Chapter 15: THE INSURANCE INVESTIGATOR
Sterling Bosch occupied three floors of a Midtown tower, all glass walls and aggressive efficiency. The lobby alone cost more than most apartments—marble floors, modern art, the particular sterility of corporate success.
I was there researching a painting. One of Hartley's pieces had passed through Sterling Bosch before its "disappearance"—the same pattern I'd identified in the original gallery case. Insurance coverage, suspicious timing, eventual claim. Someone was using art theft as a business model, and the insurance companies were either complicit or oblivious.
The receptionist was professionally unhelpful.
"I'm sorry, sir. Insurance claim records are confidential. You'd need to speak with one of our investigators directly."
"Could you recommend one?"
"Our investigators don't take walk-in appointments."
Dead end. I was considering alternative approaches when the elevator doors opened behind me.
A woman emerged. Sharp suit, sharper expression, moving with the purposeful irritation of someone whose day had already gone wrong. She approached the reception desk and spoke without preamble.
"I need the Castellano file. Now."
"Ms. Ellis, I've already explained—"
"And I've already explained that I'm the lead investigator on this recovery. If legal wants to obstruct, they can explain to the board why we lost a three-million-dollar claim."
[MARK ANALYSIS: SARA ELLIS]
[OCCUPATION: SENIOR INVESTIGATOR, STERLING BOSCH]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: FRUSTRATED | DETERMINED]
[PRIMARY TRAITS: INTELLIGENCE (87%), PERSISTENCE (92%)]
[VULNERABILITY: INSTITUTIONAL OBSTRUCTION]
The receptionist wilted under the assault. "I'll... let me make a call."
Sara Ellis stepped back, visibly forcing herself to patience. Her gaze swept the lobby—professional threat assessment—and landed on me.
"You're staring."
"You're interesting."
Her eyebrow rose. "That's either a compliment or a warning."
"Call it professional curiosity." I stepped closer, keeping my posture open, non-threatening. "You're investigating a painting recovery. I'm researching one. We might be looking at the same problem from different angles."
"And you are?"
"Aron Dark. Financial consultant."
"That's vague."
"It's accurate." I pulled out the documentation I'd brought—transaction records, gallery connections, the pattern of movement I'd traced through Hartley's network. "I'm tracking a piece that passed through Sterling Bosch coverage before it vanished. The Beaumont Monet."
Sara's expression shifted. Interest, carefully controlled.
"The Beaumont claim is closed."
"Closed doesn't mean solved." I offered her the folder. "I found financial connections between the Beaumont sale and three other 'thefts' in the past eighteen months. Same pattern. Same shell companies. Same insurance timing."
She took the folder. Read for thirty seconds. Her jaw tightened.
"Where did you get this?"
"Research."
"This level of research requires access most consultants don't have."
"I'm not most consultants."
The receptionist returned with a different folder—the Castellano file Sara had demanded. Sara took it without looking away from me.
"Coffee," she said. It wasn't a question.
"There's a place on the corner."
The coffee shop was anonymous and crowded—perfect for conversations you didn't want overheard. Sara ordered black, no sugar. I matched her.
"The pattern you identified," she said, spreading my documents across the small table. "We suspected something similar six months ago. Legal shut down the investigation before we could prove anything."
"Why?"
"Because the implications were uncomfortable." Her voice carried bitterness. "If our own clients were staging thefts to collect insurance, it meant our underwriting process was compromised. The board preferred plausible deniability."
"And you?"
"I prefer answers." She looked up from the documents. "Who do you work for? Really."
I weighed the options. The truth would complicate things—FBI connections, consultant status, the complex web of obligations I'd built. But lies would eventually collapse.
"I consult for various interested parties. Some of them federal."
"FBI?"
"Among others."
Her expression hardened. "If this is some kind of jurisdictional play—"
"It's not." I leaned forward. "I want to find the people running this operation. You want the same thing. My sources have financial data. Your sources have insurance records. Together, we might actually get somewhere."
Sara studied me the way I studied marks—looking for tells, weaknesses, the truth beneath the surface.
"You're not telling me everything."
"Neither are you."
"Fair point." She gathered the documents. "The Castellano piece—the one I was arguing about upstairs—it connects to your pattern. Same shell company structure, same timing, same convenient theft three months after we underwrote it."
"Can you share the records?"
"Can you share your FBI contacts?"
We were negotiating now. Information for information. Access for access. The foundation of every useful alliance.
"Limited sharing," I said. "I can provide financial analysis on any piece you're investigating. You provide insurance documentation on pieces connected to my cases."
"That's not equal value."
"Then what would be?"
Sara considered. Her watch caught the light—expensive but understated. Practical elegance. I'd noticed it earlier, filed it away as a character detail.
"Introduction," she said finally. "When your federal contacts need insurance expertise, you bring me in. Consulting fees, standard rates, no jurisdictional games."
"Deal."
We shook hands. Her grip was firm, her eye contact direct.
[ALLIANCE FORMED: SARA ELLIS]
[RELATIONSHIP: PROFESSIONAL (+5)]
[BENEFIT: INSURANCE INDUSTRY ACCESS]
"The Castellano file mentions a gallery connection," Sara said, pulling out the folder she'd fought for upstairs. "A private dealer who handled the sale before the theft. Name of..."
She trailed off, reading.
"What?"
"Curtis Hagen." She looked up. "Also known as the Dutchman. Supposed to be retired, but his signature is all over the authentication documents."
The Dutchman. The forger who would eventually become one of Neal's most dangerous enemies. Another thread connecting to the larger conspiracy I'd been tracking.
"I know that name," I said carefully. "He's connected to other cases I've been investigating."
"Then we definitely need to compare notes." Sara's smile was sharp. "Tomorrow. My office, ten AM. Bring everything you have on Hagen."
"I'll be there."
She stood, leaving cash for her coffee.
"Mr. Dark." She paused at the door. "I checked on you while you were getting your drink. Aron Dark, FBI consultant, financial background, former forensic accountant. Clean record except for some ambiguity about your employment history before this year."
"Thorough."
"I'm very good at my job." Her expression softened slightly. "Try to be worthy of my time."
She left. I watched her go, processing.
Sara Ellis was going to be a complication. Brilliant, suspicious, unwilling to accept surface explanations. The kind of person who dug until she found truth or hit bedrock.
Exactly the kind of person who might eventually uncover secrets I needed to keep.
And yet—the alliance was valuable. Insurance records, industry connections, another angle on the conspiracy spreading through Manhattan's art world. Worth the risk.
My phone buzzed. Peter.
Briefing tomorrow, 9 AM. The forgery ring case is heating up. Bring your notes on Hartley.
I typed a brief confirmation and pocketed the phone.
Tomorrow would be complicated. FBI briefing in the morning, Sara Ellis meeting after. Two identities, two investigations, two sets of expectations to manage.
The long con was getting longer.
I finished my coffee and headed for the subway. Somewhere in the city, the Dutchman's network was still operating. Sara's records might help me find it. And finding it might lead to Adler, to Keller, to the conspiracy that was already spinning faster than the canon timeline had suggested.
One thread at a time. One face at a time. One careful step after another.
The game continued.
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