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Chapter 1: Date Night
Peter Burke was stuck in traffic. He glanced at his watch again and sighed, resisting the temptation to honk. It was already nearing six-thirty. Elizabeth had said—almost patronizingly—what time the movie started when she first checked it online (seven o'clock), then had reminded him again just before he left work. Tonight was their first night in over a month where neither of them were busy with work. El had no events to plan or execute and Peter had no stakeouts rostered; Neal Caffrey was believed to have been out of the country since April.
The traffic moved forward, raising Peter's hope that he might finally get somewhere, but the hope was dashed as the sedan in front of him ground to a halt again.
He was only ten minutes away from home, but already he had been sitting here for fifteen minutes with the exception of moving forward a few feet. He wondered if there had been a crash somewhere up ahead; the traffic seemed to be moving up one car at a time.
It was at a quarter to seven that the traffic finally began to move forward and Peter was able to turn off the road. He felt anxiety melt away as he checked the time; he'd arrive home and change, then he would take his lovely understanding wife out to the movies. He still had time.
~
Neal Caffrey stood in the shadows cast by the setting sun. He drew back as the man he was watching cast a nervous look around before disappearing into a large grey building. Neal scanned it; it was old, of the kind that might have once been a hub of various businesses; imposing yet obviously derelict. It was standing in what was once a thriving neighborhood but had since been taken over by the uglier aspects of society.
Neal remained stationary; now that he knew where these men were meeting in secret he’d have a chance after they left to do some snooping. He needed to know more; details, not just a hunch, if he wanted to ask for help.
Neal thought back to the previous month when P. S. Lake had first caught his attention. Philip Lake, Neal thought scowling, really needed to be brought to justice. The shady man had contacted him for a job but Neal had been otherwise occupied (Neal smiled at the memory of his latest crime) and so, as courteous as he was, Neal had offered to refer Lake to another highly-sought-after thief. Neal didn't often work with others but there were a few associates you couldn’t help running into on the job, and some of them, he hadn’t minded meeting; Blake Connors had been one. Connors had had an efficient and professional way about him—on the job that is—but after the job he turned into the fun-loving boyish type.
Neal now regretted his referral. Connors had accepted Lake's job proposal and so the two had worked together and had successfully absconded with a few rare paintings from the British Museum, then Lake had promptly killed Connors rather than share the profit.
It was approaching seven o'clock when Neal spotted Lake leaving the building with two other men. Neal felt a momentary spike of concern for the two men; they had unwittingly taken Lake on as a partner in their own scheme to relieve the Met of something valuable. Neal didn't know what it was they were targeting or when they intended to implement their plan, but he had no intention of letting the heist go through; the last thing he wanted was two new bodies to turn up, so he needed details.
Neal watched as the three men entered their respective cars and drove off. From what he had seen, Neal guessed their supplies were still in the building; they hadn't been carrying anything. He hoped so anyway; he'd just let Lake drive off to who-knew-where on the off chance he would find the information he needed here in the building.
Neal waited five minutes. Ordinarily, he might have waited longer, but he knew there was a chance he'd be pressed for time.
He reached the door and almost snorted in derision. He picked the lock in less than ten seconds and slipped into the lobby. He glanced at the elevator just out of habit and headed to the stairs. It probably wasn't operating anyway. Neal didn't bother looking into the first couple of floors. This building had eight floors; therefore, he guessed the thieves would be hiding out on the fourth one. Being half-way up the building gave one a choice on whether to escape to the lobby or the roof in an event of an incursion. Neal was right, though he'd begun to reconsider; these thieves might not have his intellect.
It was immediately obvious, though, that he was in the right place. There were small signs of recent activity on this floor: food wrappers, muddy footprints, tables that weren't dusty. Neal shook his head then moved about the room; at least they'd hidden the plans.
They were disappointingly easy to find though. There was a small safe located in the floor beneath the desk. It might fool a small-town cop but nobody else.
The safe was a basic one; maybe a B-twenty-five-hundred. Neal found himself embarrassed on the thieves' behalves. Connors would never have been this sloppy. Neal sighed; this safe could be bought online, for goodness sake.
He had it open another fifteen seconds later. Neal smiled, drawing out the plans. He carefully scanned them, recognizing the blueprints for the Met; he'd already memorized those so he cast these aside and looked for the maps; hopefully they'd have the details, and they did. Neal held them up triumphantly. He stood, laying the maps over the desk, and scanned them quickly. He felt himself tense as he read when they planned to implement the plans; it was tonight. At nine-twenty to be precise, right before the shift change. Neal raked his hair, debating whether or not to take the maps with him. He decided against it in case they came back; it was only seven o'clock. Once the plans were seared into his brain, he carefully placed them back.
He wasn't sure what it was they were after but he had his suspicions. In the wing they had targeted there was only a handful of European paintings; and they'd written 'the l.p. VdB'. Neal was certain this referred to The Lute Player by Valentin de Boulogne. He wasn't sure why they'd targeted that painting.
Paintings weren't actually—despite popular misconception—often worth stealing. There were only two reasons to steal a painting—well, three actually.
The first was for profit, but the men would have to have a buyer interested in the painting before stealing it; otherwise all they’d end up with was a hot painting and the fence world shut in your face. Neal thought this was the most likely reason that the painting was being stolen.
The second reason was a personal one. He’d steal a painting because he liked it. Neal had done this multiple times before he’d even reached Peter Burke’s radar. These acquisitions were never intended to be resold. His little treasures were locked up in various holdings around the world.
