Chapter Text
It was the most frustrating case Davey had ever worked, and he’d worked many.
Art forgeries so convincing they had no idea when the switch had been made. No traces of the originals in the normal circles of art collectors or anywhere on the black market.
Two suspects, both of whom appeared to be completely clean.
Jack knew because he was one of them.
Davey thought out loud a lot when he was interrogating him.
“Listen, Dave, I’m losing money here.”
“You don’t make money,” Davey snapped.
“I do commissions. I’m in the middle of one that I need to finish this week if I want the full paycheck. Can I go now?”
“No. This is an ongoing investigation.”
“And you have absolutely no evidence of me doing anything wrong and I’ve already been here for six hours.”
Jack was pretty used to this room. He was called in at least every couple of months when they found one of his forgeries in whatever gallery or museum he’d left them in. Not they had any proof that they were his, of course. He was too good of an artist and too good of a criminal for that.
“You are the only person who had the means and opportunity to pull it off.”
“And as you already so eloquently pointed out, you have no evidence connecting me to this missing painting. I have no idea what you’re on about; I didn’t do it.”
He had done it.
An original Monet, the pride of a one Mr. Adateneri’s gallery collection, stolen and sold for a nice even sixty million, distributed to the usual places through the usual channels, the frame filled with a Jack Kelly reproduction and going undiscovered for five years, four months and twenty days.
A personal record, although the others from the same batch were catching up. One in a museum a few hours upstate, a Picasso, which he’d swapped a month after the Monet looked like it was in line to break the record again.
The originals were all hanging in a private basement gallery somewhere in Europe.
That had been his best commission as of yet.
Jack leaned back in his chair, watching Davey carefully.
He was a good investigator.
Jack had been actively stealing and forging art for ten years and Davey was the only FBI agent of the several he knew had been working on the cases to connect the dots between different missing paintings and to draw that line back to Jack.
Jack was a better criminal, though. It was easier to be a good criminal than a good investigator. All he had to do was pick jobs carefully and do them even more carefully.
He painted them in his apartment, same place he painted all his original work.
His connections got him the old canvases, ink, paint, whatever he needed to forge an old painting. His clients were very rich and just as discreet.
Davey knew all of that, but couldn’t prove any of it, which was why he was sitting across from Jack asking the same questions he always did.
Getting just as annoyed at Jack’s nonchalance as he always did.
“Put the chair back on the floor, Kelly.”
“I’m just getting comfy,” Jack grinned, enjoying the way Davey was turning slightly red and huffing the air out of his nose. “Since you’re so determined to keep me here until I die.”
“You’re here until you give me something to go on. Where were you on April 27?”
“Hmm, seeing as how that was five months ago, I don’t recall. Somewhere in New York City, probably.”
“Let me give you the answer, then. You were at the gallery where this painting-” Davey tapped the laminated picture he’d set in front of Jack. “Is missing from.”
They used a picture of his reproduction, actually. Jack could the evidence tag in the photo. Obviously, they had no idea when he’d actually stolen the painting, since they couldn’t even use a photo of the real thing.
“Saturday, April 27. The last time the painting was authenticated until four days ago, when it was confirmed to be a forgery by two separate experts. It was authenticated in the morning, you were there that night for a party you were invited to because one of your originals was being shown in the gallery.”
“Well if you knew all that already, why did you even ask me?”
“To see if you would lie, which you did.”
“I mean, no I didn’t. I genuinely have no memory of that party. I go to a lot of them.”
“Oh really?”
“I know you don’t acknowledge it as a real job, but being an artist gets me connections. People like my work, Dave, and when people rich enough like my work, I get to go to fancy parties. Art gallery parties? Pretty low down there on the list of memorable parties. Somerton mansion parties on the other hand? Now those are some crazy good parties. I have never in my life tasted better sushi than their chef makes.”
“You have absolutely no memory of attending a party at Adateneri Gallery on April 27?”
“Nah.”
He had a vague memory of it, mostly because he’d only gone to check on his forgery.
He hadn’t known it had passed an authentication. It was pretty hard to keep a satisfied smile off his face when he found that out.
“August ninth.”
Jack groaned at that one.
