Chapter 4: Triage Girl

Federal Building. January 21, 2005. Friday morning.

Neal arrived at work early on Friday morning, eager to begin work on the Corot forgery. After he tossed his fedora on the bust of Socrates on his desk, he headed straight for his art niche.

During Neal's first year at the Bureau, whenever he wanted to work in the lab he needed to borrow someone's workstation. In the beginning, that wasn't a problem since none of his cases involved extensive lab work. But during the fall, he was called upon more and more to perform authentications. Having zero space to stow his supplies had become a growing annoyance. His solution was to turn it into a game of bartering favors for shelf space.

His doodles and drawings had attracted a large following. In exchange for a few sketches, he quickly amassed assorted shelves and cubbyholes throughout the lab. His FBI cartoons were particularly popular—he'd been able to acquire a new graphics tablet in return for a cartoon of the bullpen. But his success led to another issue—he had to spend a ridiculous amount of time collecting his supplies from the various storage spots before he could get any work accomplished. And he was still confronted with the challenge of finding a vacant workstation. Often he'd gone into the lab only to find that the techs had already snatched up all the available spaces. A permanent solution was imperative.

The campaign for a niche started in November when Neal pleaded his case to Peter, pointing out he'd been hired to consult but didn't have the means to do his job. Peter then acquainted him with the ponderous and prehistoric procedures of office space allocation. It wasn't until late December that his request had finally cleared all the red tape hurdles with the proviso that all equipment was to be shared. Purchases had to be justified based on their usefulness for non-art investigations. The White Collar budget had zero money allocated for art authentication which was considered to be the exclusive domain of the D.C. Art Crimes Unit. Changing that attitude was Neal's new mission.

Upon his return from Hawaii, Neal staked out his claim to a far corner of the lab that had primarily been used for storage. For him, that was what made it prime real estate. It already had the required shelving space. He was able to collect his supplies and gear from their various hiding places and group them in one location. Travis helped him scrounge a surplus computer and two excellent monitors. Between Travis's tech consults and Neal's sketches, they were able to barter enough equipment. His niche was born.

Much more than his desk in the bullpen, this was Neal's personal space. He had a magnetic board where he posted a few of his drawings. It soon became almost as popular with White Collar staff as the bulletin board in the breakroom. Recently he'd added his copy of Head of a Muse by Raphael to his board.

Neal planned to spend the day in his niche, studying The Dreamer. The painting was already confirmed to be a forgery but that only served to make it more of an enigma. When had she been painted? Had the forger left any clue to his identity? Was he brazen enough to sign it?

The painting wasn't large—only 25 by 17 inches—and he was able to prop it up in front of his monitor. Before starting the digital analysis, Neal first wanted to get better acquainted. After all, they'd only met two days ago. He relaxed his eyes to let the image blur. That might seem paradoxical but if she were slightly out-of-focus, details emerged from the painting that he might otherwise have missed. he must have spent at least a half-hour just staring at her. Lab techs came and left, but he didn't pay any attention to the activity around him.

Then he started the light analysis, using filters to shine different spectral frequencies at her. As he worked, he gained an appreciation of the brushwork technique of whoever had painted her. One of the challenges with the painting was that it had been lost so long ago that there was no high-resolution reproduction of the original to compare it with. Luckily, several art critics from the same era had described the painting in minute detail. Color photographs had been taken in 1915 shortly before its disappearance. Color photography was in its infancy then with the Autochrome system the only means of rendering colors. The color values for the Autochrome of The Dreamer when compared with the text descriptions appeared to be a faithful rendering, but the hazy appearance of the photo revealed little of the original brush technique.

At 10:30 Neal called a time-out. He'd become bleary-eyed from too much painting-staring. He turned off his equipment and wandered out into the breakroom, refilling his mug with Bureau swill. No one was in the breakroom, but he was still conducting an internal conversation with The Dreamer. Taking his mug with him, Neal returned to his desk in the bullpen to catch up on emails before going back to the lab. He'd received an evaluation request for the ethics presentation he sat through yesterday. He decided to go ahead and fill it out before returning to the niche. Neal scanned through the options given for his overall impression, and snoozefest wasn't listed. Simply thinking about it made his eyes close. He decided to add snoozefest in the additional comments section along with a few apt comparisons.

Peter strolled over as he was finishing his comments, and he quickly deleted what he'd just written.

"I came by to see you earlier," Peter said, "but you were so focused on the painting, I didn't want to disturb you."

Neal shrugged. "I know what you're wondering and I don't have any answers yet. I haven't found a hidden signature. I've developed an intimate appreciation of the artist's brushwork, but that doesn't help identify who the brushwork belongs to. I'm going to tackle a spectroscopic analysis next. If the forger were careless enough to use that stamp, he may also have been sloppy with his pigments, and I'll be able to date the forgery."

