Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Diana knocked on the glass wall of his office room. Peter waved her inside. She entered and closed the door behind her.

Peter opened a file behind his desk, hidden from view from the outside.

"This is the original art manifest from the U-boat," he said, showing her the damaged sheet of paper in an evidence bag. "I need you to translate these twenty-two paintings into English."

"I can do that."

Peter glanced at the kid out by his desk.

"Not here. Do it at home," he said. Diana glanced at Neal, too. "How long will it take?"

"A few hours."

"Don't use the Internet. I don't need someone piecing this together from your Google translation page."

"You're getting as paranoid as Mozzie."

"Maybe." But that funny guy and Neal were stunning when finding information. And if Neal was involved… Something got the kid curious and on edge any time Diana was in his room with the door closed; that was something he had noted.

"A cup of tea, a German-English dictionary, and I'll have it translated in a day or two."

"Good." He rose and picked up a briefcase and opened it on the table, dropped the file inside, and closed it. "Your copy goes to agent Melissa Matthews from D.C. Art Crimes. She leaves New York in the end of the week."

"You got it, boss."

"You know what they say. When they're out to get you, paranoia is only good thinking."

Neal glanced toward Peter's office when the door was opened. Diana left with a thin briefcase. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. She walked down the stairs and picked up her coat over the back of her chair.

"Working late?" she asked when she passed him.

"No, just wrapping up paperwork on that black-market Lichtenstein."

He returned to his work.

"See you tomorrow, Caffrey."

"See ya."

He heard the elevator door open outside. He glanced in Peter's direction, but his handler was not watching. Without 'not working,' he sent a prepared text message to Mozzie: 'The swap is on.'

Neal was familiar with the briefcase Peter had in his office. It was used occasionally but always returned to the same place. Peter was a man keeping things in good order.

He and Mozzie had figured the list one day or another before Matthew left would be transported. The most likely option would be in the briefcase Peter had to keep Neal's eyes away from it.

So Mozzie had arranged for a briefcase matching Neal's descriptions and waited for Neal's message.

Neal shut down this computer and left the office. From his pocket, he pulled out Diana's scarf, which he had fished out from her coat during the day. Diana had just exited the building, and Neal jogged to the door.

"Diana!" he called out, and she turned. "You dropped this."

"Thanks."

She put the briefcase down and put the scarf on. Behind her, Mozzie came walking with a briefcase.

"Looks good on you," he smiled at her. "Was that a present?"

"No," she chuckled.

"It's nice."

"Di!" a new voice called, and a pair of gorgeous legs approached. Neal glanced in Mozzie's direction and made eye-contact. He shook his head, and Moz took another turn. This was not the perfect time any longer.

The two women greeted each other with kisses.

"Neal, this is my girlfriend, Christie."

"Christie," he beamed at her. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

They shook hands.

"The infamous Neal Caffrey," she chuckled back. "I think his smile's more charming than devious."

"Thank you," Neal said.

"Trust me, it's devious," Diana shot back and picked up the briefcase. "We should go. We'll be late for our reservation."

"Date night, huh?" he asked, taking a step along, prying for info. "Where you headed?"

"Babbo," Christie answered.

"Oh, excellent. Their truffle risotto was the inspiration for mine."

"You cook?" Diana rolled her eyes and smiled politely at her girlfriend's curiosity.

"I dabble," he answered humbly. He did more than that, but no one liked a bragger. "The secret's the cheese. I use raw milk pecorino."

"You see?" Diana broke in. "Unpasteurized dairy is illegal. Devious."

"Illegal to sell. Mine was a gift."

"You're a chef," Christie smiled. "I, uh, attempt desserts."

"Oh. Well, we should combine forces. Let's have a date night this week. I'll bring Sara."

"Sure. We'll put it on the books," Diana said and moved to leave again. "You ready?"

"Ready," Christie nodded. "Good to meet you, Neal."

"Good to meet you."

As they walked away, Neal watched them go. And Diana turned her head. To see if he was up to something devious? He smiled and made a gesture that she had picked a gorgeous woman.

He left in the other direction, meeting with Moz, who waited behind a bush.

"Foiled," his friend muttered. "By Ms. Lady Suit."

"Dr. Lady Suit," Neal corrected.

"Ah. Any idea when our Art-Crimes agent is heading back to D.C.?"

"The Bureau travel department has her flying out on Friday."

"Dare I say, our target has shifted?" Mozzie asked.

"Yeah," Neal agreed. "Assuming the list is in that briefcase, we need to get a look before Diana delivers it to her."

"I'll follow." And so Mozzie was gone.

Peter was waiting in the corner of a park, with a file under his arm, and saw Jones.

"Thanks for coming, Jones."

"Sure, Peter. What's up?"

"You know who Helen Anderson is?"

"Yeah, executive editor at Circumspect," he answered without blinking. "Wrote that killer exposé on big oil."

"That's her," Peter nodded and opened the file. "Take a look at these." He handed over a few photos of Helen, taken when she was moving on the street, without her knowledge.

"Ah, someone's following her."

"Someone's threatening her," Peter corrected and handed him the last photo where a cross-hair was drawn in red over her face and written the word 'die' under it.

"Wow. She called us in?"

"Her boss did, Leland Shelton. He owns the magazine."

"And the paper I read and the news channel I watch every morning."

"Leland is golf buddy with the head of the white-collar division," Peter grinned, "so looks like we're helping out."

They walked towards the office of the magazine.

"Got to love country-club politics. So we're here to find out if the threat's coming from someone she's digging into."

"That, too. When was the last time you were on protective detail?"

Jones was silent for a long moment, gazing at him.

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm."

Leland Shelton met them at the entry. Peter saw Jones checking the man up and down. Yeah, Peter nodded to himself. You could not take Leland for a media tycoon. There was not this air of flashing expensive items about him.

Peter figured this was a man genuinely worried about an employee.

"This came this morning," he said and handed Peter an envelope. "I'm the one that pulled Helen out of the field and onto the masthead of this magazine," he explained, walking through the office. "I appreciate your help. Helen?" He knocked on the glass wall of her office. "Do you have a minute?"

"Four-thousand three-hundred and twenty," the woman behind the desk answered. "That's how many minutes I have till my deadline. Not now, Leland."

"Oh, this won't take long," he assured her. Helen put her work down and folded her hands on her desk, focusing on her guests. "These are agents Burke and Jones from the FBI."

Her eyes immediately shifted to Peter, and she bolted out of the chair, rounded her desk, and yanked the envelope he was holding from his hand.

"What are you doing with these?"

"They got them from me," Leland said. "I'm concerned, Helen."

"And I know where you got them." She turned. "Melinda!" A young woman appeared in the doorway. "I told you to throw these out!"

"She was worried about you," Leland defended her. Helen did not listen.

"You're done. You're fired. Now."

"Helen!"

She turned to her boss, unyielding.

"And don't interfere with my staff."

"Ms. Anderson," Peter said, feeling it was time to get a productive conversation going, "our job is to figure out who made the threat. Could it be related to a current story?"

"Current story," Helen repeated. She turned to her massive bookshelf. "This..." she said, holding a sharp knife. "Stuck in my door in Kabul. This grenade thrown in my camera bag in Chechnya." She threw it to Jones, who caught it. "This effigy burned outside my door in west Virginia. I write stories that make enemies. If I share my information with you and you screw it up, it all falls apart. All these pictures mean is that I'm on the right track."

Peter relieved Jones of the grenade.

"Whoever took these photos knows your routine. They got close. All they had to do was pull the trigger." He handed the grenade back to Helen. Peter doubted it was legal to store a live grenade in an office bookshelf. She took it back.

"But they didn't."

Peter slid the envelope, now on the desk, back into his file.

"I'm not asking you to drop the piece, Helen," Leland said. "Just let them protect you."

"You won't even know I'm there," Jones assured her.

"Oh, really? I won't see your black S.U.V. parked a half a block away or your wingtips following me down the hallway? I don't need a government shadow. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a deadline."

They walked with her boss back to the entry.

"Keep her alive. Do whatever you have to do. I'll help in any way I can."

He left.

Jones scratched his neck.

"So we're supposed to protect someone who won't let us within a hundred yards of her."

A world-class sprinter would make the distance in nine seconds. Jones had many virtues, but he was not a world-class sprinter.

"Yup."

Melinda, who Helen had just fired, walked passed them carrying a box with her things.

"Hey," Jones said. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be. Been here a month, and I've aged ten years. Well, good luck to her next assistant."

She left with what seemed like no regrets. But Peter got an idea.

"What?" Jones asked.

"Check up on her previous assistants, will you."

"You don't think she angered one of them enough to make those kinds of threats, do you? I mean, they can just leave."

"No, no," Peter shook his head. "I was more thinking of how to shorten those hundred yards."

Jones smiled.

"Diana will hate it."

"Yup."

Chapter Text

Peter found Diana in the conference room with Neal. He knocked on the door frame and entered with Jones on his tail. Diana turned the chair around.

"Diana, do you know who Helen Anderson is?"

"I love Helen Anderson!" Diana said, thrilled. "She'll take on Wall Street, big oil. She's fearless."

Peter glanced over her head at Neal at the other end of the table. He seemed to fight not to chuckle.

"Great, because we're sending you into the magazine to keep her safe," Peter said. "We can investigate the threat, but we can't interfere with her story. So I need you to keep an eye on any leads that you might see while you're there."

"Got it."

"One other thing. Helen refuses FBI protection, so she can't know that that's why you're there."

"How's that gonna work?"

"Uh...Pshew," Peter sighed, frustrated. How to tell? "Jones?"

"Well, how many words can you type per minute?"

Diana leaned her head back with a tired grin on her face.

"So I'll be an undercover bodyguard slash assistant."

"As in dry-cleaning and dog-walking…" the kid mumbled from his side of the table. Diana sent him an eye that was probably trying to be lethal.

"We made you a bulletproof résumé," Peter said, handing her a file. "Graduate of Helen's Alma Mater, impeccable work experience. Now all you need to do is nail the interview."

Diana's head flew up, and her eyes stared at him in disbelief.

"I have to interview?"

"When your dad worked at the Embassy in England, you had a British nanny, right?"

"She was a regular Mary Poppins. Why?"

"So you got the accent down," Peter explained. "Here. Just brush up on this." He handed her a kit with the dialect instructions for British English in Northern England that the FBI had.

"A dialect? Are you joking?"

"No. Helen lived in Northern England when she wrote for the Economist. She has a soft spot for Manchester. It may give you an edge over the other candidates."

"Fine. Anything else?"

Peter jammed his hands in his pockets.

"Mm...No. Working for a Pulitzer prize winner. How great is that?"

"Yeah, yeah," Jones agreed. "Uh, nice offices. A juicer. Juicer."

"Juicer's awesome," Peter nodded.

Neal just closed his eyes and shook his head.

"What's with the hard sell?" Diana asked.

Peter and Jones exchanged a look.

"Helen's..." Peter searched for the right word. "Driven."

"Driven's good."

"Mm-hmm. She's a little... Intense."

"Intense?" Diana repeated and turned to Jones.

"She puts the 'hell' in 'Helen.'"

Diana started to get what it was all about, and she did not like it. Neal seemed ready to burst out laughing any time.

"In order to protect her, you can't get fired," Peter said. "She's gonna keep you on a tight leash, ask you to do things that are way beneath you. For the length of your assignment, your life is not your own."

"Yep." Neal understood what that meant.

"So, I'll be at the absolute beck and call of my tough new boss," Diana concluded. Now the kid could not hold it any longer and chuckled.

"What's funny?" Peter asked.

"Nothing. No," he grinned back at him and turned to Diana: "If you ever need any advice..."

Peter glanced at the kid. He should have sent him instead. Then his young convict would learn that things could be much worse.

Neal woke up alone a morning when he had thought he would not. They had not made any promises to each other, so he could not be angry at Sara. But it made him a bit sad that he did not mean more to her than occasional sex.

He went to the bathroom, and when he returned, he heard a knock on the door. He picked up a T-shirt to put on when he heard Sara’s voice on the other side:

“It's me. Sorry. Snuck out while you were sleeping.”

He opened the door.

“I heard you,” he lied. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

She pushed one of her two coffees into his hand. They kissed.

“You know, if you'd stayed over, I'd have made you coffee.”

“Mm-hmm. I had an early client call, which is kind of why I'm here. I need—

“Help?”

“Advice. I'm working a recovery, and I'm up against a tech 98 alarm system.”

“Full video, remote monitoring.” He pulled the T-shirt on.

“Can I beat it?”

“Yeah. You need to get to the control panel and take out the wi-fi. You have bolt cutters?”

“Small, medium, and large...” she answered, and somehow it sounded incredibly sexy. “But that's assuming I can dodge the guards.”

“Well, if you find a partner, you could run a Wally Burns.”

“What's a Wally Burns?”

“One person distracts while the other gains access.”

“Oh. You think I could go it alone with a stun gun and a D.O.D.-grade router?”

“Mm.” He did not like that idea. Too much violence.

“Normal people don't talk about this before work,” she chuckled.

“No, they don't. We can try normal.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, let's try it.”

“Great. Sweetie?”

“Yes, darling?”

“Did you take out the garbage?”

“Honey, I shredded the garbage.” He had one of Mozzie’s inventions for it. Left everything he put in there as tiny fragments of what it once was. “You know the feds love to rummage.”

“They're not the only ones,” Sara said. “You know, I once tracked a Rothko to the Hamptons using a jitney receipt.”

Neal laughed at this.

“Okay, that did not work.” He tried to figure out something ordinary to say. “Um...All right, how's this for normal? We are invited to my co-worker's house for a dinner party.”

“Oh, I will whip up some canapés,” she joked and looked at him for a follow-up. He did not provide one. “You're being serious?”

“Diana's girlfriend thought it might be fun.” Christi did not know she had invited them tomorrow, that particular Wednesday. But if Diana nailed her 'job', which she probably would, she would be late home. Christi, and Sara, and he would have the dinner ready for her.

“Yeah,” Sara smiled. “Yeah, I think so, too.”

She moved to leave, but he caught her and pulled her close.

“What's behind that tech 98?”

“I can't tell you. What are you doing today?”

“Helping Peter find out who's threat to kill a public figure while Diana goes undercover as her assistant.”

“Same old, same old? Who is it?”

“Can't tell you.”

Chapter Text

"She said I was too old! Overqualified and old!" Over the phone, Diana sounded like she was ready to stab Helen.

"You didn't get the job." Peter sighed. And he was stuck in traffic. Would it be one of those days?

"Of course, I nailed the job! Why else would the Bureau spend so much money on my education," she hissed. "That bitch called me old! Women are supposed to support each other!"

"The halo got taint?" Peter could not help smiling. He hoped Diana could not hear that.

"You're damn right it has. Thank god the previous assistant had things in good order. Two names: P. Sullivan and Prager & Vaughn."

"Got it," he said, taking notes.

"Is that a private call?" Peter heard Helen's voice in the background.

"No, ma'am," Diana said.

"It's Helen. I'm not the Queen. Where is my lunch?"

Diana hung up.

Peter made a few phone calls while the car moved at a glacial pace. Finally, he drove down to the FBI garage and took the elevator up.

"Diana is in," he told Neal when he passed the doors. The kid was on his feet.

"Nice."

"She picked up two clues that might point us to the threat against Helen Anderson," Peter briefed him as they walked towards the conference room. "Two names: P. Sullivan and Prager & Vaughn. My buddy at the FDA gave us his files on P&V."

"Pharmaceuticals," Jones said, handing them the material as they passed the door. "Multilevel company, probably responsible for a third of the stuff in your medicine cabinet."

"Oh. Product recalls," the kid noted. "Rumors of bad manufacturing. Not sure I'd trust these guys to make me feel better."

"Paul Sullivan is the head of new product development," Jones said. "He was called in to clean up P&V's most recent cold-medicine recall. He pulled the company stock back from the ledge."

"If Helen's investigating him, there could be a problem with one of their new products," Peter thought aloud and Neal nodded. "With his track record, Sullivan might have a lot to hide."

"Yeah, or a lot to lose," the kid added. "By the time P&V puts a drug on the market, they've invested a billion dollars in it."

"That much at stake," Jones said. "Someone might kill to keep a secret."

Peter studied the material in the file, and an idea began to take form.

"Neal, let's go talk to Sullivan."

"Peter, we start flashing badges at P&V, we're gonna crash Helen's story."

"Depends on which badges we flash."

"You mocked me when I only used a pair of glasses for my alias," Neal pointed out when he saw Peter's disguise.

"Yeah, Mr. Donnelly. I remember. You made me into Mr. Satchmo."

"I told you I was sorry for that."

"I don't remember mocking you," Peter frowned.

"Are you telling me I inspired you?" Neal beamed. Peter sent him a glance and adjusted his glasses.

"Cowboy up and play your part now."

They walked inside the building of P&V. Peter held up his badge wide and clear.

"Ted Brown, FDA. We're looking for Mr. Sullivan," he told the receptionist. "Don't bother checking. I'm not on his calendar."

They walked directly towards the staircase.

"He's unavailable, sir," the receptionist called after them. "You can't go up there."

"Thought I was the only one who could impersonate federal agents," Neal whispered on his way up beside him.

"I'm authorized to go undercover. There's a difference."

"And the glasses?"

"I use them to make a point." Peter held up his badge to a man coming down the stairs. "FDA. Looking for Paul Sullivan." He looked around on the floor. "Paul Sullivan?"

"Got a plan to go with that badge?" Neal wondered.

"We're flushing, like with quail. I fire off shots, and then you keep an eye out for a reaction."

"Got it."

"Excuse me," another lady behind a desk said, rising to stop them.

"FDA!" Peter returned, almost jamming the badge up her face. "FDA!" he continued down the hall. A woman hurried across the corridor from one room to another. "I'm looking for Paul Sullivan."

A man stepped out in the corridor.

"I'm Paul Sullivan." He gestured to his room. "Please." Peter pocketed his badge, and they both followed him into his office. "I've asked my counsel, Mr. Carter, to sit in."

"What can we help you with, Mr. Brown?" Mr. Carter asked. "We met with the FDA two weeks ago."