“We’ve been over this one over and over again, Davey, I have no idea what happened to your stupid Renoir. I hate Renoir. He’s all “ooh, pretty ladies but impressionistic that makes me cool, right?” I can’t stand him. I haven’t painted anything by him since college.”
“But you’ve painted things by other artists.”
“We’ve been down this road, too. Yes, I’ve done reproductions before. I take whatever commissions I can get, and people like to have an actual copy of Starry Night in their sky-high office overlooking Manhattan. I gave you my list of clients and you verified all of those reproductions as signed by me, made by me. Reproductions are completely legal as long as they’re not pretending to be real, which none of mine are. They are all signed, done on modern canvasses with modern paint, and they’re all completely legal.”
“And very good.”
“I’m an artist, what do you want? Bad reproductions? Bad work? Bad artwork makes Jack a hungry boy, and I like being not hungry.”
“September 12 of last year.”
“Didn’t do that one either. Listen, Dave, it’s nine at night on a Thursday, I have a painting I have to be done with by Tuesday, and I’m sleepy. Can I go now?”
Davey sighed and pulled the photos and paper back towards him, slipping them back inside his folder.
“Fine.”
Jack stood up and stretched.
“Thank you and goodnight, Agent Jacobs. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
“I’m sure.”
He didn’t see Davey again for another month.
“Jack Kelly.”
“Visiting me in my home. How forward of you, Agent Jacobs,” Jack had learned pretty early on that flirting with Davey was a good way to get him a very manageable combination of flustered and frustrated.
“Shut up.”
“Oh, but you’re so cute when you blush.”
“I am not blushing!”
“The red tint on your face says otherwise.” Jack leaned on his doorframe, smirking. “And I mean, if you’re here because you want to hook up I’m all for that, God knows you’re pretty cute, but if you’re here to search my apartment you’re gonna need a good reason. Or a warrant, either or would be fine.”
“And if I have both?”
“Forgive me for not inviting you in until you prove at least one of them. Since you have been trying to arrest me for, you know, a couple years now.” Davey sighed.
“I don’t have a warrant.” He admitted. “But I do have a good reason.”
“And that is?” Jack was good at reading people. Expressions and body language were both things he worked with in his art, and so he’d spent years and years watching people carefully to pick up the subtle things to make his portraits more realistic. The slightest tilt of the head that showed uncertainty, the tension in somebody’s shoulders that could show confidence if paired with the right quirk of the lips or fear if paired with the right shape of the eyebrows. All very subtle, but they told the people looking at the drawing or painting a lot, even if they didn’t realize it. They were why a person in a painting felt sad rather than just looking like their face was wet, or why the winner of a painted fight could exude confidence even when it was a still image.
None of Davey’s cues were that subtle right now. Sometimes they were. In actual interrogations, he was one of the better people at hiding his emotions. He tried very hard and often succeeded in making it look like he was calm, cool and collected. Right now, though, every cue for frustration, anger, all the emotions he usually hid from Jack but Jack knew he caused were showing through very, very clearly.
His face was red, but he clearly wasn’t embarrassed anymore, his breathing had shifted, he was holding himself physically tighter. He was capital M mad about whatever he was going to say, and it took several tries, several breaths, to get him to finally force it out.
“We need your help,” He finally forced out, and if Jack had wanted to paint his face at that exact moment, he would have had to include the tension in his jaw that made it look like he was clenching his teeth, even if he wasn’t, really, and the way he pushed his shoulders back like that would make him feel more comfortable.
Jack let a wide grin slowly spread across his face, thoroughly enjoying how mad Davey was to have to come to him for help.
“My help? Now, what on Earth could a smart, tough FBI agent like yourself need the help of a suspected con artist like me for?”
“Let me in, and I’ll show you.”
“Now, see, the thing is, I’ve been dealing with you for a long, long time now, Dave. Our two year anniversary is next week, in fact. Remember that interrogation? The point is, I know how you work. I let you in, anything in plain sight you wanna take, you take. I lose things I paid good money for, you get more of my stuff to call evidence, and all ‘cause I’m dumb enough to invite you inside. Uh-uh. You wanna talk to me, we’re not doing it in my apartment. I’ll talk, but we’re going someplace else.”
“And where would you suggest?” It really was fun to watch him seethe. He was really, really mad to be asking Jack for help.