"You have a few more hours to work. At two o'clock, join us in the conference room. Jones and Diana have been researching the man who discovered the painting and will report their findings. We also have a guest participant."

Something in Peter's smile made Neal wary. "Anyone I know?"

"That's a safe assumption. Sara Ellis. Since she's serving as Sterling-Bosch's liaison to Weatherby's, she asked to consult with us. No doubt she'll also want to talk with you about the painting. I assume that's not a problem?"

Neal shook his head. "Two professionals working together, what could go wrong? I'll enjoy seeing her in action."

"Good. She may be working closely with us. I don't want there to be any friction." Peter paused and pointed his forefinger accusingly at Neal. "No 'Sighin' Bryan' in Sara's presence."

Peter knew him well. "I'll control myself. Actually, I saw Sara a couple of times in December. She and Fiona are friends. I even met Bryan and although I wasn't sighing over him, I didn't give him—or Sara—a hard time."

"I'm glad to hear you can handle this as a mature adult." Peter strode off with a satisfied expression on his face. Neal permitted himself the hint of a smile. Just because he couldn't tease her about Bryan, didn't mean other subjects were off-limits. What would Diana make of her? Would the two of them spar at each other or would they both gang up on him? Either way could be entertaining.

Neal returned to his niche to work on the painting with renewed enthusiasm. An idea occurred to him on the way back. If it worked, he could announce the results at the meeting.

#

Midday, Neal bid au revoir to The Dreamer and left to grab a sandwich. Originally he'd planned to work through lunch, but now there was no need. The Dreamer had divulged one of her secrets and Neal could relax while waiting to reveal it at the meeting. He reviewed his options for lunch. Normally the cafeteria in the basement was a place he frequented only under the direst of circumstances, but the frigid conditions outside warranted extreme measures. That was the problem with spending Christmas in Hawaii. Since his return, he was more sensitive than ever to the cold. Unlike Peter the Polar Bear, winter had never been his favorite season and now it was like he was being punished for having taken a brief break.

Most of the other employees must have had the same idea since the cafeteria resembled intermission at the opera. There were long lines at the various food stations. Neal spotted Jones in the sandwich line and went over to join him.

"Too cold to go out, Caffrey?"

"Still dreaming of Hawaii."

"I hear ya. Helen was saying the same thing yesterday about coming back from her hometown of Jacksonville, Florida. I was there over Christmas. It was like being in the tropics."

Neal looked at Jones in surprise. He'd been dating Helen Broussard in the D.A.'s office for a couple of months, but that seemed scarcely long enough to be visiting her parents. "I didn't know you two were that serious."

Jones held up a hand. "Whoa. Don't get ideas. I was in town visiting some buddies at the Naval Air Station there and just stopped by for lunch. Did a little sightseeing afterward."

"So no wedding bells?"

"Hardly. Maybe when I'm as old as Peter's brother."

Neal laughed. "Smart man. Keep your options open."

When they reached the head of the line, Jones picked up a roast beef sub. Neal decided on a turkey club. As they walked over to a table, Jones said, "I heard Sara Ellis will be joining us at the meeting this afternoon. Isn't she the one you were dating last fall?"

"We weren't ever dating—the timing was off. But Sara's a friend and she's smart. I'm looking forward to hearing her explanation of what went wrong." Neal was careful in his choice of words to not give away the grand reveal he'd planned. No need to dilute the effect.

#

At the appointed time, all the White Collar participants—Peter, Diana, Jones, and Neal—had gathered in the conference room. Sara, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Jones and Peter passed the time by discussing the public housing bid-rigging case. Luckily the Corot forgery had allowed Neal to be excused from that exercise in boredom. Pulling out a pen, he got out his notepad and started sketching. He already had the concept in his head. Rendering fog with a pen was tricky, but the effect would work well when he recreated it in watercolors for his board in the niche.

Diana leaned over to take a look. "What's that you're drawing?"

"A ghost ship emerging from the fog," he said, pausing to scrutinize it.

Peter looked up at his words. "The Dutchman's taken hold of you too, I see."

"This time's going to be different, Peter. We won't let him disappear." Neal turned to Diana. "Have you heard of the Dutchman?"

"Jones, why don't you fill Diana in?" Peter suggested. "You did the original research on him."

A knock on the door announcing Sara's arrival interrupted Jones's remarks. Apologizing for her lateness, Sara added, "You know how it is with jet lag. I seem to be perpetually out of phase today." Under other circumstances, Neal might have joshed her about it, but she already looked frayed and he settled for a sympathetic smile. All teasing was on hold.

