It was Sergeant George Forrester's last official day on the job and he was probably the only cheerful man at headquarters. The FBI were still very evident in their presence, having taken over several offices on the main floor. Agents Burke and Hare were standing by the coffee machine. George approached them.

"Good morning, Agents. I just wanted to know if there was anything else you might need from me. This is my last day on the job... last day in the state, actually."

"Sorry to hear that, Sergeant, you seem an excellent officer, I'm sure you'll be missed." Burke said with very little conviction.

"Thank you. Any luck on identifying the probable victims. Are they local?"

"I probably shouldn't be sharing details of the case with you, but there's not really much to tell," Burke said smugly, "we've identified two of the victims from missing persons reports, but the others are still a mystery. Do you know how many people completely disappear in the United States each year?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"Fifty thousand on average. Runaways, people dropping off the grid or running from responsibilities or families, lost hikers, victims of human trafficking, the newly homeless, and of course murder victims."

"You forgot one," George offered.

"What's that?" Hare asked.

"Serial killers eluding the FBI."

Agent Burke almost looked annoyed, "For now, Sergeant, for now. Enjoy your retirement." The two agents returned to their respective offices.

George continued to say goodbye to his friends. He saved the Lieutenant for last. He knocked on his office and entered. Travers looked him up and down before speaking.
"So this is really it? I can't talk you out of it?"

"Not a chance Phil, I love you guys, but I'm gone."

"You're going from being a cop to being a babysitter, what's the attraction?"

George smiled, "Five times the pay, half the hours, and no dead children."

"Ouch, touché. You think there's an opening for me," Travers laughed.

"Sorry Boss."

"Boss no more, George. I wish you the best of luck. I know it's expensive as hell living up there in the Big Apple, I hope you find a place to stay that won't eat up your salary."

"Not a problem, my new boss owns a few hotels and a fancy room comes with the job."

"Damnit George, are you sure there isn't an opening for me?"

Wilson arrived at Bertram's apartment slightly annoyed. Bertram had not given any hint about the Armory review and insisted Wilson read it when it was posted at noon. It seemed overdramatic to the young artist, especially since he knew the review would be positive and all the waiting was little more than theater. He was determined not to give Bertram the satisfaction of suspense and decided to not even mention the review until Bertram himself brought it up.

"Hey Bertie, I have some very interesting news about the exhibit."

"What might that be?" The critic asked, sipping a cup of white tea.

"Jager and I visited the exhibit and apparently both Fisk and Howe attempted to purchase a piece of his art to no avail."

Bertram put down his cup and sat up, "That is interesting. I may have to change our strategy.... move up our calendar," he raised an eyebrow, "how did our artist behave?"

Wilson smiled, "Aloof and rude, perfect."

"Good, I've arranged for our 'tutor' to visit at your loft and give Jager a few pointers for interacting with potential patrons."

"Who?"

"Demitri Presov."

"You've kidding, right?" Wilson asked incredulously, "He's an abusive anti-capitalist that hates everyone. He thinks anyone who's rich should be set adrift in the middle of the ocean."

"And yet," Bertram smiled, "they buy his art like it's crack cocaine. They love his abuse... it appeals to their white guilt. They love the idea of giving him money so they can make him out to be a hypocrite, while appearing to be socially conscious. Plus he's just weird... they love that shit."

Wilson chuckled, "If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, the art world is seriously fucked."

"Amen Willy. Speaking of the art world, would you like to read my review?"

Wilson tried not to smile, "Of course."

Bertram patted the cushion next to him on the couch, "Have a seat, my boy. I just called it up on my laptop. I did a wonderful job, if I do say so myself."

Wilson sat down and began to read the review. It would be read by all the rich and powerful, some online and some when the actual magazines arrived to grace their coffee tables.
It was one of the bibles they would use to determine what art they would invest in, much less stressful than making up their own minds.

... but if I were to choose a star for this exhibit, it would have to be an artist with whom I am sadly unfamiliar, Siegfried Jager. His work is both a throwback and a fusion of several movements. Visually, there is an obvious influence of both surrealist box-maker, Joseph Cornell and the influential photo montages of David Hockney. Thematically however, the influence is clearly both the social conscience of the Expressionists like Bacon or Baselitz, and perhaps most specifically that of the great New Objectivist George Grosz. Like Grosz, the work is both a political protest and a caricature of society's abuse...