“There’s a cafe right in the bottom of this building. I’d avoid the food; I doubt their kitchen is too clean, but the coffee is boiled and better than nothing.” Jack pulled his keys off the hook next to his door and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him and not letting his grin fade.
Davey followed him into the cafe, barely concealing his disgust at the small, greasy place, and didn’t order anything. He just watched the barista smile and wink at Jack while bringing his drink.
“So. You need my help,” Jack prompted, sipping his coffee and watching Davey apparently try to keep as much of himself as possible from touching anything.
“Yes,” Davey said reluctantly.
“With what?”
“You know the art world.”
“Yeah.”
“You work in every circle of it. Private collectors, galleries, there’s no way you don't at least know the more...illegal side of things.”
“Can’t prove anything,” Jack said cheerfully, knowing if they could, he’d have been arrested, not having coffee with an FBI agent.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t know anything. People can know things without doing them. The point is, you know every corner of the art world.”
“I suppose.”
“We have a case. Bigger than the one you’re involved with.”
“The one you think I’m involved with. I haven’t done anything, Dave, and therefore you can’t deal in absolutes like that.”
“Whatever. The case you’re allegedly involved with is nothing compared with this one. They…we want to hire you as a consultant. For this case only.”
“So the bossmen finally realized I have potential, huh? What’s the case?”
It wasn’t bigger than his, he knew it for a fact. His portfolio of forgeries was bigger than anybody else’s portfolio of any kind of art related crime. Nobody else had the skill and connections Jack had. Maybe he was cocky about it, but it was deserved. His forgeries were better than anyone’s, and his list of crimes was longer.
“I’m not allowed to say,” Davey said. “You don’t have anywhere close to enough security clearance.”
“How am I supposed to help solve it if I don’t get to know what it is?”
“If you agree, you’ll be given information on a need to know basis to do what you need to do.”
Jack took another drink, thinking.
“So. You want me, the guy you’ve been borderline harassing for two years over crimes I didn’t commit to help you solve a crime I don’t even get to know anything about. And I’m the top choice why? Aren’t there people actually trained to do what you want me to do?”
“We need somebody who’d actually part of the art world. Who already knows people and can insert themself into whatever situation we need them without getting anybody suspicious.”
“So you want to use me.”
“Yes.”
Jack was surprised that Davey admitted it so easily.
This whole thing was intriguing. They wanted to hire him. The FBI wanted to hire him to solve some kind of art related crime. It would be fun. It’d likely take out his competition, whoever they were, that was apparently flooding the market with enough of whatever they were producing to get their case marked as bigger than Jack’s.
“Sounds like fun. Do I get paid hourly?”
“What...that’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all it took to convince you to say yes?”
“Sure,” Jack finished his coffee with one last big drink and grinned at Davey. “Do I get paid hourly? And ooh, do I get a badge?”
“You’ll get paid if you help us solve the case. And no.”
“Aw. Badges are cool. Now, is that all?”
“You’ll help us?”
“Yeah, I already said, it sounds like fun.”
“Then come to my office tomorrow morning at nine. The main entrance of the building, not where you usually come in.”
“That’s a change. Not being treated like a criminal anymore. And if that’s all, I have to deliver a commission in two hours and I still need to wrap the painting.” Jack stood up, bringing his mug back up to the counter. “So I bid you adieu until tomorrow morning, Agent Jacobs, have a nice night.” Jack grinned at him one more time over his shoulder before stepping into the lobby to go back up to his apartment. He really did have a commission to deliver.
A stunning reproduction of a lesser-known Van Gogh, perfectly legally done on modern canvas with modern paint to be hung in some CEO’s office, Jack’s signature there but hidden by the frame, Vincent’s nowhere to be seen.
He had to be careful about things like that. Any slip-ups in his legal work could easily lead to the downfall of his illegal side business.
When he got home from the delivery, he promptly dug out the phone he used for the more illegal side of things and hit his number one speed-dial.
“Hey, Crutch,” He said when it picked up. “Guess who just got hired by the FBI?”
“Al Gore,” Crutchie said, and Jack could hear him typing in the background.
“Me,” Jack said, and the typing stopped.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” Jack confirmed. “Agent David fucking Jacobs just showed up at my apartment and hired me as a consultant on some kind of art case he wouldn’t tell me about ‘cause I’m not trustworthy enough.”