Peter introduced her to the others and asked Jones and Diana to fill them in on the background of the seller.

Jones projected the photo of a middle-aged man on the wall monitor. Heavyset, his hair thinning on top, he reminded Neal of Tony Soprano on The Sopranos. "This is Artie Klossner," Jones said. "Plumbing contractor. Lives in Newark. Three children, ranging between twelve and seventeen in age. Klossner had taken the painting to an art dealer in Newark in November, claiming not to know who'd painted it. Said it had been brought over by his father when he immigrated from Germany. The painting had been lying in his attic for over twenty years. One evening his wife watched Antiques Roadshow on TV and began nagging him to take it in to be appraised. He finally relented in December. The dealer thought it might be a Corot and sent a photo to his home office where they recognized the painting. At that point, Klossner approached Weatherby's."

"What we don't know is if Klossner was aware it was a forgery," Diana added. "He could easily claim he was innocent of any deliberate deception. He doesn't seem like the type of person who'd be able to distinguish a genuine Corot from a fake."

Peter turned to Neal and requested he update the others on his work.

"Once the Met confirmed the evidence of the stamp, they passed it on to us. The stamp was, of course, a giveaway. It makes me think that whoever the forger is, he's overconfident. He had no reason to add the stamp in the first place. I suspect he wanted to demonstrate his contempt for authenticators. There's no doubt he's talented. The brushwork technique and the canvas correspond very well to Corot's late period."

"The number of Corot forgeries is very high. Many honest mistakes have been made," said Sara. "The question of whether or not there was any fraud involved will be difficult to prove."

"Not necessarily," Neal countered. "Most of the Corot forgeries were done before the second World War. If the painting can be dated to that period, I agree, there's no case. But what if the forgery were done recently? Within the past several years, or even"—Neal made a dramatic pause—"within the past few months? If that can be proved, the evidence would contradict Klossner's statement and point to deliberate fraud. "

"How difficult will it be to date the painting?" Peter asked.

"The clues are there. It's a question of being able to read them." Neal could have prolonged the suspense but Peter was giving him one of his cut-to-the-chase looks. "Our forger was sloppy. The Terre Verte pigment—that's an earth-green color—dries more slowly than most other pigments. Adequate time must be left between successive applications. The forger rushed the layers and in the process left a marker for the age of the painting. By calculating the rate of oxidation, I can assert confidently that it's less than four months old."

"You're sure?" Peter challenged.

"Positive. But, if you like, let the Met reexamine it. They'll corroborate what I say."

Peter turned to face Sara. "What can you tell us about how the authentication was conducted?"

"The painting was sent to an expert in France for confirmation," she replied. "He's worked with Sterling-Bosch on several other authentications. Up to now, there haven't been any issues."

"Why wasn't the authentication performed in New York?" Diana asked. "With all the museums we have, surely the authentication could have been more easily conducted on-site."

"I agree," Sara said. "But Sterling-Bosch's office in London has oversight on art insurance and related claims. It's built up an extensive network of European experts to act as consultants. We sent an investigator to interview the expert who was used for the Corot. I'm in town to liaise with Weatherby's. The likelihood of fraud is a major concern. Our reputation's on the line."

"But this isn't the normal type of fraud that's worked against insurance companies," Neal pointed out. "The typical pattern these days is to have a painting stolen and then later returned by a so-called discoverer for the reward money. That can be far more lucrative than selling the painting on the black market and also less risky. What was done here—forging a lost masterpiece—is much less common."

"Sara, keep us informed of the status of your investigation into the authenticator," Peter said. He picked up Klossner's file and quickly scanned it. "Jones and Diana, research Klossner. He's a plumbing contractor. His wife's a saleswoman at a local department store. This doesn't sound like someone who'd commission an art forgery. Where and how did he acquire it?" Shaking his head, Peter looked troubled. "This doesn't add up. There are some missing pieces to the puzzle, people. Find them."

Peter didn't bring up the Dutchman, but Neal knew what he was thinking. Peter had been hoping to establish a connection between the Dutchman and The Dreamer, but the Klossner profile was throwing a wrench into his scenario. While the Corot was certainly valuable, it seemed unlikely that someone like Klossner would have associated with the Dutchman, an internationally renowned criminal who'd worked on high-value items in the major capitals of the world.

#

After the meeting ended, Sara asked Neal if she could see the lab. He was happy to agree. He was still riding the high from establishing the age of the forgery. Spending time with her would be much more enjoyable than the paperwork awaiting him.

