JAKE

The doorman barely glanced at our badges before letting us up. He was probably used to seeing all kinds of trouble behind polished doors, and federal agents showing up was just another Tuesday in SoHo.

The loft was on the sixth floor of a building that probably charged more per square foot than most people made in a month. The elevator opened onto a hallway lined with exposed brick and matte black sconces—probably custom-made, and expensive enough to look like they had been hand-forged in some obscure corner in Europe.

It was the kind of building that whispered wealth, not just in dollar signs, but in taste.

I knocked once. There was a pause and then footsteps—soft, unhurried.

The door swung open, and there he was. Jasper Voss.

He looked exactly how I remembered him—tall, well-groomed, insufferably composed. A silk robe was tied around his waist, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a sleek watch that probably cost more than my entire suit. He had a wine glass in one hand and an unreadable look in his eyes.

He eyed us for a few seconds before recognition flashed in his eyes.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice warm, vaguely amused. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Surely you're not here about the dry cleaning I forgot to pick up."

Luke arched an eyebrow. "You remember us?"

"Of course," Voss said smoothly. "You were the ones who pulled me aside after the Met turned into a smoke-filled circus. What was it—an electrical glitch and a missing painting? Ah, memories."

He stepped back and gestured grandly. "Please, come in. Can I offer you something? Wine? Cynicism?"

We walked in without answering. The loft was as curated as his persona—walls lined with first editions and gallery posters, mid-century furniture arranged with surgical precision. Sculptures stood in the corners—abstract enough to be expensive, yet still unapologetically ugly. A record player sat in the corner, spinning something smooth and French.

Luke glanced around. "You've done well for yourself."

"I try," Voss said, strolling toward the kitchen island with his wine glass. "Though I must admit, you're making me nostalgic. That night at the Met—pure chaos. You asked if I saw anything off. I said the security looked more interested in the hors d'oeuvres than the art. You didn't laugh."

I ignored the bait. "You were Lydia Merrow's guest."

"Indeed. A last-minute invitation. She thought I'd add flair to the room. I brought charm, and she brought a Van Gogh obsession."

Luke stepped forward, voice casual. "And you had no idea what was going on behind the scenes?"

Voss tilted his head. "I heard the alarm and saw the smoke, just like everyone else. There was confusion, a bit of panic. We all rushed out. But by the time anyone understood what had happened, it was too late. Shame, really. I would've loved to know exactly what happened that night, you know, firsthand account of the heist of the decade."

"Mind if we ask what you were doing that night before the alarm went off?" I asked.

His smile sharpened, just a touch. "Besides admiring the brushwork of a mad genius and nursing a disappointing sauvignon blanc?"

"You didn't happen to record anything, did you?" Luke asked, tone still light.

"Record?" Voss repeated, eyes narrowing just a fraction. "As in... video?"

"Audio, video," I said. "Anything you might've found... intriguing."

He set the wine glass down with the kind of precision that only comes with knowing you were on stage.

"You do know mobile phones weren't allowed that night, right?" he said smoothly. "There was an official photographer from Hauser Studios. Lydia and I took some lovely shots. But then we were told that—miraculously—the files were corrupted. Tragic, really."

All his not-so-subtle comments were aimed at one thing—our failure that night. Luke and I exchanged a look. If he thought that was enough to get under our skin, he needed to be a hell of a lot smarter than he gave himself credit for.

I gave a small smile that didn't reach my eyes. "We have reason to believe someone at the event recorded footage tied to a very major, still-open federal case. Just following leads."

"Ah, you're talking about the podcast." He smiled knowingly. "A friend forwarded it to me a few hours before you arrived. As a journalist, I can at least appreciate the craftsmanship. But I do hope you catch whoever's behind it—it's all a bit terribly unethical, isn't it?"

Luke leaned on the edge of a sculptural chair, his voice still light. "You were very interested in security protocols that night, weren't you?"

Voss didn't flinch, but his jaw did tighten, just slightly. "Curiosity is part of the job. Art is about context. Context includes who guards it—and who doesn't."

I smirked. "Well, you clearly agree with the podcaster."

His eyes sharpened. "Agent, once again—I said I appreciate the effort to expose the truth. That doesn't mean I'm involved. If you're implying otherwise, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you."

He took a slow sip, then set the glass down again with care. "I left cloak-and-dagger theatrics behind in college. These days, I write about life around art—the glitz, the drama, the curated illusions. I don't dabble in espionage or... what's the phrase? Citizen surveillance?"

I pulled out my phone and tapped open a photo—the one we dug up while peeling back the layers of his life. Jasper Voss at another charity gala a few months before the heist. Designer tux. Champagne flute. And just barely visible on his wrist—the same pair of sleek, polished cufflinks.

I turned the screen toward him. He leaned in slightly, then frowned.

Before he could speak, I swiped to the next photo—a close-up. A high-res crop of those very cufflinks, glinting under the lights. Bulkier than standard, with a tiny notch where no notch should be.

I let it hang for a moment.

"Nice cufflinks," I said. "Tell me, do you always wear surveillance-grade hidden cameras to black-tie events, or was that a special occasion?"

He blinked. His mouth opened slightly—but no sound came out. Just a beat of silence, then he forced a chuckle. "That's ridiculous. What do my cufflinks have to do with—"

Luke cut in. "We ran the specs through our tech division. Turns out they're not just cufflinks. Micro-HD video and audio recorders. Pretty advanced ones, too. Not exactly something you pick up at a department store."

