Chapter 6: THE CONSULTANT
The FBI's New York Field Office occupied a glass tower on Federal Plaza, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces designed to project authority. Security guards staffed the entrance. Metal detectors scanned every visitor. Cameras tracked movement from a dozen angles.
I walked through the lobby like I belonged there.
"I'm here to see Special Agent Peter Burke."
The receptionist—young, efficient, clearly suspicious of anyone who showed up without an appointment—consulted her computer.
"Your name?"
"Aron Dark. He'll remember me."
She made a call. I waited, cataloguing details. Exit routes, camera positions, the rhythm of foot traffic through the lobby. Professional habit, or maybe paranoia becoming professional.
[ENVIRONMENT SCAN: FBI WHITE COLLAR DIVISION]
[THREAT LEVEL: LOW (LEGITIMATE VISIT)]
[SECURITY ASSESSMENT: HIGH (FEDERAL FACILITY)]
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. The receptionist avoided eye contact.
Then Peter Burke appeared from an elevator bank, expression halfway between curious and irritated.
"Dark." He stopped three feet away. "This is unexpected."
"I have something you might want." I held up a manila folder. "Consider it a gift. Free sample."
His eyes narrowed. "We should talk in private."
Burke's office lived up to my expectations. Organized chaos—case files stacked on every surface, photographs pinned to a corkboard, the accumulated evidence of a career spent chasing white-collar criminals. A nameplate on the desk confirmed what the system had told me: Special Agent Peter Burke, Senior Investigator.
He closed the door.
"This better be good."
I set the folder on his desk.
"Hartley Gallery on Madison Avenue. Laundering money through inflated art sales. Shell companies in the Caymans, Delaware, and Cyprus. Conservative estimate: four million dollars in the past eighteen months."
Burke didn't touch the folder.
"How do you know this?"
"I read patterns." I kept my voice neutral. "Financial statements are public if you know where to look. The gallery's purchase prices don't match market values. Their buyer list includes three companies that share a registered agent in Wilmington."
[APPRAISAL: ACTIVE]
[DOCUMENTATION QUALITY: SUFFICIENT FOR INITIAL INVESTIGATION]
"The connections are documented in there," I continued. "Transaction dates, account numbers, entity relationships. Enough to justify subpoenas."
Burke opened the folder. His expression shifted as he read—skepticism fading into focus.
"Jones," he called toward the door. "Get in here."
A moment later, another agent appeared. Tall, well-dressed, sharp eyes.
[MARK ANALYSIS: CLINTON JONES]
[SPECIAL AGENT, WHITE COLLAR DIVISION]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: CURIOUS | PROFESSIONAL]
Jones took the folder from Burke. His eyebrows rose as he flipped through pages.
"This is solid, Peter. We missed this connection entirely."
"I noticed."
"Who's your source?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." Burke turned back to me. "Where did you get this?"
"Research." I met his gaze. "I was a forensic accountant before my life fell apart. I know how to follow money."
"You were an identity thief."
"Marcus Webb was an identity thief. I'm something else."
The correction hung in the air. Burke's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes. Reassessment.
"Why bring this to us?"
"Because I need work." No point hiding the practical angle. "I'm rebuilding from nothing. I have skills that might be useful. Consider this an audition."
Jones exchanged a glance with Burke.
"He's got nerve, I'll give him that."
"Nerve isn't proof of reliability."
"No," I agreed. "But results are. Verify what's in that folder. If it checks out, let's talk about an arrangement."
Burke leaned back in his chair. The coffee machine in the corner gurgled softly—the smell sharp and inviting. Real coffee, not the instant garbage I'd been surviving on.
"Even if this information is legitimate," he said slowly, "you're not law enforcement. You have no credentials, no clearance, no legal authority."
"I'm also not bound by the same rules you are." I let that sit. "I can go places you can't. Ask questions you can't ask. Find information you can't officially pursue."
"That's called being an informant."
"Call it whatever you want. I call it being useful."
[NEGOTIATION: CRITICAL PHASE]
[TARGET DISPOSITION: CONFLICTED]
[RECOMMENDATION: EMPHASIZE MUTUAL BENEFIT]
Burke stood and walked to the window. Manhattan spread below—towers and streets and millions of potential cases.
"Jones, what's your read?"
"The documentation is clean." Jones set down the folder. "Whoever put this together knows what they're doing. If even half of it holds up, we've got a prosecutable case."
"And the man who brought it?"
"He walked into FBI headquarters with evidence of felony money laundering and asked for a job." Jones shrugged. "Either he's brilliant or he's crazy. Maybe both."
"I prefer the first option," I said.
Burke turned back from the window.
"Here's what I can offer. Unofficial consulting. Case by case. No badge, no credentials, no official recognition. You get paid through informant fees and petty cash. If you produce results, we talk about something more formal."