The third reason was one not often used in the thief world but Neal was guilty of it. Many, many times. He thought of Peter Burke's frowning face and smiled. You steal paintings because you can.
With the room exactly the way he'd found it, Neal left the building and headed straight back to his car. He needed to move fast; the heist was going down at nine-twenty. That was a mere twenty minutes after the museum closed, Neal realized. It was a Friday night.
As Neal headed back towards the city, he thought about what he would have to do next. He only had one plan in mind to stop Lake. He smiled; it was a plan he liked very much. He only hoped it wouldn't backfire on him.
~
Neal frowned. He was at the movies. He looked back at the movie length: two hours and twenty-one minutes. It had started at seven o'clock. That meant it wouldn't be over until twenty-one minutes past nine. Neal might have smiled at the movie choice if he wasn't nervously imagining the face of the agent once he interrupted his date night.
"Can I help you?"
Neal looked down at the young girl working behind the counter with an expectant smile on her face.
He smiled grimly, "One ticket to Catch Me If You Can, please."
The ticket in hand, Neal thanked the girl and moved away, then steeled himself and passed down the hall towards the theaters. He ducked into the theater showing Catch Me If You Can and walked towards the seats.
He stood in the gloom looking around subtly; he wanted to see the agent before he was seen.
He spotted them over to the left of the theater. Agent Peter Burke—the man who was chasing him—was cuddling his wife, Elizabeth, with a slight frown on his face. Neal looked at the screen. He was late to the showing so he wasn't entirely sure what was happening. He watched for a few minutes; a young boy was talking to a bank teller—a young woman. Neal smirked; no doubt this was the stage during which the boy had learned the ropes of becoming a con artist.
Neal looked at his watch; it was seven thirty-nine. It was still early so he walked up the stairs to the back on the left where he had a clear view of Peter and his wife.
Despite the genre of the movie, Neal found himself watching Peter and Elizabeth more than the movie itself. He could only see the backs of their heads but Neal knew Peter intrinsically; he knew what expression he'd have at what part of the movie. Each time he caught the minute shake of the head Neal knew whether it was exasperation or disbelief that would be on Peter's face. He smiled along with Peter's snorts of amusement and smirked when Peter gritted his jaw at the scene in which young Frank conned Agent Hanratty.
Neal almost lost track of time. It was at eight twenty-six that Neal saw an opening that he knew was perfect timing. An hour was less time than it might seem; Neal had yet to ask Peter for his help.
He watched as Peter suddenly stood up, extricating himself from his wife's cuddles. Neal sank in his seat as Peter murmured to El before heading out. Elizabeth turned back to the movie so Neal stood and slipped out following the agent's footsteps. He took a deep breath before leaving the theater and looking around for where Peter had gone. He spotted the agent disappearing into the bathroom.
Neal moved over to the bathroom door, pausing for a moment to smile at a passing woman who was looking at him with a cheeky grin.
Then Neal Caffrey pushed open the door and went in.
Chapter 2: Car Ride
Peter headed over to the basin and scanned his face; he didn't look too tired—good. He shook his head, his mind still on the movie.
"Stupid movie," he muttered.
"You know," said a familiar voice behind him. "It's based on a true story."
Peter froze, hands below the tap, watching the water run. He hit the handle, switching the water off, and turned, meeting the blue twinkling eyes of Neal Caffrey who was leaning against a stall, hands in pockets, looking entirely too casual for a stalker.
Ordinarily Peter would inwardly cheer; yet another chance to catch Neal out, connect him to one of the crimes in his extensive files, to learn more about the elusive thief, forger and fraudster, but this was his date night. Peter looked away, grabbed a paper towel and wiped his hands dry.
"Any other night, Neal." Peter spoke more casually than he felt. "Tonight, I'm busy."
Neal nodded, "I know, Peter; it's your date night ..." Neal took a deep breath and murmured sympathetically, "... and you know I'd do anything to respect that; you and Elizabeth deserve it."
Peter narrowed his eyes and looked back at Neal suspiciously. "But?"
Neal moved off the stall and smiled. "But I may have some information about a crime that's about to be perpetrated; I figured I'd help you stop it."
"In other words," Peter stated, leaving no room for misinterpretation, "You need my help."
Neal stared at Peter for a second—what was this? Peter never used to be that perceptive. Then again, maybe he was; Neal realized he'd have to reassess his impression of the agent.
"Maybe," he admitted, smiling broadly.
"Well ..." Peter headed for the door. "... no can do, Neal, not tonight. Call the police if you want to report a crime."
Neal stepped forward, protesting, "Peter, it's the Met."
Peter paused for a second, considering Neal's protest. Then he remembered his wife. "Call the FBI, then."
This was probably just another attempt to manipulate Peter anyway, or more games to play at the expense of the FBI. Peter wasn't interested in Neal's games tonight.
Neal rolled his eyes and followed the agent out, ignoring the heavy traffic of people who had just finished watching a movie in another theater. He raised his voice over the din. "The guy is a murderer, Peter."
Peter inwardly cringed; he could justify allowing someone else to handle a case if it was a simple theft but he couldn't ignore a case that involved a killer. It was his conscience; Peter knew he would feel guilty for the rest of his days if someone died when there was a chance that he could have done something to prevent it. And if Neal was just looking to play him again—well, that was a risk Peter would have to take.
Neal watched as the agent paused, and knew he'd caught his attention—willingly or not.
The flow of people had thinned out now so Peter turned and walked back to Neal. "When?"
Neal looked at the agent and replied tersely. "Nine-twenty tonight."
