Does bzzz ring a bell? I hope you haven't forgotten."

"Trust me, even if I wanted to, you wouldn't let me." Ever since Mozzie had discovered his passion for bees—a seismic event comparable to being struck by one of Jupiter's thunderbolts on top of Mount Olympus— he'd made sure to keep Neal in the loop. Last month Mozzie had gone into partnership with their friend Billy Feng to produce and market products made with Hawaiian organic honey. Billy, a retired cat burglar, owned a Hawaiian-themed store and café just south of Columbia. Billy's large family in Hawaii supplied them with products based on Billy and Mozzie's specifications.

Neal had hoped to stay clear of Mozzie's new undertaking, but that was not meant to be. First, he'd been roped into creating paintings for the café, then he was tasked with designing wine labels and critiquing blends for the new collection of honey wines.

Mozzie rarely paced, but he did so now. "We're on the cusp of tremendous success. Last week we held several wine tastings, and ever since we've been deluged with advance orders." In truth, he was looking unusually frazzled. Neal put aside thoughts of the Corot forgery and Azathoth to focus on the crisis in front of him.

"Doesn't Billy have someone to help with the paperwork?"

"Up to now, he hasn't felt the need for one, but with all the additional honey products we're carrying—did I mention we've added a line of organic honey-based cosmetics—we've been overwhelmed."

"What kind of cosmetics?"

"Honey-based face creams, toners, regenerating serums. Our honey business is in a crisis from too much success, but it's nothing compared to the global catastrophe confronting us."

"Whatever it is can't be that dire," Neal said soothingly.

"You tell me. Our native bees are rapidly going extinct. In particular, the Hawaiian yellow-faced bees are under attack!"

Neal had never heard of the yellow-faced bee although it did sound like a B-grade movie: Godzilla vs. Yellow-faced Bee or perhaps Monkey King and Yellow-faced Bee Travel to the West. Fists of Fury V: Enter the Yellow-faced Bee sounded like a move Mozzie had made him watch.

Mozzie reached over and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. "Are you listening to me? The yellow-faced bee's habitat is being threatened by evil developer-warlords, rampaging hogs, and other lackeys of the Dark Lord. It's up to us to save them!"

Add one more to the list: Star Wars VII: Revenge of the Yellow-faced Bee. "How do you intend to save them?"

"We, Neal." Mozzie shook a disapproving finger at him. "This is a joint effort. We intend to engage in a blitzkrieg of press releases. Enlightenment of the masses to join our cause will be our most effective weapon. In addition, I've taken it upon myself to be the yellow-faced bee's champion and ensure optimal breeding conditions." He pointed to a stack of printouts. "I've been studying mating techniques, which, and I know you'll find this fascinating, are another example of fractals in nature."

Neal began to see a silver lining in Mozzie's obsession. Last month, much to Neal's consternation, Mozzie volunteered to be his mentor in affairs of the heart. That was before Mozzie met Janet Dodson, a costume designer who'd helped the FBI on several occasions. Mozzie had immediately been smitten by Cupid's arrow. Janet had been equally taken with him, admiring both his originality and distinctive attire. They were well suited for each other. Janet was into environmental causes and liked to use the natural world as inspiration for her designs. Mozzie had long nurtured a Thoreau side. With her encouragement, it had blossomed into a full-blown passion.

Mozzie had offered to supply honey wine for the opening reception of Janet's upcoming exhibition of costumes as art and had earned major appreciation points from Janet in the process. The yellow-faced bee could be the extra push that would set Neal free. " I know what you're going to ask. You're so generous of spirit you've been racked with guilt over asking me to manage without your expert guidance in romance. I recognize the yellow-faced bee has a higher need and am willing to make the sacrifice. Now I'm heading for bed."

"Wait, you're attending Janet's reception on Saturday, aren't you?"

"Sure, why?" Janet's theme for the exhibition was insects. Were those looming storm clouds of rampaging bees on the horizon?