"That was a scheduled meeting."

"Today, you thought you'd surprise us?" Sullivan asked as Neal sat down and started to play with his phone.

"Surprise," Peter said and sat down. Neal glanced into the room across the hall where the woman who hurried there seemed very busy with the binders. His thumbs worked on a text.

"Who's this?" Sullivan asked, gesturing to Neal. Neal gave him a hint of a polite smile, playing uninterested.

"My associate." At least he did not get a spectacular name. 'Get ext. 2614 out of her office ASAP' he sent to Jones.

"This company has had a bad run under your watch," Peter said, opening his briefcase. Neal got a 'Watch this' in return from Jones. "It's my personal mission to make sure you've cleaned up your practices."

The phone in the room across the hall rang. Neal glanced in there as the woman took the call.

"Hello? … Boots?" she almost jumped out of her chair. "How did he get out? … Yeah, I'm on my way."

And so she was. He texted a 'thanks' to Jones.

"Should we start with offshore marketing… or recalls?" Peter continued.

"I need to take this." Neal rose and gestured with the phone. "Uh, will you be all right without me?"

Peter sent him a look.

"We'll be fine." Neal could feel Carter's and Sullivan's looks, but none dared to speak up. Peter would not go easy on them. "Gentlemen, if you'd take a look at this number right here, that one puzzles me."

"What's confusing, Mr. Brown?"

"The FDA operates under the information we have. Your company's not known for its transparency."

Neal picked the lock on the drawer of the woman's desk.

"Mr. Brown, despite what you're insinuating, we're in the business of helping people," Sullivan rose, annoyed. "P&V's the reason you're gonna live long enough to find yourself browsing the aisles for adult diapers. And you'll thank us for it."

Neal pulled out the paper of the top file. It had a lot of text censured with a black pen. 'Cost benefit analysis', 'full recall', 'leave existing in circulation'.

"Okay," Carter said, sounding like he wanted to calm the heat while Neal in the next room knocked the edge of the paper at the table's surface and then carefully pulled the sheet in two.

"Nice speech," Peter said, unimpressed. "I want Q.C. reports, stage-four clinical trials, and R&D for all products launched within the last six months — All of it - today."

Neal replaced the top with the text and put the blank part into his pocket.

"We'll ship it over," Sullivan answered Peter, and Neal popped up in the doorway.

"Are we done here? I got a thing."

Peter sent the two men glares.

"We're done."

Chapter Text

"You got me a blank sheet of paper?" Peter stared as Neal arranged his trophy on his desk, holding it in place with some weights.

"Most high-quality paper stock can be split in two," Neal explained and saw what he needed in his in-basket on his desk. "Here." He tapped the edge of the paper at his desk, licked his thumb, and split the sheet in two.

"Wow."

"See?"

"Yeah. Let me try that." Peter grabbed the next sheet in the pile and tried to do the same. Which, of course, did not work.

"Yeah… You need the right touch." And the right paper. Ordinary printer paper was too thin.

Neal blew on the brush and dusted fingerprint powder out on the sheet on this desk.

"A little fingerprint powder…" he said, sweeping with the brush, and text revealed itself. Typewriters: today only used to be formal without leaving a file to be spread. They also left a hefty physical mark on the paper. To be filled with fingerprint powder. "And there you go."

Peter looked over his shoulder.

"They redacted the drug after the document was printed."

"That's why I had to get the original."

"Can you tell who signed the report?"

"No, I couldn't make it out on the original, either. But…" He leaned back in his chair, leaving room for Peter to read, "the drug name is clear." Which had been covered in the original.

"Never heard of Zybax," Peter said.

"Good thing you demanded all that product information."

"Yeah." Peter left, still trying to get the thin paper into two.

"Need the right touch," Neal mumbled to himself.

“Helen Anderson's office,” Diana answered in a lovely British dialect. Peter blinked.

“I dialed your FBI phone,” he said.

“I forwarded Helen's calls to my cell. She expects me to answer every call, make necessary copies, and do her research all at once. And remove a stain from her jacket.”

“Oh… Good. Hey, the accent sounds pretty realistic. How's it going over there?” Peter, who tried the kid’s paper split trick, succeeded in tearing the paper instead of splitting it.

“I have so many paper cuts I need a blood transfusion. It is impossible to remove wheat grass from Chanel. She made me go to her Brownstone to give Prozac to her parrot.

Peter could hear her voice's stress more than what she was saying.

“How was that?”

“It shrieked at me about deadlines.”

“Is that a personal call?” Peter heard Helen’s voice.

“Document storage,” Diana replied. “The files you asked for.”

“Was that her or the parrot?” Peter joked.

“I don't know how long I can do this,” she hissed back. “She wants to have dinner with Salman Rushdie tonight. How am I supposed to f— Wait, you can find Salman Rushdie.”

“Oh, I'd have to pull some strings.”

“Mail,” someone said.

“Why isn't my mail open?” Helen asked in the background.

“I see why she gets so many death threats,” Diana mumbled as Peter heard her walk and rip a litter open.

“Peter...”

“What is it?”

Diana did not say anything for a moment.

“They got inside Helen's place.”

“What have you got?”

“A photo from inside her home with a key taped to it. It is her house key. It is the same as the one she gave me.”

Peter felt his pulse rise.

“We have to give her more security somehow.”

“Is that a private call?”

“No, but, Helen, look!”

“Were you talking to someone about this?” Peter heard Helen’s voice.

“Of course not.” Diana lied just as quickly as Neal, Peter noted. “Helen, I—“

“No, I will not have an ‘invisible’ bodyguard supplied by the FBI, but I am concerned about the safety of my family. Get them to check my apartment ASAP. And arrange whatever security they suggest for Charlie and his dad. Why are you not on the phone?”

Peter heard Diana’s steps as she walked.

“I heard,” Peter said. “I’ll arrange for her apartment immediately and talk to NYPD about surveillance of the kid and husband.”

“Ex-husband.”

“Is the stain on my jacket gone?” Helen called.

“Yeah,” Peter grinned. “Ex-husband.”

Peter handed a file to the kid.

“What we have here is a cost-benefit analysis for the recall of a drug named Zybax.”

“Do we have anything on Zybax?” the young con man asked, browsing the file.

“We've got everything on Zybax,” Jones replied and guided them into the conference room that had turned full of file cases. “It's a new antibiotic designed to combat drug-resistant infections. Sounds like the next big thing.”

“Marketing report says they rolled it out in New York, Boston, and Philly,” Peter read. “They're going national this month.”

“Passed clinical trials, got FDA approval,” Neal saw in his file. “Looks perfect on paper.”

“P&V wanted to know how much it would cost to take this drug off the market. We need to find out why.” Peter’s phone rang. “Diana. What's going on?”

“Helen has a source at P&V. Peter, this is serious. He mentioned people are dying over this. They set up a meet.”

“Where? We can secure the location.”

“I didn't get an address.”

“I want you there,” Peter said.

“It's not a personal call. Lovely. Ms. Anderson's looking forward to seeing Mr. Rushdie tonight.”

“Cancel the dinner,” Helen’s voice said. “Tell my driver he can take the night off. I'll take a taxi home. And this doesn't fill itself. Coffee.”

“You're meeting with a source tonight, aren't you?” Diana dared to ask back.

“You're asking a wildly inappropriate question.”

“I know how important that dinner was to you. And I know you'd only take a taxi if you didn't want anyone to know where you were going. And this is your third cup of coffee. You're gearing up for a meeting. You should take me with you. I can help.”

There was a moment of silence, and Peter held her breath as if it was a risk that Helen would hear him.

“I'll tell you how you can help me,” Helen said. “It's my child's 6th birthday.”

“It's not on your calendar,” Diana said, puzzled.

“That's why I have a Pulitzer and not a ‘Mommy of the Year’ mug. Now, my last assistant arranged for Charlie's party at my apartment, which is currently a crime scene.”

“Okay. When is the party?”

“Today at four. That's why I need you to move everything -- the cake, the decorations, everything. And you need to call all the guests and tell them that I'm sorry that I'm not there. If this threat's real and I went, I would be putting Charlie and all the children in danger.”

“New party. Got it.”

“Oh, damn. I fired Melinda before she could get Charlie's gift. There's a robot that he loves. She wrote it down somewhere. And I want new locks, the kind the White House uses.”

“If I get all this done, can I come with you to meet the source?”

“Finish it all, and I'll let you drive me. Oh, and make sure you translate the Lisbon communiqué into English by six.”

Peter listened to it all and thought of Cinderella, who got to come to the ball if she got all the peas of the ashes.

He heard Diana’s sigh.

“Peter, if you want me there when Helen meets the source, I'm gonna need some help. I'm e-mailing you a list.”

Chapter Text

"Listen up," Peter said, walking into the packed conference room. "Diana needs to be within twenty yards of Helen at all times, so we're gonna lend a hand. First up, we need a lock for a residential door," he read from her list. "Ultra-secure, state of the art."

"I got a guy," he heard the kid. He sat by a window. "He'll even do the road work for you."

"Mozzie?" Peter asked and got a blank face and a little shrug in return. He really had no time for this. "I want the master key. All right, who here speaks Portuguese?" One of the probies raised a hand. "Good. You get to translate a communiqué."

"What's a supaiku-bot?" Neal asked, reading over his shoulder.

"I don't know. Some kind of robot hedgehog toy. I'll get that. Jones, you're gonna run point and handle decorations."

"So, streamers and a couple of balloons?"

"Mm-hmm," Peter nodded.

"No. No, no, no." Something told him he should listen to the kid.

"No? No. No." Peter sighed. "We are in way over our heads, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

Peter smiled when he saw the solution.

"We need a ringer."

"Yeah. And I hope you think of the same as I do."

"El?"

"Of course."

She would love to handle a birthday party with an oversized budget; he was sure of it.

"Why didn't you say so?" he asked his pet convict.

"You remember what you told me last time I made her arrange a party for the Bureau?"

"Ah, hum, yeah. This will be another exception to that rule. Jones, you go there and help my wife with the party. Do your cowboy thing."

"His cowboy thing?" Neal asked.

"All kids love a cowboy."

"Wasn't it a space-themed party?" The kid glanced at the list.

"And kids are known for their imagination and ability to mix things we adults have lost the vision for."

To Neal’s surprise, Moz presented him with a rather simple lock mounted on a sample door to a box.

“You wanted the locks they got at the White House,” Moz said with an eager grin. “These are better. Try it.”

“The Zhviegel Millennium?” he asked in disbelief. “I won't even need my picks. I'll just bump it.” He took a hammer and a big nail, found the weak spot, and knocked gently with the hammer. Nothing happened.

“Ah.” Mozzie sounded pleased. “But with my modifications, it is unlike any other Zhviegel on the market.”

Neal grinned and picked out his lockpicks. He worked with the lock.

“Tension's unreadable. I'm impressed.”

“That lock is so complex, it is only rivaled by my mind.”

Neal was not so sure of that.

The lock clicked open.

Mozzie, on his way out to the patio, sure of himself, burst back and stared at the little open door.

“Oh, I used the hook,” Neal explained. “It was tough, though. If you added another pin—“

“Ah, a bluff inside the cylinder.” Mozzie was on it at once. “This and a wedge under the door, and Helen Anderson's townhouse will be more secure than Fort Knox.”

“Which, as we know, has its own weaknesses,” Neal smiled. He had been inside once and left a message. Something he had never read anything about in any paperwork. “Speaking of, where's Diana's briefcase?”

“Oh, she took it back to the Sheagle's nest. We've only got two days to get it.”

Perfect. That was what he hoped for. He was already going over with Sarah.

“Don't worry, Moz. I'll cook something up.”

“Hey,” Peter said to two guys who had just got their truck ready to be unloaded. “Heard you guys got a shipment. Special agent Peter Burke, FBI.” He showed them his badge. “I'm commandeering a supaiku-bot.”

The two guys stared at him. Then one of them ripped one of the big boxes open and handed him a toy box saying Supaiku-bot on it. He smiled at its stupid face. It made a sound at him. The first toy he ever bought as an adult is in the line of duty. Once, he had walked through toy stores hoping to buy something, but the child they hoped for never came.

He drove down to the party that had just started. He saw Jones in a cowboy hat entertaining the kids and his lovely wife arranging three cakes. He then realized that the gift was not wrapped in paper.

El saw him and jogged over.

“I’ve got the gift,” he said.

“By the panic on your face, I guess it is not gift-wrapped.” He nodded. “Go to my car. There are a few of those big gift bags in the back seat. Just put in inside, and I’ll do the rest.”

Peter relaxed.

“Thanks, hon. Oh, can you take some photos and send to Diana, show that the party is arranged?”

“Sure.”

She gave him a kiss and returned to her duties at the party. Peter took the toy to her car and put it in a silver bag.

Three hours later, Diana called him.

“I’m driving her to the meeting. You should’ve seen her face when I showed her I was done. I even gave her her five-thirty wheat-grass smoothie. Thanks, Peter.”

“My pleasure. Stay safe tonight.”

Later, eating dinner with his wife, Diana called again.

“What happened?” Peter asked.

“She met with her source, I watched at a distance. Saw another person on the other side pulling a gun, I ran in, and warned them. The source ran. He gave her a thumb drive, but didn't give Helen a name. At least, that's what she told me. I dropped her home. You want me to double back for a stakeout?”

“No need. We've got an unmarked car on her house. Good work today. Get some rest.”

“If you insist. Good night, Peter.”

Neal heard Diana outside the door, talking, probably on the phone. She unlocked the door and opened it.

“What smells so g—“

Neal and Sara turned from the cooking.

“Hey!”

“Hi, honey,” Christie said, lying the table.

Neal almost felt sorry for his colleague. Coming home, tired, and facing a party. Not everyone’s dream.

“People always say they're gonna get together, and they never do,” Neal said, “so I called Christie.”

“And here we are.” Diana glared at him.

“Here we are,” he smiled back at her. Did she guess the real reason for his visit? Well, he hoped that she knew how to combine that with some fun too. “And dinner is just about ready.”

She said that Diana disappeared to freshen her up, and Neal and Sara put everything on the table. When she returned, they sat down and ate.

Neal and Sara and Christie had the best of times.

“Neal, this risotto's delicious. I need one more bite.”

“Contraband cheese,” Diana said, softening up a bit. “Caffrey, I should fine you and confiscate the dairy.”

“Hey, don't take your day with Helen out on me.”

“Oh, don't get me started. Actually, I could use your help with this. Her source gave her a flash drive with these numbers on it and no explanation.”

“Patent I.D.s, formula files?” Neal guessed.

“Nope.” Diana shook her head. “They don't correspond with Zybax or any P&V product.”

“Maybe samples,” Christie said. “I could check in the hospital pharmacy tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” They killed.

Christie looked at Sara.

“How about you, Sara? What do you do?”

She was about to answer, but Neal got ahead of her.

“She is in insurance,” Neal said.

“Oh, the kind that sends me mountains of paperwork?”

“No. No, no.” Sara chuckled. “But if your Rodin goes missing, please call me.”

“Oh, insurance recovery.”

“Yes.”

“Wait a minute,” Christie said. “That means that— “

“That's right,” Diana interrupted. “He steals 'em. She gets 'em back.”

“Wow. I've got to know how you both met!”

“She has been after me for a looong time,” Neal admitted with a wide grin.

“Oh! Oh, my God!” Sara laughed. “He stole a Raphael. “

“Objection, Your Honor,” Neal protested.

“And I pursued. And I haven't forgotten about the Raphael.”

“Ohh!” the couple on the other side of the table really enjoyed themselves.

“We're boring,” Neal told Sara. “Anyway, how about you two? How'd you two meet?”

“It's a really cute story,” Christie said.

“Oh, they don't want to hear it,” Diana chopped it off.

“Yeah. I want to hear it,” Neal said. He really did.

“I'm good. We — I'll just be — No, I'm good. I'm just gonna...” Diana rose and walked over to start with the dishes.

“Wow. You know, you are just like my friend Wally Burns,” Neal said. “It took him forever to tell me how he met his wife.” He turned to Sara. “You remember Wally, right? I told you about him.”

“Yeah, I remember Wally,” she said. “Um, dinner-party rules. You guys cooked, so Diana and I —“

“Get dessert,” Diana filled in.

“Yes,” Sara smiled. “And more wine.”

“Thank you so much,” Neal said.

“Thank you,” Christie agreed.

Alone with Christie and time to find some secrets.

“So, you and Diana —“ She rose, avoiding the subject. “Come on. You were her doctor? Krav Maga?”

“I'm not gonna tell you.” She sat down on the sofa, and Neal joined her.

“All right, fine. How was dinner the other night?”

“Oh, it was great,” she said.

“When I eat at Babbo, I like to go to this bar around the corner, Simone's.”

“I love Simone's,” Christie smiled at him. He had hit a chord.

“Yeah?”

“We came straight home,” Christie said. “We both had work to do.”

“Oh. Laptops in bed? Sounds romantic.”

“Very.” Dripping with sarcasm. “I researched Stents, and Di finished up for a morning meeting.”

“A meeting before her day with Helen?” Neal said. “Sounds like a busy day.”

“She had to drop something off.”

The next second, Diana hovered over them, glaring at her girlfriend.

“You told him, didn't you?”

“Told me what?” Neal said, innocent as a baby.

“Yeah, nice try, Caffrey. How we met!”

“I didn't tell him,” Christie said truthfully.

“I thought it was cute,” Neal said.

“There's nothing cute about pottery class,” Diana said.

“Yes! Pottery class!” Neal burst, finally hearing the story. “So much better than I ever could have imagined.”

Diana stared at him, realizing she had given up the information.

“Oh no.”

“And that would have explained...” Neal pointed at the highly original salad bowl they had had on the dinner table, now in Sara’s hands.

“Yeah, well, I made that,” Diana sighed.

“Oh, uh, I mean, I think that it's lovely,” Sara tried.

“Ditto,” Neal said at once.

“Oh, yeah. All right, let's get all the ‘Ghost’ jokes out of the way — ‘Unchained Melody,’ slide a penny up the wall…”

“It's supposed to be round, right?” Neal asked.

“It's absolutely hideous,” Diana laughed.

