Chapter 21: THE GALLERY VISIT
Four days had passed since the auction. Four days of FBI work, paperwork, and the careful maintenance of my public identity. Now James Thornton walked through SoHo's gallery district, approaching the address on Gerard Vance's card.
Hartley Gallery occupied a converted warehouse on a quiet street—all exposed brick and industrial windows, the aesthetic of serious art rather than tourist appeal. The sign above the door was discreet, almost apologetic. The kind of place that expected its clients to know what they were looking for.
I pushed through the entrance and into cool air that smelled of old wood and expensive discretion.
"Mr. Thornton." Gerard Vance emerged from a back office, hand extended, smile professionally warm. "I'm glad you could make it."
"I've been looking forward to it." I shook his hand, letting James Thornton's appreciation show. "The gallery has quite a reputation."
"We try to maintain standards." Vance gestured toward the main exhibition space. "May I give you a tour?"
The gallery's public collection was impressive—contemporary pieces alongside Old Masters, the eclectic mix of a dealer who served varied tastes. I moved from painting to painting with appropriate admiration, making informed comments, playing the educated collector.
[APPRAISAL ACTIVE]
[SCANNING: GALLERY COLLECTION]
The system flagged pieces as I passed them. Most were authentic—good work, fairly priced, legitimate inventory for a legitimate business. But three pieces triggered warnings.
A Caravaggio study—similar to the one at Christie's. The brushwork was wrong, too precise, lacking the spontaneity of genuine work.
[AUTHENTICATION: FORGERY]
[QUALITY: HIGH]
[ESTIMATED ACTUAL VALUE: $3,000]
A small Vermeer, supposedly a preliminary sketch. The pigment composition was inconsistent with seventeenth-century materials.
[AUTHENTICATION: FORGERY]
[QUALITY: EXCELLENT]
[ESTIMATED ACTUAL VALUE: $5,000]
And a Renaissance portrait attributed to a minor Florentine master. The canvas showed artificial aging, careful work designed to fool casual examination.
[AUTHENTICATION: FORGERY]
[QUALITY: PROFESSIONAL]
[ESTIMATED ACTUAL VALUE: $2,500]
Three forgeries, priced collectively at over two hundred thousand dollars. Vance was continuing exactly where Hartley had left off.
"The Vermeer is particularly striking," I said, pausing before the sketch. "The way he captured light through the window."
Vance's expression flickered. A test, perhaps—seeing if Thornton could spot the fake.
"Vermeer's preliminary work is fascinating," Vance agreed. "So few pieces survive. This one came from a private collection in Amsterdam, documented since 1847."
Documented by someone very good at forgery, I thought. But James Thornton nodded appreciatively.
"The documentation must be impeccable for a piece this rare."
"We pride ourselves on thorough authentication." Vance's smile tightened slightly. "Our clients expect nothing less."
We continued through the gallery. Vance's commentary was intelligent, informed—the patter of someone who genuinely understood art history even as he sold counterfeits to unsuspecting collectors. I found myself almost admiring his competence.
Then we reached the back corner of the gallery, where a small painting hung alone on a dedicated wall. Not the most valuable piece, not the most impressive. But clearly special.
[APPRAISAL: 18TH CENTURY PORTRAIT]
[ATTRIBUTION: UNKNOWN VENETIAN MASTER]
[AUTHENTICATION: GENUINE]
[NOTE: QUALITY WORK, MINOR ARTIST, EXCEPTIONAL LIGHT EFFECTS]
"This one isn't for sale," Vance said, noticing my attention. "My father's favorite. He acquired it forty years ago from a dealer in Venice. I keep it here as... a reminder."
"Of what?"
"Of why we do this." Vance's professional mask slipped for a moment. "Not just commerce. Not just investment. But genuine appreciation for beauty."
The sentiment surprised me. Even criminals had sentimental attachments, authentic feelings buried beneath professional calculation. I filed the observation away—useful for understanding the man, useful for eventual leverage.
"I understand completely," I said. "My family has pieces we'd never sell, regardless of value."
Vance nodded, the shared moment building trust that I would eventually exploit.
The private office was smaller than I expected—functional rather than impressive, the workspace of someone who valued efficiency over appearance. Vance closed the door behind us.
"Mr. Thornton." His voice shifted, more direct now. "You mentioned at the auction that you're interested in pieces that might not make it to public sale."
