Chapter 11: THE PICASSO RACE — Part 1
Harold Simms worked out of a cramped office in Lower Manhattan, wedged between a tax preparation service and a bail bondsman. The building smelled like old carpet and desperation.
I arrived at eight in the morning, before the gambling debts could drag him out of bed, and waited in a coffee shop across the street.
[SURVEILLANCE ACTIVE]
[TARGET: HAROLD SIMMS]
[STATUS: APPROACHING LOCATION]
He arrived at 8:47—rumpled suit, coffee in hand, the haunted look of a man who hadn't slept well in months. Mid-forties, thinning hair, a wedding ring he kept touching like a nervous habit.
I gave him ten minutes to settle in, then crossed the street.
"Mr. Simms?"
He looked up from his desk. The office was as depressing as the exterior suggested: metal furniture, fluorescent lights, motivational posters that had stopped motivating years ago.
"Can I help you?"
"I hope so." I closed the door behind me. "I'm with the Insurance Fraud Investigation Bureau. We're looking into some irregularities with a recent claim you processed."
His face went pale.
[MARK ANALYSIS: HAROLD SIMMS]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: TERRIFIED | GUILTY]
[PRIMARY VULNERABILITY: FEAR OF EXPOSURE]
[SECONDARY VULNERABILITY: GAMBLING ADDICTION]
"I—I don't know what you mean."
"The Picasso sketch. Carter collection. Claim number AR-77291." I sat down across from him without being invited. "You approved it in forty-eight hours. The average processing time for a piece that valuable is three weeks minimum."
Simms's hands were shaking.
"The documentation was in order. There was no reason to delay."
"No." I leaned forward. "There were many reasons to delay. Verification of provenance. Investigation of the break-in. Cross-referencing with law enforcement. Standard procedure you bypassed entirely."
"I was being efficient."
"You were being paid."
The words hit like a slap. Simms's face crumbled.
"I don't—you can't prove—"
"Mr. Simms." I softened my voice. "I'm not here to destroy your life. I'm here to give you a choice."
He looked up. Hope flickered in his eyes.
"What choice?"
"The people who paid you—they're going down. That's not a threat, it's a fact. When they fall, they'll drag everyone involved with them." I paused. "Unless some of those people cooperate first."
Simms was quiet for a long moment. The clock on his wall ticked loudly.
"I just processed the claim," he said finally. "I didn't steal anything."
"I know."
"They said it was easy money. Process the claim fast, don't ask questions, collect my cut when the check cleared."
"Who are they?"
He told me.
[ARON — INVESTIGATION UPDATE]
Simms cracked easier than expected. The confession came out in fragments: the collector's nephew, David Carter Jr., had arranged everything. He needed money—gambling debts of his own, plus a lifestyle his trust fund couldn't support. The solution was elegant: stage a theft, sell the Picasso privately, collect both the sale price and the insurance payout.
Roland Beck was the buyer. High-end collector with a reputation for asking few questions about provenance.
I recorded the entire conversation. Insurance fraud, conspiracy to commit theft, at least three felonies wrapped in one neat package.
[EVIDENCE ACQUIRED: SIMMS CONFESSION]
[CASE STATUS: PROSECUTION-READY (PARTIAL)]
Now I needed to see what Neal had found.
[NEAL CAFFREY — EARLIER THAT DAY]
The restaurant Beck had chosen occupied the penthouse floor of a Midtown hotel—the kind of place where water cost eight dollars and the real transactions happened in whispers.
Neal arrived fifteen minutes early, dressed in a suit that suggested European money and old-world sensibilities. His cover was Alexander Voss, independent art consultant representing a private Swiss collection.
Beck was already seated when Neal approached the table. Late sixties, silver hair, the calculated elegance of generational wealth. He rose to shake hands with the measured courtesy of a man who'd been rich so long he'd forgotten any other way to live.
"Mr. Voss. A pleasure."
"The pleasure is mine." Neal settled into his chair. "Thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice."
"When one hears of a serious collector seeking specific works, one makes time." Beck signaled for wine. "You mentioned interest in Picasso's Blue Period sketches."
"My client has particular tastes."
"As do I."
The wine arrived—a two-hundred-dollar bottle that the FBI would be paying for. Neal let Beck pour, let him control the conversation's rhythm. Charm worked best when it seemed like submission.
"I've heard rumors," Neal said carefully. "That certain works might be... available through private channels. Works that haven't been seen in public for some time."
Beck's expression didn't change.
"Rumors can be unreliable."
"And yet they often contain truth." Neal sipped his wine. "My client is prepared to pay substantial premiums for the right piece. No questions asked about provenance."
A long pause. Beck studied Neal the way a chess player studies the board.
"There may be something," Beck said finally. "A recent acquisition. Quite rare. If your client's resources are as substantial as you suggest..."
"They are."
"Then perhaps we could arrange a viewing. Tomorrow afternoon. My residence in Connecticut."
Neal smiled.
"That would be acceptable."
[BACK TO ARON — FBI CONFERENCE ROOM — EVENING]
Neal arrived twenty minutes after I did, looking like a cat who'd discovered cream.
"Beck's showing me the Picasso tomorrow," he announced. "Connecticut estate. Noon."
"Good." I slid my recording across the table. "Because I have the collector's nephew on tape arranging the whole thing."
Neal's expression flickered. Surprise, then grudging appreciation.
"That was fast."
"Simms folded. Gambling debts make people desperate."
Peter entered before Neal could respond. Diana and Jones followed, case files in hand.
"Report."
I went first. Simms's confession, the nephew's involvement, the insurance fraud scheme. Peter's eyebrows rose as the recording played.
Then Neal presented his meeting with Beck. The private viewing, the Connecticut address, the opportunity to catch a major collector in possession of stolen property.
"So we have the inside man, the mastermind, and the buyer," Peter summarized. "All we need is the painting."
"Tomorrow," Neal said. "I go to Beck's estate, confirm the Picasso is there, and you send in the cavalry."
"Coordinated operation." Peter looked between us. "Both of you."
I didn't protest. Neither did Neal. We both knew cooperation was the only way this worked now.
"Dark, you'll coordinate from the van. Monitor Neal's wire, call in backup when we have confirmation." Peter turned to Neal. "You get us visual confirmation of the painting. Nothing more. No improvisation."
Neal's smile was innocent.
"Would I improvise?"
"Yes," everyone in the room said simultaneously.
The elevator ride down was less hostile than the previous night.
"Not bad, Dark." Neal's voice held something that might have been respect.
"You too, Caffrey."
We stepped out into the evening air. Manhattan hummed with traffic and possibility.
"Tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow."
We walked in different directions. But for the first time, it felt less like a competition and more like something else.
Partnership? Too strong.
Understanding? Maybe.
Recognition, perhaps. Two predators who'd learned to share hunting grounds without tearing each other apart.
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