They ate dessert, and afterward, Neal found that he was alone by the table with Diana. Had Diana made a Wally Burns too?

“So, why are you here, Caffrey?”

She looked at him, and Neal knew that look. It was the same look Diana had given him in that hotel room where they had pretended to be a customer and a prostitute. They had shared a lot that hour. Almost anything but the bed.

“We’ve had a great time, haven’t we?”

“You’re not answering my question, Neal.”

“Have I misunderstood something?” He frowned. “I thought we agreed to a date night this week. I guess I should’ve called in advance, right?”

She kept looking at him, and he felt she was disappointed in him. Part of him knew that he should be ashamed. But they had had genuinely fun. That was no trick or act. And he could not afford to get in the real trouble that awaited if he did not get hold of that list.

He and Sara left for the night and walked home.

“We get a cab,” she suggested. “I pay.”

“I think it is a beautiful evening for a walk. Don’t you?”

She looked at him, hooked his arm in his, and joined his stroll.

“You aren’t allowed a cab, right?”

“Me moving too fast is not appreciated.”

“What would you’ve done if Diana lived outside your radius?”

“I’ll guess I would have had to send Mozzie instead,” he answered truthfully.

“Seriously,” she laughed. “Would you’ve called Peter and asked if you could surprise your colleague?”

“Probably not.”

They walked home. The air was hot between them. They hardly got inside until she kissed him.

“So, why did we run a Wally Burns on Diana's girlfriend?” she asked.

“I can't tell you.”

“Oh. Okay.” She was not pleased.

“Hold on. You don't give me details about your job.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I could probably live with a secret or two. “

“I could handle that,” Neal nodded.

“Yeah?” She was all over him. And he followed along. Eager to be with her, in her. They landed on top of his bed, she on top.

Then the door opened.

“Neal. Did you get it?” Mozzie! “Oh. Get a room!”

“We are in a room,” Sara yelled back at Mozzie and slid off him.

“My room!” Neal pointed out, rising.

“That hurts,” Moz said, undisturbed and apparently with no intention of leaving. “Next time I make a lock, I guess it should be for ‘your’ door.” He took two wine glasses from the cupboard.

“Or there is this thing called knocking!” Sara said, arranging her clothes.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” Neal stopped Sara. “You're leaving?”

“Mood sufficiently killed,” she declared. “Call me later. Or come over.”

“Sure,” Moz answered, holding the two glasses. Sara glared at him.

“Not you.”

To Neal’s regret, she left.

“Seriously, just put a sock on the doorknob,” Moz said as if it was all his fault that Moz had walked in on their intimate moment. His friend, with all his brains, still lacked certain skills that came naturally to others.

“Yeah,” Neal muttered.

“Any leads on the list?”

He uncorked a bottle of wine and filled their glasses.

“Diana met with agent Matthews yesterday. She gave her the list.” He was not a hundred percent sure, of course, but sure enough.

“Ah, fair Melissa.” Mozzie smiled. “She's an easier mark than badass Berrigan.”

“You realize that list is on lockdown in her hotel room.”

“Yeah, we just rip out a page from our own playbook. We know when Melissa is heading out of town.”

“We swap the briefcases when she leaves for the airport,” Neal smiled.

“Difficulties mastered are opportunities won,” Mozzie said, handing him a glass. Neal was not in the mood for more than one reason.

“Some of us have work in the morning.”

Chapter Text

"Morning," Neal said, walking straight to the conference room when he saw Peter and Jones there.

"Christie called," Peter replied.

"Oh. She ran the numbers through the hospital pharmacy?"

"She wanted me to ask you if you and Sara want to play doubles next weekend."

"Yeah, Caffrey, when you gonna cook me dinner? I like risotto."

Neal glanced at Jones with a chuckle and realized that Jones was hurt. Being single in a world of couples was not a funny thing, often being the fifth wheel. And in this case, Neal had had an agenda.

"Look at the two of you, trying to be funny. Don't we have a case to work?"

"We do," Peter agreed. "Turns out the numbers the source gave Helen match serial numbers of the sample packs of Zybax in the hospital database. But here's the thing. None of the samples are stocked in the pharmacies. P&V reps came in and swapped them out."

"Swapped them for what?" Jones asked.

"Zybax," Peter said, pulling a purple package out of a box. He dropped it and picked a blue Zybox instead. "Same drug, different packaging, different serial number."

"So what if Sullivan found out about a bad batch and did an undercover recall?"

"He traded dirty samples for clean ones," Jones continued.

"Right," Neal nodded. "To cover their tracks, P&V said it was new packaging. But even if the reps cleared out all the doctors' offices and hospitals, there's no way they got it all back."

"This is what Helen's source meant," Peter said. "There are people out there taking bad Zybax. It could kill them. But all of this is just a theory. P&V will bury us in a lawsuit unless we have proof."

"Then let's get proof."

"Got to love your optimism, Caffrey," Jones said.

"What?" Neal shrugged. "We'll find something." Peter and Jones sent him that glare he knew too well. "Legally, of course. If possible."

Peter's phone rang.

‘If possible,’ Peter repeated in his thoughts. Then his phone rang. It was Diana.

“Diana?” he answered.

“Helen and I are going to a launch party for Zybax this afternoon at P&V. Where she will be guided to a memo by her source.”

“Sounds risky.”

“You’re kidding me? She said, ‘Walking into a lion's den of corner offices and corporate hubris’ with a smug grin on her face. She loves this. According to the source, the memo authorizes Zybax to be repackaged as part of a covert recall. It's signed by the head of new products.”

“Paul Sullivan. We get the memo, we get him.” Peter saw that the kid had a smug grin too.

“You know, Helen never invited an assistant anywhere,” Diana said at the other end. “This is like an unofficial promotion.”

“You realize you don't actually work for her?”

“Oh, but I do.”

“Well, congratulations on your unofficial promotion. Stay close to Helen. Be careful. Whoever had her in their sights is still out there.”

“I won't let anything happen to Helen.”

“Oh, I know you'll take care of her. I'm worried about you.”

“Don't be. I'm gonna walk out of the front door of P&V with everything we need to take them down.”

She hung up. Neal was all smiles.

“A memo, eh? Legally obtained?”

“So it seems. If Helen gets it, that is.”

"My gut's bothering me,” Peter said, after approaching Neal’s desk. Neal looked at his handler.

“Maybe you need some Zybax.” Neal knew very well that Peter’s gut was as good as his brain.

“Think I'll pass. By now, Helen's figured out the serial numbers are for the samples of Zybax. She's on her way to get the memo.”

“She strikes me as the type of person who will do whatever it takes to get what she needs.”

“That's what's bothering me,” Peter said. “Sullivan knows she's looking into P&V.”

“And whatever he's hiding, she's gonna come after it.” Neal sensed that there was a layer to all this that Helen might have missed, walking into P&V launch party.

“If a P&V employee knows about the Zybax cover-up,” Peter said, “starts feeding Helen intel—”

“She picks up the trail, Sullivan follows her all the way to the source.”

“If the meet happens at the launch party, the source could be exposed.” With so much money involved, who knew what these people were capable of?

“Hey, guys,” Jones came up to them. “We did some further work on that redacted document and were able to identify the signature at the bottom.” He handed them copies of the result.

“We just found our source,” Peter grinned when they both saw the signature. “Casey Mendell.”

“Head of R&D,” Neal grinned. This was good.

“Let's go talk to him. Jones, call Diana. Let her know.”

Peter answered Diana’s call. He could hear party music in the background.

“Yeah?”

“I have eyes on Helen. I got a look at the guest list. Casey Mendell is not at this party.”

“He's not in his office,” Peter told her. “We're on our way to his house.” He hung up as he saw an ambulance and police where he was heading. He parked, and he and the kid left. Peter flashed his badge to get passed them.

“That's Mendell's building,” the kid pointed out. Peter stopped a couple of paramedics leaving.

“Hey, FBI. What's going on here?”

“Lady got home from work, found her husband on the floor, called us. It was too late. Must've died this morning.”

“Casey Mendell?”

“Yeah.”

Peter grabbed for his phone. If they were ready to kill Mendell they would not hesitate to kill Helen. Or Diana. He and the kid ran toward the car.

“Hello?” she answered.

“It's a setup! Mendell's dead. Whoever contacted Helen pretended to be her source.”

“Excuse me.” Peter thought at first that she had not heard, but she had spoken to someone else. “Damn it, Peter. Helen's gone.”

“We're on our way.”

They got the car going, and even though he drove fast, the minutes were never as slow as when lives were at stake.

Diana called again. Neal answered and put her on speaker.

“I’ve found her, Peter,” she whispered. “They lured her into a room. Twenty-six forty-two. The room has a glass door, I have eyes on her.” She hung up.

Peter and Neal got the last bit and ran out of the car and crashed into the party, jogging upstairs to find the room Diana said.

The glass to the door was shattered.

In the hole, he saw Diana with her gun ready, if not aimed at someone. And Helen.

“Peter,” she said. “Good. I’m not allowed to frisk him.” She nodded at a man standing with his hands on his back, cuffed. Peter was not that surprised to see that it was Sullivan’s counsel, Mr. Carter.

“Glad to see you’re both alive and well,” he said, smiling at the two women. Diana put her gun away, and Peter frisked Carter.

“I’m ashamed I was so easily fooled,” Helen said. “I should’ve known better.”

Diana shook her head.

“It’s impossible to tell sometimes. That’s why a federal agent never goes alone. That was your mistake.”

Helen nodded. Then she smiled.

“’Drop it, or I'll put a bullet in each kneecap.’ You must have loved to say that.”

“As much as you love chasing dangerous stories.”

Neal watched Diana enter the office. They smiled at each other and she sat down at her desk with something looking like awe.

Peter joined her.

“Talked to my buddy at the FDA,” he said. “Turns out the bad Zybax causes brain hemorrhages if taken with certain medications.”

“P&V figured they'd shut down Mendell and Helen, then roll the dice on any medication still out there,” Diana said. “Settling lawsuits would've been cheaper than a recall.”

“Mm. Well, at least the drug's off the market, and we've got Carter and Sullivan on conspiracy to commit murder. Any chance of getting that case report by the end of the day?”

“If I can get it to you by lunch, can I go to that tech conference in Miami?”

“By lunch? Sure.”

Peter moved to leave, but to Neal’s enjoyment, Diana pushed her chair, blocking his way, holding out a case report file.

“Miami's gonna feel so good in November.”

Peter took the file with a chuckle and left for his office room. Neal walked to the shelves to find a binder.

Then Diana saw something by the elevators, and Neal turned his head too, only to see Helen coming in. Diana walked to meet her.

“You know,” Helen said, “just the other day, I wondered, ‘Where have all the boy scouts gone?’”

“There are some girl scouts here, too.”

“Diana,” she said, taking her sunglasses off, “a woman like you shouldn't be surrounded by florescent lights and old spice. You are the best assistant I have ever had.

I want you back. Whatever they pay you here, I will pay more than double.”

“I don't need a byline,” Diana said. “In my interview, I told you I knew who I was and where I wanted to be. That's right here.”

“I dedicated my article to Casey Mendell. But I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for you.”

“You should hire your old assistant back. She's the one who saved your life.”

“I have a deadline.”

“Goodbye, Helen.”

Neal watched the two women’s goodbyes. Diana, already an established agent, seemed to have grown several inches.

Neal took a magnet and a coin and made the coin slide up the bookshelf, like the coin moving in Ghost.

“It's amazing. The love inside. You take it with you,” he whispered from behind the self. He popped out. “Come on. Who am I?”

“You in danger, boy.”

But she was not angry at all. They laughed.

“’Ghost’ quotes?” Peter asked, who came out of nowhere. “Neal, if you know how Diana and Christie met, you are officially part of the family.”

Neal stopped dead in his tracks. This was not finding a photo of Peter with a mustache as he had thought it would be. Peter had just given him a place in the White Collar office in a way he never officially did before. He had called it a family, the close circle. And here he was standing, planning to leave.

Neal’s phone rang.

It was Moz. He watched Peter and Diana move out of hearing distance before he answered.

“Hey.”

“Neal, we got a problem!”

“You at the airport?”

“Of course. I said I'd follow Melissa, and I did, all the way to the airport. She took an earlier flight!”

“You're saying the list is gone?”

“I'm watching it take off right now.”

“All right, take a breath, Moz,” he said moving back to his desk.

“Breath? The list is on its way to D.C.! Neal, how did this happen?!”

“Neal...” Peter said from the stairs. “You coming?”

Neal looked at Peter. He knew by the smile that Peter knew exactly what had happened. He knew that Peter knew. How had he ever thought it would be any different?

“I got to go,” he told Moz and hung up.

He was not in cuffs, so Peter had nothing on him. He had just told him he was part of the family and robbed him of the possibility of selling the art. Would he let him off the hook? No, Neal was sure of it. The man was excited to have another chase. If Neal did not do anything, they would both win. But could he sit there just watching the art on a webcam?

“’Ghost’ quotes?” Peter asked. He grinned. “Neal, if you know how Diana and Christie met, you are officially part of the family.” Why else would Neal quote Ghost? He was happy for Neal. He liked the kid, wanted him around, and wanted him to know that he was welcome to stay. If Neal had the treasure, he would have the means not to stay, and anything that kept the kid in New York by his side, at least until the sentence was ended, was a good thing.

He strolled away with Diana by his side.

“Caffrey was at my place,” she mumbled, “but there was nothing for him to find.”

“I talked with agent Matthews,” Peter said in low voice. “The list has never been out of her sight.”

He heard the kid’s cell phone ring.

“So it's safe?”

“Yeah. I made sure it stays that way.”

He walked up the stairs and looking at the kid. He could bet it was a secret call, which was unpleasant.

“Neal?” he called him “You coming?” The look he got from the kid. It exposed panic. If that call were not about the list that had just disappeared before his eyes, then he would be surprised. So the kid had at least part of the treasure, and the treasure had survived the fire.

It saddened him, but he did not want to fight with the kid about it. Nothing he would say would ever keep Neal away from it. But now, at least he had prevented a rash move of selling some of it and escaping. That was his primary goal right now.

“I got to go,” the kid said to the guy - his little buddy probably - at the other end, still looking at him. It was bitter-sweet. He felt the thrill of a new game between them, but one that would end their partnership. Either Neal would go to prison, or he would escape. Peter, in his heart, heard Neal’s words: “there’s always another way.” What if he could make him stay?

Like my writing? Or want to know why a chapter is late? Make my day and Follow me on BuyMeACoffee.com/AltanKatt

Chapter Text

Neal strolled around in one odd yard sale. It was an empty office floor with chandeliers hanging in the ceiling, and the items for sale were Mozzie's stuff. He had known the man for more years than he had known Peter and still it felt like rummaging in his sacred private even by looking at the items.

"I think I would like to take the Ushanka hat spy cam," June said behind him, the only customer there, except for himself. "It's good for the New York chill."

"Well, in that case, may I interest you in this nuclear-winter lantern?" Moz said with delight, holding up a lantern of some sort. "It generates vitamin D."

"Always good to be prepared," Neal said, inspecting a megaphone. He wondered what made it a typical Moz-thing. Mozzie was like Bond's Q, finding and hiding the most extraordinary technical gizmos.

"I'll take it," June said. "Thank you so much."

"Please tell all of Byron's old friends," Moz said. "I need as many buyers for my sleight-of-hand-me-downs as I can possibly get."

"You know I will." June paid him, and they hugged. "Thanks, dear. Send them?" Neal smiled at the upper-class attitude of always getting things they bought delivered home by someone else.

"Yes, of course."

"Thank you."

"Bye, June," Neal said as she passed him on the way out.

"Bye, darling. See you at home."

"You know she doesn't actually need a Russian-surplus spy-cam hat," Neal said to Moz when she left.

"She's a wonderful woman."

"Are you sure you want to sell everything, Moz? I mean, I know how much some of this stuff means to you." Neal picked up a plastic banana from a bowl of plastic fruits. A thumb-sized blade emerged from its end. He did not see that coming.

"Well, can we sell our treasure?" his friend asked in return. "We know it's from Russian museums. It's not tainted. It'll sell quick."

"With the sub's manifest locked away at the D.C. bureau? You know we can't risk it."

"Well, then, yes, I'm gonna sell all of my treasures."

"Oh, come on. Is it really that dire, Oliver Twist?" Just like Neal, Mozzie had a good nose for finding easy money when needed. They were both in the game. When ever they needed money they stole it one way or another.

"Oh, it's worse. Remember I told you about Mr. Jeffries?" Mozzie dug in his pocket and brought out a photo that must have been a part of him since he was a kid. Neal had seen it before. It was the single evidence Neal knew of that proved that Mozzie had once been a kid too. Beside the kid-version of Moz was an Afro-American gentleman, both smiling towards the camera.

"Yeah. Your old headmaster from the group home in Detroit."

"Yeah, well, they lost all their funding because of the economy in Detroit."

"I'm sorry, Moz." So that was the reason. Small cons could not cover those amounts needed.

"I sent an anonymous donation last month, but that's not gonna last very long. The orphanage is Mr. Jeffries' entire life. Those kids need him."

"All right, I will spread the word about the sale," Neal said, and dug in his pocket for a ten-dollar-bill. "And I'll buy the banana."

"Excellent choice."

“Guys, quiet down,” Peter said, walking into the crowded conference room Monday morning. “Quiet down. Let's get through this. Blake, follow up with Bellevue about those fake insurance cards. Jones, stop texting. Put a smile on your face.” Jones put on a huge fake grin. “Another IBF.” He handed Jones a file.

“I'm smiling,” Jones said.

“Diana, copyright infringement.”

“Not another one,” she muttered, accepting the file.

“What was that?”

“Yay, another one.”

“That's what I thought I heard. Neal?”

“Here,” the kid replied at the other end of the table.

“Help Diana if she needs it.” Peter reminded himself to find something for the kid during the day. “All right, I saved the best for last. Organized crime is asking us to keep an eye out for any financial movement from the Motor City. Apparently, the Detroit mob's in town.” He put a mugshot on the screen. “This guy, Frank de Luca, has been spotted poking around our local criminal hot spots.” He switched between a few photos of the man taken on different sites. “Organized crime thinks that he's looking for somebody.”