"I plan to launch my campaign to save the yellow-faced bee at the reception. I need a poster and also graphics for the flyer. You don't have anything else to do tonight, do you?"

Neal could feel his eyes widen as he confronted the enormity of the task Mozzie was proposing. "Can't this wait?"

He shook his head. "I need to have the graphics ready for the printer by tomorrow morning."

Neal wavered. Tomorrow wouldn't be any better. He had a full day of work and classes ahead. Mozzie's eyes were pleading with the look Neal couldn't deny. Mozzie was always there for him. What was one night of lost sleep? "Put the coffee on. Do you have a photo of the bee?"

"Of course. This won't be that difficult. You can use motifs from the paintings you made for Billy's cafe. All you have to do is add the bee."

Having resigned himself to the inevitable, Neal pumped Mozzie for details as he got out his paints. When he finally got to bed, it was after four o'clock. If he dreamed of giant yellow-faced bees buzzing around the spire of the Chrysler Building, he was too tired to remember them.

#

Peter arrived at work on Thursday to find Neal already waiting to speak with him. He'd assumed the subject would be Azathoth, but instead Neal burst into his office to discuss a painting he'd found at the auction house the previous evening.

"You're convinced the painting is a forgery?" Peter said dubiously. Weren't more tests needed before he could be certain?

After the past few months of having Neal report everything from stolen Fabergé eggs to bank heists, Peter had grown to accept the fact that his consultant was a crime magnet. But this time, Neal's appearance didn't inspire confidence. As he paced in front of his desk, the normal spring in his step was replaced by a shuffle and he had dark shadows under his eyes. Had he slept at all last night? Were the revelations about Azathoth having stalked them and perhaps continuing to do so stressing Neal to the point he was seeing forgeries wherever he went?

"I'm sure of it, Peter. I talked with Fiona this morning. The painting's being examined by experts at the Met today."

"How were you able to make such a quick pronouncement? You told them it was a forgery even before you'd examined the back of the canvas."

"Corot is perhaps the most forged artist of all time. A standard joke about him is that of the three thousand canvases he painted, ten thousand were sold in the States." Neal stopped pacing and sat down in the chair in front of Peter's desk as if he recognized he'd have to make a better case. "Klaus had me study Corot. He believed that if I analyzed where others went wrong, my own forgeries would be even stronger."

Peter knew that when Neal had been a member of Mansfeld's crew in Europe, he had perfected his forgery technique, but this was the first time Neal had divulged any of the details. It was a mark of how far their relationship had progressed that he was willing to disclose anything from that period in his life.

"But it's more than that." Neal hesitated. "When I first began copying the masters, I aimed to make myself one with the artist. I still remember how I felt when I saw my first Van Gogh. I didn't just admire it. I wanted to paint with his hand, to see with his eye. It took years but I finally started to get the hang of it. If you focus enough, the distinctions between you and the artist melt. It's like your souls connect." He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "You're gonna think I'm crazy now."

Peter shook his head. "No, I think I understand what you're trying to achieve, if not how. It's why you're such a great con artist. You can slip into other identities better than anyone I know. So you're saying this painting lacked Corot's soul."

Neal nodded eagerly. "Exactly. It was an empty shell, with nothing of the artist inside."

"What can you tell me about who painted it?"

"His brushwork is excellent. Without special equipment, I can't tell for certain, but the aging process was good enough to pass visual inspection. Where it comes up short is in its expressiveness. Corot's works have a sensuality this painting lacks. The subject should evoke understated passion, but instead there's a coldness about it that reeks of forgery."

What Neal was saying was tantalizing. Could this be the work the man the Bureau had been pursuing for years? "How high was the quality of the forgery?" Peter asked. "Excluding yourself, do you know of many who could achieve it?"

"Corot's not difficult to forge, but even so this is an excellent forgery." Neal shrugged. "There aren't very many known forgers, but who knows how many there are who simply haven't been caught yet."

"Any chance it could be the Dutchman?"