"Damn it, Neal," Peter spoke, glancing at his watch. "That's in less than an hour!"
Neal nodded apologetically.
Peter sighed. "Wait for me out front, I'll be back. I need to tell Elizabeth."
~
When Peter left the building and looked around, he couldn't help thinking for one second that Neal had pulled a fast one, but then he spotted the criminal talking to a woman dressed in a short yellow dress. Peter exhaled in an unsurprised sigh of exasperation. The man interrupts his date night with his wife then goes on a flirting spree; typical Caffrey.
He elevated his head when Neal looked over, then watched as the elegantly-presented con man more or less bowed out of his flirtation with few smooth honeyed words and tip of an imaginary hat.
"You done?" Peter asked sarcastically when Neal reached him. "Because I don't mind if you want to spend my time flirting; I'm sure there's a woman across town you haven't conned yet."
"Aw, Peter," Neal crooned, "I don't con—what kind of man do you think I am?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "We need to get a cab. You can tell me what's happening on the way to the Met."
"A cab?" Neal repeated, following Peter as he headed to the road away from the shops surrounding the cinema. "We don't need a cab, I have a car."
Peter stopped, surprised. "You have a car?"
Neal nodded and veered down the street to where he'd parked it.
"Under what name?" Peter questioned, excited; maybe he could get a license plate and maybe even see Neal's license; he was perfectly justified in asking to see it, after all. Peter felt the warm glow of hope as he thought about all the details he could find on Neal's license; address; birth date, and if it was under an alias, he'd have cause to arrest Caffrey; although it would be a hollow victory considering the vast number of white collar crimes he was suspected of, each a thousand times more serious than a simple license forgery. Maybe he could link Neal to some of the crimes using the alias.
Far from concerned, Neal smirked, pulling out his wallet. "Here."
Peter caught the wallet Neal had tossed him in surprise; he had expected more of a fight. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously but couldn't think of a way Neal could deny him any of what he'd thought about. Neal could not drive without a license.
He opened the wallet; it contained a few cards—Amex, Visa, and Diner's Club—along with a current driver’s license for one Neal Caffrey and a wad of twenty-dollar bills. Peter pulled out each card, knowing he was pushing the envelope, but Neal didn't seem bothered. Each of the them were in his name. Disappointed, Peter returned the cards and pulled out the license. It was also under 'Neal Caffrey,' but Peter was staring at something else.
"Is this real?"
Neal snorted, "Peter, how many times do I have to tell you I'm an innocent man. Why wouldn't my license be real?"
Peter ignored Neal's patented reply. "Seriously, Neal, is this real?"
Neal sighed and slowed to a stop next to a small silver Mercedes, "Yeah, Peter, it’s real."
Peter swallowed; he couldn't be absolutely sure that this was real but he saw no sign that Neal was lying. They had requested that the DMV notify the FBI if Neal ever applied for a license, but clearly Neal had found a way around that. That wasn't what surprised Peter, however.
"You're twenty-four?"
Neal gave Peter a quizzical expression.
Peter reassessed the information they had on Caffrey. They'd profiled him as having been a spoiled kid who never took up a mantle of responsibility and thus, as an adult, thrived on moving from scheme to scheme as a way to avoid the monotony of an honest life rife with responsibility and consequences. But at twenty-four, no wonder he behaved like a kid, flirting the way he did and dancing with danger, teasing the FBI and flitting from place to place with boundless energy.
Neal was smirking. "How old did the FBI think I was?"
Peter gritted his teeth. "Based on your aliases, around thirty."
Neal chuckled and opened the front driver door of the Mercedes. "Alleged aliases, Peter."
Peter took note of the address in the license and the license number so that he could confirm its authenticity, then passed the wallet back to Neal—grudgingly.
Peter moved around to the passenger seat at Neal's gesture. As he entered the car, he looked around appreciatively. "Nice car, I didn't think you'd have one—you're always traveling."
"It's a rental," Neal answered, inserting the key into the ignition. "I had to tail someone; kind of hard to do on a subway, Peter."
Peter conceded the point. He checked the time; it was now eight forty-five.
He took a deep breath, wondering again if helping Neal was a mistake. "Just so you know, Caffrey, just because I'm helping you doesn't mean I won't arrest you."
Neal frowned. "What makes you think you'll be able to arrest me? I haven't done anything, Peter; I told you, I'm just reporting a future crime."
"You're reporting a crime that you just happen to know about?" Peter huffed, annoyed. "Come on, Neal; what do you take me for?"
"I swear to you, Peter," Neal started his engine and looked intently at Peter, "I have nothing to do with this crime."
"Then why the personal interest?" Peter questioned, "Since when do you report crimes?"
Neal nodded, apparently satisfied they had moved on to the important part. He moved the car out of the parking spot and smoothly wound his way through the traffic. At first it seemed like Neal wasn't going to answer; from what Peter could see, the alleged thief was lost in thought. He was about to clear his throat when Neal turned the car from the main road, "The man we're after, his name is Philip Lake."
Neal didn't continue but Peter knew there was more; he watched as Neal thought again and he realized why Neal was taking his time. Most likely Neal was trying to find the right wording; an explanation that wouldn't implicate him in anything.
"I thought you said you had nothing to do with it?" Peter accused Neal sharply.
Neal glanced at the agent. "I don't," Neal sighed. "Lake came to me for help about a month ago."
"With what?" Peter asked, surprisingly nervous.