“Do they know who?” Neal asked, and Peter thought he detected a tone of worry.

“No, but last night, this numbers runner met with an unfortunate accident after somebody tried getting information out of him.” Peter put a photo of the dead man on the table. “O.C. suspects it was de Luca doing the asking. We got Al Capone on tax evasion. Maybe there's a financial angle that we can play de Luca. That's it. Meeting adjourned.”

People filed out, but Neal approached him.

“Sounds like we've got an easy day.”

“We do. Please don't complicate it.”

“I would never,” Neal assured him. “Can I take an early lunch?”

Peter glanced at him. They had just started working for the day.

“Sure.”

Peter watched him leave.

“Something wrong, boss?” Diana asked.

“Neal just complicated my day,” Peter sighed. “Have organized crime get those files on the Detroit mob.”

“You got it.”

When Neal got back to Mozzie’s ‘yard sale’ there were a lot more people there. Moz was a character many of New York’s criminals knew of, and he was liked as well as admired. No one else Neal knew of had successfully lived most of his life under the radar, unknown by any authority.

“Okay, you degenerates, listen up,” Moz said, walking between the tables. “There are great opportunities here. We've got ultrasonic stun-g*n binoculars, cane swords, cattle prods, morning-star maces.”

“This iron do anything?” a guy asked, holding what looked like an ordinary iron.

“Oh, you ever need a multi-directional mike with optional tear-gas dispenser valve?”

“No.” He put the iron back and saw a teddy bear in a box. “Who's this little guy?”

“Oh, no, no, no. No, it's not for sale. Can't have that. Here, try this.” Mozzie picked up an apple from the same bowl as the banana came from.

“No, don't eat this,” Neal dived in. “Trust me. Moz, I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, Neal.”

“This is important.” He pulled his friend aside. “Did you talk to a numbers runner recently?”

“Uh, yeah, Eddie Nine-Ball. Why?”

“He's dead, Moz.” His friend made big eyes. But before anything further could be said a new voice entered the arena.

“Hey, listen up, New York underworld.” Neal turned to where the voice came from and saw a man in an expensive suit and a thug enter the room. “I'm Frank de Luca Junior from Detroit, and I'm here looking for a man who's known as ‘the Dentist of Detroit.’” There were giggles in the room. “So you think the Dentist is a myth, huh? No one man could do everything he's done. Well, I'm here to tell you, the Dentist is real. And I have good reason to believe he's right here in New York City. And so, surely, one of you knows who the Dentist is.”

Everyone in the room was silent. Mozzie did not even look at the man. He made sure not to be noted, as he usually did, when not among friends.

Frank de Luca Junior glanced around the room. Neal met his eyes, but he had nothing to say. And even if he had, he would not tell. ‘The Dentist of Detroit’ and he had never crossed paths what he knew of, and the rumor he had heard had not interested him in searching him out. Too much pain and violence.

“Okay. Please...” He made an ironic bow. “Tell the Dentist that I'm making an appointment,” he said pulling a note from his pocket. “And if he doesn't keep it…” He jammed the note to a concrete pillar with a switchblade. “…He can say goodbye to his friend.”

He sent a glare around the room and left with his thug.

Once they left, Neal pulled the note down. A place and a time. He turned it over.

“That's Mr. Jeffries!” Mozzie cried, pulling the note from his hands.

Neal looked at his friend. Harmless, clever, friend with most people. How did he get involved with the Detroit mob?

“What's going on, Moz?”

“Neal...” he said, pale. “I'm the Dentist of Detroit.”

Peter was not that surprised when Neal did not turn up after lunch, either. He gathered the team in the conference room.

"This everything from organized crime?” he asked Diana.

“Including a map of de Luca's suspected movements around the city,” she said, pulling up a map with red lines and dots with dates and times.

“What do you know about him?”

“De Luca Sr. was gunned down five months ago, leaving his son Frank to take over the family business,” she said. She handed him a photo. “Leo Mazzera, drives the car, scares the people.”

“We got Caffrey's tracking data cued up,” Jones came in. “What did he do now?”

“Took an early lunch,” Peter said.

“Yeah?” Jones sat down. “Remind me to stay on your good side.”

“You notice him perk up when Peter mentioned the Detroit mob?” Diana asked.

“Yeah, but we've been tracking Caffrey for seven years. He has no Detroit ties.”

“But Mozzie does,” Peter said. He got that piece of info from El. “Jones, overlay Neal's tracking data with de Luca's.”

Peter rose to get a closer look at the screen.

“De Luca's in red,” Jones said as he merged the two on the screen.

“Look at that,” he said, grinning. “Neal's movements, de Luca's movements. Looks like de Luca found who he was looking for.” At the same point at the same time, Neal and a representative of the Detroit mob were on the same spot.

While de Luca seemed to have left the building, Neal appeared to be still there. He checked the app on his phone. Yeah, Neal was still there.

Chapter Text

"You're not meeting de Luca," Neal told Mozzie with even more emphasis than before.

"I'm not going alone," Moz said, flying with his little toy helicopter with a camera in the room, watching its image on a screen. "I'll have this in the sky to scan the area's weak spots while you go to a higher-ground position." Moz put the control down, and the chopper dived right at Neal. He jumped aside. "With your laser—"

"Moz! Are you actively trying to die? You can't take on de Luca."

"Neal, I'm on a rescue mission! Mr. Jeffries is in trouble."

"Let's keep talking this through," Neal said, feeling he needed to change his approach. "How did de Luca find you?"

"Well, he knew I was connected to the group home. He must have tracked my donation."

That it would be possible to track Moz through a financial transfer? That did not sound like his friend.

"Did you shore up your account?" he asked.

"I had to transfer the cash immediately. Only had time to dummy back one account, not my usual four."

"There you go." Alright, they had their explanation.

Someone came up the staircase, and Mozzie rushed off and grabbed one of his odd gizmos. It looked like a rifle.

"What are you doing?"

Mozzie hid behind a pillar and folded the 'rifle' around the corner.

"In case it's de Luca."

Neal did not want to be anywhere near the front of whatever Mozzie held in his hands.

"I'm gonna stand behind you."

"That's wise."

Now Neal saw that it was a gun but also a camera so he could see what was on the other side of the pillar on a small screen.

"That looks remarkably like Peter," he said when the man walking the stairs entered the room.

"Hey, guys," Peter said, walking right up to them. "What you doing?"

Peter took Mozzie's gizmo very carefully at its edges and took it away from him.

"Oh, just being oppressed by the man," Moz replied. "The usual."

Peter placed the gun-camera-gizmo on the nearest table and took a look at the other items there. A Canary in a cage was the most normal thing there.

"Something for the crazy man who has everything?"

"Oh, that's Sweet Darnell, my taste-tester. You can never be too careful."

"Are you in danger, Mozzie?" Peter asked upfront.

"I live in danger, Suit."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Frank de Luca, would it?" So Peter had figured it out. "Come on, guys. Organized crime's been following de Luca. I know he was here." And Peter knew were he was due to his anklet, probably knew they had met.

"He's forcing a meet with Moz using an old friend as leverage."

"Neal!" Moz protested.

"Why?" Peter frowned. "What does he want with you?"

"I-I'm a man of many secrets, but I am going to that meeting."

"Absolutely not. De Luca's dangerous."

"I'd like to see you try and stop me."

Neal sighed, and he knew that look on Peter's face.

"You will see me not only trying but also succeeding unless you tell me what he wants with you."

"Your intimidating methods do not work on me, Suit."

Neal knew what was going to happen before the agent pulled his cuffs out.

"Peter…" he started but got a look from his handler that shut him up. Peter could not know that Neal was on his side. Mozzie was not violent, and that was to his credit, but he was also naive when it came to violent people. He thought everyone could be talked to.

"See these, Mozzie," Peter asked, holding his pair of cuffs on one finger. "I have every right to put these on you. If you try to run, an agent downstairs will catch you, and you will be in deep trouble. I am willing to skip the cuffs if you agree to follow me downstairs to the car without fuss, but you will get into that car. And trust me, you do not want to experience what it's like when you don't want to."

Neal let him make up his own mind. It took a while. Peter waited patiently.

"I agree to follow you downstairs and to the car, Suit. But only because you have a gun."

"Good." Peter grabbed Mozzie's arm and walked towards the door. Of course, Mozzie protested.

"Relax, Moz," Neal tried, but this was between his two friends.

"Is this an arrest, Suit? Because if it is—"

"It's not."

"Then what is it? Because I have the right to know. According to the Constitution— "

"The FBI's mission is to uphold the Constitution of the United States. You're in safe hands. We're also here to protect you and all the American citizens."

Somehow Neal got the impression that Peter was stalling the answer to get Mozzie out of the building and to the car as quickly as possible.

When they got out, Mozzie tried to stop.

"That's not your car."

"I never said it was."

"Suit!"

With years of experience, Peter got Mozzie inside the backseat of the car without him having time to realize what was happening.

"Consider yourself a protected witness," Peter said and shut the door.

"You can't do this!"

"Oh, I can. What does de Luca want with you?"

"He wants —" Neal started.

"Don't say it, Neal!" Mozzie told him through the open window.

"De Luca wants Mozzie because he's the Dentist of Detroit."

"Neal!" He was disappointed. "Et tu, Brute? Et tu?!"

"I'm sorry. It's to keep you safe." Was he really like Brutus betraying Julius Ceasar?

"Mozzie is the Dentist of Detroit?" Peter stared at him, not sure what to believe.

"I know. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it."

"You know, I resent your judgment and your misguided misunderstanding of things you do not understand— " Peter signaled to the car to leave, and it did. They watched it leave. Neal wondered if he had done the right thing, but he trusted Peter, and he knew in his heart that the path he was on now was better than how he had lived before.

"Neal, the Dentist is linked to hundreds of crimes going over decades." Peter was serious. "Some really bad stuff."

"Mozzie's a lot of things, but he's not bad." He was sure he knew his friend well enough to be sure he had no violent past. "Can you protect him?"

"I can. But I can't ignore what he's done."

If Mozzie went to prison, he would never forgive him. Their friendship would be ended. On the other hand, if Mozzie had done a lot of bad stuff, maybe he deserved prison? Better prison than being shot by a gang boss. At least, that was Neal's priority.

"Are you in danger, Mozzie?" Peter looked at the man who could not seem more harmless.

"I live in danger, Suit."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Frank de Luca, would it?" He glanced at the kid, who could not hide his surprise but did not reply. Mozzie's acting skills were horrible. It was all over him. "Come on, guys. Organized crime's been following de Luca. I know he was here."

"He's forcing a meet with Moz using an old friend as leverage," Neal said. That was a good start. Mozzie did not agree to this conversation and wanted Neal to shut up, but this just made Peter even more interested.

"Why?" Peter frowned. He stared at Mozzie. "What does he want with you?"

"I-I'm a man of many secrets, but I am going to that meeting."

"Absolutely not," Peter said. "De Luca's dangerous."

Mozzie looked like it was a totally free world where you could do whatever you liked.

"I'd like to see you try and stop me."

The kid rolled his eyes. Peter stared in disbelief at a man that was supposed to be educated.

"You will see me not only trying but also succeeding unless you tell me what he wants with you."

"Your intimidating methods do not work on me, Suit."

Intimidating? He was just stating the facts!

"Peter…" the kid started, but Peter sent him a look. He wanted to handle this. He pulled his cuffs out of his pocket. A part of him wanted just to slam the little guy up the wall and put them on for being so obtuse, but Mozzie was not a criminal at the moment. He could not arrest him. But he could put him in protective custody. In cuffs if needed.

"See these, Mozzie," Peter asked, showing them to the man. "I have every right to put these on you. If you try to run, an agent downstairs will catch you, and you will be in deep trouble. I am willing to skip the cuffs, if you agree to follow me downstairs to the car without fuss, but you will get into that car. And trust me, you do not want to experience what it's like when you don't want to."

Peter glanced at Neal, but the kid kept quiet, staying out of it.

"I agree to follow you downstairs and to the car, Suit. But only because you have a gun."

"Good." Peter grabbed Mozzie's arm and marched towards the door to get him down and away as soon as possible before neither of them regretted it. Mozzie was not all too willing to follow along.

"Relax, Moz," Neal tried behind him, in vain.

"Is this an arrest, Suit? Because if it is—"

"It's not."

"Then what is it? Because I have the right to know. According to the Constitution— "

"The FBI's mission is to uphold the Constitution of the United States. You're in safe hands," Peter assured him. "We're also here to protect you and all the American citizens."

"That's not your car."

"I never said it was."

"Suit!"

The trick was not to stop but keep everything in a fluid motion, as if it was meant to be, nothing you could stop. And so he got Mozzie in the back seat of the FBI car.

"Consider yourself a protected witness," Peter said and shut the door to a stunned Mozzie.

"You can't do this!"

"Oh, I can. What does de Luca want with you?"

"He wants —" Neal started.

"Don't say it, Neal!"

"De Luca wants Mozzie because he's the Dentist of Detroit."

"Neal!" Mozzie yelled. "Et tu, Brute? Et tu?!"

"I'm sorry. It's to keep you safe."

"Mozzie is the Dentist of Detroit?" Peter was not sure what made him most surprised, that statement or that Neal exposed his friend in crime. He hoped to be able to live up to that trust.

"I know," the kid nodded. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around it."

Mozzie got started again, but Peter was not interested in listening. He knocked on the car's roof, signaling to the driver to leave. And it did.

He thought he had brought the man in to protect him. Now he was told the harmless annoying man was a brutal hard-core criminal. He sure had not seen that coming. Were his instincts so wrong?

"Neal, the Dentist is linked to hundreds of crimes going over decades." He had told him to protect his friend, but now Neal might have put him in deep trouble instead. "Some really bad stuff."

"Mozzie's a lot of things, but he's not bad." Neal sounded confident. Too confident for comfort. But he had a desperate tone in his voice when he asked: "Can you protect him?"

"I can." The FBI was good at protecting their witnesses. That was not the issue here. "But I can't ignore what he's done." Neal did not comment on this. Peter brought out his phone.

"Yeah, boss?" Diana answered.

"Diana, get me everything you can find on the Dentist of Detroit." He glanced at Neal. "We've got our next case." This could be hard for both of them, Neal in particular.

Chapter Text

Neal watched Mozzie in the hearing room through the one-way mirror with Peter. Mozzie's idea of 'safe' did not match Neal's own, and on top of that, his friend was now trapped inside a glass cage within a federal building.

"What's going on, Neal?" Peter asked, watching Moz go berserk, yelling 'Attica!' and 'Hunger strike' while trying to find every camera and microphone in the room.

"It's not what you think," Neal said. "He got on the bad side of the mob." He looked at Peter. "I didn't know he did it as the Dentist. I didn't. He told me some of the story. Let him tell you, too."

Peter did not seem sure what to think but moved towards the door and motioned for Neal to follow.

"How many suits do you have hiding out there?" Mozzie yelled when they opened the door.

"I ask the questions," Peter said.

"Did you find Mr. Jeffries yet?"

Peter looked at Neal.

"Does he even hear me?"

How could he tell Peter that answering Mozzie's questions would be the easiest way to calm him down and get answers?

"Just..." Neal bit his tongue. He could not find words that did not contradict Peter's authority. But Peter got it.

"Detroit Police searched his home and office. They didn't find much, but his car is missing."

"It's a good thing, Moz," Neal said.

"De Luca probably came around asking questions, and Mr. Jeffries fled."

Neal sat down, hoping to show his friend a good example.

"The Dentist of Detroit," Peter said. "Suspected mastermind in at least three major securities frauds. I've also got a litany of violent crimes, assault, battery, aggravated assault, and assault with intent to intimidate. Page after page of this stuff. Are you the Dentist?"

Mozzie did not stop moving.

"No comment."

Peter sighed.

"Neal's convinced me to hear you out so I can decide whether or not to book you."

"Talk to him, Moz," Neal begged. "If not to help yourself, then to help Jeffries. Just tell him the story."

Mozzie considered.

"We talk about Jeffries first."

He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Fine," Peter said, ice cold, and placed a microphone on the table before Mozzie. "Start talking."

"Detroit, 1969," he began, not looking at any of them. "We just put a man on the moon, gas was 35 cents, and I was orphaned. Isaac Jeffries found me left on the doorstep to a church, not even one year old, in a basket with a teddy bear named Mozart. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. He had an orphanage and worked hard to let every child there be seen and accepted as they were, seeing the good in every person. As you can imagine, growing up an orphan in 1970s Detroit wasn't all gumdrops and unicorns, especially for a small kid with thick glasses. That teddy bear was all I had of whatever life I had had before I came to Mr Jeffries, and kids who all lived with the burden of being abandoned often took our their anger and frustration on me by hurting Mozart. They couldn't have hurt me more than that. That bear was the only thing I had left of my real parents."

Neal watched Mozzie in the hearing room through the one-way mirror with Peter. Mozzie's idea of 'safe' did not match Neal's own, and on top of that, his friend was now trapped inside a glass cage within a federal building.

"What's going on, Neal?" Peter asked, watching Moz go berserk, yelling 'Attica!' and 'Hunger strike' while trying to find every camera and microphone in the room.

"It's not what you think," Neal said. "He got on the bad side of the mob." He looked at Peter. "I didn't know he did it as the Dentist. I didn't. He told me some of the story. Let him tell you, too."

Peter did not seem sure what to think but moved towards the door and motioned for Neal to follow.

"How many suits do you have hiding out there?" Mozzie yelled when they opened the door.

"I ask the questions," Peter said.

"Did you find Mr. Jeffries yet?"

Peter looked at Neal.

"Does he even hear me?"

How could he tell Peter that answering Mozzie's questions would be the easiest way to calm him down and get answers?

"Just..." Neal bit his tongue. He could not find words that did not contradict Peter's authority. But Peter got it.

"Detroit Police searched his home and office. They didn't find much, but his car is missing."

"It's a good thing, Moz," Neal said.

"De Luca probably came around asking questions, and Mr. Jeffries fled."

Neal sat down, hoping to show his friend a good example.