Neal shot him a puzzled look. "Dutchman? Who do you call the Dutchman?"

"You haven't run across him in the files yet? That's my nickname for an expert art forger and counterfeiter. Like Azathoth, we don't have an identity for him, but we've been searching for him for years. Jones initially put him on my radar. He'd studied a profile similar to his at Quantico. Based on a tentative profile we've built up for him, we've targeted several forgeries and counterfeits to be his." Peter settled back in his chair. "When you first burst on the scene, I wondered if you weren't the Dutchman. But if all the works we attribute to him are correct, you would have been a criminal starting at ten, and I don't think you were quite that far along then." Peter paused. "You weren't, were you?"

Neal grinned. "Not quite, but I'm flattered. I could look over the list of the Dutchman's suspected crimes. Why do you call him the Dutchman? Is he known mainly for his forgeries of Flemish paintings?"

"No, he's like a ghost. Disappears into the night."

"The Flying Dutchman? Very poetic, Peter. I'm impressed. Maybe a little envious."

"No reason to be. James Bonds isn't bad either. It has more panache."

Neal chuckled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I hope you're not feeling nostalgic for the good old days?"

"No, but it's a little unsettling to chase someone who has many of my characteristics. It's like I'm chasing a different me."

"That may make you the best one to catch him."

Neal smiled at the thought. He was clearly intrigued by the Dutchman. "Where are his forgeries stored?"

"Art Crimes in D.C. has them."

"Any chance I could see them? I might be able to find a common thread."

"That may prove difficult, but I'll give Kramer a call. They've been sitting on them for years with nothing to show for it. It's time for a fresh approach."

Neal picked up a pen on Peter's desk and began twirling it idly between his fingers. "What's particularly troubling about this case is how a Sterling-Bosch expert could have authenticated it. I would have thought their experts were better than this."

"It's my understanding this goes on all the time where paintings are reclassified as either forgeries or genuine."

"You're right." Despite his words, Neal shook his head, still troubled. "In this case, however, the colorman's stamp provided clear evidence. I would have thought any expert worth his salt would have noticed it right away."

#

After leaving Peter's office, Neal retrieved the file and settled down to acquaint himself with the Dutchman. Anyone who interested Peter so much was worth studying. The list of forgeries potentially connected to the forger went back fifteen years. Often the works had been linked to him simply because of the high quality of the forgery. In several cases, the forgeries would have escaped detection except for a fluke discovery. It made Neal wonder if the Dutchman ever signed his works. That's what he'd done for the Atlantic bonds he'd forged. Neal had later learned to resist that nod to vanity. How prudent was the Dutchman? The resolution of the documentary photos was not high enough to permit examination. In any case, it might take filtered or polarized light to read a hidden signature. This was a case that had eluded Peter for years. Neal would love to solve it for him.

An hour into his review, Fiona called him to let him know about the Met's evaluation. After talking with her, Neal headed back upstairs and knocked on Peter's door. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," Peter said, turning away from his computer. "You hear something?"

"I spoke with Fiona." Neal dropped into a chair and buffed his fingernails on his jacket lapel. "The Met experts agree with me. It's a forgery. They're going to deliver it to us tomorrow. The Met didn't take the time for a detailed analysis. Once they found the stamp they confirmed the forgery and elected to pass it to us." He hesitated. "Could we hold off sending it to Art Crimes? I'd like to examine it further. I may be able to determine when the forgery was made. It could have a hidden signature or other clues."

"Since this is a local case, I expect Kramer will go along. I'll give him a call this afternoon." Peter nodded with satisfaction. "Score one for your artist mind-meld. How is Weatherby's taking it?"