Neal shook his head as he turned a corner, moving smoothly out of the way of four oncoming bikers. Peter absently noted that Neal was a good driver.
"That's not important," Neal replied.
Peter scowled, "Neal, I need to know what he was doing if you want me to catch the guy."
Neal shook his head, "It was unrelated, Peter; a different job."
"Did you work with him?" Peter asked in a surprisingly quiet voice; maybe he thought Neal would be honest if he was quiet—like he was trying to avoid spooking a deer.
Neal seemed to concentrate on his driving for a few streets; Peter took this to mean Neal did indeed work with Lake.
Peter gave an exasperated huff. "Neal, have you possibly considered the benefits of confessing since we last spoke?"
"I didn't work with him," Neal finally answered. "A friend of mine did."
"And you're trying to protect him." Peter frowned. "Neal...."
"He's dead, Peter."
Peter closed his eyes then looked at Neal who had gritted his jaw. Neal steadfastly refused to look at Peter. He concentrated on watching the road.
"Neal," Peter spoke softly, "I'm sorry."
Neal nodded, accepting Peter's condolences.
"Was it Lake?"
Neal nodded again but darkly; his eyes had clouded over and his knuckles had gone white. Peter was grateful they weren't in heavy traffic.
"How did Elizabeth take to you leaving in the middle of date night?" asked Neal, evidently changing the subject.
Peter winced. "She wasn't impressed; I don't think she likes you very much anymore."
Neal grimaced guiltily. "Tell her I'll mail her my strangozzi recipe."
"Is that the pasta you sent to us the night the Italian restaurant mixed up our bookings?" Peter asked, remembering back four months previously when he and El had been told their table had been given away despite a month's advance booking.
"Yeah," Neal replied innocently. "I heard she liked it."
Peter bit his lip. "Yeah, very much—she told me to ask you for the chef's name.... You cooked that?"
Neal smiled but didn't answer. Peter followed his example and soon the quiet of the drive settled around them. He checked his watch again. It was nearly nine o'clock. Neal also checked the time; he didn't seem worried though. He drove in silence for a few minutes before promptly pulling over. Peter gave a querying look.
Neal turned in his seat after switching off the engine. "We're just a few streets away. A few details; there're three of them; as much as I don't want more agents giving me shifty glances, you're going to need some backup."
"Me?" Peter frowned. "What about you?"
"We'll get to that," Neal waved assuredly. "Make your calls, Peter."
Peter went over Neal's words; no—that wouldn't do. He couldn't have Neal holding back secrets, not tonight, not if Neal wanted him to catch his friend's killer.
Chapter 3: White Van
"Neal," Peter laced as much authority into his tone as he could, "I need you to tell me what happened."
The agent followed Neal’s lead and exited the car.
"And not the reader's digest version," Peter added over the top of the car. "All of it."
Neal looked at Peter, about to protest—they had very limited time—but he took one look at the agent's hard-nosed stare and he knew obfuscation and misdirection wouldn't fly this time.
"Okay, Peter," Neal gave in. "I'll tell you everything, but you need to call for backup now at least."
Peter recognized Neal's promise as being genuine so he nodded, satisfied, and took out his phone.
He called Hughes first. explaining briefly what he was doing and that he needed to call his team. Fortunately, the SAC was a long-time friend of Peter; he allowed Peter to end the call with the promise that he would give his superior a painfully-detailed report the next day.
Next, he called Jones. Jones had more than made up for his shaky start on Peter's team in the six months since Peter's lunch with Neal; he was intelligent and could keep up with Peter and more importantly, he could keep up with Neal; he was often the first to receive the reports of Neal's latest schemes and thefts.
Peter filled Jones in, thanking his lucky stars that he had an agent who was as dedicated as he was to his job. He realized he didn't know all that much about Jones; he'd have to find out what the young promising agent did in his spare time. He left Jones to round up the other two members of his team: a probie, Hayden Cooper, a young man whose eidetic memory had allowed him to graduate early on; and Andrea Payne who had transferred from Missing Persons after her own son disappeared and was found murdered two weeks later.
Peter came around to Neal's side and they crossed the road, heading in the direction of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Neal started explaining—unprompted—what had happened in the last month.
"... but I was busy," Neal was saying, "so Lake asked me if I knew anyone...."
"Busy?" Peter interrupted. "Busy with what?"
Neal arched an eyebrow, and continued as if Peter hadn't interrupted, "I told him I'd pass a message to a friend of mine."
"It was you, wasn't it?" Peter shook his head, "You broke into the Field Museum in Chicago."
Neal maintained an innocent look. "I wasn't aware there was a break-in at the Field Museum."
Peter glared at him. "They couldn't report a theft; they couldn't find anything missing. You made the museum close for two days while they checked all the exhibits."
Neal shrugged, "I don't know what you're talking about, Peter."
Peter gritted his jaw and continued, not fooled, "You replaced something with a forgery, didn't you?"
"How about we focus on one crime at a time," Neal suggested, not in the slightest bit worried. "My friend, Blake Connors was interested in the job...."
"But why the Field?" Peter muttered, ignoring Neal. "It's mostly history. I mean, I know you like history; it's just a bit unusual: you normally go for paintings. They had that Cleopatra exhibit on; did you forge something made with gold?"
"Peter," Neal spoke sharply, glancing at his watch. "Maybe later? Can I tell you the rest of what happened, or are going to continue to fabricate crimes?"
Peter gave Neal a look of warning; he wasn't finished, but for now he waved his hand indicating Neal could continue.