[ARRANGEMENT OFFERED: UNOFFICIAL CONSULTANT]
[COMPENSATION: VARIABLE (CASE-DEPENDENT)]
[STATUS: LEGAL GRAY AREA]
"What about the Hartley case?"
"If your information checks out—and I'll have analysts on it within the hour—you get a percentage of recovered assets. Standard informant fee."
"I want access to the investigation."
"That's not—"
"Information access, not operational access." I held up my hands. "I'm not asking to carry a badge or kick down doors. I'm asking to see where my research leads. To follow the pattern as it develops."
Burke's jaw tightened. Jones watched the exchange like a tennis match.
"Limited access," Burke said finally. "Supervised. And if you compromise the investigation in any way, you're done. No second chances."
"Understood."
He extended his hand. I shook it.
"Jones, get him a visitor badge. And Aron?" Burke's grip tightened slightly before releasing. "Don't make me regret this."
The visitor badge felt heavier than plastic and laminate should.
Jones walked me through the White Collar division—cubicles and conference rooms, agents in suits moving between offices. The organized chaos of federal law enforcement in action.
"You made an impression," Jones said.
"That was the goal."
"Peter doesn't trust easily. The fact that he's giving you any access means your research was exceptional."
"It wasn't research." I stopped at a window overlooking an open workspace. "It was habit. I spent twenty years looking for fraud in corporate accounts. The patterns are the same everywhere. Just the scale changes."
Jones studied me with renewed interest.
"Most informants are desperate. They flip because they're facing charges or chasing money. You walked in voluntarily."
"I'm not most informants."
"No." He handed me a folder—copies of the Hartley documentation I'd provided, plus additional background. "You're something we haven't figured out yet. That makes Peter nervous."
"And you?"
"I'm reserving judgment." Jones smiled slightly. "But I'll admit—you've got my attention."
[RELATIONSHIP ESTABLISHED: CLINTON JONES]
[INITIAL ASSESSMENT: CURIOUS (+5)]
[POTENTIAL: PROFESSIONAL ALLY]
The coffee machine in Burke's office had called to me since I arrived. Now, with the visitor badge clipped to my jacket, I took the liberty of pouring a cup.
Dark roast. Rich aroma. The first quality coffee I'd had since waking up in this body.
Small pleasures.
[SYSTEM UPDATE: EXPERIENCE MILESTONE REACHED]
[LEVEL UP: 1 → 2]
[REWARDS: +3 ATTRIBUTE POINTS, +1 SKILL POINT, +200 GC]
[NEW FUNCTION UNLOCKED: APPRAISAL LV.2]
The notification pulsed at the edge of my vision. Level two. Not through combat or magic or any of the supernatural nonsense I associated with system abilities. Through accounting. Through finding patterns in spreadsheets and convincing federal agents to take a chance.
Maybe this system understood me better than I'd given it credit for.
[APPRAISAL LV.2: ENHANCED DETAIL]
[NEW CAPABILITY: DOCUMENT AUTHENTICATION]
[NEW CAPABILITY: VALUE ASSESSMENT (ADVANCED)]
I dismissed the prompts and savored the coffee. Burke's files waited on a nearby table—background on Hartley Gallery, its owners, its clients. A web of connections that would take days to fully map.
Days I now had permission to spend.
Jones reappeared in the doorway.
"Peter wants you in the conference room. We're briefing the team on the gallery case."
"Lead the way."
The conference room held six agents, plus Burke at the head of the table. A projector displayed organizational charts—Hartley Gallery at the center, shell companies radiating outward like spokes.
"This is Aron Dark," Burke said as I entered. "He'll be consulting on this investigation. Treat his access as supervised and limited. Any questions about his clearance come to me directly."
No one questioned it. Federal bureaucracy accepted stranger arrangements every day.
I took an empty chair and studied the organizational chart. The pattern jumped out immediately—a missing node, a gap where a connector should be.
"There's a second gallery."
Burke turned.
"The shell company structure has a parallel branch." I pointed at the chart. "Same registered agent, same timing, same transaction patterns. You're looking at half of a network. The other half is probably using identical methods through a different front."
Jones pulled up additional data. Numbers scrolled across the screen.
"He's right." Jones highlighted a series of transactions. "These outflows from the Caymans account don't match Hartley's purchase history. They're going somewhere else."
The room shifted. Six agents recalculating, recognizing that their investigation had just doubled in scope.
Burke looked at me with something that might have been respect.
"Any other insights you'd like to share?"
"Not yet." I allowed myself a small smile. "But I'm just getting started."
The briefing continued. I listened, catalogued, built mental maps of the information flowing around me.
This was what I'd spent twenty years training for. Not accounting exactly—not anymore. Pattern recognition. Information synthesis. Seeing connections others missed.
The system had given me tools. The FBI was giving me access. June had given me a place to stand.
Now I needed to build something worth standing for.
The visitor badge pressed against my chest. Temporary. Probationary. A foot in a door that could close at any moment.
I'd make sure it stayed open.
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