"Hard," Neal said, "but they were grateful it was discovered before it went on display. They've already contacted Sterling-Bosch. You can imagine how that went. Sterling-Bosch was responsible for the original authentication. Fiona told me that Sara's taking the red-eye from London to do damage control." No need to explain who Sara was. Peter had met her last spring and was familiar with her work at Sterling-Bosch. He also knew Neal had been interested in dating her. Neal had confided how a combination of Sara being transferred to London and her interest in Bryan McKenzie, a fellow investigator who Neal nicknamed Sighin' Bryan, had put a stop to any thought of romance. "Sara's a sharp investigator, but she'll have her work cut out for her on this case." Neal suppressed a yawn and got up to leave.

Peter raised his hand to stop him. "The business about the photos, the surveillance on us—you're not letting Azathoth get to you, are you?"

Flummoxed, Neal stared at him. "No, why would you say that?"

"You've been dragging around here all day. You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."

Neal gave a small chuckle. "Trust me, it wasn't Azathoth keeping me up, but yellow-faced bees."

"Yellow-faced bees? Don't you mean yellow jackets? Do you have an infestation? That hardly seems likely in winter."

Neal grinned as he nodded knowingly at Peter.

"Oh, that kind of infestation. Mozzie." Peter shook his head ruefully. "I should have known."

"He had me making graphics for his yellow-faced bee campaign most of the night. Sorry about the yawns. I'll lock my door tonight."

"I'm glad it wasn't Azathoth haunting your dreams. I haven't heard anything about yellow-faced bees."

"I assume you and El are going to the reception for Janet's exhibition."

"Of course."

"Then consider yourself warned. You soon will."

#

Thursday evening was the first official meeting of the AFO study group. AFO, standing for All for One, was the code term Richard and Aidan had coined when they helped Neal clear his name last fall. Aidan, the captain of the fencing club, had dubbed them the Three Musketeers and adopted their motto. He and Neal had first met through fencing and Richard was a willing recruit both for the fencing team and the work of the musketeers. This semester when they decided to each take a course out of their comfort zone, they made a pact to support each other. The problem was Richard's course was unknown territory for all three of them.

By the end of Thursday evening, they'd all taken their first class, and it was time to assess. Neal and Richard were the first to arrive at Watson Hall where they had their art studios and had staked out their claim to one of the sectional conversation nooks in the student lounge. They'd grabbed a couple of coffees on the way over.

Richard took the lid off his cup. "I feel like we should include Travis in this group. He's the one who got me into this course. He needs to see my pain now."

Neal breathed in the aroma of his coffee. He'd just had his first session of computational art and felt like he was on life support. "Good idea. Travis would also be a help with my course. We could meet before band rehearsals on Sunday at Prentis Hall and make it easier for him to join us."

"I've worked with paints all my life. I wasn't expecting this to be such a challenge," Richard said. "Applying makeup is a completely different skill set. The professor skimmed over the basics so we can spend more time on casts and mold making, but I'm stuck on first base. He assumes we already have a basic understanding of makeup. I should have had a sister and then at least I would have grown up around the stuff."

Richard's frustration reminded Neal of how Angela had been venting at him last week. She'd arrived early to acclimate herself to life in New York before classes started. That had turned out to be a mistake as very few of the other students had arrived and she'd wound up feeling lonely and out of place. Neal had been busy with work and the paintings for Billy so he hadn't been able to spend much time with her. Perhaps two frustrated souls could help each other. "Do you want me to ask my cousin Angela to give you a crash course? She excels at makeup. The goth looks she creates for her performances are very professional."

Richard's face brightened. "She wouldn't mind?"

"She'll love to help," Neal said confidently.

Aidan arrived, coffee in hand. Dumping his backpack beside him, he sprawled onto a sectional.

Aidan had attended his first class on Japanese art that evening. Neal eyed his cup questioningly. "What, you're not drinking green tea?"

Aidan winced. "I need major infusions of caffeine after what I sat through."

Richard grinned knowingly. "Feeling expanded?"

"I'm as bloated as a Japanese pufferfish," Aidan huffed. "Seems like at least half of the class speak Japanese. The professor appears to be delighted at my abysmal ignorance. Claims I present him with a good challenge."

