Chapter 16: THE BOTTLENECK CASE — Part 1
The conference room smelled like expensive wine and federal frustration.
Peter stood at the head of the table, a bottle of 1982 Château Latour positioned next to its counterfeit twin. To the untrained eye, they were identical—same label, same cork, same wax seal that whispered of French tradition and astronomical prices.
"Twenty-three bottles," Peter said. "Sold across six different auction houses in the past four months. Total value claimed: four hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Total actual value: maybe six hundred bucks."
Neal picked up the counterfeit, examining it with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent years learning to spot—and create—fakes.
"The label work is exceptional. Period-appropriate paper, correct typography, even the aging on the corners looks authentic."
"It fooled three different authentication experts," Diana added. "Until an independent collector noticed his wine tasted like a 2005 vintage instead of 1982."
I reached for the bottle Neal was holding. He surrendered it without comment—we'd moved past the petty competitions of our first week together.
[APPRAISAL ACTIVE]
[OBJECT: COUNTERFEIT WINE BOTTLE — 1982 CHÂTEAU LATOUR]
[ANALYSIS: CORK AGED ARTIFICIALLY (CHEMICAL TREATMENT DETECTED)]
[ANALYSIS: LABEL PAPER AUTHENTIC ERA, INK COMPOSITION MODERN]
[CONCLUSION: PROFESSIONAL FORGERY OPERATION]
The details emerged in my peripheral vision while I turned the bottle in my hands. The forger knew their craft—everything looked right at first glance. But the system caught what human eyes missed.
"The cork's been artificially aged," I said. "Chemical treatment. And the label ink is wrong—it's modern formulation printed on vintage paper."
Peter's eyebrow rose. "You can tell that by looking?"
"Pattern recognition." I set the bottle down. "The paper stock is harder to fake than the printing. Someone had access to period-appropriate materials but used contemporary production methods."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning they're sourcing from specialty suppliers. Custom print shops that deal in historical reproduction. There aren't many of those in the city."
Neal was already pulling out his phone. "I have contacts in the wine collector world. If fake Latour is circulating, someone's heard whispers."
"Do it." Peter looked between us. "I want both angles covered. Dark, you trace the supply chain—bottles, corks, labels. Caffrey, you work distribution. Find out who's selling and who's buying."
"Separately?" Neal asked.
"For now. But this operation is sophisticated. You'll probably need to share notes eventually."
Neal's smile carried competitive edges. "Race you."
I didn't reply. I was already planning.
The specialty print shop occupied a converted warehouse in Williamsburg, squeezed between a craft brewery and an artisanal pickle company. The sign read "Thompson Archival Reproductions" in letters designed to look a century older than they were.
I'd spent the morning researching. Three shops in the city dealt in historical paper reproduction. One specialized in colonial-era documents, one in Asian antiquities, and Thompson's—which had a reputation for European materials and an unusually discreet client list.
The connection to the Hartley case nagged at me. Thompson's address was three blocks from Hartley's gallery. In a city of eight million people, three blocks was practically neighbors.
Coincidence?
I'd stopped believing in coincidences the day I woke up in Marcus Webb's body.
The shop's interior matched its exterior—carefully curated vintage aesthetic, all exposed brick and industrial lighting. Display cases showed reproduction historical documents, antique-style maps, the kind of decorative ephemera wealthy people hung on walls to signal cultured taste.
A man emerged from the back. Mid-fifties, reading glasses perched on his nose, the distracted manner of someone interrupted mid-project.
"Can I help you?"
"I hope so." I adopted the voice of a particular kind of customer—wealthy, specific, unconcerned with legality. "I'm looking for high-quality reproduction labels. Wine collection. Vintage European pieces."
Thompson's expression flickered. Recognition of what I was actually asking for, followed by careful blankness.
[MARK ANALYSIS: ROGER THOMPSON]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: NERVOUS | CALCULATING]
[GUILT INDICATORS: 68%]
[FEAR OF EXPOSURE: 74%]
[NOTE: THIRD-PARTY PRESSURE DETECTED]
"We do historical reproductions," Thompson said carefully. "For educational and display purposes only. All our work is clearly marked as reproduction."
"Of course." I smiled. "I'm interested in unmarked pieces. For a private collection that needs... complete authenticity."
