Chapter 17: THE BOTTLENECK CASE — Part 2
Benjamin Holt's financial history read like a textbook on criminal enterprise disguised as legitimate business.
I spread the printouts across my desk, building the picture transaction by transaction. Wine imports from France, mostly through legitimate channels. Auction house commissions, standard rates. Consulting fees from collectors seeking guidance on cellar acquisitions.
All normal for a wine broker. All perfectly legal.
But underneath the surface, patterns emerged. Payments to shell companies in Delaware. Transfers to accounts that disappeared after single transactions. The particular rhythm of money that was being cleaned rather than earned.
[APPRAISAL: HOLT FINANCIAL RECORDS]
[ANOMALY DETECTED: IRREGULAR CONSULTING FEE STRUCTURE]
[CONNECTION IDENTIFIED: HARTLEY GALLERY — $47,000 (6 MONTHS AGO)]
There it was. A payment from Holt to Hartley, buried among dozens of similar transactions. Forty-seven thousand dollars for "consulting services"—the same vague description Hartley had used for his money laundering fees.
The web was tightening.
"You look like you found something."
Neal appeared at my elbow, moving with the silent grace of someone who'd learned to enter rooms unnoticed. His expression held genuine curiosity rather than competitive calculation.
"Maybe." I shuffled the papers, covering the Hartley connection. That thread was mine to pull. "Financial patterns. The usual."
"The usual being criminal enterprise hidden under legitimate business?"
"Something like that."
Neal settled into the chair across from my desk. He'd been working the social angle all morning—collector parties, wine tastings, the endless rounds of networking that the wealthy used to validate their spending.
"Holt is definitely our guy," Neal said. "Every serious collector in the city has dealt with him at some point. His reputation is spotless—finds rare bottles, authenticates properly, charges fair commissions."
"Too spotless?"
"Exactly." Neal's smile carried professional appreciation. "Nobody's that clean unless they're hiding something dirty. But the collectors love him. One of them showed me a bottle Holt sourced last year—supposedly a 1947 Cheval Blanc. Worth about fifty thousand dollars."
"Let me guess. It wasn't authentic."
"Oh, it might have been. That's the beauty of his operation." Neal leaned forward. "He's not selling all fakes. He's selling mostly genuine bottles with a few counterfeits mixed in. The authentic pieces build his reputation. The fakes generate pure profit."
Smart. The kind of operation that could run for years without detection because the majority of customers never encountered problems.
"Peter wants us to coordinate," I said. "You approach Holt as a buyer. I build the financial case for prosecution."
"Naturally." Neal's competitive edge softened. "You did good work on Thompson. The print shop angle would have taken me weeks to find."
The compliment surprised me. Genuine, unguarded, without the usual performative layer.
"You know your wine snobs," I replied. "That world would have taken me months to penetrate."
"Different skills." Neal stood. "Same target. Maybe we're better together than either of us wants to admit."
He walked away before I could respond. I watched him go, processing.
He's right, I thought. We complement each other. That's either an opportunity or a vulnerability.
Thompson called that afternoon.
I almost didn't recognize the number—the burner phone I'd purchased for the James Thornton identity. But Thompson's voice was unmistakable, tight with fear and desperation.
"Mr. Thornton? This is Roger Thompson. From the print shop."
I shifted into character immediately. Different voice, different posture, different mindset.
"Mr. Thompson. I wasn't expecting to hear from you."
"Neither was I." He paused. I heard traffic in the background—he was calling from somewhere public. "The broker you asked about. His name is Benjamin Holt. He... he's not someone you want to do business with."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because he's going to get caught." Thompson's voice cracked. "I don't know how, but something's happening. He's been nervous for weeks. Making mistakes. Pushing his suppliers harder."
[INTEL: HOLT SHOWING STRESS SIGNS]
[INTEL: THOMPSON WILLING TO COOPERATE]
"And you want to get ahead of whatever's coming."
"I just print labels, Mr. Thornton. I didn't know what they were for. Not at first." The desperation was thick now. "If I provide information, would that... would that matter?"
I had a choice. Thompson was offering to flip—useful for the FBI case, potentially dangerous for my private investigation. If the FBI moved too fast, the Hartley connection might slip away.
"It might matter," I said carefully. "Depending on what information you have."
"I know where he keeps his records. The real records, not the ones he shows clients. There's a safe in his cellar—"
"Stop." I cut him off. "Not over the phone. Can you meet tomorrow? Somewhere private."
"I... yes. There's a coffee shop on Bedford Avenue. Near the print shop. Eleven o'clock."
"I'll be there."
I hung up and stared at the phone. Thompson was going to give me the location of Holt's real records—evidence that would either help or complicate the FBI investigation.
The question was what to do with that information.
The meeting with Thompson went exactly as planned.
I showed up as James Thornton—different clothes, different posture, the careful costume of old money. Thompson arrived ten minutes late, looking like he hadn't slept in days.
"The safe is behind a wine rack in his basement," Thompson said, voice low enough that nearby tables couldn't hear. "Climate-controlled room, bottom shelf on the left side. The combination—I saw him open it once—it's his daughter's birthday. July fifteenth, nineteen eighty-seven."
[INTEL ACQUIRED: SAFE LOCATION AND COMBINATION]
"You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure I don't want to go to prison." Thompson's hands shook as he wrapped them around his coffee cup. "I have a daughter too. She's twelve. I can't..."
The human cost of criminal operations. Thompson wasn't a mastermind—he was a craftsman who'd made bad choices and gotten in too deep.
"If you cooperate fully, that matters." I kept my voice neutral. "But cooperation means everything. Not just the safe."
"I'll give you whatever you need." Thompson's eyes were red-rimmed. "Just... make sure it counts."
I left the coffee shop with more ammunition than I'd expected. Thompson's testimony would be valuable—but the safe location was the real prize.
The question remained: FBI or private investigation?
Both paths had costs. Both paths had opportunities.
I needed to think.
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