Chapter 24: THE DUTCHMAN'S SHADOW — Part 2
The records blurred together after the third hour. Financial statements, transaction logs, account histories—the numerical language of criminal enterprise, written in the particular dialect of people who'd learned to hide their tracks.
My eyes burned. I'd been at this since seven in the morning, and the coffee had stopped helping around noon. But the patterns were emerging, piece by careful piece.
[APPRAISAL: CONSOLIDATED FINANCIAL ANALYSIS]
[NETWORK STRUCTURE: CONFIRMED]
[HUB ENTITIES: 3 IDENTIFIED]
[PRIMARY FINANCIAL CONDUIT: LIECHTENSTEIN TRUST]
The same Liechtenstein trust that appeared in Hartley's records. The same routing numbers that showed up in Holt's seized documents. The Dutchman's operation wasn't just connected to the network—it was integrated with it.
Gerard Vance. Marcus Hartley. Benjamin Holt. Curtis Hagen. And somewhere above them all, the V.A. whose initials kept appearing in the highest-level transactions.
Vincent Adler.
The conspiracy was larger than the FBI suspected. Larger than anyone suspected, except for a transmigrator with meta-knowledge and a system that helped him see patterns others missed.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The temptation to reveal everything was strong—drop the connection on Peter's desk, watch the dominoes fall, take credit for cracking the case. But that would destroy months of careful positioning.
James Thornton was still active. Vance trusted him. The invitation to view "special inventory" was still pending. If I exposed the Hartley connection now, that access would evaporate.
Think long-term, I reminded myself. Build the foundation. When you strike, strike completely.
My phone buzzed. Neal.
Found something. Meet me at the Aldrich Gallery in 20?
I typed a quick affirmative and gathered my things. The financial analysis could wait. Whatever Neal had discovered might provide the break we needed—or the complication we didn't.
The Aldrich Gallery occupied a converted townhouse in the Upper East Side, all high ceilings and natural light designed to showcase art at its best. Neal was waiting outside, his expression carrying the particular energy of someone who'd found a thread worth pulling.
"What do you have?"
"An insider." Neal fell into step beside me as we approached the entrance. "Gallery assistant who's been here for three years. She noticed irregularities in the handling procedures but was too scared to report them officially."
"Scared of what?"
"That's the interesting part. She won't say. But she's willing to talk to us—off the record, no FBI presence."
We entered the gallery. The assistant—mid-twenties, nervous hands, the particular wariness of someone who knew more than she wanted to—was waiting in a back office.
"Elena," Neal said, his voice gentle. "This is my colleague, Aron. He's helping with our investigation."
Elena's eyes flickered between us, calculating risk against potential benefit.
"You said you could protect me," she said to Neal. "If I talk."
"We can arrange that," I said. "But we need to know what we're protecting you from."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached into her desk and pulled out a folder—photographs, schedules, notes written in careful handwriting.
"Six months ago, I noticed something wrong with the Degas," she said. "A small piece, not our most valuable, but I'd studied it for my thesis. The brushwork was different. Subtle, but wrong."
"You reported it?"
"I tried." Elena's voice tightened. "My supervisor shut me down. Said I was imagining things. Then, two weeks later, I was called into the director's office. A man was there—older, European accent, very polished. He thanked me for my 'discretion' and suggested I'd find my career advancing faster if I continued to be 'observant but silent.'"
[MARK ANALYSIS: ELENA]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: FRIGHTENED | DETERMINED]
[CREDIBILITY: HIGH]
[NOTE: WITNESS TO CRIMINAL OPERATION]
"This man," I said carefully. "Did he give his name?"
"No. But I saw him again at a reception two months later. Someone called him 'Mr. Hagen.'"
Curtis Hagen. The Dutchman. In this gallery, managing the swap operation personally.
I kept my expression neutral, but the confirmation sent electricity through my thoughts. We had a witness who could place Hagen at the scene, connect him to the forgery substitutions.
"Elena," Neal said, leaning forward with the particular warmth he used when building trust. "What you've given us is valuable. But we need more. Dates, times, any documentation you might have."
She pushed the folder forward. "Everything I have. I've been keeping records since that meeting in the director's office. Dates when pieces were moved. Staff schedules that didn't make sense. Visitors who stayed after hours."
I flipped through the folder. Meticulous documentation, the work of someone who'd been preparing for this moment without knowing when it would come.
"This is good," I said. "This is very good."
"Can you stop them?" Elena's voice cracked slightly. "He threatened me. Not explicitly, but I understood. If I talked, things would happen. To my career, my reputation, maybe worse."