"The Dentist of Detroit," Peter said. "Suspected mastermind in at least three major securities frauds. I've also got a litany of violent crimes, assault, battery, aggravated assault, and assault with intent to intimidate. Page after page of this stuff. Are you the Dentist?"

Mozzie did not stop moving.

"No comment."

Peter sighed.

"Neal's convinced me to hear you out so I can decide whether or not to book you."

"Talk to him, Moz," Neal begged. "If not to help yourself, then to help Jeffries. Just tell him the story."

Mozzie considered.

"We talk about Jeffries first."

He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Fine," Peter said, ice cold, and placed a microphone on the table before Mozzie. "Start talking."

"Detroit, 1969," he began, not looking at any of them. "We just put a man on the moon, gas was 35 cents, and I was orphaned. Isaac Jeffries found me left on the doorstep to a church, not even one year old, in a basket with a teddy bear named Mozart. He was the best thing that ever happened to me. He had an orphanage and worked hard to let every child there be seen and accepted as they were, seeing the good in every person. As you can imagine, growing up an orphan in 1970s Detroit wasn't all gumdrops and unicorns, especially for a small kid with thick glasses. That teddy bear was all I had of whatever life I had had before I came to Mr Jeffries, and kids who all lived with the burden of being abandoned often took our their anger and frustration on me by hurting Mozart. They couldn't have hurt me more than that. That bear was the only thing I had left of my real parents."

“Mr. Jeffries taught me a lot about myself and the social game. He taught me that the other kids were intimidated by me 'cause I was smarter, and they knew it. ‘There is no knowledge that is not power.’ Know who said that?”

“Mr. Jeffries,” Peter guessed.

“Partly right, Suit. He did. But he was quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson. Jeffries told me in his own words: ‘Now, you strive for knowledge, use what you learn, and you'll always stay ahead of them.’ And I did. He also fixed Mozart. Replaced his lost eye with a button. Gave it a bit more character. ‘Character defines personality, and in that department, your cup runneth over, little man.’”

Peter watched Mozzie smile like a kid.

“Mr. Jeffries,” Peter guessed again.

“He was the one person who looked out for me. From that day on, I read everything I could get my hands on. Emerson's ‘Self-Reliance,’ Thomas Pynchon's ‘V.,’ Erich Fromm's ‘Escape From Freedom,’ Du Picq's ‘Battle Studies.’ I took Jeffries' advice and used that knowledge to fight my own wars.”

Peter could not help being amazed and absorbed by the story.

“Wars?”

“Billy the Bully. He always tried to get my money. As did Kenny Nussbaum. It took them quite a while to realize that I deliberately made them fight each other. And I don’t think they ever understood who actually took their money.”

“You?” Peter asked.

“Those with no eyes to read readily are doomed to the worst errors. To paraphrase Du Picq,” Mozzie answered, and Peter thought that that was not even giving an illusive answer, but no answer at all. “Jeffries saved me. He gave me a life, and he told me how to live it.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Well, we exchanged secret messages over the years, but... Wait, when they searched his house, did they find any stuffed animals?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they, uh -- the cops thought it was odd until they realized he worked at a group home.” Peter browsed the folder. “Right here, elephant, tiger, bear.”

“The -- the bear! The bear is me.”

“It was holding an apple,” Peter read.

“That was a clue! The Big Apple. He's coming here to warn me.”

Peter glanced at Neal for guidance but found none. Secret messages? Two adult people?

“You're...sure about that?” Peter asked Mozzie.

“I think I am.”

“The FBI will find Jeffries, and we'll put him under protection.”

“What if they find him first? I have to go to de Luca's meeting.” Mozzie was on his feet. So was Peter.

“No, Mozzie, de Luca may have already killed one man. We don't want to add you to that list.”

“They don't know what the Dentist looks like,” the kid said. “I could go in Mozzie's place.”

“Neal.” Mozzie sat down. “You'll never pass as the Dentist.”

“I could be his assistant.”

“This isn't your fight.”

“No, it's not. But you are my friend.”

Neal rose. Peter figured the kid had a pretty good idea. He pointed at Mozzie.

“Stay put.” Not that he had much choice, but there was no need to remind him about that.

Chapter Text

Neal knew what to look for, so he saw the snipers when they took their positions. Once they were in place, they would be almost invisible from where he would meet DeLuca.

He knew the FBI did this for him to be safe and that it meant that they kept their part of the deal. Something that people like Kimberly Rice had neglected. He had heard that Hughes made sure she did not easy recovery from using him as bait.

Still, guns and rifles did not make him feel safe, even if carried by government professionals there to save his life if needed. It was too easy to kill someone by shooting, and he knew all too well that not everyone in uniform did what they were supposed to do.

"All right, snipers are in position," Peter told him. "We have Jones standing by with S.W.A.T. You'll be transmitting through this." A watch. Of course. Neal took it and put it on. "Any problems, Mozzie's waiting by the phone."

"Got it. Don't worry, Peter." Black leather jacket and cool sunglasses. What could possibly go wrong? A lot, Neal guessed, but he was not prone to worry.

Peter could not heed that advice. Neal could not remember when he had seen his friend this nervous.

"I'll be watching from the car."

"All right."

Neal crossed the street and walked along the sidewalk to the meeting point. It did not take long until a Michigan-registered car passed him and parked by the sidewalk.

The door to the passenger seat opened. A man stepped out that opened the door to the backseat.

"Mr. de Luca," Neal said.

The bulky goon he had seen before joined from the other side of the car. De Luca took off his shades and studied Neal.

"You. I remember you from the warehouse. You're too young to be the Dentist."

So, no chance of presuming to be the Dentist himself. Neal pulled his shades off.

"I'm not the Dentist. I'm his lip man."

"Oh, you're his lip man." He grinned and nodded, turned to his goon: "He's his lip man." De Luca turned back to Neal. "Well, I do my own talking. And my message goes directly to the Dentist, not to some flunky, so no Dentist, no deal, all right? He's a no-show. Jeffries will be mortified."

De Luca turned and walked back to his car.

"Hey, hey," Neal called after him. "All right, all right, all right. Hey. The Dentist is here."

Peter did not know it, but he had just got to play the part of the Dentist. If needed. Neal hoped to keep him where he was.

"Where?"

"Black sedan, north side of the street."

De Luca glanced over Neal's shoulder at the car.

"Well, that could be anybody. I'll need some proof."

"Okay." Neal went for his pocket, and the voluminous bodyguard moved for his pocket. Neal gestured for him to take it easy and pulled out his cell phone and showed it to the goon and De Luca. "Ask him a question."

Neal speed-dialed Peter's number. Peter would be smart enough to put it through to Mozzie.

It did not take many signals before Mozzie answered.

"The Dentist is in."

"Mr. de Luca has a question for you."

"Ask him..." he lingered on the question and then: "what's his favorite ice cream?"

A question Neal did not expect, but he was not the one who had played games with a gangster.

"Mr. de Luca would like to know, what is your favorite ice cream?"

"Seriously?" he heard Diana in the background.

"Bubble gum." Mozzie had answered without hesitation. Was that even an ice cream flavor? He hung up.

"Bubble gum," Neal said to De Luca.

The gangster watched him as he put his hand inside his suit jacket. For a gun? Neal forced himself not to back away.

De Luca's hand held an envelope.

"Dentist pulled a con, a big one, on my father. I want him to pull the same hustle on this guy here in New York who, uh, wasn't so friendly to me."

"Who's the mark?"

"Patrick O'Leary."

"Irish mob."

"All the details are in there." De Luca handed him the envelope, and Neal put it in his pocket. De Luca and his goon left with their car.

The meeting was over.

Peter opened the envelope the kid had got from the invading gangster.

“De Luca thinks O'Leary's responsible for his father's death,” he concluded after reading.

“Rule number one: don't mess with the family.”

“He came all the way here to put the Dentist in the middle of a mob war.”

“Mozzie gets caught in the crossfire,” the kid said.

“Two birds, one stone.” No matter that, Peter felt that he did not want a mob war in the middle of New York City. “What sort of con did Mozzie pull to have de Luca so pissed?”

“I don't know, but it involved stealing 500 grand from de Luca's dad.”

“No wonder they've got it out for the Dentist.”

“Who they think is you,” the kid said, looking at him.

“What's that look? I don't like that look.”

“De Luca wants the Dentist to run a con. If you go through with it...”

“And put the cash in de Luca's hand,” Peter continued getting where Neal was heading, “we got him on extortion.” This could actually turn into something quite good.

“De Luca goes down, and Mozzie and Jeffries are free.”

“That's why we pay you the big bucks!” Peter grinned. Then saw Neal’s face. “If we paid you.” We should pay him, Peter thought. And we will once you’re a free man, kid. “Think we can get Mozzie to tell us how he did it?”

“You threat him with a future of toilet wine, and he will sing like a canary.”

It felt good to have Neal on his side on this. He smiled. For once, he would have the upper hand on Mozzie.

“I can scare him pretty good.”

“Before I tell you anything,” Mozzie declared, “I want complete immunity and the truth behind DARPA's —“

“No and no,” Peter returned. “You are still a suspect in a dozen other crimes.

Start talking.”

“Fine. But the statute of limitation protects crimes committed by a minor.”

“Minor?” Peter stared at the man. “How long ago did this happen?”

Mozzie was silent, and his eyes went from him to the kid and back.

“When I was twelve.” He almost sounded ashamed for being too young.

“You were twelve when you stole five-hundred grand from the Detroit mob?” Neal asked, as baffled as Peter.

“Gifted child.”

“There's your immunity,” Peter sighed. “Talk.” And if it turned out that he was lying about his age, it would be a later story. They had no time to dwell on that particular detail right now.

“Look, when you're an orphan, a family is like your holy grail. Mr. Jeffries worked really hard to find me one, and he did; a wonderful urbane couple from Sterling Heights. They taught me about all the finest things in life. Music, art. They were quite decent.” Mozzie watched a spot on the desk, lost in thought. Then remembered where he was. “For people who wore suits.”

“What went wrong?” Peter asked.

“They had a son. An only child. Their son, he got jealous, so he stole a priceless family heirloom and pinned the crime on me, and I got scared. Ran away. I hit the streets."

“I got a job making book for a numbers guy,” Mozzie continued. “Before long, I knew the business better than he did. But he did enjoy it when I started to suggest alterations to the business. Problem was, who's gonna trust a kid? Adults like to feel superior. They want to think they're smarter than everyone else. So I learned the art of the con. Letting adults think they were smarter and still guide them the way I wanted. Bruno, in particular. I told him he had a brain winning tic-tac-toe with six in a row. No one had probably said he had a brain before.”

“You got yourself a patsy,” Neal smiled.

“You use what you learn. I talked Bruno into opening a back office in a betting parlor. He was the public face of the Dentist. I was the brains.”

“Why ‘the Dentist’?”

“I was 12. A Dentist was the scariest thing I could think of, and...it worked. Together, Bruno and I ran the biggest street lottery in town, had runners working for us all over the city. People loved us. Except the ones who owed us money. That's when de Luca came in. He didn't like me cutting into his profits. De Luca caught wind of the Dentist, threat Bruno into closing shop. Of course he did not know that the kid on the sidewalk eating bubblegum ice cream was the real Dentist.”

“Bubblegum ice cream,” Neal said, remembering the odd question. “How…”

“De Luca Senior brought De Luca Junior with him. Then I was just a kid to bully because he wanted to be like his father. He took my ice cream cone and threw it on the ground. I wanted payback, for that and for threatening Bruno, so I got de Luca Senior. on a wire con. He went in for five-hundred large.”

“How'd he find out you were the kid behind the curtain?”

“Bruno sold me out. He told them I was the Dentist. I had to retire the moniker -- no more Dentist. I took the money, left for New York, and became a new person.”

“All right, what about everything attributed to the Dentist since then?”

“De Luca didn't want the world to know he'd been taken by a prepubescent grifter.”

“He started the rumor that the Dentist was Superman,” Neal mused. He

“Yep. The Dentist became the perfect patsy for every criminal in the northeast.”

“You're a living conspiracy theory,” Peter said.

“See? They do exist!”

Jones opened the door to the interview room behind Neal.

“Ohio turnpike clocked Jeffries' car running a toll a couple of hours ago,” he said.

“Mr. Jeffries would never run a toll,” Mozzie protested. “He's a very conscientious driver.” Neal sighed. Until: “Wait! That's another clue! Do they have a photo?”

Jones glanced at Peter and then:

“It's on its way.”

Neal turned to Peter.

“Look, Mozzie's given us everything we need to run the con on O'Leary. What are you gonna do with him now?”

Peter sighed and glared at Mozzie.

“I'm gonna check and recheck every case in this file. Your story better hold up.”

“It will.”

“You're in danger, and you're a liability to us on the street. Jones, take him to a safe house.”

Neal relaxed and mouthed a silent “thank you” to Peter, because he could never say that aloud so that Mozzie could hear him.

“An FBI-monitored safe house? That's legalized torture!”

Neal left to plan the con leaving Jones and Peter to handle his eccentric friend.

“You're in danger, and you're a liability to us on the street,” Peter told Mozzie. They could not under any circumstances have this man unmonitored. “Jones, take him to a safe house.”

To his surprise, the kid seemed to whisper a “thank you” to him.

“An FBI-monitored safe house?” their very special liability protested. “That's legalized torture!”

Peter noted that Neal had left.

“It's that, or I set you in lockdown until this is over.” Peter was firm on this.

“Ah, safe house it is,” Mozzie agreed. But when they turned to leave: “But — but I have demands. My atopic eczema requires custom-made silk pajamas. Reading glasses, slippers, sleep machine. All vital.” Peter exchanged a look with Jones. “Oh, and, and I have soft gums, so I'll be needing my electronic toothbrush.”

“Do we look like your errand boys?” Peter asked.

“Fine. Then no complaints when I’m forced to sleep in the nude tonight.”

Both Peter and Jones agreed that it was time to make a list. Peter felt he could not deal with more of this and had to administrate an FBI-sanctioned con.

Chapter Text

When Neal collected the belongings Moz requested in a box, it felt like an intrusion into a very private person's life. He reminded himself that it could have been in a different situation where his friend was dead instead. It helped.

He got a ride with a probie to the address Jones had provided him with and walked up the stairs in the run-down apartment building. It was not the kind of place Mozzie would enjoy. Had he driven Jones insane yet?

He opened the right door and faced a Jones that looked like he had preferred to spend a life-time in prison and a Mozzie that thought that he did just that.

"All right, here are the items you requested, Moz."

"Oh, great. Right here." Neal dropped the box with Mozart the teddy-bear among other things the armchair. "Thanks." Jones approached. "Oh, you touch anything, and you'll be hearing from my lawyer."

"You are your lawyer."

"Scared?"

"Ooh." Not. At. All. Neal had to hide a smile. "Got pictures of Jeffries at the toll."

"Oh, let me see that." He got Jones' phone. "Look what's on the dashboard."

"Yeah, a book, a CD."

"A particular book, a particular CD. 'Escape From Freedom.' A masterpiece. And the CD 'La Femme.' Freedom. Femme."

"Lady Liberty," Neal suggested.

"Yes! He'll be going to the Statue of Liberty when he gets here."

Jones looked as if they both came from outer space.

"I-I guess it's worth checking out." Far from convinced.

"You guess?" Mozzie was livid. "You see what I have to put up with because of you? How long do I have to stay in this Stygian limbo?"

Neal felt for his friend, but he wanted him alive. And he would make sure they checked the Statue of Liberty for Jeffries.

"You won't be safe until we run the con and get de Luca in cuffs, okay?"

"I beg of you, hurry," Mozzie whispered, "for the sake of my sanity."

"And mine," Jones added, looking equally desperate.

At least Mozzie did not seem angry at Neal. That was a good thing.

“This is our mark: Patrick O'Leary,” Peter said to the assembled, pointing at a mugshot on the screen in the conference room. “Those of you from organized crime know him well. De Luca plans to scam O'Leary for half a mil in a wire con and pin it on the Dentist. This is our chance to take them both down and stop a mob war.”

“De Luca is coercing the Dentist into running the con for him,” the kid added beside him.

“Now, unfortunately, de Luca wants his guy present at the scam to make sure things are running smoothly.”

“Which means we'll have to go through with the wire con if we're gonna put the cash in de Luca's hands.” Peter glanced at Neal. Peter knew this joy in the kid’s eyes so well. “I'll need a half dozen flat screens, professional satellite equipment, and video-delaying software.”

This would be good, and it was going to be fun. His pet convict could brighten any dull day at work.

“We're gonna build a betting site to rival the competition,” Diana told the team with the same glint in her eye.

“How do we get O'Leary there?” a young agent asked.

“Eliminate the competition,” she said with a wide grin.

Neal watched Diana making a bust, shutting down an illegal gambling place. He watched at a safe distance, but he could hear her.

“Come on, guys. Enjoy your ride downtown, gentlemen.”

It was too good to be true, but O'Leary strolled by. Probably because this was the third gambling place being shut down in a short time frame.

“What's this? Some kind of bust?” O'Leary asked Diana.

“Illegal off-track betting. Site's closed. An anonymous tip was called in. You a customer?”

“Innocent bystander. Besides, your car looks filled up.”

“We can make some room. It can tow up to 5,000 pounds.”

O'Leary chuckled, and Diana left with her team and their new future prison inmates. Neal strolled down, and leaned against the corner.

“Sorry to hear about your place, O'Leary.” He walked to him and handed out a business card. Just a racing horse and an address. “If you need something new...”

O’Leary threw it away after looking at it. A competitor intruding.

“You're the rat who probably called the feds.”

“That would be my boss,” Neal corrected. “He's trying to drive business his way.”

“Those were my friends,” O’Leary baked. “Tell your boss he'll be sorry.”

“Sure thing.” O’Leary thought the conversation over. Neal stopped him, saying, “Or I could help you send a stronger message.”

“What does that mean?”

“My boss has me picking up strays on the sidewalk like a bench advertisement. We have our differences.”

“So you're on the outs with your boss. What do I care?”

“Because I can help you take him down.”

“Who are you?”

“A lip man. Trying to move up in the world.”

