Chapter 7: THE GALLERY
The Hartley Gallery occupied a converted warehouse in SoHo, all exposed brick and industrial lighting designed to make art buyers feel edgy. I adjusted my borrowed tie—Jones had insisted—and stepped through the entrance into a world of champagne, pretension, and dirty money.
[ENVIRONMENT SCAN: HARTLEY GALLERY OPENING]
[ATTENDEES: 47 | SECURITY: 6 | TARGETS OF INTEREST: 4]
A waiter materialized at my elbow with a silver tray. I took a glass of champagne and didn't drink it. Alcohol dulled the senses, and tonight I needed every edge available.
The earpiece Jones had fitted me with crackled softly.
"We've got you on visual, Dark. Camera in your lapel pin is working. Just mingle and gather intel."
I didn't respond. Too many people nearby.
The art itself was predictable—oversized canvases splashed with color and meaning that existed only in the artist's statement. A Pollock knockoff dominated the far wall, priced at two hundred thousand dollars. The system's appraisal function pegged it as worth maybe eight thousand on a good day.
[APPRAISAL: "CONVERGENCE STUDY #7"]
[AUTHENTIC VALUE: $8,200 | LISTED VALUE: $200,000]
[MARKUP INDICATOR: PROBABLE LAUNDERING VEHICLE]
Marcus Hartley held court near the knockoff, surrounded by admirers who either didn't know or didn't care about the fraud. Mid-fifties, silver hair, tailored suit that cost more than my apartment's monthly rent. He laughed at something a woman said, and his teeth gleamed too white under the gallery lights.
[MARK ANALYSIS: MARCUS HARTLEY]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: CONFIDENT | GREEDY]
[VULNERABILITY: VANITY | GREED (94%)]
I worked the room slowly. Made small talk with a tech entrepreneur about investment portfolios. Discussed color theory with an art professor who'd had too much champagne. Let people remember a face without remembering a name.
The cover identity sat comfortably now: Michael Cross, private wealth manager exploring alternative investments. Boring enough to be forgettable, specific enough to explain my interest in expensive art.
A woman in red caught my attention. Not beautiful exactly—striking. Sharp features, sharper eyes, and a way of cataloguing everyone in the room that reminded me of myself.
[MARK ANALYSIS: UNKNOWN FEMALE]
[AFFILIATION: SUSPECTED FINANCIAL FACILITATOR]
[BEHAVIOR: MONITORING CASH TRANSACTIONS]
She wasn't a buyer. She was a counter. Someone tracking the money flowing through this room in real time.
I filed her away for later and moved toward Hartley.
"Magnificent piece, isn't it?"
Hartley turned. His smile was automatic, polished by years of practice.
"Convergence Study Seven. The artist spent three years on the composition. Very exclusive."
"I can see that." I extended my hand. "Michael Cross. I represent several clients interested in... alternative investment vehicles."
The magic words. Hartley's smile warmed by several degrees.
"Marcus Hartley. This is my gallery."
"I know. Your reputation precedes you."
We shook hands. His grip was firm, confident, exactly what you'd expect from a man who'd spent decades convincing rich people to overpay for art.
"Alternative investments," he repeated. "You mean art as an asset class?"
"Among other things." I kept my voice low. Conspiratorial. "My clients value discretion. They're looking for opportunities that don't attract unnecessary attention."
Hartley's eyes flickered. Interest. Greed. Calculation.
"Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private."
"Perhaps we should."
He led me toward a back office. I palmed the tracking device Jones had provided—smaller than a button, powerful enough to broadcast for seventy-two hours—and during another handshake at the office door, I slipped it into his jacket pocket.
[TRACKER DEPLOYED: HARTLEY]
[SIGNAL STRENGTH: STRONG]
[ESTIMATED BATTERY: 68 HOURS]
Jones's voice crackled in my ear.
"We've got the signal. Nice work."
Hartley's office was surprisingly modest. A desk, two chairs, a laptop computer that probably held enough evidence to put him away for a decade.
"My clients," I said, "have significant resources they'd prefer to move through... informal channels. Art has always been attractive for that purpose."
"I understand completely." Hartley settled behind his desk. "Many of my best clients have similar needs. The art market offers unique advantages. Physical assets, subjective valuations, international mobility."
He was practically writing his own indictment.
"What kind of volume are we talking about?"
"Depends on the timeline. My clients are patient, but they expect results."
"I've facilitated transactions from five figures to eight figures." Hartley leaned forward. "The key is layering. Multiple galleries, multiple jurisdictions, multiple buyers. By the time the money resurfaces, it's clean."
[SILVER TONGUE: MAINTAINING COVER]
[INTEL QUALITY: HIGH]
I let him talk for another ten minutes. Names emerged. Locations. A network of galleries across three countries, all moving money for clients who valued privacy over legality.
When I finally extracted myself—promising to bring concrete proposals next week—I had enough to build a case. Jones confirmed it in my ear: everything recorded, everything documented.
The party was winding down when I slipped back into the main gallery. One more sweep of the room before I left.
That's when I saw him.
A face from FBI files. Not Hartley's files—older ones. A man in his thirties, expensive suit, forgettable features except for the eyes. Cold, calculating, the eyes of someone who moved through the world like a shark through water.
Matthew Keller. Vincent Adler's fixer.
What the hell is he doing here?
Keller shouldn't be in New York for another six months. The timeline from the show—the one I'd memorized like scripture—put him in Europe until late summer. But here he was, exchanging words with the woman in red, checking his phone, scanning the room with professional paranoia.
Our eyes met for half a second.
I turned away, natural as breathing, and made my way toward the exit. No sudden movements. No panic. Just another wealthy dilettante leaving a boring party.
[WARNING: HIGH-THREAT INDIVIDUAL DETECTED]
[RECOMMENDATION: AVOID FURTHER CONTACT]
The cool night air hit my face as I stepped outside. Two blocks to the surveillance van. I walked at normal pace, fighting the urge to run.
Things are moving faster than they should.
Adler's people were already in position. Whatever conspiracy would eventually ensnare Neal Caffrey and Kate Moreau was already spinning its web.
The van door slid open. Jones pulled me inside.
"We got everything. Hartley's done—six months of investigation wrapped up in one conversation."
"Good."
"You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
"Long night." I stripped off the tie and tossed it on the equipment bench. "Anything else you need from me?"
"Peter will want a debrief tomorrow. But yeah, we're good."
I stepped out of the van on a side street three blocks from the gallery. The night stretched cold and empty around me.
Keller's presence changed everything. It meant Adler was already planning, already positioning pieces on a board I thought I understood.
The meta-knowledge in my head—the storylines and outcomes I'd memorized—might not be as reliable as I'd assumed.
I needed more information. And I needed it before events spiraled beyond my control.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I answered.
Silence. Then a click, and the line went dead.
Wrong number? Coincidence?
I didn't believe in coincidences anymore.
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