"We'll stop them," Neal said with the confidence of someone who'd survived worse threats than gallery directors and polished criminals. "And we'll make sure you're protected."
We left the gallery with Elena's documentation and a promise to arrange witness protection through proper channels. The spring afternoon had turned gray, clouds gathering over Manhattan with the promise of rain.
"Hagen," Neal said as we walked toward the subway. "I've heard that name before. In certain circles."
"What circles?"
"The kind that appreciate exceptional forgery." Neal's expression was complicated—professional respect mixed with ethical disapproval. "He's supposed to be one of the best. Some people call him the Dutchman."
I know, I thought. I know exactly who he is and what he's capable of.
"The financial trail I've been tracking connects to the same network we found in the Hartley case," I said instead. "Same banks, same shell companies, same routing patterns."
Neal stopped walking. "You're saying this is all connected? The Dutchman, Hartley, the wine counterfeiting operation?"
"I'm saying it's possible. Maybe even likely."
"That's..." He processed the implications. "That's a major criminal organization. Not just art fraud—everything. Systematic, coordinated, covering multiple markets."
"Yes."
"Does Peter know?"
The question I'd been avoiding. Did Peter know? Did he suspect? Should I tell him now, or continue building the case privately?
"Not yet," I said. "Not until I can prove it."
Neal studied me for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted—recognition, perhaps. The understanding of one criminal thinker assessing another.
"You're running your own investigation," he said. "Parallel to the official one."
"I'm being thorough."
"That's one word for it." But he wasn't judging—his tone carried something closer to respect. "When you're ready to share, I'd like to be in the room."
"Why?"
"Because this kind of operation—this scale—it doesn't exist in a vacuum. If there's a network this big, it connects to people I know. People who've wronged me." His voice hardened. "People who might be connected to Kate."
The name hung between us. Kate Moreau—Neal's obsession, his vulnerability, the woman I knew was controlled by forces neither of us could openly discuss.
"I'll keep you informed," I said. "When I can."
"That's all I ask."
The FBI office was quiet when I returned. Late afternoon, most agents gone or heading home. I settled at my desk and began organizing Elena's documentation alongside my own financial analysis.
The connections were multiplying. Hagen's forgery operation feeding into Hartley's gallery network. Vance continuing operations despite his partner's arrest. Shell companies routing payments through Liechtenstein. And somewhere above it all, Vincent Adler pulling strings that stretched across continents.
[INVESTIGATION PROGRESS: DUTCHMAN CASE]
[NETWORK MAPPING: 65% COMPLETE]
[KEY FIGURES IDENTIFIED: HAGEN, VANCE, V.A.]
[+250 EXP]
The experience notification pulsed briefly. I was still holding off on the level-up, waiting for the right moment to allocate points and explore new capabilities. The system was a tool, not a crutch—I'd learned that in the first weeks, when desperation had taught me to rely on cleverness more than stats.
My phone buzzed. Sara.
Probate access approved. Records available Monday. Dinner Saturday to celebrate?
I typed a quick reply—Looking forward to it—and set the phone aside.
Multiple investigations. Multiple relationships. Multiple identities. The complexity was increasing, the risk growing with every new thread I pulled.
Peter appeared at my desk, jacket on, clearly heading home.
"Making progress?"
"Getting there." I gestured at the spread of documents. "The financial trail is complicated, but it's starting to make sense."
"Anything you want to share?"
The question was casual, but I heard the subtext. Peter remembered our conversation after the Bottleneck case—my parallel investigation, his tacit approval, the trust we'd built through careful honesty.
"Soon," I said. "There's a connection I'm tracking. If it pans out, it'll change how we see this entire case."
"Big connection?"
"Very big."
Peter nodded slowly. "Don't wait too long. If you're onto something that affects the team, I need to know before it becomes a problem."
"Understood."
He left. I watched him go, then returned to my documents.
The connection was there. Hartley. Hagen. Adler. The same money, the same network, the same conspiracy that would eventually engulf everyone connected to it.
I could end this now. One anonymous tip, one carefully leaked document, and the FBI would descend on the entire operation. But that would be reactive, not strategic. That would catch some criminals while letting others escape.
The long con required patience. Required building the case until it was unassailable. Required gathering enough evidence to take down not just the visible players, but the invisible ones pulling strings from behind the scenes.
Soon, I thought. But not yet.
I gathered my files and headed for the elevator. Tomorrow, more investigation. Saturday, dinner with Sara. Next week, whatever Vance's "special inventory" might reveal.
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