Neal laughed. "Perfect. I can tell already that you'll need long tutoring sessions with Keiko. You may thank us at any time. It would have been nice if you'd been as kind with me."

"What do you mean?" Aidan said, looking astonished. "Your course is fantastic. I read through the synopsis and wished I'd been able to take it when I was getting started."

"I'd hoped the focus would be on art, not computers. Hah. Our first topic is fractals and 'other recursive figures', whatever that means." Neal pointed an accusing finger at Aidan. "This is your fault. I'm counting on you to not let me fail my first course."

Aidan waved off his complaint. "Fractals rock. I've been using them in my media art. An exhibit of fractal photography is opening on Saturday. We should all go. You too, Richard. We're in this together. AFO."

"I agree in principle," said Richard. "And for that reason, both of you need to meet me at Prentis to help me with my makeup."

Aidan burst out laughing. "You do know how that sounds, right?"

Richard rolled his eyes. "Please, no jokes. I've already heard them all. From now on, I'm calling it SFX. I have to work on my first transformation, and Neal's going to be my model."

"Hey, I didn't say anything about being —"

Richard froze him in mid-sentence. "AFO, remember?"

"Can't argue with that." Although he might have liked to. Being a guinea pig for a makeup—correction, SFX— session with Angela and Richard was not high up on his list of pleasurable activities. It wasn't Richard he was worried about. Ever since Sara tricked him into letting her dye his hair, Neal had learned to proceed with caution when it came to skin and hair preparations. He made a vow to check Angela's purse for any contraband products like hair dyes before allowing her to do any work. But no need to spook Richard about that just yet. "I'll give Angela a call."

They agreed to meet at four o'clock before band rehearsal. Neal had suggested meeting later to limit the amount of damage that could be done, but Richard wanted to make sure he had enough time to take advantage of Angela's expertise. Neal hoped he wouldn't regret having made the offer.

Aidan took a draught of his coffee. "Keiko and I plan to go to the exhibit on Saturday. It's opening night but that's really the only evening we have free to attend."

"I may be able to go," Neal said, "but I'm attending another one being held in SoHo. Where's the one you're talking about?"

"It's also in SoHo, at the Cecile Gallery. It's called 'The Insect Perspective.'"

Janet's exhibition? Mozzie had mentioned a photographer was also presenting. Aidan and Richard had met Mozzie in November under the alias of Athos. Even without the wig of long flowing locks and wide-brimmed hat he'd worn as Athos, they'd easily recognize him. "That exhibit features not only photography but also costumes, and I know the costume designer who's exhibiting. Not only that—do you remember Athos from November?"

Richard chuckled. "That flamboyant man of mystery? Who could forget? I've missed seeing him."

"Athos is operating on another mission these days. He's working undercover as Dante Haversham. He goes by the nickname of Mozzie."

"Dante, Mozzie ..." Aidan snorted. "How many nicknames does the guy have?"

Neal shrugged. "I've never counted them all, and I probably only know a few of them. Just to warn you, he may look a little different from when you last saw him. There's an opening reception at six before the doors open to the public. I could get you in."

"That should work," Richard said. "Okay if I bring Travis? We'd already made plans to go to a jazz club in the evening. It's in the Village. We could stop off at the exhibit first."

Mozzie had already met Travis and even grudgingly respected him. He could talk to him about the yellow-faced bee. On the other hand, Travis was a suit in Mozzie's eyes. Upcoming trauma on the horizon? Mozzie was a self-proclaimed man of the shadows, a ghost. His infatuation with Janet and now his mission to promote the yellow-faced bee were combining to thrust him onto center stage. Could he handle the spotlight without melting into a puddle of terror-induced paranoia? As they made their plans, Neal debated warning him. After the previous night, his first inclination was to let the champion of the yellow-faced bee be surprised. But Mozzie was fond of saying he much preferred a scavenger hunt to a surprise party. To emerge from the shadows, he needed advance notice to prepare ... and an extra supply of honey wine on hand in case resolution faltered.