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He looked like he just walked out of a 1960s casting call for a suave, sophisticated confidence man. And, except for the year, and the GPS anklet tethering him to the FBI's beck and call, that's exactly what he was, a confidence man, with a taste for 1960s vintage suits, and era correct fedora hats. Okay, so he did a bit of thievery on the side... And some art forgery, too. He waited for his short, bald, and bespectacled, friend, Mozzie, to get through a chess match with a well dressed man known for writing mystery novels, and for being … to put it politely, a goofball. Mozzie was losing, badly, which was surprising. He never expected his friend to be that starstruck over a living writer.
While he waited for the game to wrap up, he saw another man watching the game, short haired, wiry, and he wore a long sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up to the collar (no jacket, no tie, and the shirt was plaid no less... hoo boy). The man was completely fashion oblivious, but his build and walk marked him as someone to avoid a physical confrontation with. Moreover, he was almost nervously pacing, clearly waiting for his turn with that writer, while his companion, a stunning Asian woman reading at a forensic science textbook, kept a subtle eye out on the pacer. She came from money, that much was obvious, a scientist? Probably, but not being paid as much as she once had. Her jewelry, while modest, was definitely high quality. She clearly took great care in choosing both her outfits, and accessories too.
“How do you always find the ones that are WAY out of your league, Neal?” He was jolted out of his thoughts by his friend, and minder, Agent Peter Burke of the FBI, a slightly better than average looking man, and most definitely a pedestrian dresser, as he joined the odd group watching a chess game in the park.
“Oh, I don't know, Peter. I think I could be right in the middle of it.” He smiled as he tried to catch her eye when she looked up from her book again.
“Don't you know who that is?” Peter Burke sat down next his charge, the notorious Neal Caffrey.
“Yes, that's Richard Castle, he writes the Derrick Storm novels, if I remember right. I never expected Mozzie to be a fan.”
“Oh, yeah, El just loves his stuff, she's got all the Storm novels, and I think she just got the new one, 'Heat Wave?' She catered a party for him last year.” Burke half smiled, and shook his head, “You know, when he found she was a fan he asked her to bring his books along. Then he autographed every single one. Nice guy. But what makes you say that?”
“Look at Mozzie, he's losing, and not in a way to make the other guy think he's a good player. He's just losing. And he let the man keep his watch.”
“Huh.” He watched Peter analyze the game, and Peter winced a little. “Ouch. You're right, that's not a game, it's a massacre. But I wasn't talking about Mr. Castle, I was a talking about her, the one with the forensic book. That's Dr. Joan Watson, and the pacing guy is Sherlock Holmes. Strange to see them together, though, why would he be here with a surgeon?” Neal frowned, Peter sounded like he expected him to know who they were. He was drawing a huge blank, and it worried him. Peter went on, “I met up with Holmes in London, when I was working on a case, not yours, this was before you popped up on the Bureau's radar.” Neal heard the admiration in his voice, “Brilliant guy, but very odd. I'd heard he was here, working with the NYPD over at the 11th, but this is the first time I've seen him here in the park.”
“And how do you know her name?” She was a surgeon. That explained the science vibe he'd gotten from her.
“Oh, I met her once...”
“Don't tell me, let me guess, 'On a case.' Why am I not surprised?” Finally! He caught her eye, and started a silent conversation. “I know this great little gallery not far from here, would you like to go?” his smile asked.
“No.” Her body language said in sharp reply. “I don't care how pretty you are, you're a felon. I don't date felons.”
Damn, in the length of time it took to smile she had shot him down, hard, without a single word spoken between them. She was staring, not at him, but his legs, specifically the one with the anklet. Apparently she could make it out under his trouser leg. She looked at him again, arched an eyebrow and pointedly went back to her book. He blushed a little. That miserable anklet, most people never noticed it, but she had, and called him on it.
He glanced at Peter, and, there it was, the Burke smirk. Worse, he didn't even have the courtesy not to chuckle, nor did he hesitate to rub it in, out loud. “Told you so.”
He hated it when his minder was right. “Oh, thanks, Peter.” Caffrey sighed, stood up, and straightened his suit coat, “Come on, let's go save what's left of Mozzie's pride.”