Chapter 20: THE SARA QUESTION
"That lead you gave me went nowhere."
Sara's voice on my phone carried frustration barely contained by professional composure. Two days since the Christie's auction, and I was back to being Aron Dark—FBI consultant, careful investigator, man with too many secrets.
"Actually," she continued, "that's not true. It went somewhere, then hit a wall. I need a favor."
I could hear how much she hated asking. Sara Ellis didn't ask for help. She found answers herself, through persistence and intelligence and the particular stubbornness that made her exceptional at her job.
"What kind of wall?"
"Legal. The painting trail leads to a private collector who died six months ago. Estate's locked in probate. I can't access the records without court authorization, and Sterling Bosch's legal department decided this case isn't worth the resources."
"But you're still working it."
"On my own time." A pause. "The insurance fraud patterns you identified—they connect to something bigger. I can feel it."
She was right. The patterns connected to Hartley's network, to the V.A. initials in Holt's records, to a conspiracy that stretched further than anyone at Sterling Bosch imagined. But I couldn't tell her that.
"Where do you want to meet?"
The coffee shop occupied a corner in Midtown—anonymous, crowded, perfect for conversations you didn't want recorded. Sara was already there when I arrived, occupying a corner booth with the defensive posture of someone who'd chosen her seat for sightlines.
"You're early," I said, sliding in across from her.
"You're late."
I wasn't. She just wanted the upper hand. I let her have it.
Sara pushed a folder across the table. Her notes—meticulous, organized, the work of someone who'd been tracking this case for months.
[APPRAISAL: SARA ELLIS CASE FILE]
[QUALITY: PROFESSIONAL]
[CONNECTIONS TO EXISTING INVESTIGATION: HIGH]
"The collector was Harold Pemberton," Sara said. "Old money, serious collection, died of a heart attack in October. His estate includes at least three pieces that I believe were stolen before he acquired them."
"And you can't access the estate records because..."
"Probate court sealed everything pending resolution of a family dispute. His children are fighting over the inheritance. Could take years."
I flipped through the file, reading quickly. Pemberton's collection was impressive—or had been. Several pieces had already been sold at auction, dispersed before anyone could trace their origins.
"What if I told you I might know someone in probate court?"
Sara's eyes narrowed. "Then I'd ask what you want in return."
"Dinner." I closed the file. "Not a date—information. You know art world people I don't. We could be useful to each other."
"You already have FBI connections. What do you need from insurance investigators?"
"Different perspective. Different access." I met her gaze directly. "And you're smarter than most of the agents I work with. That's valuable."
The compliment was genuine, which surprised both of us. Sara took her time responding, studying me with the same careful attention she'd apply to a suspect.
"One dinner," she finally said. "You pay. And it's definitely not a date."
"Definitely."
"And if your probate contact doesn't actually produce results, I'm ordering the expensive wine anyway."
I almost smiled. "Fair enough."
She ordered black coffee. No sugar, no cream. The same way she'd ordered during our first meeting.
I noticed the calluses on her fingers as she reached for the cup—writer's calluses, from gripping pens for hours during interviews and note-taking. She wrote more than she typed. Old school investigative habits.
I noticed that I was noticing. That was new.
"The Pemberton collection connects to something larger," Sara said, pulling me back to business. "Four other collectors in the same social circle acquired pieces with questionable provenance in the past two years. Same authenticators, same galleries, same auction houses."
"Let me guess. Hartley Gallery was one of them."
Sara's expression sharpened. "You've been looking at this too."
"Parallel investigation." I chose my words carefully. "Different angle, similar conclusions."
"And the FBI is involved?"
"In some aspects. Not all of them."
She processed this, fitting my revelation into her existing framework. Smart—she didn't push for details I couldn't provide, but she filed the information for future use.
"This dinner," Sara said. "What exactly do you want to know about the art world?"
"Who's trustworthy. Who's dirty. Who's playing both sides." I leaned back in the booth. "The legitimate market and the criminal one overlap more than people realize. I need to understand where the boundaries are."
"And you think I know?"
"I think you've spent years investigating insurance fraud in the art world. You know things that don't make it into official reports."
Sara was quiet for a moment. Outside the window, Manhattan traffic flowed past in an endless river of headlights and ambition.
"There's a dealer," she said finally. "Gerard Vance. Took over operations at Hartley Gallery after Marcus Hartley's arrest. He's been very careful, very professional. Too careful."
[INTEL CONFIRMED: VANCE UNDER SUSPICION]
"Too careful how?"
"His authentication process is impeccable. Every piece he sells has documentation that would satisfy any expert. But the documentation is... too perfect. No gaps, no inconsistencies, no missing records."
"Which means someone's creating the paper trails."
"Which means someone's very good at forgery, and I don't mean paintings." Sara's fingers tapped the table. "But I can't prove anything. His clients love him. His reputation is spotless."
"For now."
She looked up, reading something in my expression. "You know something."
"I suspect something." The distinction was important. "And I'd rather not say more until I can verify it."
"That's frustrating."
"Welcome to my life."
The response surprised a laugh out of her—genuine, unexpected. Her professional armor cracked for half a second, revealing something warmer underneath.
"Fine," Sara said. "Keep your secrets. For now. But when you can share, I expect full disclosure."
"Full disclosure about art fraud. Everything else stays compartmentalized."
"Deal." She finished her coffee and stood. "I have actual work. Thursday, eight o'clock. Pick somewhere with good wine."
"I thought it wasn't a date."
"It's not." But she was almost smiling as she gathered her things. "It's a business dinner with excellent wine. There's a difference."
She left. I stayed, finishing my own coffee, processing the conversation.
Her file sat on the table between us. She'd left it deliberately—information exchange, the foundation of their arrangement. I picked it up, flipped through the pages again.
The Pemberton connection led exactly where I'd suspected—to Hartley's network, to Vance's operation, to the criminal infrastructure still functioning despite Marcus Hartley's arrest. Sara had been tracking the same threads from a different angle, unaware of how close she was to something dangerous.
Useful, I thought. Dangerous. Interesting.
All three.
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