"I did."
"May I ask what specifically interests you?"
I'd prepared for this question. James Thornton's collecting preferences had been carefully crafted to appeal to criminal dealers while providing cover for investigation.
"My family's collection focuses primarily on Impressionist and early Modern works. But I've developed... personal interests that don't align with the family's public profile."
"Personal interests?"
"Pieces with complicated provenance." I let the implication hang. "Items that might require discretion in acquisition and ownership."
Vance studied me with new attention. The assessment had shifted—no longer evaluating Thornton as a potential legitimate client, but as a potential criminal one.
"Discretion is something we specialize in," he said finally. "For the right collector, we can source items that would be... difficult to acquire through conventional channels."
"What kind of items?"
"That depends on what you're looking for." Vance leaned back in his chair. "And what you're willing to pay."
The conversation had reached the crucial point. I needed to express enough interest to maintain access without committing to anything that might compromise my investigation.
"I'm looking for quality," I said carefully. "Authentic pieces with legitimate artistic merit, regardless of how they became available. I'm not interested in forgeries or reproductions."
The statement served multiple purposes. It established Thornton's standards, signaled willingness to acquire stolen art, and created an opening to discuss the gallery's criminal inventory.
Vance smiled. "We deal only in authentic works. Documentation may be... creative, in some cases. But the art itself is always genuine."
Liar. Three forgeries hung in his public gallery. But I kept James Thornton's expression appropriately interested.
"That's reassuring. What might be available?"
"Nothing immediately. But I'm expecting new inventory within the month." Vance's smile carried predatory edges. "When it arrives, I'll be in touch. If something suits your interests, we can discuss terms."
"I appreciate that."
He stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Thornton. I think we could have a mutually beneficial relationship."
"I think so too."
We shook hands. His grip was firm, confident—the handshake of someone who believed he'd just acquired a valuable new client.
He had no idea he'd just invited the investigation deeper.
I left the gallery with Vance's personal card and a mental map of the layout. Two exits, one security camera, a back office with a locked filing cabinet that probably contained the real records.
The street outside was quiet, afternoon sunlight filtering through the building gaps. I walked three blocks before checking my phone—old habit, making sure I wasn't followed.
[INFILTRATION: STAGE 2 COMPLETE]
[+200 EXP]
[CURRENT: 1,900/2000]
The experience notification pulsed briefly. Close to level four now. The progression continued, invisible to everyone but me.
My phone buzzed. Sara.
Thursday confirmed. There's a place in Chelsea with excellent Bordeaux. I made reservations.
I typed a brief reply—Looking forward to it—and pocketed the phone.
The investigation was accelerating on multiple fronts. Vance's criminal inventory would arrive within the month. Sara's painting case connected to the same network. Peter was aware of my parallel investigation but not its full scope.
And somewhere in the background, Vincent Adler's organization continued to operate—the V.A. initials from Holt's records, the shadow behind Hartley's network, the conspiracy that would eventually engulf everyone connected to it.
I thought about Neal, one floor above in June's brownstone. Still obsessed with Kate, still unaware of how much danger surrounded her situation. The meta-knowledge burned—I knew things that could help him, warnings that could change his trajectory.
But sharing them meant revealing truths I wasn't ready to explain. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The walk back to Federal Plaza took twenty minutes. I used the time to compartmentalize—James Thornton's gallery visit filed away, Aron Dark's FBI persona reassembled, the constant juggling of identities that had become routine.
Peter was waiting in the bullpen when I arrived.
"Where've you been?"
"Following up on the Hartley connection." Close enough to truth. "The gallery is still operating. New management, same business model."
"Anything we can use?"
"Not yet. They're being careful." I settled into my desk. "But I'm building something. Give me a few weeks."
Peter studied me for a long moment. The conversation from the Bottleneck case lingered between us—his awareness of my parallel investigation, my promise to share findings eventually.
"Keep me informed," he said finally. "And Dark? Be careful. These people don't play nice when they feel threatened."
"Neither do I."
The response surprised a smile from him—brief, almost paternal. Then he walked away to his office, leaving me with my screens and my secrets.
Thursday's dinner with Sara waited on the horizon. Vance's criminal inventory would arrive soon. The investigation continued to expand, each thread leading to new connections, new dangers.
I pulled up the Hartley case files and started reading. Somewhere in the data, answers were hiding.
I intended to find them.
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