“So they don’t suspect you anymore.”
“Oh, he still does, they just know they can’t prove anything. But he said whatever it is is bigger than me. Meaning I should know about it anyway, and if I don’t you should.” The typing started again, much faster now.
“There hasn’t been anything on Tyler yet.”
“Nah, and he’s chicken. He’ll quit as soon as there is.”
“True true. They caught Evans last year...no traffic through my servers on anyone else right now,” Jack could hear the frown in Crutchie’s voice. He hated not having all the information all the time. “You’re the biggest,” He said. “Nobody has more out there than you, nobody even comes close. Especially in chatter.”
“I know, that’s what I was thinking.”
“Did he come inside?” Crutchie asked.
“Nah. I’ve got the first draft going for the Dali in the corner. Can’t risk that one.”
“Mm. I’ll keep a lookout for whatever this case is.”
“I’ll let you know when I get more.”
“Thanks, Jacky.”
“And thank you, Crutch.”
It was very weird to enter the FBI building by the main entrance the next morning, and to introduce himself at the main desk and be sent up to Davey’s office, instead of being escorted to an interrogation room.
Davey didn’t exactly look happy to see him, either. He just gestured to a chair across the desk and slid a file folder across the desk to Jack without saying a word.
Jack opened it and flipped through to the pictures.
“You aren’t going to read it?”
“My dyslexia is so bad it would take me two hours to read this,” Jack said, studying the photos. They weren’t really good reproductions. The Monet, especially, had sloppy brush strokes and poor color choice. No wonder whoever it was was being figured out.
“Recognize it?”
“A Monet bridge,” Jack said, holding the picture closer to his face. “It...kinda sucks.”
“It was hanging for at least a month,” Davey sounded offended. “And you can tell it’s fake that fast?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be in the file if it were real, would it? And anyway, it’s not a bad reproduction, but it’s a terrible forgery. To hang in a dentist’s office? Sure. A museum? No way. The paint is visibly wrong, even in a photo, and Monet has very specific techniques that are...nonexistent here?” Jack forced himself to stop talking before he went into any more detail, worried he’d already said so much. “I’ll bet it’s even worse in person,” He finally said, setting that picture down and lifting the next, an equally bad copy of a Renoir. The one Jack had been accused of forging that he actually hadn’t done. “And you really thought I did this? This is horrible, and I’m offended.” Everything that was wrong with the Monet was even more wrong with the Renoir, and it genuinely did kind of offend him that they’d thought Jack had done it.
“Do you know who did?”
“No,” Jack moved through the stack, examining every picture in the file. They were all equally bad, but in the same way. Almost definitely all done by the same person.
“Can you find out?”
“Maybe,” Jack closed the file. “With time and resources.”
“How much?”
“Depends. Like you said, I could get into the...more illegal side of things. They could get me answers in a few weeks. Or I could just start asking around in my circles. Somebody will know something.”
“I don’t want to know anything about how you get the information.”
“Meaning you want me to take the fast way.”
“I want to solve the case.”
“I need these pictures then. The whole file, if you want me to read it.”
“That’s your copy.”
“And what are my rules?”
“What?”
“I know you want me to go fast. And you want plausible deniability when it comes to my methods. But you have to have rules.”
“I’m required to tell you not to break the law. Don’t do anything that’ll get anyone hurt. Any information you get needs to be reported directly to me.”
Those were very loose guidelines. So loose it felt like Davey really wanted Jack to do whatever he had to do to figure this out.
Which meant he’d be sending copies of this file to Crutchie, and probably the pictures to Race, to see if he’d had anything to do with the fencing of the originals, and possibly to a couple other contacts to see if they had anything useful to add. All the channels he’d use to get a job and fence a painting. Somebody in those circles would know, or else they’d know somebody who did.
He wanted answers for himself, anyway. Whoever this was had a bigger reputation in the FBI than Jack himself, and while it wasn’t exactly ideal that the FBI knew about him at all, it was a point of pride that he was their biggest art crime case. If this person had surpassed him, they had to have done an incredible amount of work, and for however bad their art was, they had to be smart, because they hadn’t been caught.
