Chapter 18: THE BOTTLENECK CASE — Part 3
The wine cellar occupied the entire basement of Benjamin Holt's Westchester estate—a temperature-controlled monument to refined taste and criminal enterprise. Neal had been inside for twenty minutes, his wire transmitting everything to the FBI van parked two blocks away.
I sat in the surveillance vehicle with Peter and Jones, watching data streams and listening to Neal charm his way deeper into Holt's confidence.
"The climate control system alone cost six figures," Holt's voice crackled through the speakers. "Maintains constant fifty-five degrees, sixty-five percent humidity. Perfect conditions for long-term aging."
"Impressive," Neal replied. His buyer persona—Alexander Cross, European collector with more money than patience—sounded genuinely awed. "Your acquisition methods must be remarkable to build a collection like this."
"I have sources others don't." Pride leaked through Holt's careful facade. "Contacts in France, connections to estates that never make it to public auction. When a cellar comes available, I hear about it first."
"And the authentication process?"
"Thorough." Holt's laugh carried edges of condescension. "I've seen too many collectors burned by fakes. Every bottle I sell comes with documentation—provenance, storage history, expert verification."
The irony was thick enough to choke on. A counterfeiter lecturing about authentication. Peter's jaw tightened as he listened.
"I'm interested in a particular vintage," Neal said, voice dropping to the register of serious business. "Nineteen eighty-two Château Latour. I've heard you can source bottles that aren't officially available."
A long pause. Even through the wire, I could feel Holt calculating—greed versus caution, opportunity versus risk.
"The eighty-two Latour is special," Holt finally said. "Most of the production has been consumed or is locked in private collections. But I may have access to bottles that... haven't been fully catalogued."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I can provide what you're looking for." The pride was back, stronger now. "In fact, I have a shipment arriving next week. So rare it shouldn't exist."
[CONFESSION: COUNTERFEIT OPERATION IMPLIED]
[EVIDENCE: SUFFICIENT FOR PROBABLE CAUSE]
Peter was already reaching for his radio when Holt continued.
"Let me show you something special. The production facility where my exclusive bottles are prepared."
The wire picked up footsteps on stone stairs. A door opening. Then Holt's voice, triumphant: "This is where the magic happens."
Neal's sharp intake of breath was theatrical but effective. "You produce your own vintages?"
"I recreate history." Holt's voice swelled with pride. "The wines of the great years, faithfully reproduced using period-appropriate techniques. The bottles are genuine antiques. The corks are chemically aged to exact specifications. The wine itself—" He paused. "Well, the wine is close enough that no one can tell the difference."
"Benjamin." Neal's voice carried the perfect note of impressed horror. "You're selling counterfeits as genuine?"
"I'm providing collectors with experiences they couldn't otherwise have." No guilt in Holt's voice. Only satisfaction. "The 1982 Latour was a legendary vintage. Less than fifty thousand cases produced. Most of it consumed decades ago. My clients want to taste history. I give them that opportunity."
Peter spoke into his radio. "All units, we have confession. Move on my signal."
I was already out of the van, circling toward the back of the estate. The plan called for a coordinated entry—front and back simultaneously, no escape routes.
My role was support. Stay out of the way, help with evidence collection after the arrest. Standard consultant protocol.
But I had other objectives.
The back entrance led to a service corridor that connected the main house to the wine cellar. FBI agents flowed through the front while I slipped down the stairs behind them, moving toward the climate-controlled room Thompson had described.
The safe was exactly where he'd said—behind the third wine rack on the left wall, concealed by bottles of impressive but genuine vintage.
July fifteenth, nineteen eighty-seven.
The combination worked. The safe door swung open.
Inside: ledgers. Paper records of transactions, clients, suppliers. The kind of documentation smart criminals kept on paper because paper couldn't be hacked.
I photographed everything in thirty seconds. Ledgers, receipts, the small notebook that contained what looked like coded client information. Then I closed the safe, reset the combination, and replaced the wine bottles.
[INTEL ACQUIRED: HOLT FINANCIAL RECORDS]
[NOTE: CONTAINS HARTLEY CONNECTION DOCUMENTATION]
By the time I emerged from the cellar, the arrest was complete. Holt stood in handcuffs, face slack with disbelief, while Diana read him his rights. Neal had stepped back into professional FBI consultant mode, pointing out evidence to the forensics team.
"Dark." Peter spotted me. "Where were you?"
"Securing the back entrance." The lie came smooth. "Wanted to make sure no one slipped out."
Peter accepted it without question. Why wouldn't he? I was a trusted consultant, a team player, someone who'd proven his value across multiple cases.
The trust was useful. The deception that maintained it was necessary.
But it felt heavier than it should have.
The celebration happened at the same bar as before—federal agents decompressing after another successful operation. Jones bought the first round. Diana claimed the jukebox. The ritual of victory played out in familiar patterns.
I sat with my beer barely touched, watching Neal hold court across the room. He was telling a story about Holt's face when the FBI burst in—dramatic gestures, perfect timing, the audience eating from his hand.
He's good at this, I thought. The performance, the charm, the easy connection with people who should be his adversaries.
Peter settled into the seat beside me.
"You've been quiet."
"Thinking."
"About the case?"
