White Collar - as an unofficial novel - part 5

Old wine never dies

Peter had been more than surprised when Neal had told him that the bottle would be presented and sold at a fashionable wine auction. He called the owner of the auction house and asked him for a meeting at the White Collar office. Now the man sat in their conference room like an archetype of noble Englishman.

Snob all the way out to the tip of his nose.

"Mr. Cattigan," Peter began.

"Sir. Roland. Cattigan," the tweed suit corrected him.

"Ah. Sir Cattigan," Peter said and looked down in his papers. "You know about this Franklin bottle?"

"Yes. A seller will be presenting it on Friday. And we will be adding it to Weatherbys Auction."

"Who is the seller?"

"May I ask why the FBI wants to know?"

The gentleman was not impolite, just cautious.

"It's a forgery."

"Oh, that's quite impossible," the Tweed returned with certainty. "The Franklin bottle—"

"Can't be faked," Peter interrupted. "I've heard." And he was glad he did not have to tell from where he had heard it.

"Well, my seller wishes to remain anonymous."

"Then you're gonna have to disappoint him," Peter said with a smile and appeared to make a note in the file in front of him.

"Tell me, Agent, do you fashion yourself a wine aficionado?"

Sir Roland Cattigan suddenly had an upper-class attitude that Peter found provoking and disturbing. He belonged to the law enforcement, he was smart and educated. To be treated like something the dog made on the lawn made Peter, if not angry so provocative in return.

He leaned back in his chair with a sloppy pose and said:

"I like a good Pinot now and then."

"'Pinot'," the Tweed repeated with a smile that could cut glass. "You've seen Sideways."

As a matter of fact, Peter had. And it had been a fun movie. Pity a stiff upper lip like this one could not enjoy it.

"Your point?" Peter asked.

"My point is that my palate is insured by Lloyd's of London for a million Euros. My point is that you don't understand the subtleties of my business."

Always these who thought that their business was too prominent or too good too have dealings with the law.

"I think I do," Peter disagreed. "Word gets out a high-profile bottle like this is fake, you're done. Now, I don't wanna shut your business down and search your premises with a warrant," Peter took up a triple folded paper from the table, "but I will."

Sir Roland Cattigan studied him from across the table, moistened his lips.

"I don't know the seller," he stated. "But the broker for the bottle is a woman named Grace Quinn. Satisfied?"

"I believe I am."

The Tweed rose, took his coat and left without any goodbyes.

Peter grinned. Sir Roland had seen his share of movies too, thinking that he knew what a warrant looked like. What he had been holding was a menu from Federal Plaza Restaurant, which conveniently enough and a circular logo vaguely similar to the FBI's seal.

He rose with the menu and the file and met Neal outside the conference room. With a grin he jammed the menu in the kid's hand.

"What's this?" he asked.