Chapter 26: THE WAREHOUSE
The FBI surveillance van smelled like old coffee and federal frustration. I'd spent four hours in the cramped space with Peter, Jones, and a rotating cast of surveillance technicians, watching a nondescript warehouse in Red Hook do absolutely nothing interesting.
Then midnight came.
"Movement," Jones said from his position at the monitors. "Van approaching from the east."
I shifted to the window, binoculars raised. A white panel van—unmarked, unremarkable—rolled down the empty street and stopped at the warehouse's loading dock.
"Running plates now," Diana's voice crackled through the radio. She was positioned in a secondary vehicle two blocks away, covering the eastern approach.
The van's rear doors opened. Two men emerged, moving with the careful efficiency of practiced professionals. They began unloading crates—rectangular, climate-controlled, exactly the right dimensions for framed artwork.
[APPRAISAL: CARGO CONTAINERS]
[TYPE: CLIMATE-CONTROLLED ART TRANSPORT]
[ESTIMATED CONTENTS: 4-6 FRAMED PIECES]
[QUALITY: MUSEUM-GRADE HANDLING]
"Art transport," I said quietly. "Professional grade. This is the operation."
Peter leaned forward, his expression tight with controlled excitement. After weeks of financial trails and witness interviews, we finally had eyes on the actual crime in progress.
The warehouse door rolled open. More men emerged to help with the unloading, their movements coordinated, efficient. Someone had trained them well.
Then another figure appeared.
He stepped from the warehouse into the loading dock's sodium lights—older, distinguished, moving with the particular grace of someone who'd spent decades working with delicate things. Even at this distance, I could see the painter's hands.
[MARK ANALYSIS: UNKNOWN MALE]
[AGE: APPROXIMATELY 60]
[BEARING: ARTISTIC/PROFESSIONAL]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: HIGH-VALUE TARGET]
Curtis Hagen. The Dutchman.
I knew him from meta-knowledge I couldn't share, from memories of a television show that hadn't happened yet in this timeline. But now I had confirmation—the man Peter's team would eventually identify was standing right there, supervising the transfer of stolen artwork.
"Who's the older gentleman?" Peter asked.
"Don't know yet." The lie came smooth. "But he's clearly in charge."
Jones was already capturing photographs, the telephoto lens clicking softly in the van's interior.
"Got him," Jones said. "Multiple angles. We'll run facial recognition when we get back."
I watched Hagen direct his men, cataloguing every detail I could capture from this distance. The way he examined each crate before it was moved inside. The deference the workers showed him. The careful, almost loving attention he paid to the artwork.
He's brilliant, Neal had said. Possibly the best forger alive.
And paranoid. And careful. And responsible for systematically corrupting the art world's authentication systems.
"We could raid now," Jones said. "Probable cause is clear."
Peter's jaw tightened. I could see the temptation in his expression—years of law enforcement instinct screaming to move, to catch the criminals in the act, to end this tonight.
"We wait," I said. "We see his distribution network if we're patient. Raid now, we get him and maybe his immediate crew. Wait, and we get everyone he sells to."
"That's risky," Peter said. "He might disappear."
"He's been operating for decades without getting caught. He's not going to run because he feels nervous. He's going to keep working because that's what he does."
Peter looked at Jones. Jones, to my surprise, nodded slowly.
"Dark's got a point. This guy's a ghost. If we want to take down the whole operation, we need to understand it first."
The decision hung in the air. Peter's fingers tapped against his thigh—the only sign of internal conflict.
"Surveillance continues," he said finally. "I want every vehicle tracked, every face photographed. When we move, I want to know exactly who we're moving against."
The operation wrapped up around 2 AM. The crates were inside, the workers dispersing, the warehouse going dark. Hagen departed in a black town car, vanishing into the Brooklyn night.
"Got the plate," Jones said. "Diana's running it now."
We settled in to wait. The van's heater hummed against the spring chill. Peter produced a thermos of coffee that had somehow survived four hours without going completely cold.
"Sandwich?" Jones offered a wrapped package that looked like it had been made several days ago.
"I'll pass."
"Suit yourself." He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. "So. Dark. You've been with us, what, two months now?"
"About that."
"And in that time, you've helped close three major cases and identified a criminal network that spans multiple operations." Jones's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "That's impressive work for a financial consultant."
"Pattern recognition," I said. "It's what I do."
"Uh huh." Jones finished his sandwich and brushed crumbs from his jacket. "You know what I think? I think there's more to you than you let on."
"There's more to everyone than they let on."
"True enough." He glanced at Peter, who appeared to be asleep but was almost certainly listening. "Just don't make me regret trusting you."
"I'll try not to."
The silence stretched. Outside, Red Hook lay quiet under the May sky.
"You know what the worst part of stakeouts is?" Jones asked.
"The coffee?"
"The jokes." He grinned. "Want to hear one?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." Jones cleared his throat. "Why did the art thief get caught?"
I waited.
"Because he left too many brushstrokes of evidence."
Peter groaned from his supposedly sleeping position. I found myself laughing—genuine, unexpected laughter that broke the tension of the night.
"That was terrible," I said.
"I know." Jones looked pleased with himself. "But you laughed."
Dawn crept over Brooklyn around 5 AM, painting the warehouses and shipping containers in shades of gold and orange. Hagen's operation had been quiet for hours, but we maintained surveillance until the morning shift arrived.
"Wrapping up," Peter announced, straightening from his cramped position. "Diana, you're on day watch. Jones, get those photos to the database. Dark..." He paused, considering. "Good call on waiting. I hope you're right about the network."
"I am."
The confidence in my voice was genuine. I knew how this story would unfold—or at least, how a version of it had unfolded in a television show from another life. The variables had changed, but the fundamental pattern remained.
We filed out of the van into the morning light. The city was waking around us, delivery trucks rumbling past, early commuters heading for the subway.
"I want to know who that man is," Peter said, staring at the warehouse one final time. "The older one. Something about him..."
"We'll find out," I said. "The database will have something."
But I already knew. Curtis Hagen. The Dutchman. The man whose forgeries had fooled experts across continents.
Soon, the FBI would know too. And when they did, the real operation would begin.
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