"With Connors for a partner," Neal continued, grateful Peter had shut up, "Lake robbed the British Museum of three paintings done by Tagore— not something I would st- like. I think they were stealing them for a collector."
"I haven't heard of Tagore," Peter admitted, ignoring Neal's near slip.
Neal nodded, "It's the British Museum; bit out of your jurisdiction, Peter. Rabindranath Tagore; he's a painter, although sometimes he just draws; they really love his works there. From what I can remember they have at least forty of his works."
"The collector has his work cut out for him," Peter noted. "Okay, go on, what next?"
Neal shrugged. "Lake didn't want to split the take; he shot Connors and fled. Connors died in the hospital."
"You tracked him down?" Peter felt bad for Neal; no doubt he was feeling guilty for having referred the job to Connors.
Neal nodded. "It took me three weeks to find him. I've spent the past week tailing him."
"And you found out his plans," Peter finished. "How?"
"Not everything; I don't know his partners' names; there's two from what I've seen. I don't think they know Lake; they're just working with him." Neal stopped in place and Peter looked around, realizing they were on the street opposite of the Met.
"Right," Peter looked back at Neal, "but you know their plans?"
Neal nodded, "They're holing up in an abandoned building."
"Did you break in, Neal?" Peter smiled.
Neal ignored Peter's ribbing, "I found out they intended to rob the Met tonight during the day/night shift change from nine twenty to nine thirty. They targeted the European wing; I think they're after The Lute Player by Valentin de Boulogne. It must be another commission by some privileged collector."
Peter absorbed what Neal had said. He checked his watch again; it was ten past nine; they'd made good time but he needed his team to arrive before nine fifteen so they could set up; they were pushing it as it was.
"Do you think Lake will kill his two partners?" Peter questioned, although he had to operate under the assumption that he would.
Neal stayed silent for a bit before nodding reluctantly. "There's no indication he won't."
Peter felt his hands ghost his belt; he felt rather unprepared. Ordinarily he'd have a gun, badge and handcuffs, but for the sake of Elizabeth and a normal date night he'd left those things locked in his safe at home.
He locked his jaw and looked around; where was his team? He hoped one of his subordinates had the sense to bring a spare gun.
"Where will they enter from?" Peter asked, scanning the museum.
Neal pointed to a grand floor-to-ceiling window on the side of the museum around the corner from the entrance, "There. The paintings are upstairs, on the west side; for natural light, you know. They intend to go in while the guards are changing shifts in the staff rooms on the other side of the building. They’re going to strip the rubber seal, remove the pane. If, for whatever reason, they can’t, they’re gonna smash and run."
Peter smirked at Neal's crinkled look of distaste.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it, you work with finesse and poise." Peter looked around again; no sign of his team. "Neal, I'm not going to be able to stop them alone; I have no weapon or badge ... or even handcuffs, and it's one against three."
"Two against three," Neal amended. "But Peter, I thought you kept your badge in your wallet; and don't you always carry your spare cuffs in your jacket pocket?"
Peter looked at Neal, confused. "No, I don't; I normally have my...."
Peter paused as he felt around in his jacket pocket. His hand closed around a familiar circular metal object. He pulled out a set of handcuffs and stared at them. After a few quiet seconds he rummaged for his wallet in his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. There, nestled snugly inside, was his badge. He looked at Neal with a new wariness. a fear almost, certainly a new level of respect. Then the full implication hit him.
"You broke into my safe? In my house?" Peter narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Neal—you broke into my house!"
Neal looked at him, the perfect picture of innocence. "Of course not, Peter; let's just be grateful that you brought that stuff with you."
"What about my gun?" Peter murmured nervously, having ignored Neal's denial. "What did you do with it?"
Neal shrugged. "Didn't you say it was in your safe? I can't imagine even you bringing a gun on a date."
Peter stared at the items in his hands in shock; Neal had not only broken into his supposedly-elite safe in his bedroom, in his home where he lived in private with a wife and a dog, but he'd also planted Peter's own badge and handcuffs on him without detection. Peter thought back to the bathroom, being in the car, walking here; he couldn't think when Neal could have done it.
On a positive note, Peter believed Neal that his gun was in his safe; that, at least, he could be sure of; Neal did not take guns lightly.
"Don't worry, Peter," Neal spoke with trepidation. "I'm sure one of your agents will have a spare."
Peter looked back at Neal; he'd have to deal with Neal's break-in later. "Yeah, but if they don't come in time for us to prepare, Lake will get away."
Neal gestured past Peter where he was looking over the agent's shoulder. "Have I ever told you, Peter, I can spot a surveillance van from a mile away?"
Peter turned and looked to where Neal indicated. He felt relief wash over him as he spotted a white van snaking its way down the streets to where they were standing in the shadows.
"Good," Peter looked at Neal after giving a brief wave to the van. "Neal, I want you to stay with the van; I'll get Cooper to stay with you."
Neal shook his head, stepping forward, "Peter...."
"No, Neal," Peter cut him off. "You need to stay away from this; Cooper will be your alibi. Besides, what do you intend to do? Throw an origami rose at Lake?"
Neal glowered but he saw the sense in Peter's words. He dipped his head in surrender and Peter, satisfied, went to meet Jones who had emerged from the driver's seat.
"Jones," Peter nodded in acknowledgment. "Thanks for coming. Cooper and Payne?"
Jones looked at Neal then back to his boss. "Yeah, they're here. Sorry I didn't get here sooner."
Peter waved off Jones' apologies. "It's fine, Jones; can you park this thing over in the next street. We'll do a quick debrief; we've only got five minutes."
