Chapter 12: THE PICASSO RACE — Part 2
Beck's estate sprawled across twelve acres of Connecticut countryside—all manicured lawns, European gardens, and enough security to make a paranoid man feel comfortable. I sat in the FBI surveillance van half a mile away, monitoring Neal's wire and watching the thermal imaging display.
"Audio check," Jones said.
Neal's voice crackled through the speakers.
"Testing, one two three. Can you hear my devastating wit?"
"Unfortunately," Peter replied from the front seat. "Keep the chatter minimal once you're inside."
"Where's the fun in that?"
The gate opened. Neal's borrowed Mercedes—FBI asset, appropriately luxurious—rolled up the long driveway toward the main house.
[OPERATION: PICASSO RECOVERY]
[STATUS: INFILTRATION PHASE]
[RISK ASSESSMENT: MODERATE]
I watched the dot representing Neal's tracker move across the display. Two weeks ago, I'd been conning slumlords for startup capital. Now I was coordinating FBI operations against art thieves. The trajectory still surprised me.
Focus.
Neal parked. A butler—actual butler, this wasn't a joke—led him toward the house. The wire picked up footsteps on gravel, then hardwood, then the muffled acoustics of a room with thick carpets and thicker secrets.
"Mr. Voss. Welcome to my home."
Beck's voice, cultured and cold.
"Thank you for having me. Your estate is remarkable."
"A family legacy. Four generations of Becks have added to it." A pause. "Including, I hope, a recent addition that might interest your client."
"The Picasso?"
"Indeed."
Footsteps again. A door opening. Then Neal's sharp intake of breath—not theatrical, genuine.
"It's beautiful."
"Blue Period. Circa 1902. A study for La Vie, though the connection has never been formally documented." Beck's pride leaked through his cultured facade. "I acquired it recently through... private channels."
"The provenance?"
"Impeccable. Though not, I should warn you, suitable for public display or resale through conventional means."
"My client understands discretion."
I leaned closer to the speakers. We needed visual confirmation—Neal saying he saw the painting wasn't enough for a warrant.
"Neal," Peter murmured. "The phone."
"May I?" Neal asked. "My client prefers photographic documentation before committing."
A long pause. Then Beck: "Of course. The art speaks for itself."
The wire picked up the faint click of a camera phone.
"Sending now," Neal said—for our benefit, not Beck's.
My tablet buzzed. The image appeared: a framed sketch, unmistakably Picasso, unmistakably the piece from the Carter collection. The authentication marks matched the insurance records perfectly.
"Confirmed," I said. "That's our painting."
Peter was already on the radio.
"All units, we have visual confirmation. Move in."
The arrest went smoothly.
Beck surrendered with the dignity of a man who'd been expecting this moment for decades. Neal played his role perfectly—surprised European collector caught in someone else's crime, protesting ignorance while FBI agents secured the scene.
I stayed in the van until it was over, watching through cameras as Diana read Beck his rights and Jones supervised the evidence collection.
When I finally stepped out, Neal was standing near the recovered Picasso, studying it with genuine appreciation.
"It really is beautiful," he said as I approached. "Shame it's going back to a collector who only sees it as an investment."
"That's the job."
"Is it?" His gaze shifted to me. "Or is the job finding beautiful things and deciding who deserves them?"
"That's not your call. Or mine."
"No." Neal's smile was complicated. "Not yet."
We stood there, two con men in borrowed legitimacy, looking at a painting worth more than either of us would earn in a lifetime.
"You did good work on Simms," Neal said. "The confession was clean."
"Your approach with Beck was effective." The compliment cost me nothing and bought potential goodwill. "He never suspected you were anything but what you claimed."
"Practice." Neal turned away from the Picasso. "Years and years of practice."
Peter appeared from inside the house, phone in hand.
"Good news. David Carter Jr. just got picked up at JFK trying to flee the country. Simms is cooperating fully. Beck's lawyer is already negotiating a plea deal." He looked between us. "Case closed."
"Team effort," Neal said.
"Don't push it." But Peter was almost smiling. "Both of you, debrief at the office in three hours. Then you can fight over who gets credit."
He walked toward the command vehicle. Diana followed, evidence bags in hand.
I started toward the van.
"Dark."
I turned. Neal stood silhouetted against Beck's colonial mansion, the Connecticut sun turning his features unreadable.