"About what comes next." I turned my beer bottle, watching condensation trace patterns on the label. "Holt's operation was sophisticated. Someone taught him those techniques. Someone supplied his materials."
"You think there's a bigger fish?"
I know there is. The Hartley connection. The pattern of payments. A network that extends beyond individual operations.
"Maybe," I said aloud. "The counterfeit market doesn't exist in isolation. Supply chains, distribution networks, authentication experts willing to look the other way. Someone coordinates all of that."
Peter was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"You've been running your own investigation. Parallel to the official case."
Not a question. Statement of fact. Peter Burke didn't miss much.
"I've been... thorough," I said.
"That's one word for it." Peter's expression was unreadable. "Another word would be unauthorized."
"Would you rather I'd missed the connections?"
"I'd rather you trusted me enough to share what you found." His voice carried disappointment, not anger. "We're on the same side, Aron. At least, I thought we were."
The guilt hit harder than expected. Peter Burke was a good man—one of the few genuinely good men I'd encountered in either life. Deceiving him felt different than deceiving marks or criminals.
"There's a network," I said. "Hartley wasn't just an art fence. He was a hub—connecting operations across different criminal enterprises. Wine counterfeiting. Art forgery. Insurance fraud. Money laundering. All of it feeding into the same channels."
Peter absorbed this. "And you have evidence?"
"Fragments. Not enough for prosecution. But enough to know the Holt case was a thread, not the whole tapestry."
"Why didn't you bring this to me?"
"Because I don't know how far the network extends." I met his eyes. "And because some of the people involved might have connections inside law enforcement."
Peter's expression hardened. "You think someone in the Bureau is compromised?"
Fowler, I thought. Garrett Fowler, running operations for Vincent Adler, controlling Kate Moreau, eventually engineering the conspiracy that would define Neal's story.
But I couldn't say that. Not yet. Not without evidence that didn't come from memories of a television show.
"I don't know," I said. "That's why I've been careful."
Peter was quiet for a long time. Around us, the celebration continued—agents laughing, stories flowing, the camaraderie of shared victory.
"Keep digging," Peter finally said. "But keep me informed. Whatever you find, I want to know about it. Understand?"
"Understood."
"And Aron?" His voice dropped. "If you're right—if there's something rotten inside the Bureau—we need to be very careful about who we trust."
"I know."
He stood, rejoining the group. I watched him go, processing the conversation.
Peter Burke was now aware that something bigger was happening. He'd accepted my deception, at least partially, because he trusted my judgment.
That trust was both an asset and a burden.
The walk home took longer than usual. I needed the time to think.
The Holt records I'd photographed contained confirmation of the Hartley connection—payments, dates, amounts. But they also contained something else: references to "the investor" who funded Hartley's network. No name. Just initials: V.A.
Vincent Adler.
The name from the show's later seasons. The mastermind who'd destroyed Neal's life, stolen Kate, orchestrated a conspiracy that spanned years and continents. He was already active, already building his empire, already positioning pieces on the board.
The timeline was accelerating. Events that should have taken months were happening in weeks. Either my presence had changed something, or my meta-knowledge had been less accurate than I'd believed.
Either way, I needed to move faster.
The apartment was dark when I arrived. June's windows glowed on the first floor—she kept late hours, a habit from her jazz singer days. Neal's fourth-floor lights were off. Probably still at the bar, still performing, still charming people who didn't realize they were being charmed.
I climbed to the third floor and let myself in. The familiar smell of old wood and accumulated secrets wrapped around me.
Byron's ledgers waited on my desk. The seven criminal contacts I'd identified weeks ago—still untapped, still waiting to be activated. Maybe it was time to reach out. Build the network I'd need for whatever came next.
My phone buzzed. Sara Ellis.
Meeting tomorrow still on? I found something on the Dutchman you need to see.
I typed a quick confirmation and set the phone aside. Sara was another thread to pull—insurance industry access, investigation skills, a potential ally in the larger game.
The web of connections was growing more complex. FBI on one side, personal investigation on another. Neal as rival and potential partner. Sara as information source and something else I hadn't quite defined. Peter as mentor and unwitting accomplice.
And underneath it all, the system. Silently tracking progress, unlocking capabilities, pushing me toward a destination I couldn't quite see.
[CASE COMPLETE: BOTTLENECK WINE OPERATION]
[REWARD: +1000 GC, +400 EXP]
[CURRENT STATUS: LEVEL 3 | EXP: 1,600/2000]
I dismissed the notification and pulled out the photographs from Holt's safe. Tomorrow, I'd analyze them properly. Cross-reference with Hartley's records, Sara's insurance data, the fragments of conspiracy I'd been assembling.
Tonight, I'd let the pieces settle.
The city hummed beyond my window. Somewhere out there, Vincent Adler was building his empire. Garrett Fowler was making compromises that would define his career. Kate Moreau was being controlled by forces she didn't understand.
And Neal Caffrey—one floor above, sleeping or not—had no idea how much danger surrounded him.
Should I tell him?
The question surfaced unbidden. I had knowledge that could protect him. Warnings that could change his trajectory. But sharing them meant revealing truths I wasn't ready to explain.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I set the photographs aside and reached for Byron's ledgers. The network wouldn't build itself.
One thread at a time. One connection at a time. One careful step after another.
The long con continued.
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