He gave her a quick tour of the equipment he used to analyze the paint pigments. He'd planned to give her a high-level overview without going into details, but Sara pumped him for more information. Stopping in front of the Raman spectrometer, he explained how it allowed him to investigate artworks by shining a laser light on an object, thus avoiding the need to take samples.

"I've never had the chance to visit an authentication lab," Sara said. "I knew you were an artist. But after seeing all this, I wonder if scientist isn't a more accurate term."

"Don't get the wrong idea. I rarely get the chance to use the equipment for art authentication."

"I wish it'd been some other company that was providing you such a great opportunity," she said ruefully.

Neal pulled over a chair for her in his niche. "How is Weatherby's taking it?"

"Not well," she admitted, dropping into the chair. "Management's taking out their frustration with Sterling-Bosch on me. They're threatening to switch insurers. Sterling-Bosch is determined to salvage the situation. They're sending in their regular team next week, but right now I'm on my own. This is the first time I've had to perform emergency triage with irate customers. I feel like I should have taken a course in diplomacy first."

Neal winced in sympathy. Sara looked exhausted. "You're welcome to hide out in the lab as long as you want."

"I might just take you up on that," she said with a trace of her usual spirit. "You look comfortable here." Pointing to the drawing he'd recently added, she asked, "Is that one of yours?"

Neal nodded. "It's a copy I drew of Raphael's Head of a Muse."

"She's mesmerizing. A vision from another time in this high-tech world of electronic gear."

"Exactly." Neal was surprised to hear her comment. He hadn't expected her to express the same feeling he had about the drawing.

Sara got up to examine his muse more closely. "If I were an artist, she'd inspire me. She's beautiful."

"Wouldn't you rather have Hercules as your muse?"

"Most depictions have him too muscle-bound for my taste."

"You could always go with the noble Apollo, suave and self-confident." That should please her. Bryan seemed like the Apollo type.

She shook her head slowly, as she continued to study the Raphael. "Not Apollo. He might be too arrogant. Maybe Hermes ... Yes, definitely Hermes. Fleet-footed, resourceful, witty—he also reminds me of one of my favorite stores." She broke into a laugh. "I've found my muse."

An intriguing choice. Bryan might be Apollo but Neal would make a much better Hermes. After all, the god was the patron of thieves and poets. Neal didn't picture Bryan as a swift-footed thief and imagining him as capable of inspiring poetry was a non-starter. At least for Neal, it was, but maybe that was the way Sara saw him.

"It's almost quitting time," Neal said. "You need a break and after working on this painting all day, so could I. A new tapas and wine bar has opened near the Federal Building. Can I tempt you?"

"That's the best offer I've had all day," Sara said gratefully. "It will be like old times."

On their way out, Neal stopped by Jones's desk to let him know where he was going and put a note on his desk. He'd started early that morning so no one should mind. In any case next month, he'd be on the early shift, and by that standard, he'd already worked more than he should have. As he and Sara walked to the tapas bar, Neal felt an unusual spring to his step. Was he growing wings on his shoes?

They were able to get a table for two at Malaga Tapas. Neal ordered a bottle of Ribera del Duero and soon they were sipping wine and munching on an assortment of cheeses with grilled bread. Sara had been running all day with little time to eat so they went ahead and ordered a paella to split.

Judging by the frustrated expression on her face, what she needed most, though, was a sympathetic ear, and Neal guided the conversation to let her open up. For several minutes she gave him an earful about the difficulties of dealing with Weatherby's.

"You've every right to be upset," he said. "It wasn't your fault, but you're the nearest available target and they're taking it out on you." The waitress placed the pan of paella on their table and he spooned some onto Sara's plate.

"This is going to be my new favorite comfort food," she declared, sniffing it appreciatively. "Thanks for listening to my rant. Sterling-Bosch sent me here so Weatherby's would have someone vent at. I shouldn't have dumped it all on you. It's so much more enjoyable recovering stolen merchandise than hearing how we messed up."

He refilled their wine glasses. "I bet."

"Weatherby's regular team is in Berlin on another assignment. When they arrive, I'll return to London."

Neal noticed she'd yet to mention Bryan. Were they no longer an item? "How's Bryan?"

"He's fine. He was in Paris when the news broke or I think they would have sent him rather than me."

"Sterling-Bosch isn't dumb. They realize you'd be a much more sympathetic listener." Neal added quickly, "Not that I'm criticizing him."

A small smile flitted over her face. "No Sighin' Bryan jokes? You're showing remarkable restraint, and I appreciate it. You know, I still can't get over how impressive you were at the meeting. I know you're in the master's program, but you sounded more like a professor than a student. How did you become so knowledgeable?"