When he looked up again, Davey was doing something on his computer, not really paying attention to Jack anymore. Jack leaned back in his chair, looking around him. He’d never been in Davey’s office before, and it really did reveal more about him. In his pencil cup, there was a little pride flag sticking out, which confirmed what Jack had already been pretty sure about. There were two framed pictures, one of him with two people who looked like they were probably his siblings, and one of a cat sticking its face into the camera. A little succulent in the window, his fancy degrees hanging on the wall, and neat stacks of work carefully sorted into piles. Everything had its place and everything was in its place.
“What?” Davey said defensively, startling Jack out of his observations.
“What?”
“You’re staring?”
“I’ve never been in here before. Just looking around,” Jack shrugged. “Very neat.” He commented. Davey didn’t respond. “Do you want something else or can I go?”
“Go?”
“If you want answers I can’t sit in here for the rest of my life. And I have work to do at home.”
“Fine. Go.”
Jack stood and stretched, picking up the file and sliding all the pictures back inside.
“As soon as you have anything, you call me.”
“Obviously,” Jack said easily, stepping out of Davey’s office and making his way back outside. As soon as he was, he called Crutchie.
“Twice in two days, I feel so loved,” Crutchie said when he picked up.
“You know you are,” Jack said. “I have in my hands right now an official FBI case file with details and evidence photos of the case they hired me for. I’m also only a few blocks from you, if you wanted an exclusive sneak preview before I scan it and send copies to everyone.”
“Yes, please.”
“You aren’t busy?”
“Am I ever? Race is here too, anyway.”
“He is?”
“Spot is over in Paris or someplace like that and he was bored, so he baked too much and showed up at my place with a lot of cannoli. Like...a lot.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Sweet.”
Crutchie lived in an apartment even messier and busier than Jack’s studio apartment. He was probably the absolute smartest person Jack had met in his life, and he made his living as an off-site IT guy for some big company. Well, according to his tax returns, that’s what he did. Jack was willing to bet his “just for fun” side job of running tech support for some of the more illegal businesses in the city, including Jack’s, made up more of his actual income. He had practically an entire wall in his living room covered in computer monitors, all running different things. When Jack had asked how on Earth his apartment building’s wifi could support that many things happening at once, Crutchie had grinned and informed him that anyone could have high-speed wifi if they were willing to hack for it.
Crutchie wasn’t the one who opened the door this time, though, instead, Race instantly hugged Jack around the next and dragged him inside, practically force feeding him a cannoli.
“Jacky! Turning fed on us, huh? Insider information is sexy!”
“Hi, Racer, what’s up?”
“Spot’s in Europe doing something and I’m bored.”
“Hey, Jack,” Crutchie said from his seat across the room. “Race was just dramatically reenacting how you met. Is it true you kissed him?”
“Oh yeah. Needed to get away from an ex and he was standing there.”
“That was only the first time we met in person. I was already his fence, we just didn’t know it,” Race grinned. “Who cares about that now? I wanna see this classified FBI file.” Jack held the file out, handing it to Crutchie first, who immediately pulled the pictures out.
“I haven’t seen these before.” He said thoughtfully, spinning his chair to his wall of computers and starting some kind of search. “At least not the forgeries. They aren’t great, are they?”
“They’re terrible. And the second one, that Renoir? They though I did that.”
“An insult to your talents,” Race said, skimming the written part. “And they think all of these were done over the last two months. Seven paintings stolen and replaced.”
“That’s why they think it’s worse than me. They’re all recent.”
“They never have any idea of what timelines really are,” Crutchie said. “They think that Money they just found from you is recent, and it’s what five years old?”
“Over that now. But these are all new. At least a couple of them I’ve seen recently and they didn’t look like that. I would have noticed. What else does it say?”
“You haven’t read it?”
“You know I can’t fucking read, Race, what else does it say?”
“It’s pretty generic. Just a summary of what happened, pretty much. No good juicy details.” Race said. “Missing paintings, no suspects, blah blah blah. No evidence, all discovered over the last few months...our good friend Agent Jacobs is the one who recommended you. Bet this wasn’t supposed to be in your file.”
“What is it?”
“A...referral form? It just says that Agent David Jacobs suggested you as a consultant because of your inside knowledge of the art world and...working relationship? Christ, he calls interrogating you once a month a working relationship?”