A minute later, Neal stood, hands in pockets, on the path, watching—seemingly relaxed —as Peter and Jones opened the back doors revealing two agents whom he'd never met. There were a few curious glances as Peter explained quickly that there was a suspected robbery attempt scheduled to occur at twenty-one twenty; a basic break and entry through the side window. Peter then directed Jones and Payne—a late thirty-something blond woman—to stations on opposite angles near the window. Peter stayed back to inform Cooper that he was to stay with Neal and ensure he didn't attempt to interfere.
Neal rolled his eyes and watched as Peter took up another position behind some scrub twenty or so yards from the window. He ignored the young man who came up and stood nervously, hand hovering over his gun, next to Neal. The agents hadn't had time to set up radios so Neal watched with interest as the agents signaled each other with hand gestures.
Neal checked the time; it was nine nineteen. Suddenly he spotted Peter signaling sharply to Jones and Payne; he followed their gazes and spotted a dark beat-up Corolla moving down the street slowly as if the occupants were nervously surveying the surrounding environment. Neal and the young agent—Cooper—moved behind the nearest parked cars and peered out from behind them. Neal watched as it parked in an illegal opening, close to where he and Peter had been standing across the road only moments before. He glanced around at the three agents hidden in the brush and saw with relief that he couldn't see them; not even the flicker of movement or shadows. Then he looked back to the car.
Lake and two men were exiting, dressed in black, wearing gloves, and looking at the museum apprehensively. Neal felt anger as he stared at Lake. He watched as the man nodded, a touch more confident than the other two. One of the two men behind Lake turned back to the car and pulled out three crowbars. Neal felt his chest tighten with worry as Lake took a crowbar, but glimpsed a flash from beneath his shirt hem—a gun was tucked in his pants. Neal looked at Peter's hiding spot with worry. He knew the agent could take care of himself so why was he feeling worried? As Lake walked towards the window with the two men behind him, glancing all the while for the slightest sign of movement, Neal felt his chest constrict and he held his breath.
Suddenly Neal went cold, only just stopping himself from running or gasping out loud; he’d thought back and realized Peter hadn't asked for a gun.
Chapter 4: Met Theft
Neal thought quickly. He looked at Agent Cooper. The young man was watching the would-be thieves as they walked warily up to the window. It would be easy to take the agent's gun, but he resisted. Taking a gun now would only complicate things, even if he didn't intend to keep it. The last thing any of them needed was an agent getting nervous at the sight of him heading to another agent on the scene with a gun.
Neal edged closer to Cooper and caught his attention with a small wave. The agent looked at him nervously as if he were some talking owl.
"Peter is unarmed," he whispered urgently. Neal watched as the young agent's eyes widened with comprehension before turning and looking to where Peter was still hidden.
The agent bit his lip nervously, and Neal cringed inwardly; he was dealing with a newbie. He moved away, knowing now that it would be too much to expect Cooper to be able to do something.
Neal looked back to the thieves. Two of them were working the glass out of the wood and stone frame with the crowbar. Neal pursed his lips; they valued quiet which meant they were prepared to be methodical in their actions and less likely to be brash. He supposed that wasn't a bad thing. The third thief was standing at the corner of the building watching the street with no thought as to what lay in the immediate environment; rookie mistake.
Neal resigned himself to watching anxiously as the thieves worked their way through the frame before lifting out the large window pane.
The two thieves who had worked on the window each levered themselves up and over the sill into the gloom of a closed museum. After watching their successful entrance, the third man ran back to the car and switched on the engine but stayed standing outside on the street watching the window his two cohorts had disappeared through. Neal frowned; no alarm? It didn't matter how careful the thieves were; the Met's high security state-of-the-art motion sensor cameras would have detected the thieves by now.
Suddenly there was a high noise-drowning wailing coming from the European Art wing. Neal sighed with relief; he wasn't wrong.
He watched with amusement as the third thief jumped and ran around the car, then changed his mind and went back to the driver's door.
He and Cooper watched with unease as the two thieves returned to the window. One jumped out, stumbling—probably overwhelmed with adrenaline—then rose and went back to the window. The thief still in the wing lowered a frame down to the waiting thief and then followed his predecessor out the window. Once the thief landed on the grass—with more grace—he turned, and Neal saw it was Lake. Lake took back the painting then fumbled with something in his belt.
There was a shout and Peter, Payne, and Jones all raced to the three thieves, yelling over each other. Cooper moved forward before pausing. Neal felt the same way; he wanted to join them. He didn't know why. It wasn't his job. The three thieves stared in shock at the advancing agents. Despite the fact he had no gun Peter was advancing on them with the energy of a wrestler in a ring. Suddenly, just as Payne reached the thief by the car, the three thieves—maybe psychically linked—turned and ran. Payne raced after the third man who had fled across the street. Jones, who was the farthest away, was closest to the second unidentified thief. Neal watched with worry as Peter automatically went after the only man left: Lake. Lake had wrenched the gun free by now and fired a few wild shots behind him as he turned the corner away from where Neal stood anxiously in shock.
Peter dove behind the corner and stayed still lest Lake let off a few more aimless shots. He peered out cautiously, with Neal silently praying Peter would choose not to risk chasing after an armed killer with little more than a badge. Obviously having chosen to ignore reason, Neal watched in agonizing shock as Peter disappeared around the corner.
"Come on," Neal yelled to Cooper without waiting for a response. Vaguely, Neal noted that Cooper had followed. They were clear across the road within seconds. It looked to Neal like they'd catch up to Peter in no time, then Cooper could give Peter his gun and Peter would take down Lake. No problem.