O’Leary was angry enough about his ruined business to enjoy the thought of revenge.

“How 'bout we take this conversation somewhere a little more private?” he said.

Chapter Text

"I still can't believe you've got Mozzie in an FBI-monitored hotel," El called from the kitchen.

Peter made it down in his tuxedo, buttoning his jacket.

"We call it a safe house, and Diana's headed there for company," he said, and El chuckled at this. He saw what El was doing. "Ooh, muffins."

He tried to take one but she pushed his hand away.

"Ah, ah, no. These are for Mozzie." She closed the lid of the box.

"Oh, seriously? You really feel that bad for him?"

"Him, Diana cooped up together in that room..." She giggled, and Peter just understood.

"You're amused by all this. You just want to go there on your own, don't you?"

"Yeah. Can you blame me?"

"No. But you'll need permission from the head agent if you want to see him."

"Oh, really?"

"Mm-hmm.

She snug her arms around him and gave him one hot and tender kiss.

"Please?"

He was tempted to let her have another try, but let it go.

"Permission granted." Peter was sure Diana would love to get a moment away from Mozzie. She and Jones had played Rock-Paper-Scissors about who was about to join the sting and who should babysit their very odd subject of annoyance.

"Thank you," El said, smiling. "All right, now, on a serious note, this case that you're doing with Neal, is it dangerous?"

"No, it's more fun than dangerous. You saw 'The Sting,' right?"

"Yeah, something to do with horses and betting. If the mob's involved, how could it not be dangerous?"

"Uh..."

Peter could not answer that because there was danger involved. But it was more fun element than dangerous ones. Luckily a knock on the front door saved him.

"Door's open, Neal."

And in walked his pet convict, also in a tuxedo. They said hey to each other. The kid glanced at Peter up and down and turned to El.

"Who knew the ball-'n'-chain cleaned up so nice?" 'Ball-'n'-chain'? Thank you for that one, Peter thought. But it was not far from the truth either.

"Ah, you don't look so bad yourself," she returned. "So, who's Newman and who's Redford?"

"I'm Newman," Peter said at once. "He's Redford." Newman was the wise and experienced, and Redford the young and stupid. And talented. And handsome. As someone else he knew and cared for. "Did you talk to de Luca?" he asked the kid.

"Yeah, he's dropping Leo at the parlor in an hour."

"We should go."

"Oh, wait. Before you go, hold on. I got to get this." El brought out her phone to take a picture. "All right, prom picture." Peter and Neal posed, holding each other shoulders. "Say 'cheese.'" They did. El smiled. "Beautiful. Be safe, please."

"We will," Peter assured her.

They walked towards the front door.

"What do you say, Newman? You ready to scam half a million dollars for the Detroit mob?"

Peter grinned.

"Let's go, kid."

Neal walked into the parlor the FBI had arranged on short notice. He was impressed. A big organization with money could be an effective source of results. Screens showed current odds and races. And not to forget the twenty or so people who filled the room with enthusiasm and realism.

He caught Peter looking at him from the bar, smiling. He walked over there.

“Not a bad setup,” he told his handler.

“Glad you like it. Building it was like pulling teeth.”

“Dentist humor,” Neal noted. He also saw something he rarely saw before the bad guy was caught. “You're enjoying yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like we got company,” Jones said, tending the bar. “There's de Luca's guy.”

“All right, I'm on it,” Neal said and grabbed two glasses of sparkling wine. He slid over to the goon and handed him one of the glasses.

“Looks like the kind of place someone could lose a lot of money,” Leo said. “O'Leary close?”

“Yeah, our guys clocked him leaving his office ten minutes ago.”

“Well, by the time he gets here, there's gonna be five races left on the card. That's five chances to get the money. Can you do it?”

“Yeah.”

They clinked their glasses together and took a sip.

Peter got a call from El.

“Hello darling,” he said since he was the Dentist. De Luca’s thug was the only stranger there, and he was probably out of hearing distance, but Peter took his job seriously.

“Oh, that’s a new one,” she said. “I’ll make it short. I just wanted to tell you that Mozzie is worried.”

“Of course he is.” That man was built out of concern and worry.

“No, seriously. The thought that this gangster threatens people he cares about, and that he is locked up in a room and can’t do anything about it, it really bothers him.”

“Hmm…” Peter heard something in El’s voice that he could not quite place. Then he saw O’Leary coming in. “Got to go, darling.”

Neal followed Peter as he approached their new guest. O’Leary was just passing through their security check being scanned by a metal detector. These things were expected in illegal betting places like this, but in this case, it was also for the safety of all the FBI agents. Fewer guns, less violence, and fewer deaths. Simple maths.

“Mr. O'Leary, delighted to have you,” Peter aka ‘the Dentist’ greeted him.

“My regular place was shut down.” A face like stone. He was a man ready to kill if he could but now he had to stand with being humiliated by his mark.

“Shame.” Peter glanced down at the man’s briefcase. “We'll need to check your briefcase.”

Without a word, O’Leary put it on a table in front of Neal. He snapped it open and looked at wads of hundred-dollar bills. He made a check in the compartments in the lid and then sent O’Leary a glance, once of knowledge. They were supposed to be partners in taking this competitor down.

Neal returned the briefcase. Peter smiled.

“My associate will show you around. Have a good time.”

Peter left, and Neal was alone with O’Leary.

“So, walk me through this,” he mumbled.

“I installed a worm on the central computer that delays every feed,” Neal told him. “We'll get the race results three minutes before my boss, giving us a small window to place the bet.”

“He's bound to realize the feed's delayed.”

“Yeah, which is why we have to hit it hard and fast if we're gonna do this.” Neal nodded to the screen on the wall showing a race. “Desktop Dan's about to make a break in the final furlong.”

As it were, Desktop Dan was not looking like a winner. But as they watched the horse made a break on the inside and Desktop Dan made it first over the line. To the very enthusiastic crowd in the room who cheered or screamed depending on what they were supposed to bet on.

As it were it was of course no worm at all, but five minutes old transmission thanks to the FBI. Neal’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text.

“The hatchet to win at Finger Lakes with Poinseddia coming in second,” he told O’Leary. “A straight exacta bet of twenty G's will net you six hundred. Five races left and counting. Are you in?”

O’Leary sent him a glare and walked up to the betting booth. Neal sent Peter a glance. Time to see if this would work.

“Finger Lakes, seventh race, straight exacta. Hatchet to win, Poinseddia is second. Wager…” O’Leary glanced at Neal who nodded. He took a wad from his briefcase. “Five thousand dollar wager.”

Jones standing beside the booth sent them a little shake with his head. Too small amount.

“All bets are closed,” Jones called out.

O’Leary returned to Neal and showed him the slip.

“Five grand's the minimum bet,” Neal said. “You got a lot more than that on you.”

“Slow and steady wins the race, right, boyo?”

This could be problematic. He glanced at Leo, de Luca’s man. He was not happy. Fantastic.

O’Leary won that race, of course, as he did with the next three. The final race was coming up, and their last chance of making him do that last huge bet that would be the finale they needed.

“Four in a row,” Jones told him, pouring him a drink. “Must be the luck of the Irish.”

“Must be. I think I'll put another five down.” Neal had passed him earlier and handed him the information for the last and final race of the day.

“O'Leary's still betting the minimum,” Peter mumbled to him.

“Can you blame the guy? He's cautious.”

Leo approached and moved his jacket just enough to show his gun. Oh great, the man got a gun inside. Was it made of carbon fiber, making it harder to detect? Or had someone just been neglectful?

“One race left,” Peter mumbled to him. “If O'Leary doesn't bet big, the FBI's out a hundred grand, de Luca won't be happy—“

“And Mozzie will never be safe,” Neal said. Peter nodded. “I'll talk to O'Leary, see if I can—“

“You're fired.”

“What?” Did Peter…? A rush of fear ran through him. He did not want to go back to prison.

“Publicly. By me, right now.” A glint in his eyes, a little smile. Neal understood. Peter’s jaw tensed, and his shoulders grew more prominent; that man could really be intimidating when angry, even when it was just an act. Neal thought quickly.

“Look, I-I don't know who is stealing the money from the registers, but it's not me.”

“No, it is you. It is you!” Peter grabbed the front of his clothes, and Neal sent him a terrified look. What was he doing? “You know what?! Come here!” Peter had it under control. He shoved him up against the bar, not nearly hard enough to do more damage than Neal sweeping down a few glasses for effect and attention.

“Hey!”

“You were trouble ever since you came to work for me with your glossy smile and those annoying little hats.”

“You love my hats!”

“The hell I did! All right, you're insubordinate, you never do what I tell you to do, and every time I turn my back, you're off doing who-knows-what with God-knows-who!”

Peter picked that line from real life, alright. Did that count for the hats as well? Probably. He knew it was an act, but it hurt. Just enough to be helpful for the show. He corrected his outfit as Peter turned to the audience.

“I'm sorry, folks. I'm sorry.”

“You know, you ungrateful bastard,” Neal yelled at him. “I have had your back since day one, and anytime anything goes wrong, I'm the first person you blame!”

“'Cause you're a con!” Peter yelled back. “It's who you are, and it's all you'll ever be.”

That hit Neal like a sledgehammer. Then Jones was between them, pushing him away as if Neal would hit Peter. Well, it was better drama to think that was possible. Violence was not his thing.

“You're fired! Get out of my sight!”

“You know what? With pleasure.”

“Good.”

“And the next time your hot wife gets lonely... tell her to call me.”

That really hit Peter under the belt, but the more, the better; it just got more realistic. And he just showed Peter that there was no reason to pull more than needed from reality.

Neal marched towards the door. O’Leary tried to catch up.

“You know my number,” he told him.

“Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa.” O’Leary stopped him. “That's it? You're just gonna walk out?”

“You heard the guy. I'm done here.”

“There's one race left. I can't take this guy down without you.”

“You can't take this guy down with a minimum bet.”

It took him just a second or two to make his decision.

“All right, all right, I'm all in.”

“It's too late.” A bit of gambling, but it made it more realistic. If he was fired for real, he had no interest in his boss’ downfall either because he was no longer second in command.

“I cut you in thirty percent.”

There was the tune for the first call, the warning that there was not much time left to place a bet.

“All right,” Neal agreed.

And O’Leary walked straight up to the counter and put the remainder of the content in his briefcase on a bet.

Neal glanced at Peter, who had been accompanied by Leo, who must have been worried about the turn of events. Peter brushed his finger on his nose, like in ‘The Sting’. Neal did the same. No matter what had been said, they were friends. Then he was led out by Jones to keep the show up for O’Leary.

Chapter Text

Neal was waiting outside when his cellphone rang. He frowned. It was Diana.

"Hey, Diana. Everything okay?"

"Mozzie pulled a Ferris Bueller."

"He's out?" Neal took a deep breath. "How?"

"With the things you brought him." She sounded angry and tired and it was a mix Neal was not sure what to read into what she was saying.

"Are you blaming me?"

"No. No, Neal, you put him in the hands of the FBI. I think he pulled this stunt on his own. But that's not the worst of it. He'll contact de Luca and asks us to get there. When are you ready to leave?"

Neal glanced over his shoulder into the building. He could not risk their plan and run in and yank Peter out of there.

"Within a few minutes if all goes well."

"I get things moving in the meantime."

She hung up.

So Mozzie got out. He had to ask him how someday.

Peter strolled passed Leo.

“Now might be a good time to slip out,” he said. “Tell de Luca I'm ready.”

“Nice work. He'll be expecting you.” The guy left. They both knew that O’Leary’s all-in bet would not be a winner this time. From Leo’s point of view, it was no turning back. Peter had another view of the scene to come that he had no wish for de Luca to take part in.

O’Leary stared at the ongoing race where his horse did advance, but not nearly as much as needed.

“It's Amazon Eddie for the win!” the announcer called out over the speaker.

“No!” O’Leary yelled. “I was set up. This whole damn thing was a setup.” His eyes turned to Peter. “You did this.”

“What?”

O’Leary marched up to him, but Jones joined Peter and stopped him.

“Hey, is there a problem?”

“There's a problem,” O’Leary said. “He had his guy lure me here to get my money with a delay.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're damn straight you do. You know who I am, and you know what I'm capable of, okay? So you tell your associate—“

“My associate is a con artist,” Peter told him, “which is why I fired him. So, listen, I don't want to cause another scene here. So how about I just give you the money that you came in with, you walk out of here, and we'll call it even?”

A fair deal and O’Leary did not have to know more of the story than that. Peter could see him process to find any way he could be fooled by this.

“I’m sorry for my former associate,” Peter said. “I don’t know what game he played with you, but I can assure you that you can walk out of that door with all the money you came in with, and no harm is done.”

“Was it you or him who called the feds?”

“The feds? When?”

“My usual place was shut down by the feds. An anonymous tip.”

“I’m running an illegal betting lounge. That’s as close to the fire as I want to play.” O’Leary did not seem entirely convinced, but Peter hoped that would change. “Jones, would you be so kind as to arrange for this gentleman’s money?”

“Yes, sir.” Jones made a gesture to O’Leary. “Follow me to the register, please.”

O’Leary watched as a hawk as the money was counted and bundled. He put each in turn back in his briefcase. When it was full, Jones escorted him out the back door, so he would not run into Neal.

Peter got down to the kid waiting on the other side of the building.

“Hey. You get O'Leary calmed down?”

“He went for it,” Peter smiled. “Jones is escorting him and his money out back.”

“That's one problem down.” The kid did not seem happy or relaxed at all.

“We have another problem?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. Mozzie is meeting with de Luca. He got out.”

Peter looked around for his car and jogged towards it.

“You know where?” he asked.

“Yeah. The market slip under Brooklyn Bridge and FDR Drive.”

"S.W.A.T.'s still five minutes away," Jones said as their car came to a stop under the bridge.

"I want a perimeter around the bridge," Peter said. "What the hell was Mozzie thinking?"

"No clue." Neal glanced around looking for Mozzie. He heard a voice sounding familiar and took a few cautious steps in its direction.

"I'm the man your father spent thirty years looking for. I'm the real Dentist of Detroit."

There was Mozzie, with a briefcase, in a bright red jumpsuit. And there was de Luca, back to Neal.

"All right, so the guy from the meeting a couple of days— "

"Works for me. I'm the man who scammed your father. No myth. The legend of Detroit. "Guys, guys," Neal called Peter's and Jones' attention. They jogged closer, guns drawn.

"It ends here, today, on this street," Mozzie said.

"Seriously, who the hell are you?"

"1981, Brush Park. You knocked my bubble-gum ice cream cone onto the ground."

"Really? That was you? You made a fool of my father?"

"And your father had a thing for blood feuds, and he ended up six feet under because of it. Yet here you are, doing the exact same thing. I thought you wanted to be your own man, Junior."

"Can't make out a weapon on de Luca," Jones said. "Should we move in?"

"We've got nothing on him unless de Luca picks up that briefcase," Peter hissed.

"That O'Leary's cash?" de Luca asked, pointing at the briefcase in Mozzie's hand.

"Yeah. But we both know this isn't about the money. This is about taking me down, only it didn't work."

"Well, I can take care of that right now."

"Yeah, you could," Mozzie returned, calmer than ever. Neal stared at the scene.

"Come on, Moz. Give it to him," he mumbled.

"And then my people could go after you," Mozzie went on, "and your people could come after mine. You see where this is going?"

"What the hell is Mozzie doing?" Jones asked.

"Fighting his own war," Neal said.

"We can end this," Mozzie said to de Luca. "You could just walk away, and the suits can't touch you."

"What do you mean, the suits? You talking about the feds?"

"Yeah. Only you know them as my lip man and his boss."

"You set me up?" de Luca hissed. He had seemed calm before, but now he worked himself up quickly. "You set me up, you freakin' weasel?!"

"Aw, someone got double-crossed in this? We should all be shocked. That's what happens.

I'm gonna turn and walk away. You can be smart and do the same thing, or you can make the same mistake your father did." Mozzie placed the briefcase on the ground. "Your decision."

And then he just walked away. Neal had never been more impressed by his odd friend.

Chapter Text

"You set me up?" de Luca asked, sounding like he was working up some steam. Peter fought not to enter the scene. This would become dangerous. "You set me up, you freakin' weasel?!"

"Aw, someone got double-crossed in this? We should all be shocked," Mozzie replied, dripping with sarcasm. "That's what happens. I'm gonna turn and walk away. You can be smart and do the same thing, or you can make the same mistake your father did." Mozzie placed the briefcase on the ground. "Your decision."

And then he just walked away.

"Pick it up," Peter mumbled between his teeth. No matter Mozzie's good intentions to set all things right in the world, de Luca had done many bad things in his life, and Peter wanted him behind bars. "Pick it up."

De Luca looked down at the briefcase.

"Hey!" he called after Mozzie, putting his hand inside his pocket. "Hey!" As Mozzie turned, de Luca picked up the case at the same time as he brought out a gun. "My father would have wanted it this way."

"FBI! FBI!" Peter and Jones yelled at the same time as they rushed into the scene. "Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon!"

By the sounds and commotion, Peter guessed that the SWAT team arrived as well.

"Drop your weapon!"

"FBI! FBI!"

"Drop it, drop it! Drop it! Freeze!"

"Drop your weapon!"

De Luca gave up. He moved his finger from the trigger keeping it in clear view, and dropped the gun to the ground.

"Now I've got you on extortion and attempted murder," Peter told him. "You should have listened to him."

"Hope it was worth it, de Luca," Mozzie said, watching him getting cuffed by Jones.

"Please don't go rogue on me again," Neal said to his friend.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Peter asked, holstering his gun. "You should have let me handle this."

"De Luca's always armed, and he's good," the annoying man said. "S.W.A.T. or not, he most likely would have shot you, Suit."

"And if we hadn't shown up?"

"I knew you would. Thank you, Peter." Peter noted the use of his name. Mozzie had understood the seriousness. He had done what he thought best for them all. "You guys ever tried bubble-gum ice cream?"

When Neal got home, he found Mozzie by the kitchen table.

“Hey,” he said, looking at the stuff his friend was handling. “You got your stuff from the feds.”

“Yeah, complete with FBI taint.”