Voss's eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

Luke turned to me casually, like we were just chatting. "Oh, and you know what's funny? That same podcast had an episode tearing into charity galas like this one—called them an illusion. Smoke and mirrors for the elite."

I raised a brow, playing along. "Huh. What are the odds?"

Luke shrugged. "Right? Just makes you wonder."

I turned back to Voss, the humor draining from my voice. I leaned in slightly, tone low and deliberate. "So here's the thing, Jasper. Either someone borrowed your fancy jewelry to sneak a camera into the Met that night during a closed event under FBI jurisdiction... or you were the one filming."

Voss' polished facade slipped—just for a second. There was fear in his eyes, flickering beneath the surface, but he buried it fast, masking it with a scoff.

"This is absurd," he said, forcing a laugh that didn't quite land. "You have no concrete proof."

"Maybe." I took another step, now toe to toe with him. "But let me be clear. If you're withholding footage that pertains to the Met heist, you're obstructing a federal investigation."

"And if I'm not?"

Luke joined me at my side. "Then this is just a friendly visit. But you see, if we find out later that you were involved—if we trace anything illegal to your devices—well, you'll lose more than just your anonymity."

Voss' smile returned, but it was thinner now, more brittle. "Are you threatening me, Agents?"

"No," I said. "We're giving you a choice."

He was silent for a few moments, probably debating his options. He shook his head. "Sorry," he said, reaching for his wine again. "But I'm afraid I can't help you."

I stared at him a beat longer, then let the silence stretch. "Alright," I said. "Then let's talk about GPS metadata and what it'll eventually reveal."

Elliot had said that cracking the metadata wouldn't be easy. But Voss didn't know that.

"It's all a matter of time before it officially leads us to you," Luke added, playing along.

Voss didn't move for a long moment. Just stood there with that subtle flicker behind his eyes—like a man calculating the weight of his secrets against the price of keeping them.

I didn't let the silence stretch for long.

"So, here's what's going to happen," I said, voice low but steady. "You're going to stop pretending this is some harmless editorial. Because you didn't just watch. You recorded everything. And then you withheld that footage from an active investigation. That's obstruction, unauthorized surveillance, possibly conspiracy if we dig deep enough."

Luke stepped closer, arms crossed, not blinking. "Not to mention tampering with public perception of an open federal case. That podcast of yours? It might be anonymous now, but give us a day. Hell, an hour. Your metadata and voiceprint will all be unmasked, and you'll be trending by noon."

Voss tilted his head, lips twitching into something between amusement and defiance. "Is that what this is? A scare tactic? You want me to confess so you don't have to go through the red tape?"

"No," I said simply. "We want the footage."

He arched an eyebrow, like we were asking for a sip of his wine, not the digital time bomb he had buried under a year's worth of polished exposés.

"Do you think your rich patrons will be thrilled when they learn that their charming dinner guest moonlights as the very guy tearing them apart on air?" Luke added. "Like your friend, Lydia Merrow, and all those collectors and donors... what happens when they find out you've been playing both sides?"

Voss's jaw tensed. That one obviously landed.

I stepped closer. "You can keep acting like you're above this, like you're a truth-seeker. But let's be clear, if we get a warrant—and we will—we will tear through your devices, your cloud, your encrypted archives. And when we do, your name will be on every headline next to the one that says 'FBI identifies source of Met surveillance scandal.'"

I let the pause hang heavy this time.

Voss turned, walking slowly toward the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a heavier drink. His hand shook just enough to betray what his face didn't.

"I didn't think you'd find me," he finally muttered. "I waited a year. Thought it was safe."

He stared into his glass as if it might offer him a way out. "I wasn't trying to sabotage your investigation. I was... frustrated. You recovered the painting, sure. But no arrests? No answers? The press moved on. Everyone moved on. I thought people deserved the truth."

"That's not your call," I said.

He nodded slowly. "Maybe not. But you should never have allowed that event. Maybe that heist was just karma. Because that night, watching them—drunk, careless, bumping into statues older than their bloodlines, mocking the gallery staff... it got under my skin. Art shouldn't be a trophy for the elite. It's our heritage. It belongs to the people."

"So you decided to become the people's prophet?" I asked, voice low. "Expose the world through cufflink cameras and anonymous voiceovers?"

"No one else was going to," Voss replied. "The press moved on in a week, like it never happened. But that night—there was more going on than anyone was willing to say."

Luke folded his arms. "Even if that's true, you sat on that footage for a year without bringing it to us. If helping was really your goal, that would've been step one—so don't call yourself a hero."

"I know I'm not." Voss stood slowly, crossed to the desk in the corner. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a small velvet pouch. From it, he took out a small flash drive. "Footage is all there. Raw and unedited. I backed them up, but that's the original source. But I went through it at least a dozen times. There's nothing solid. No thief. No smoking gun. Just shadows and drunken billionaires."

Luke walked over and took the key from his palm. "We'll be the judges of that."

Voss didn't argue.

We turned to leave. But just as we reached the door, Luke paused and looked back at him.

"For a guy who claims to hate the elite," he said, eyes scanning the loft, "you sure live like one."

Voss didn't respond. He just stood there, still wrapped in silk, staring at the floor like it might give him a better answer than we ever could.

We stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind us—drive in hand, and the truth finally within reach.