Neal tripped.
Ignoring the pain in his foot, Neal shooed at Cooper. "Go; help Peter!"
Cooper hesitated but seemed to realize the sense in Neal's words. He was soon gone.
Neal cursed and tried to rise. His foot protested but he ignored the throbbing and planted it down firmly. He looked around for the offending object, ignoring the stabbing pain in his foot. There: it was the crowbar that had been dropped by the thief who'd been assigned the look-out job. Neal scowled at it. He moved over to it thinking about whether they'd want it for fingerprints. Just then, Neal jumped as a gunshot reverberated through the air. Neal picked up the crowbar and stood calculating where the noise had come from. It seemed eerily close. Maybe Lake had doubled back. Maybe he could cut him off?
Neal moved slowly, quietly, in the direction of the noise. It was silent as Neal made his way in the dim, keeping as close to the wall as possible, looking every which way, feeling oddly bare; he only had a crowbar—a crowbar he held awkwardly and off to the side. Soon, after precious minutes had ticked away, Neal was nearing a part of the grounds that were thick with bushes and trees. Neal ignored the scent of the flowers that overwhelmed his nostrils. He thanked god again that he wasn't allergic like his friend Mozzie was. He was about to edge his way around a thick trunk when he heard voices. One was agitated—demanding and loud. The second voice was authoritative and low. Neal's ears prickled with recognition: Lake and Peter.
Neal peered slowly around the trunk of the tree and took in the scene beyond. Lake was half sprawled on the ground with a gun raised threateningly towards Peter who was kneeling, clearly breathless, just a few yards away. Neal spotted a third figure: Cooper, standing just behind Peter with his arms above his head. Neal looked back at Lake. He seemed injured. His leg was bleeding and his ankle was twisted awkwardly. Confused, Neal looked again at Agent Burke. He was disheveled, his hair looking rumpled and his suit was covered in dry dirt. Each time he spoke, dirt showered off his chest, and understanding emblazoned in Neal's mind. He saw in his mind's eye what had happened. Peter had caught up with Lake and tackled him. They'd obviously wrestled and Peter had managed to injure Lake in the tousle before Lake had gained the upper hand, perhaps seizing his gun and holding it to Peter's face. Peter had backed off and that's when Cooper had caught up. Cooper had probably come across the scene in surprise, and Lake would have taken advantage of that. Neal looked at the ground and saw two things that confirmed his suspicions. Cooper's gun was lying on the ground about a yard or so in front of Peter, and the painting, The Lute Player, was lying face down on the ground, momentarily forgotten.
Lake was still trying to figure out how to successfully escape with the painting despite his injuries; Neal knew it wouldn't be long before he'd decide to shoot the agents. Neal felt his heart race, knowing that he had to do something, but what?
He looked at the crowbar in his hand and back at Lake. Could he do it? Even if ultimately, he ended up being nothing more than a distraction, it would be enough, wouldn't it? Peter could grab Cooper's gun while he distracted Lake from behind. But could he—Neal Caffrey, a proudly non-violent con man—do it? Neal thought about how the man, the killer in front of him, had shot his friend without a backward glance, all for the sake of money. There was no doubt in Neal's mind; Lake deserved to be hit with a crowbar from behind. He lifted the crowbar, steeling himself to go around the trunk and swing with the intention of hitting another human being with all the force he could muster, but then he paused.
All Peter needed was a distraction.
~
Peter kept as still as he could. He watched Lake nervously; the killer was looking between three points: him, Cooper, and the painting. Peter could see the cogs turning in his mind. He knew he didn't have much time. Lake had nothing to gain by letting the agents live. He eyed the gun, Cooper's gun. Peter cursed the young agent again. What was he doing here? He should have been with Neal. He wondered where the con artist was. Probably halfway to France again.
Peter looked at Cooper's gun again. Maybe the next time Lake looked at the painting he could grab it. It was only a yard away. Peter was sure he could do it. He glanced at the gun in Lake's hand. It was pointing more at Cooper now. Peter knew Cooper appeared to be more of a threat than he did. He was on the ground looking disheveled while Cooper stood looking perfectly agile. Peter almost groaned in frustration. He couldn't take the risk, not while the gun pointed at the young probie.
"Look," Peter tried again. "You're injured. You're not going to be able to get far. My other agents have your friends. They have your getaway vehicle. Put down your weapon and we can talk. We can work out a deal."
Lake ignored him and squared his shoulders. Peter felt his heart rate sky rocket. He'd seen that look before. It was one of cold detachment; it was a look a criminal had when they'd reached a decision that usually boded ill for law enforcement. Lake had made up his mind. Peter knew the killer had no intention of letting him and Cooper live to see another day. Come on! Peter looked around desperately, his fingers itching to grab the gun. All he needed was a distraction.
He got his wish.
Peter watched for one split second as something red flew from behind Lake out of nowhere and hit with a soft plop on the back of his head. Lake frowned in confusion. The foreign object hadn't even hurt. He forgot the two agents and turned. Peter lunged for the gun and, in another adrenaline-filled second, raised it and was on his feet to within a yard of Lake, shoving the gun in the killer's face, yelling with all the force he could muster. Lake dropped the gun, out of pure shock, and with Cooper's help, Peter had the man face down and cuffed within a matter of seconds.
The two agents paused, catching their breath, before looking around simultaneously. Peter spotted it first. Cooper held Lake down both hands on his back while Peter walked over and stood staring at the foreign red object that had provided the distraction he'd needed.