So typical Moz. But, it was more to his face than that.

“You doing okay, Moz?”

“I know how hard it is to give up everything. I couldn't do it. I kept a part of Jeffries with me, and I know I'm lucky I get to do that. And I know your connection to the FBI, but it's not who we are. When we do finally get to sell our art, we really have to remember that.”

Neal had almost forgotten about the art. Any time he worked with Peter, it seemed to slip his mind.

“What are you saying?”

“Oh, you and Peter… Enjoy it while it lasts.”

They were supposed to leave without a trace. He knew that. That was what they both had wanted for so long. Just leave and enjoy a lot of money somewhere. Somehow, it did not feel that attractive any longer. He had hoped to stall until he was free, but he had never really considered leaving Peter for good. Nor leaving Elizabeth. And he should do that. He must do that.

Someone knocked on the door, and Peter popped his head inside.

“Hope you don't mind,” he said. “I brought a friend.”

Before Neal had any time to see who the man was, Mozzie called out:

“Mr. Jeffries? You're okay!” The two men united in a big hug. Jeffries chuckled.

“Your FBI friends found me at Lady Liberty. I'm glad you got my clues.”

“I told you, Suit.”

Jeffries looked him up and down.

“You haven't changed at all, except for a bit more character up there." He gestured towards the head.

“Oh, well, father time has a cruel sense of humor. How's everything down at the group home? I know my donations weren't much, but—“

“They were enough. The smallest good deed is worth more than the grandest intention.”

“Oh, Duguet!” Moz grinned. “Hum… Good deeds are the seeds to good actions.”

Jeffries laughed.

“Temple,” he said at once. “Action is eloquence.”

“Shakespeare. False eloquence is exaggeration. True eloquence is emphasis.”

“Alger. Good one.”

Mozzie was happier than Neal had ever seen his friend. He wondered if he would be equally happy if he saw Ellen again. Maybe he should take the step and ask Peter if he could move a little out of his radius to pay her a visit.

“Are they really having a quote-off?” Peter asked, baffled.

“Oh, yeah.”

“My goodness!” Jeffries said all of a sudden. “Is that Mozart?” The older man pulled it out of the box with tenderness. “He loved this little bear,” he told Neal and Peter. “Couldn't pronounce his name, though. Kept calling it ‘Mozzie.’”

Oh! Neal was surprised, and so was Peter. Moz sent them a wide embarrassed smile. Neal left for the patio to leave them to their memories. Peter followed.

“A sentimentalist,” his handler said.

“Yeah.”

“I can't believe Mozzie kept tabs on Jeffries all these years.”

As he would keep tabs on Peter and Elizabeth. He knew now he would never be able to fully leave them. A treasure like that, with Peter on their tale… They would not manage to keep it a secret. One day he would have to run.

“Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye,” he said.

“Mm.”

Peter looked out over the skyline. How much did he know?

He did not want to leave, but as Moz had said, this life was not meant for him. No matter how much he wanted it, he would always be a conman.

How he wished he could tell him all and be done with it. But he cared for Mozzie as well. Torn between his two best friends.

"Jeffries did not tell Mozzie's real name, did he?" Neal asked out of curiosity.

Peter glanced at him.

"So you don't know either?"

"No."

"No, I didn't ask, and we referred to him as our 'common friend.'"

Neal nodded in approval.

"Is Neal Caffrey your real name?" Peter asked after a moment.

"It is."

"Then why is there nothing to find before you turn eighteen?"

"You may not have looked hard enough?" Neal asked with a grin. "Trust me, Peter. My parents named me 'Neal'."

"But their last name wasn't 'Caffrey,'" Peter concluded with a smug smile.

Neal did not reply to that. He just smiled and shrugged. In a way, Peter was right. But still, that conclusion would not help him. There were too many Neals out there. And Peter would probably not take his birthdate to be authentic.

Mozzie had said it was hard to leave everything behind. Still, that was precisely what he had done. He had not kept tabs. He halted the thought. He had. On Ellen.

Chapter Text

Neal was bored. Everyday scams and frauds were boring. Too easy to solve. Except, of course, that 'solved' for Peter meant that they had proof, which very soon turned into boring paperwork finding something you already knew.

When Peter came by to see how he was doing, he took a deck of cards and pushed it into a row over his desk.

"Pick a card. Any card."

"What does this have to do with our property-fraud scam?"

"You'll have the whole thing cracked before I can say 'ta-da,'" Neal insisted. "Pick a deed."

Peter sighed and obliged him.

"Now what?" he asked, looking at his card and putting it in his pocket.

"Now I take these 51 deeds and figure out which one you took. It's not magic. It's math."

Peter's face turned from annoyed to pleased in a second.

"We go through the title company's records, match them with the realtor's, and figure out which one is missing."

"Ta-da."

"Nice work," Peter said. "But here's another case we need to make disappear."

Peter handed him a file, and he opened it. A photo of a woman in her forties.

"Selena Thomas. Who's she?"

"Devoted serial monogamist who marries wealthy men right before they die."

"A black widow."

"Could be. She has four rich late husbands."

"She gets around." How did she sleep at night, though?

"And now she's finally getting around to New York," Peter said, gesturing for him to come with him. He rose and followed.

"Quite the Queen of Hearts," he said.

"Cute." Peter pulled the card out of his pocket. Queen of Hearts, of course.

"You like that?"

"Move it, Copperfield."

They walked into the conference room, and Peter called for the rest of the team. Within five minutes, they were all gathered.

"Selena Thomas," Peter started, pulling up her picture on the screen. "Four dead wealthy husbands. Their deaths are listed as natural. Heart attack, embolism, skydiving accident."

"What about the fourth guy?" Jones asked.

"We're waiting on the L.A. Bureau to send their report," Diana said.

"Four husbands, four dead bodies," Peter said. "We think she's killed them, but we don't know why."

Neal blinked, surprised.

"They're not leaving her all their money?"

"Nope. That's what you'd expect. But she's not collecting on any of the insurance payoffs. We flagged her name on this. It's an application for the Manhattan Millionaire Society Bachelors Auction. If she's gonna be at this auction, then so are we." Neal suddenly found his just-solved property-fraud scam more interesting. He knew where this where heading, and he was not interested. "Club has three open slots for eligible men. That means I need three volunteers. Neal, raise your hand."

"Do I have to?" Neal whispered.

"Yes," Peter whispered back. Neal raised his hand. "There's our first lucky bachelor," his handler announced. Neal turned in his chair to watch the rest of the men in the room. They, too, suddenly found other things more interesting. "Come on. We'll create very irresistible identities for you guys."

"Yeah, then hope she doesn't kill her latest boy toy before we find the money," Jones said to a colleague beside him. Unfortunately, he was making a gesture as he said it.

"That's a hand!" Peter pointed. "Jones is number two."

"No, Peter, I didn't—"

"One more. Come on. It's only a cover. Who's number three?"

"How about you, Peter?" Neal asked with his best smile. "I mean, you seem like the marrying kind, right?"

"I am married."

"Hey, it's only a cover," Jones repeated with a smug smile.

"Be nice to give her some variety," Diana nodded.

"Unless, you know, you need permission…" Neal said.

It had just the right effect on Peter and on the people in the room.

"I don't… I don't… no, I… O-okay, fine. I'll do it."

"All right," Neal grinned.

"Let's set it up," Jones nodded.

Neal rose and whispered to Peter when he passed him.

"Are you scared to tell Elizabeth?"

"Terrified."

Peter met El for lunch, and she brought Satchmo. Somehow he never got as far as telling her about the new assignment. They left the restaurant and started walking. But his intelligent and sometimes disturbingly observing wife noted that something was off.

"I guess you've got a new case with Neal," she said.

"What makes you think that?"

She shrugged.

"You behave as when you've something uncomfortable to tell. And I got this cryptic text from Neal."

Peter was just bending down to pick up Satchmo's doings in a bag.

"From Neal? What did he text you?"

"Relax. Something that I should remind you it's only a cover. What's only a cover?"

Peter took a deep breath.

"Neal, Jones, and I are going undercover at the Manhattan Millionaire Society Bachelors Auction with the hope of catching a black widow. And I don't mean the spider but—"

"A woman who kills her husband for money," El finished. "You're posing as a bachelor?"

"Yes. The team thought it was good to offer a variety of—"

"Men. A variety of men. Seriously?"

"Yep." Was it any idea to tell her that his own team set him up more or less? And he had not had the balls to say no? "My role in the assignment's minimal."

"Right. You're playing Piece of Meat Number 2. You're gonna flirt—"

"Talk. I'm gonna talk to them."

"And then you're gonna walk across a stage while these women are bidding on you."

El seemed to know a lot about these settings. But she had a catering and event firm.

"El, my chances of being picked are slim to none between Neal and—"

"Wait. Hold on." She stopped. "Your chances are not slim. Honey, look at you."

What? He did not get it.

"I'm holding poop."

"And you look damn sexy doing it," she returned, looking him straight in the eye. "You know what?"

"What?"

"You're gonna win this thing."

With Neal and Jones in the pot, not likely.

"I am?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna make sure of it. Come on."

"What's the grand prize on this?” Sarah asked, watching him try different ties to a three-piece navy blue suit.

“I get to take a very lovely, very dangerous woman out on a date.”

“Hmm.” She put her lovely arms around him. “It's nothing you can't handle.”

“Thanks to you.”

“Uh, we, actually, have never been on a date.”

“Peter and Elizabeth's house,” Neal reminded her.

“Dinner date. Not date-date.”

“Define ‘date-date.’”

“One-on-one.”

“What about lunches?” They had had a few of those. They were one-on-one.

“Lunch is not romantic. Lunch is lunch.”

Neal frowned, realizing she expected something he thought they had had.

“We've never been on a real date,” he said.

“It's okay. What's your cover?”

“Playboy son of a Texas oil tycoon,” he said with what he knew was a more than decent Texas accent.

“Oh, well! I like the accent.”

“I'm glad you do, ma'am.”

“There's gonna be a very big problem, though.”

“What's that?”

“All the women are gonna want you, so what happens when your kill gets outbid?”

He knew he was good-looking, and his life as a conman had told him he had charm, too. No need to be shy about facts.

“I see your point.”

“You're gonna have to throw your meetings with all the other women.”

“How do I do that?”

“Well, we are very shallow creatures, but there are things that even beautiful men like you do that drive us nuts.”

She pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and wiggled it in front of him. He got it.

“Oh, you're good.”

Chapter Text

"All right, honey, let's go over this again," El said while Peter tried to eat his breakfast and get his suit on at the same time. "You are...?"

"Peter Williams, U.S. steel magnate."

"And tell me more about the steel industry."

"Well, it began as a family business—" he said, filling up the coffee pot.

"Boring, boring, boring. What did we discuss?"

"Right…. Uh… You don't want to hear about what I do," he said, leaving the coffee pot behind and focusing on El. "I really want to know more about you."

"Mmm. And why are you still single?"

"Haven't found the right woman yet."

"Mmhm. Who might this right woman be?"

"Oh, well, she's about 5'5", brunette, most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen, smart as a whip, and gorgeous as hell."

"Aww." She kissed him. "Perfect. Okay. Remember, this is a conversation, not an interrogation, so you got to move away from the 'where are you froms' and 'what do you dos,' and, honey, don't make that face."

"What face?"

"That face." Peter realized his whole face was tense and probably looked quite intimidating. He started to move his jaw, losing it up. "Right. Yes." She kissed him again. "Be yourself. You're gonna be great."

"Okay."

"Thanks, hon."

"Bye."

"See ya."

All the bachelors were gathered in a room that made Neal think of pictures from his grandfather’s time where the men gathered for a cigar and brandy, leaving the women to their own pleasures.

Peter strolled up to Jones and him.

“Have we met?” Peter asked, as any mingling man around them.

“I don't believe we have,” Jones answered, offering his hand. Pete shook it. “Arthur Fort, pastry baron to a multimillion-dollar dessert empire. Ladies love the sweets.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Neal introduced himself as well and also shook hands with Peter. Or rather, his alter ego did. He smiled at his handler’s baffled look, which was most likely his accent.

“You ready?” Neal asked.

“Are you?”

“Gentlemen, we are about to begin!” their host, Jameson announced. “I will make the announcement, and when I give you the go-ahead, you just take your places on the stairs, okay? Good luck.” He left past a red curtain by the end of the room. “Okay, ladies, I have only one question for you!” he called out over the microphone. “Are you ready to meet your men?”

There were cheers and applause, and soon women on the other side yelled:

"Men! Men! Men!"

Neal glanced at Peter. He looked like he was about to panic, face twitching.

“Why do I feel like I need a pike and sword?” he asked. Yeah, it sure sounded like they were about to go into a gladiator arena.

“For those about to date...” Neal smiled and corrected his clothing. “We salute you.”

“Okay, ladies, you'll have five minutes to talk to each man. When the bell sounds...” A bell tinkled. “...you simply move on to the next. Now, why don't you go ahead and check your invitations for the proper rotation.”

“So, what's your plan?” Jones asked.

“I'm gonna bomb every meeting except Selena.”

“Mm. You're afraid you'll cause a frenzy?”

“I'm narrowing the odds. What's your approach?”

“I'm going for the frenzy,” Jones said and kept his head high. “I'm gonna try to charm every one of them. I want good word of mouth.”

“Sure,” Neal nodded.

“Peter?” Jones asked.

“I'm gonna maintain eye contact and remember it's a conversation, not an interrogation.”

It sounded like a piece of advice from Elizabeth. Good thing she had not been angry, but honestly, they should have found someone else in Peter’s place. That man was a disaster when it came to flirting with women.

“That's all good, but what you want to do, you want to keep it up here when you talk, right?” Jones gestured with his hand at the level of his eyes. “Down here,” he moved his hand to bust level, “this is all second-date territory. Okay, so be yourself. Just be yourself up here.” He gestured with his hand at eye level with a friendly smile.

“And if you're holding a drink, keep it in your left hand,” Neal added. “That way, when you shake her hand with your right, your first touch won't be cold.”

Peter moved his drink to his left hand and put his right in his pocket.

“Yeah, it is cold,” he said, tense as a taut spring.

“One final reminder,” Jameson on the other side of the curtain said. “Some of the men have been known to propose on the very night of the auction, so, please, don't forget to check their pockets for engagement rings. Okay, millionaires, the moment all these beautiful ladies have been waiting for. On your marks, get set... date!”

And to cheers and applause, they walked in a row passed the curtain and down the stairs. Peter glanced out over the exited ladies and felt less like a gladiator and more like a piece of stake.

They all had a number of a table, and Peter localized his. He once again scanned around the room. He saw Diana standing beside Selena, but he let his eyes move to not linger too much and get Selena suspicious.

“Ladies,” Jameson called out once all men reached their tables, “it’s time to meet your first bachelor for tonight. Five minutes, ladies. Make them count.” He chimed the little bell, and a blond woman of Peter’s own age approached.

“Hi, I’m Donna,” she said, holding out her hand. He shook it.

“Peter.”

There was a quiet moment where Peter could not recognize anything but the buzz of everyone’s conversations around him. He found himself staring at Donna.

“Hi,” he said, feeling like a fool. “Where were you before New York?”

“Cleveland.”

“Fascinating.” He was not a real bachelor. He was an FBI agent undercover. This was just practice before he met Selena. He put on his ‘I’m interested in you’-face. Or hoped he did. “Tell me more about Cleveland.”

“I-it's in Ohio.”

She laughed, probably uncomfortably. Peter joined to ease up the mood. It did not work. How could he ask a question without be interrogating?

“New York City is wonderful in springtime, don’t you think?” Close to talking about the weather.

“I don’t know yet,” she answered, putting on that awkward smile again.

The little bell chimed.

“Pleased to meet you, Donna,” Peter said, and she moved on.

Next was a dashing lady with skin like cinnamon.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Oh, I want to hear more about you,” Peter said at once, realizing he just made a huge blunder.

“Okay… um… well—“ She held out her hand across the table, and he took it, realizing he had been holding his drink in the right hand.

“Oh, it's gonna be cold. It's cold, isn't it?”

She pulled her hand back and leaned her head on her side, and stared at him as if he came from outer space.

“Is this your first?” she asked.

“Date? No. No, no.” He chuckled. “No. No. I date a lot.”

“Your first auction, I mean.”

Peter felt like a stain on a white tablecloth. Something you did now want there but had to live with.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

“You should try to relax a bit.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?”

She nodded.

He took some deep breaths.

The bell chimed.

“Gook luck,” she said and left.

And there was another one at his table.

“I’m Erica.”

“Peter.” They shook hands. “Having a good time tonight?”

“Last guy spoke on his cellphone and told me he liked to shoot baby deer.”

“That is not what I do. You’re far too fascinating.”

She frowned instead of being pleased.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know you. Yet. That’s fascinating.” Someday he would kill Neal for making him a part of this. And sorry El, but he was not going to win this.

“So… why are you single?”

“I'm looking for that… the right person.”

“And what does she look like?”

“Uhm… looks like?” Who cared about what a woman looked like? Love was so much more than that.

“Yeah. You must have a dream woman of some kind?”

“How about you?” Peter flipped back. “What does your dream man look like?”

“Wouldn’t mind if he looked like Brad Pit. Or Robert Redford.”

“Older?”

“Handsome.”

The bell tinkled, and Erica was chanced to Diana.

They shook hands and smiled.

“It's not good. She's looking for someone she can manipulate, someone who comes across as sincere but less than self-assured.”

“How am I doing?”

“You're great,” Diana said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah?”

“Basically, she wants someone with an honest smile.”

Peter took a deep breath.

“I can do that. How’s Neal and Jones doing.”

“Jones will not go home lonely tonight.”

Next was Selena.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I'm Peter.”

“Hi, Peter.”

Felt awkward, but she did not look uncomfortable.

“You're very beautiful,” Peter tried.

“Aw, thank you.”

He could not find anything to say. And she was the very reason he was there.

“So, why are you here, Peter?”

He put on his face of focus and interest.

“To find someone special.”

“Mm-hmm.” She was not interested.

Peter looked about the room. Sighed. Jones and Neal, they knew how to do this.

“But most of these women are only interested in small talk, so...” He gave up.

