The Woman in Blue

Chapter 8: Full Circle

Bureau agents took possession of Mansfeld's townhouse late on Saturday night. Peter checked in briefly before leaving for home but waited till the next day for a thorough inspection. After having speculated about it for a week, he could finally see the place for himself. He'd assumed the interior would be luxurious, but the elegance he found was beyond what he had imagined. Antiques, Persian rugs, paintings—was this the princely lifestyle Neal had grown accustomed to in Europe?

He found Neal's bag in one of the upstairs bedrooms. On the dresser was a framed photograph of Neal, Mansfeld, and an attractive young woman with her brunette hair cut into a short bob. That was likely Chantal. They were in a kitchen. Copper pots hung from the ceiling. Mansfeld was stirring something on the stove. Neal and Chantal were standing by a large mound of dough on the counter. Both had smudges of flour on their faces and aprons. The trio had all struck silly poses, hamming it up for the camera. Would Neal want the photo or would it be too painful? In any case, there was no need for the FBI to confiscate it. Peter put the photograph in his briefcase and continued upstairs.

The studio was on the next floor, looking vast and empty, the easels bare. The cabinets were filled with art supplies, but everything had been neatly stowed away. Peter paused by the wet bar and surveyed the cut-glass decanters and bar glasses, the leather overstuffed chairs. Mansfeld had pulled out all the stops.

Midmorning, he received a text from Neal: I'm fine. Painting.

Fine—he wished he could believe that. But at least Neal had remembered to text him.

By midday, the contents of the house had only been partially searched, but the weary team called it quits for the day. The work would continue for the next several days.

Peter went home too. The Yankees were playing. He put the game on, got a beer out of the fridge, and collapsed on the couch. He wished El weren't away at an event. It would have been easier to unwind if she were there. She could have distracted him with tales from the event-planning world. With the op over, he shouldn't be feeling this tense.

His cell phone buzzed. Hoping it was Neal, Peter was surprised to see Sherkov's name on the display.

"I'm sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Peter. I hope you don't mind."

"It's not a problem, Ivan. How can I help?"

"I heard from a colleague at the Met about an attempted theft last night. He said someone tried to steal a Vermeer painting. I wondered if that was related to the case you and Neal are working on?"

"Yes, I can't go into details, but we were able to prevent it."

"Is Neal all right? I was told shots were fired."

"Neal received a minor injury—nothing to be concerned about. He may not feel up to going to your class tomorrow though."

"That won't be an issue." Sherkov gave a brief chuckle. "Sometimes I think he could teach the subject better than me. Please express my gratitude to him. The loss of a Vermeer painting would have been tragic."

"He'll appreciate that very much. Thanks for calling."

Peter put down the phone with a smile. Neal had made some good friends already at Columbia. It was reassuring to know Sherkov had become one of his supporters. Picking up his phone again, he called Neal. This time he got through.

"You holding up okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." His automatic response wasn't reassuring. Someday he'd have to tell Neal, that whenever he said he was fine, Peter assumed he was feeling freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. "I'm coming over. I have your stuff from the townhouse."