"I'm afraid I can't help with that."
But his hands were trembling slightly. He wanted to help—or wanted to avoid whatever consequences came with refusing.
"I understand discretion is important in your business." I pulled out a card I'd had printed that morning—James Thornton, Private Collector. "Perhaps you could refer me to someone who handles special requests. A wine broker, maybe. Someone who understands what collectors need."
Thompson took the card. His eyes scanned the name, the Connecticut address, the understated quality of the paper stock.
"There might be someone," he said slowly. "A broker who works with certain clients. But I don't know his name."
He was lying. The system confirmed it—elevated heart rate, micro-expressions of deception.
"That's unfortunate." I let disappointment color my voice. "I was hoping to place a substantial order. Several dozen labels, professionally aged. Price is not a concern."
The greed flickered in Thompson's eyes. Then something else—fear, sharp and recent.
"I can't help you," he repeated. But quieter now. "The wine broker—he handles his own clients. I just provide materials when asked."
"When asked by whom?"
Thompson's face closed down. "I think you should leave."
I'd pushed too far, too fast. Rookie mistake. But I had what I needed—confirmation that a "wine broker" existed, and that Thompson was scared of him.
[INTEL ACQUIRED: WINE BROKER CONFIRMED]
[INTEL ACQUIRED: THOMPSON UNDER EXTERNAL PRESSURE]
"Of course." I pocketed my card—he'd kept it, which meant he might reach out later. "If circumstances change, you have my contact information."
I left the shop and walked three blocks east, counting doorways until I reached the address I'd memorized weeks ago. Hartley Gallery. Closed now, crime scene tape still visible in the windows, but the connection felt solid.
Same neighborhood. Same specialty materials. Same pattern of fear and pressure.
Whatever network Marcus Hartley had been running, it extended beyond art forgery.
The FBI coffee machine had finally given up the ghost. I nursed a cup from the cart outside Federal Plaza, watching Peter review my preliminary findings.
"Thompson's scared of someone," I said. "Wouldn't give me a name, but he confirmed the wine broker exists."
"And the Hartley connection?"
"Circumstantial. Same neighborhood, possibly same material suppliers. Nothing I can prove yet."
Peter set down the report. "Caffrey's having better luck on his end. He's got a name."
"Already?"
"Wine collectors talk." Peter's smile was dry. "Especially when a charming young man shows interest in their cellar tours. The name that keeps coming up is Benjamin Holt."
[INTEL ACQUIRED: BENJAMIN HOLT — WINE BROKER]
"Holt." I turned the name over in my mind. "I'll run financial backgrounds."
"Do that. Caffrey's setting up an approach—potential buyer, interested in rare vintages. If Holt is our guy, we'll need financial evidence to make the case stick."
I gathered my files and headed for my desk. The case was moving faster than expected—Neal's social engineering outpacing my methodical research. But that was the point of having two consultants with different skill sets.
The competitive instinct still burned, though. A month of working together hadn't erased it entirely.
The evidence locker held the authentic Latour alongside its counterfeit twin. I signed out both bottles—research purposes, officially—and carried them to the small conference room I'd claimed as workspace.
The real wine deserved examination. Technically, opening it was destruction of evidence. Practically, Peter had already authorized testing, and a small pour for analysis purposes wasn't going to matter.
I uncorked the bottle with careful precision. The smell hit immediately—decades of aging concentrated into a single breath. Leather and tobacco, dark fruit, the mineral complexity that made Bordeaux legendary.
Small pleasures.
I poured a careful measure into a paper cup—nothing fancy available—and tasted.
It was actually good. Not just expensive-good, but genuinely remarkable. Layers of flavor that unfolded across my tongue, each sip revealing something new. I understood the fuss now. Someone had devoted their life to creating this, and someone else was selling fakes of it for profit.
The contrast crystallized something. Wine like this represented human craft at its finest. Counterfeiting it wasn't just fraud—it was desecration of something beautiful.
Getting sentimental, I thought. Dangerous habit.
But the motivation helped. Finding whoever was running this operation wasn't just about FBI brownie points. It was about stopping people who profited from destroying trust in genuine artistry.
I sealed the bottle and returned both to evidence. Tomorrow, I'd run Benjamin Holt's financials and see what fell out.
Tonight, I had reading to do.
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