“Probably he needed something better to say to his bosses than “hey this dude is my prime suspect on a case I’ve been working for two years but I bet he can track down art thieves faster than us!” That probably wouldn’t go over very well,” Crutchie said. “Also, they haven’t made it public knowledge. I got the whole file off the FBI database, though. They know a lot more than they’re telling you.”
“I know that,” Jack said. “He told me I don’t have security clearance. What else do they know?”
“A few suspects, a couple more details. It’s almost like they’re testing you out. You should bring them their own list of suspects.”
“Do I agree with their list of suspects?”
“They have Tyler. That’s not his work, though, too messy. They mention Evans, but he’s already caught, and his work is bad in a different way than this anyway, so it’s not him. Then a couple names I don’t know, but I’ll look into them for you. The paint is a homemade blend, so I can check that stuff, too. Sometimes buying pigments and stuff leaves traces I can track.”
“They made the paint and it still looks that bad?” Jack said.
“I wouldn’t sell these,” Race commented, examining the pictures. “Even I couldn’t sweet talk somebody into thinking those were real.”
“They really aren’t great,” Crutchie agreed. “Want me to print copies of the whole file?”
“Sure,” Jack said, and Crutchie started printing again, collecting three copies of the file and passing one to Jack and one to Race, setting one aside for himself.
“How many others do you want?”
“Uhh...one for Specs and Rome, one for Finch...one for Itey, he knows everyone. So three, I think.”
Crutchie nodded and printed three more.
“The Dali job is in two weeks, yeah?” Race changed the subject.
“Yeah. I just started painting it, finished the drawing last night. Alby is doing the replacement in two Tuesdays, and you and Spot are fencing it, yeah?”
“That’s one of the things Spot is doing in Europe. Pretty sure he’s also doing a book tour?”
“How do you not know what your husband is doing in Europe?”
“I know the stuff that pertains to us! But I never know when he’s doing a book tour. Sometimes he gets home and I think he was just selling something and he’s like “oh by the way here’s a signed picture of some famous person who bought my book” and I realize it was actually a book tour that just happened to stop where we needed to sell.”
“When did his last book come out?”
“A month ago,” Crutchie asked.
“It’s definitely a book tour, then. No way he’d be in Europe a month after a book came out without touring. What was it about?”
“It was a crime thriller that was literally just what went down between Evans and Kayla last year except where Kayla won and with all the names changed. He thought it’d be funny.”
“Did he send a copy to Evans?” Crutchie asked, amused.
“Oh, yeah,” Race grinned. “We got a very nice letter detailing exactly what Evans thought about the book, chapter by chapter, and threatened to tell the cops that Spot had insider information because he’s a fence, except he won’t, because me and Spot keep very detailed records and could easily get his sentence extended for years with the information we have, and we’d get a deal for that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get caught,” Jack said. “You’d sell me out in a heartbeat.”
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Jacky, we’ll do what we gotta to survive. But I promise I’d feel bad doing it,” Race grinned at him, and Crutchie laughed.
“I’ll protect you,” He said to Jack. “I can delete all evidence of your existence if you need me to.”
“I think I’m good there,” Jack said, also laughing. “Since I haven’t been caught and don’t plan on it, I think we can all stay friends and stay out of situations that Spot can write a book about.”
“Hey, it’s an honor to be interesting enough for Spotty to write about you,” Race said. “Anyone should be proud.”
“Unless you’re Evans, and somebody is making probably millions and earning a spot on the New York Times bestseller list for a book that’s pretty much a what if you sucked even more than you already do story.”
“Even then, Spot made the story a lot more interesting than that. Evans in the book had a personality beyond being an entitled art criminal with a Napoleon complex over his small dick.” Jack and Crutchie both laughed at that description of Evans, and the conversation shifted into a lighthearted joking about other people in their shared circles who they didn’t like for one reason or another.
By the time Jack finally left to go home, he’d eaten probably thirty cannoli, and his face almost hurt from laughing and smiling so much. Crutchie promised to send him any information he found, and Race promised to make sure Spot both prepped the client for the Dali job and put out feelers for the missing paintings.
He was officially working for the FBI now, and even though his methods were definitely more illegal than most probably used by the agency itself, he felt the part with his manila file folder full of details and the investigation rolling.