"Corot's so frequently forged, he's a textbook example of the complexities of authentication."

She winced. "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."

"It's not that. I don't mind." Liar. What should he tell her? That his experience in creating forgeries gave him an insider's knowledge of authentication? Sara knew nothing about his criminal life and he intended to keep it that way. The cover provided by the marshals should be adequate. "I grew up in Paris. My art teachers believed the best technique was copying the masters." He shrugged. "I picked up a lot of inside knowledge about the artists in the process."

"The FBI's lucky to have you." Sara picked up a square of toasted bread and dipped it into the olive oil.

Neal hesitated. Her earlier rebuke had stung. On this subject at least he could be more open. "I'm not sure they feel that way."

"Why do you say that?"

"D.C. is in charge of art crime investigations. Just obtaining clearance to work on this case wasn't easy."

"With all the art cases in New York, I would have thought they'd be thrilled to have your help."

"They're protecting their turf. White Collar crime doesn't normally include art crimes. The unit is supposed to focus on copyright infringement, financial frauds, mortgage frauds ... You wouldn't believe how many mortgage frauds."

"Do you want to transfer to D.C.?" she asked. "It sounds like a better fit."

"That's just it. I don't. I like New York. I like the team I work with. And until I finish Columbia, I'm certainly not leaving." Neal shrugged. "But enough about me. How about you? Are you still enjoying your work with Bryan?"

"Yes, in general. It's not all I as I'd imagined but we're good."

A little teasing wouldn't hurt. "Has he taught you any new aikido moves?"

Sara smiled. "A few."

"Such as?" he asked inquisitively. "I'm all ears."

Her smile broadened. "Fiona and I got together in London over the Christmas holiday. She told me about the band. I didn't realize you were such an excellent musician. She raves about you."

Now who was the one deflecting? But even so, hearing that Fiona had been praising him was welcome news. "The band's been a great way to unwind. Do you play anything?"

Sara brushed back a lock of her hair. "Would you believe cello? My mom was a great proponent of exposing her kids to everything to see what would take. She enrolled my sister in violin lessons when she was five."

"The Suzuki method? Did your mom take lessons along with her?"

"She did. I couldn't wait till I was old enough to start. I insisted on learning a different instrument so I took up the cello. Mom gallantly attempted that too. We used to perform trios." Sara's voice trailed off, her fork still in the air. Rousing herself, she said, "God, I hadn't thought about that in a long time."

Sara seldom talked about her sister who had run away when Sara was thirteen, but Neal knew how devastated she'd been. Seeking to lighten the mood, he asked, "Do you still play? If Fiona finds out, she'll insist that you join us."

Sara rolled her eyes even as she looked pleased with the thought. "That would be a big mistake. I'm not in your league. It's my own fault for not practicing. After my sister left, I refused to play, but Mom persuaded me to pick it back up. She said if we played duets, Emily would hear us. At first, I was too stubborn to give it a try, but she kept working on me and I eventually relented." Her expression softening, she added. "I still play occasionally, if for nothing else, to be reminded of Emily."

For the next hour, they continued to catch up on each other's lives. This was the first real chance they'd had to talk since she left for London in October.

After Neal requested the check, he told Sara, "We'll have to come here again. Next time I'll plan ahead so Fiona can join us."

"I'd like that." She paused and cleared her throat. "I know you're probably not thrilled with Bryan ..."

"Hey, as long as he treats you right and you're happy, that's good enough for me," Neal said, feeling magnanimous.

"Thanks, I know I didn't make it easy for you. It must have seemed like a bolt out of the blue when I told you I was seeing Bryan and moving to London. I should have explained it better, and earlier. Fiona's been good for you, I can tell," she added.

"We're trying not to rush things along. We're enjoying being together and that's enough for both of us."

"That sounds like a wise strategy," Sara said with a wistful look in her eyes. Neal was picking up vibes that she wasn't that happy with how things were going, but perhaps it was simply that her work was casting a shadow over her personal life too.

After they left the restaurant, Neal helped her catch a taxi to her hotel then he headed for the subway station. While waiting for the train, Neal thought about the conversation they'd had. This was a different Sara from the one he'd expected. She'd always been so upbeat with a self-confidence that rivaled his own. Her teasing sometimes reminded him more of a friend than someone he could be romantically attracted to. Before, he would have painted her in enamel-bright oils. Today she was in pastel watercolors. How much of that was fatigue and how much was the London influence? Or was it because of Bryan?

Relationships change a person. She said she could tell the difference in him because of Fiona, even though he didn't think he'd changed that much. How much had Bryan changed Sara? Neal liked her softer edges, but he missed Sara the spitfire.