... It was interesting to observe the reactions of those viewing his work, which is in many ways a novel rather than art piece. The first reaction is almost always amusement at the often delightful playfulness of the boxes. This changes as the viewer begins to interpret the visual clues and slowly builds outrage at the injustice and horror that dwells within the work. Finally, the viewer is left with feelings of shame and outrage, of guilt and epiphany. It is not unlike the viewing of a beautiful crucifix and finally realizing exactly what that crucifix's purpose really was...

...There is no doubt in this critic's mind that Siegfried Jager is an important artist, long overdue for his place in the public eye. I, for one, am anxious to see more of this artist's oeuvre and hopefully that opportunity will present itself.

Wilson looked up from the screen. "Nice, That's a pretty impressive review. What about Devon? When is his being published?"

Bertram smiled, "I spoke with our favorite preening popinjay earlier today and his review comes out on Thursday. He's actually focusing on Jager's individual pieces... themes and such. It should be a perfect bookend to my review."

"Great, what's next?"

Bertram spoke slowly, "Well, given what you told me about Fisk and Howe, I suggest we chum the waters a bit. I think we should put one of the pieces up for auction at the Art Institute Charity Gala next month. I say strike while the iron is hot."

Wilson thought for a moment, "What piece? I don't think Elaine would appreciate us taking one of the pieces she'll be showing. She may be rich, but that's money right out of her pocket."

"How about that portrait he was working on? From what I saw, it is pretty striking. I know it's not assembled yet, but there's time."

"That's not a bad idea, I'll broach the subject when I see him back at the loft. We can probably keep fifty percent of the bid with only half going to the charity. If he manages twenty or thirty thousand... which isn't unreasonable since most patrons overpay at charity auctions, he'll get to keep ten or fifteen grand."

Bertram smiled, "Not to mention your ten percent."

Wilson ignored him, "I'll ask. He can finish it when he goes back and send it up. What's the plan before then?"

"Demitri first, then I think you should introduce Jager at the cocktail party after this weekend's premiere at the symphony. I'll call Elaine and try to worm out some invitations. I don't foresee any problems, I'm sure everyone wants to meet him."

Wilson looked a bit distressed, "This weekend? Do you think he'll be ready?"

"You tell me Willy. He's going back down to Dixie next week and we have to keep the ball rolling."

Wilson suddenly broke into a broad smile, "Why the hell not. No risk, no reward. I have to admit, this is quite exciting."

Bertram shared the smile, "It is, isn't it? How is Jager, by the way?"

"Excited, pleasant, smart. He's actually a very affable fellow. I rather like him."

Bertram put on a mock stern face and shook his finger, "Don't you dare fall in love, young man."

Wilson shook his head, "Don't worry, I'm not attracted to pleasant, smart, affable men... obviously."

Bertram laughed, "Once more, kindly go fuck yourself, I'm very smart."

"Yes you are Bertie, yes you are."

When Wilson returned to the loft, he relayed both the information concerning Demitri Presov's imminent arrival as social tutor and the upcoming cocktail party Siggy would attend on the upcoming weekend. The news was received with trepidation, but accepted with good humor. The further news concerning the auction plans for the Gala was greeted with a notable measure of pleasure on Siggy's part. He assured Wilson he would complete the piece upon his return to North Carolina and ship it with time to spare.

Wilson found himself feeling guilty about concealing his relationship with Bertram. He didn't want Siggy feeling used or suspecting he was receiving preferential reviews, despite the fact that it was probably true. He was on the verge of telling him, but the joy that Siggy displayed upon reading Bertram's review was so infectious that Wilson could not bring himself to rain on his parade. He decided he would broach the subject soon, but as off-handedly as possible, minimizing its significance as much as he could.

As the evening wore on and Siggy went to sleep, Wilson went to his easel and stared at a blank canvas that had confronted him each night for many weeks. He tried several times to begin a few strokes, but found himself staring hopelessly into the white void. Finally in frustration, he covered the canvas with a cloth, muttered a curse under his breath and headed angrily to bed.