"That thing you said. About not needing a tracking device."
"What about it?"
"You're wrong." His voice held something I couldn't identify. "Everyone's wearing an anklet. Some of us just can't see ours."
He walked past me toward Peter's car. I watched him go, processing.
He's smarter than he looks. More perceptive than he pretends.
The rivalry between us had shifted. Not friendship—not yet, maybe not ever. But something more nuanced than pure competition.
Respect, perhaps. The kind that grows between predators who recognize each other's capabilities.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: NEAL CAFFREY]
[STATUS: COMPETITIVE → NEUTRAL]
[ASSESSMENT: POTENTIAL ALLY (CONDITIONAL)]
The debrief ran late.
Peter walked us through the chain of evidence, the arrest reports, the preliminary charges. Beck was looking at fifteen years. David Carter Jr. would do ten minimum. Simms, as a cooperating witness, might get probation.
The Picasso was returned to its rightful owner—a collector who'd inherited it from his grandmother and never much cared for it anyway.
"Good work," Peter said finally. "Both of you. When you actually cooperate, you're effective."
"Was that a compliment?" Neal asked.
"Don't get used to it." Peter gathered his files. "Go home. Rest. Tomorrow we start on the next case."
The office emptied slowly. Agents drifted toward elevators, toward families and Friday nights and normal lives.
I lingered at my desk, reviewing the case file one more time. The previous memory surfaced unbidden: that first morning in Marcus Webb's body, FBI pounding on the door, everything uncertain.
Two weeks. In two weeks, I'd gone from desperate transmigrator to FBI consultant with a solved case and a complex rivalry with one of the most talented criminals in the canon.
[EXPERIENCE GAINED: CASE COMPLETION]
[+400 EXP | +300 GC]
[CURRENT STATUS: LEVEL 2 | EXP: 1500/1500]
[LEVEL UP AVAILABLE]
The notification pulsed at the edge of my vision. Level three, waiting to be claimed.
I dismissed the prompt. This wasn't the place—too many eyes, too many questions if my expression went strange.
Tonight. In my apartment. I'd allocate points and see what new capabilities the system offered.
June's building was quiet when I returned.
The familiar smell of wood polish and old money wrapped around me as I climbed the stairs. Third floor. My floor. My apartment.
But I paused at the landing between three and four. Above me, Neal's window glowed warm. Jazz drifted faintly through his door—something smooth, Miles Davis maybe.
We'd solved a case together. Worked as something like partners. Shared information instead of hoarding it.
Progress, I thought. Or the beginning of something more complicated.
My own apartment waited, dark and silent. I unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, and settled into Byron's leather chair.
[LEVEL UP: 2 → 3]
[REWARDS: +3 ATTRIBUTE POINTS, +1 SKILL POINT, +300 GC]
[NEW FUNCTION UNLOCKED: IDENTITY FABRICATION LV.2]
The system interface expanded, showing new capabilities. Identity Fabrication at Level 2 meant better documentation, longer-lasting covers, more slots for alternate identities.
I allocated points carefully. One to Charisma, one to Intelligence, one to Perception. Balanced growth, building toward a foundation that would support whatever came next.
[STATUS UPDATE]
[LEVEL: 3]
[GC: 1,500]
[EXP: 0/2000]
[IDENTITY SLOTS: 2/2]
Two identity slots now. Aron Dark and one more.
I thought about the faces I might need to wear. The situations that might require someone other than an FBI consultant.
The anonymous text from days ago surfaced in my memory: You're not as invisible as you think.
Someone was watching. Someone who knew enough to send warnings.
Adler's people? Keller? Someone else entirely?
I didn't know yet. But I was building the tools to find out.
My phone buzzed. Peter.
New case Monday. Art forgery ring. Bring your A game—this one's complicated.
I typed a brief reply and set the phone aside.
Monday. A new case. A new opportunity.
But first, the weekend. Time to dig into Byron's records, reach out to the criminal contacts I'd identified, start building a network that existed outside FBI oversight.
The game was getting more complex. More players, more angles, more potential for everything to collapse.
I pulled out Byron's ledgers and started reading.
Somewhere above me, Neal's jazz drifted through the floorboards. The city hummed beyond my window.
Two con men in the same building. Two consultants in the same office. Two men keeping secrets from everyone including each other.
The partnership—if that's what it was—had just begun.
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