Then Peter smiled, the relieved smile of an agent that knew a secret before it had been revealed.
"Neal?"
There was a rustling and Peter turned, watching the shadows. He put out an assuring hand to Cooper who had tensed.
"It's not made of paper," Neal spoke, smiling and clearly relieved, as he emerged from the bushes. "But it did the trick, don't you think?"
Peter smirked and bent down, picking up the red object. It was a beautiful red rose, freshly plucked from the garden.
Epilogue
Neal had never shown his face to Lake; they'd communicated through code in messages, middle men, and calls. So, when Philip Lake was pulled to his feet, he barely glanced at Neal who stood watching with a tense satisfaction.
"I'll call the British Museum tomorrow; find out who the investigators are on that murder case," Peter told Neal, brushing the dust off his jacket.
Neal looked at Peter. "What about the grand theft?"
Peter nodded then walked over to where the frame that contained The Lute Player lay. He rummaged in his pockets but found nothing he could use to pick up the painting. "We'll charge him for that, but the British will want to extradite him for the murder."
Neal moved over next to him and Peter gave him a wary look. "How tempted are you?"
Neal shrugged. "What would I do with it, Peter? I don't know who their buyer is."
Peter smirked and Neal sighed, realizing his mistake.
"Not that I would. I'm innocent." This time Neal sounded tired, as if he were reciting a worn line in a play.
The night was filled with a sound that, though Neal knew it wasn't for him, still made him want to hightail it out of there: sirens.
"Ah," Peter rubbed his forehead; it was going to be a long night. "... the police."
Neal touched Peter lightly on the elbow, casting a wary look around as he saw Jones advancing on them through the trees; obviously with the two other thieves left in Payne's care.
"Are you going to be able to get home all right?"
Peter looked at Neal and realized he intended to leave. He tilted his head a little at him; the guy was an enigma: was he seriously checking with Peter to see if he needed a lift?
Peter nodded, gesturing to Jones, "I'm sure I can get Jones to give me a ride; we'll have to go back to the office anyway—paperwork."
Neal seemed somewhat disconcerted at the mention of paperwork, but he nodded.
"Here." Neal held something out to Peter; it was a business card. "... consider this an I.O.U. One-time-use only—don't waste it trying to trap me."
"What's this, Neal?" Peter frowned taking the white plain card from Neal; it contained only a phone number.
"Call me if you ever need my help with something." Neal gave a broad grin.
"Agent Burke?" Jones had reached them, casting a look over the scene.
"It's all secure here, Jones," Peter said as he welcomed his subordinate. "The other two?"
Jones nodded to Peter. "We got them."
"Agent Cooper," Peter gestured to Cooper to bring Lake over. "Escort Lake with Jones; tell the police to take him to the FBI. Go with them; make sure they process him into a holding cell; I don't want anyone talking to him until I have. Jones, get the police to bring something to wrap the painting in."
Jones and Cooper nodded before heading off, each with a grip on Lake.
Peter took a moment to breathe. He realized he was still holding the rose in one hand and Caffrey's card in the other. He tucked the card into his inside pocket and tossed the rose into the nearest bush.
"So," Peter muttered. "Neal, we need to talk about you breaking into my house—don't bother denying it. I know you did it."
Peter turned to Neal, except he saw no one there. Peter turned again. He was alone in the grounds. Neal had disappeared.
~
One day later....
Peter pounded on the door, "Caffrey, if you're there, open up the door!"
Peter looked around and ignored the almost-claustrophobic feeling he had; there were agents around him all pressed up next to each other, alert and waiting.
"Caffrey!" Peter pounded on the door again. "You have one more chance—open up. I have a search warrant!"
No answer. Peter moved back and nodded to two agents behind him. The moved up at his signal and rammed the lock on the door before moving back in a single fluid destructive move. Peter pushed the door open and raced in, determined to stop Neal from trying whatever trick he might be using to get away.
He wasn't surprised though when he saw an empty room, void of furniture.
Actually, it was almost empty. In the center of the room there was an elegantly-carved wooden pedestal. Peter moved over to it, ignoring the din of the other agents as they secured the abandoned apartment.
Peter hadn't really expected Neal to be here. He hardly even expected that Neal had ever lived at the address he had taken from the license. Still, Peter had gone ahead and applied for the warrant anyway.
He stared at the pedestal and felt Jones come up beside him.
On the pedestal was an envelope marked 'Peter Burke'.
"What do you think?" Jones asked with a hint of teasing in his tone. "Another Lunch invitation?"
Peter shrugged and picked up the envelope.
Inside there were two sheets of paper. He pulled out the first. Peter smirked. It was a page, written in Neal's scrawl, with a title of 'Strangozzi'. Below the title was a recipe written with little side notes; tips on how to bring out the flavor or tasteful suggestions on which wine would go best with the pasta.
Peter returned the recipe to the envelope; Elizabeth would be delighted. He opened up the remaining note and watched as two golden tickets fell out. Jones scooped them up and Peter took them gratefully. He turned his attention back to the note from which they had fallen.
Peter,
Sorry again for interrupting your date night. I've included two tickets to a dinner and show. Trust me, Elizabeth will love it. Movies are for kids, Peter. Elizabeth deserves more—and buy yourself a new suit. Go to L S Men's Clothing and Custom Suits. They aren't too expensive. There may be hope for you yet.
XOXO Neal
P.S. I forgot to ask who was it that chose to watch Catch Me If You Can?