“Well, what are you interested in?” she asked and seemed intrigued.

“Being caught off guard. Having a conversation that… That goes beyond the ‘what do you do?’ And ‘where are you from?’ Selena, there are a lot of nice guys here.” He held out his hand, and he took it. “I truly hope you find the one you're waiting for.”

“Nothing compares to it,” Neal said to a woman named Erica.

“Hunting deer?”

“Fawns, actually. The babies.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, there's a certain thrill in the kill. And—“ His phone rang. Sarah, of course, as agreed. “Oh. Oh, one second.”

“What are you doing?” Erica objected as he took the call.

“Oh, hey, buddy! What's up? Hold on. I'm on a date. Have a nice day. Say hi.” He held out the phone to Erica.

“Go fuck yourself!” she said and walked away. Neal had to hide a grin.

The bell sounded, and another woman appeared.

“Hi, I’m Donna.”

“I’m the only son to one of Texas's biggest oil tycoons. Hi.”

He fiddled with his phone, checking something.

Donna cleared her throat.

“Excuse me.”

“One more minute. One more minute.”

She remained by the table for the whole five minutes.

She shook her head as a signal to the next woman.

“Hi. How are you?”

“Ah, tsh, tsh, tsh!” Neal gestured with his hand. “Just one more minute. I'm just checking the Mavericks’ score. They're losing again.”

“You’re so barking at the wrong three here. Did you actually pay to be here?”

“Me, pay? Dad pays for everything I point at. That can actually be boring sometimes.”

“Yeah, right.”

And another five minutes were up. Then he shook hands with Diana.

“You really don’t give them a chance, do you?” she said.

“Checking up on me?” he grinned.

“Always. Talked to Selena. Basically, she wants someone with an honest smile.”

“A smile,” he said and put on his best.

“The ‘honest’ part went right by you, huh?”

Selena was up next.

“That is a lovely dress,” Neal said with an honest smile. It was beautiful.

“Oh, thank you. A girl has to make an impression, right?”

“Oh, you do. Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Well, fortunately, I've done well. Well enough to devote the majority of my time to a few nonprofits. Are you... into nonprofiting?”

“Well, with the right person, always.” Neal sighed for himself. That line sounded as something Jones would say.

“Yeah? That's nice.”

“Any particular non-profiting that interests you?”

“I have a few favorites, but anywhere my money and my time work for a better world…”

“Yeah, I know what it’s like.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Oil. Texas.” He gave her a humble shrug. “Grandfather was the last of us who needed to work hard for money.”

The bell chimed.

“And switch,” their host called out.

“Well, I hope we get to continue this conversation another time,” Neal said.

“Yeah, me too,” Selena nodded, “It was a little too fast.”

“It was lovely to meet you,” Neal said, extinguishing his hand. She shook it.

“Great to meet you.”

That went just about perfectly.

When the last lady had passed by the men arranged themselves on the stairs. Neal was number three, between Jones and Peter. The first guy went for eight thousand dollars.

“Congratulations,” Jameson yelled to the woman who bid. “Next up is Mr. Arthur Fort, the pastry baron of Brooklyn.” Someone whistled as Jones stepped up to Jameson. “Shall we start the bidding at Five thousand dollars?”

“Five,” said the woman who told him he barked at the wrong tree.

“Six,” said Erica.

“Seven,” said Donna.

Neal noted Selena did not bid.

“Eleven thousand,” said the first bidder.

No one else bid.

“Sold for eleven thousand dollars,” Jameson said. And Jones did not seem to mind the date at all. “Our next bachelor is Mr. Nicholas Munroe.” Neal took Jones's spot beside Jameson. “Nick has been making the rounds, but now he's ready to take you, ladies, on the date of your lives. Shall we start the bidding at five thousand dollars? Do I hear five thousand dollars?”

Neal looked out over the group and realized what had gone wrong. He was not Selena’s type. She was not going to bid. And as he had behaved, no one else would either. This was going to be the most embarrassing moment of his life.

“Do I hear three thousand dollars?” Jameson tried. It was still utterly silent. “Thousand bucks?”

Selena was not waiting for a discount either.

Diana raised her hand.

“Okay, sold!”

After a smile at Diana, Neal hurried away to Jones.

“What happened?” Jones asked, and he might have had a smug smile. Neal could not blame him.

“My plan worked. Too well.”

“Our next bachelor is Mr. Peter Williams,” Jameson declared. “We'll start the bidding at —“

“Fifteen thousand dollars.” The bid came from Selena. The women in the room gasped.

“Wow! Any other bids?” There were none. “Sold for fifteen thousand dollars to the woman in red!”

Well done, Peter! He succeeded where he and Jones’ failed. Peter, if anyone, could present an honest smile.

(You can get part 1 as an epub here: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/altankatt/e/141095
Thank you for your support.)

Chapter Text

Peter was proud, and Neal did not blame him. His handler had obviously done well while he had made a fool of himself.

"El helped me," he said.

"Elizabeth?!" Neal stared at Peter and tried to figure out if he was pulling a joke. "You said you were terrified telling her."

"I was. She, on the other hand, wanted to prove that she had a man worth fighting for."

Neal sighed. Sarah had known they would fight for him. It was hard to feel pleased that he did not need to date someone who he had no interest in and who was not a suspect. Jones would have to do exactly that and he looked rather pleased about it.

"Who knows," he had said and smiled.

"I won!" he told Elizabeth the second he saw her.

"I knew it." She kissed him on the cheek. "This is cause for a celebration." She gestured for the kitchen, and Neal saw that she had already made the wine ready. "How much?" she asked as she poured the wine.

"Fifteen thousand," Peter said.

"Okay, fifteen has to be the record," Elizabeth said.

"No." Peter had brought out two beers from the fridge and handed one to Neal. "Here you go, Tex. But it was the second-highest bid they've ever had."

Neal opened the beer, not wanting to argue that he would prefer the wine any day.

"Second?"

"There was a Kennedy last year," Neal said.

"Was it one of the good-looking ones?"

Neal frowned. How would he know if a man was good-looking or not?

"Guys," Peter said, "let's talk about what's next."

"Okay," Elizabeth nodded. "Where are you taking her?"

"Nowhere. I'm gonna go to her place, drop a bug, plant a keylogger, and figure out what she has planned."

So typically Peter.

"And how she plans to murder you."

"That, and how she's angling for my money."

"Is this date gonna be dangerous?" Elizabeth asked.

"Whoa. Peter is not dating her," Neal said.

"I'm occupying her. I'll have an arrest warrant before dessert."

Elizabeth did not look convinced with every right. If it were that easy, she would be caught already.

Peter was waiting for a phone call. So was everybody else in the conference room, waiting to tape, listen, help, and trace. He paced the room and got nervous. He told himself there was no reason. She had bet on him and would not let him go that easy considering the amount paid.

The phone rang. The whole room woke up. Jones gestured to him that they were ready. He picked up the phone.

“This is Peter.”

He sat down with a smile. He would handle this.

“Hey, Peter. It's Selena.” Wow, that was a seductive voice. He saw the kid smiling.

“Hey! Great to hear from you.”

“We still on for tonight?”

“We have reservations for 8:00 P.M. at the Griffin.” Diana gestured for him to keep it going. She needed time for the trace. “It's downtown. It's delicious. It's... I'll pick you up at 7:00?”

“No. I'll meet you there.”

“No, no, no. I-I-it's no trouble.”

“No. The trouble is you disagreeing with me.”

Peter glanced at Diana’s screen. ‘Scanning for signal. No signal detected.’ Was Selena that cautious?

“Well, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't pick you up on our first date?” Peter said and get a smile and a nod of approval from his pet convict who lost the auction.

“Peter, I'll see you at 8:00.” It was not a question.

“See you at 8:00.”

Selena hung up.

“No trace,” Diana concluded.

“Ugh! Great!” Peter barked and flew out of his chair. “We don't know where she is! If I can't pick her up…”

“You'll have to drop her off,” Neal said.

“You're gonna have to seal the deal,” Diana said.

“No! No, no!” Peter objected. “No deal sealing.”

“You don't want her dumping you and going after another victim.”

“Diana's right,” Neal said. “You need to impress her enough that she wants to take you home.”

“Elizabeth got me into this.”

“Yes, she did.”

“So, technically, it's okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I'm gonna close the deal.”

It would not be binding in any way. It would certainly not include any bedroom activities. It was just as any other undercover job. And he hated to be undercover.

And, of course, he ended up in the van surveying Peter's date. And be there in case he needed advice. Or rescue.

"I'm on point," Peter said over the headphones. "Target's not here."

"Relax, Commando. It is just a dinner."

Diana entered the van.

"I got eyes on Selena. She'll be inside within a minute."

"Target sighted," Peter responded.

Diana sat down and pulled on her headset.

"You look even more handsome tonight, if that's possible," Neal heard Selena's voice.

"So do you." And then as an afterthought: "Beautiful." Diana and Neal had to suppress giggles. "Shall we?"

"Yes."

"Wonder what's on the menu," Diana said, turning the microphone off. Neal did the same.

"Theirs? Or ours?"

He brought up a picnic basket from a corner.

"Ours?" She stared, smiling.

"It's a very nice Halibut with a mango chutney." Neal handed her the container.

"Why are you doing this?"

"You helped me save face at the auction." For a large sum of money, but he did not ask if the feds covered it. "The least I can do is offer you a decent meal."

She accepted his explanation and relaxed. He got a candle from the basket.

"A candle!" she mused.

"Electric."

She giggled.

He arranged the plates, the cutlery.

"Beer or wine?"

"I hate to break it to you, Neal, but—"

"I know we're working. It's alcohol-free. Of course."

She smiled.

"Beer, please."

He opened two bottles. Alcohol-free wine was not his cup of tea.

They ate.

"Oh, this is good."

"Thank you."

They listened to Peter and Selena.

"Maybe that was a little too forward," Peter said.

"No, Peter. There's nothing more attractive than the truth."

"He's doing good," Diana noted.

"Well, he's gonna need to step it up if he wants an invite back to her place."

"You ever cook like this for Sara?"

"I thought about it."

"Well, do more than think. Insurance investigator Barbie would be thoroughly impressed."

They clicked their glasses.

And so did Peter's and Selina's, it seemed.

"Oh, I love this song," she said.

"Oh, me too."

"Shall we dance? You've been adventurous with the Merlot. Why stop now?"

Neal almost choked on his food. Peter dance? As the couple got closer to the dance floor Neal heard that it was a slow ballad. Anyone could handle dancing to that.

Except they had barely time to start until the song ended and something else started.

"Is that a tango?" Diana asked.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Neal turned on his microphone. "Peter, Peter, there are certain things you cannot recover from."

"I can handle this," Peter answered.

Neal listened, baffled, to feet and bodies moving to a steamy tango.

"I don't hear any screaming," he said to an equally stunned Diana.

"People cheer," she said.

"I can't believe it." He wished he had eyes in there.

The music ended, and there where lots of applause.

"Let's go back to my apartment so that —" Selena somehow made the audio feedback in a high pitch tone.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Neal yanked the headphones off. "Did you get that?"

"The first part loud and clear."

"The second?"

"Never to be repeated."

Neal chuckled.

"Nice work, Agent Burke," he said into his mic. "Peter?"

"Remind me to thank El for the dance lessons," Peter mumbled. "Neal? Neal? Neal?"

"I don't think he can hear us." Neal looked at Diana for ideas.

"She must have blown the receiver."

"I'm on point,” Peter mumbled into his watch. “Target's not here.”

“Relax, commando,” the kid answered in his earpiece. “It is just a dinner.”

“I got eyes on Selena,” he heard Diana through Neal’s microphone, entering the van. “She'll be inside within a minute.”

Less than that. He saw Selena in the large mirror behind the bar as she entered.

“Target sighted,” he mumbled and turned.

She looked at him as if he was a Greek god.

“You look even more handsome tonight, if that's possible.”

“So do you,” he replied. She was beautiful. And he had said she was handsome. “Beautiful,” he corrected. She smiled even wider. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” She took his arm and let him guide her to the table.

“Something to drink?” the waiter asked when they had got their table and sat down.

“Please.”

“May I recommend our Merlot?”

No, Peter had got another recommendation.

“A bottle of your Vino del Diablo.” It was really going for the name. So silly, but it seemed to work.

“How adventurous,” Selena approved, leaning closer.

“I'll take a risk once in a while. Like the auction. Like you.”

“Oh, so I'm a risk?” She did not seem angry but amused. Peter remembered he had a deal to close.

“I feel I don't need to hide anything from you,” he said, relaxing as if he spoke to El.

“Oh…”

The waiter served the wine.

“Maybe that was a little too forward.” He kept eye contact, not apologizing too much.

“No, Peter. There's nothing more attractive than the truth.”

They raised their glasses together.

“Oh, I love this song,” Selena said after one sip of the wine. Peter had not even noticed they played anything.

“Oh, me too.”

She rose and offered her hand.

“Shall we dance?”

“Oh, uh...”

“You've been adventurous with the Merlot. Why stop now?”

For Peter, dancing was close to sex without having sex. But that was his point of view. And nothing to write home about for most people, it seemed.

He followed her to the dance floor and put his right arm around her waist, and she moved close to him. It was a slow ballad. And Selena smelled terrific. She was hot and sexy, and Peter had to take a deep breath and think of neutral things.

The music ended, and Selena took a step away. Thank God.

But instead of a new ballad, there was a tango. Selena’s eyes met his, and he smiled.

“Peter, Peter, there are certain things you cannot recover from,” he heard the kid's voice in his ear.

He posed Selena in front of him with her back towards him and placed one hand on her hip, and formed an outstretched spear with their left arms.

“I can handle this,” he mumbled. And moved sideways, confident. Selena knew her tango, too, and followed perfectly as he turned her around and leaned her backward. As they moved across the floor, Peter found they were the only dancers, and the other couples stopped to watch them. And they applauded.

Peter dared to make one move where he let the woman take the initiative, and she got what to do, and moved her foot along the inside of his leg almost all the way up. Peter really had to remember who he was and who she was.

He made a lift, and her long, gorgeous legs were shown off in all their elegance. She moved around him, following his collar with her fingers.

One last move leaning over her, and the tango was over.

Applause and cheers. Wow. Pity this was not with El. He had to take her to dance tango some day. It was sexy.

So thought Selena as well, because she leaned even closer and whispered into his ear.

“Let's go back to my apartment so that we can dance some more.”

She took him by the hand and led him towards the exit.

“Remind me to thank El for the dance lessons,” he mumbled. But there was no sound. “Neal? Neal? Neal?” No Neal. No Diana. Just silence.

Chapter Text

Peter was not keen on the idea of being alone with a potential killer, not knowing if he had backup or not. He told himself it was supposed to be a date and that she would not likely try to kill him until they were married.

Her apartment was grand, with odd designer lamps and more sofas and armchairs than anyone could need.

"Why don't you make us a drink," she said, taking off her jacket, "while I change and put on some music?"

It was not really a question because she disappeared into another room before he could say anything. He scanned around.

"If you can hear me," he mumbled, "I don't see a computer, so the keylogger isn't gonna work." Soft music was turned on. He glanced around in the direction she had left and saw her slipping out of her dress deliberately in his eyesight. She smiled at him, just in her underwear, and walked on into a walk-in closet.

Peter wondered why on earth this woman picked him and not the kid or Jones. Why had he ever agreed to put himself in this situation? This woman would eat him alive.

"I'm going for the bug plant on the purse," he mumbled.

He bent beside the sofa where the purse was, not wanting to be caught red-handed but more of an accidental closeness.

"What are you doing?" Selena asked, returning with a thin red robe over her black underwear.

"Thought I saw a bug."

"I'll call the exterminator in the morning. How about those drinks?"

She passed him, stroking his cheek, walking straight to the bar. She grabbed a sturdy sharp knife and smiled at him. Was it a threat? Why would it be? Why would it not? This was not a normal single woman. This was a woman with four dead husbands.

Selena began to attack the ice in the ice bucket. Peter got to his feet.

"Lemon?" she asked when she was through with the ice.

"Surprise me."

She fished up some ice in the glass and walked toward him, stirring the drink with the knife. A disturbing sight. Would he ask her about it? Would it sound strange?

She removed the knife and handed him the drink.

"Peter?"

"Yes?"

She was hot and sexy, getting closer to him, still with a knife in her hand. If he defended himself now, he would blow it, and later, well, it might be just too late. And god, she was going to have sex, it seemed, with or without a knife, it did not matter. He needed an excuse, any plausible excuse, to get out of there.

He tipped the drink, spilling it on his shirt.

"Oh, oh, I just spilled it on me. Oh! Oh, I'm so clumsy." She did not appear as she suspected it was on purpose. "You mind if I use your bathroom?"

"Oh, no, I can help you with that," she smiled and unbuttoned his shirt. Oh god, his plan backfired.

"Oh, no, no. That's okay. I— These buttons are difficult. Let me—" They both laughed, but not both of them had fun; that was one thing Peter was sure of. "Uh, here, let me get the —" He tried to hand her his drink, but she did not go for it. The cell phone in his pocket started to ring.

"Oh, oh..." she giggled and went for his phone.

"No, no! I can get it. That's not a problem."

She just smiled, teasing him.

"Peter Williams' phone," she answered.

Who was calling? He had had no chance to see it on the screen.

She walked towards the bar listening. Then she turned with a bored face, handing him the phone.

"Sounds important."

"This is Williams," he answered.

"Hello, Mr. Williams," Neal said at the other end. "I'm looking for Phil. Phil Landerer."

"Rrright." Who was Phil Landerer? Some code he was supposed to understand?

"You know him?" the kid asked.

"Okay, on my way," Peter said, ending the call and focusing on Selena, who had not ignored him the whole time, not one bit. "Sorry. I got to handle this."

"Oh..."

"I know it. I know. Selena, I had a great time. I'll make it up to you."

"Oh, you'll make it up to me tomorrow night," she said, pressing her lips against his, and he had to force himself not to duck away.

"Gotta go."

"Yeah."

“Why don't you make us a drink while I change and put on some music?” Neal and Diana heard in the van.

“Is she actually slipping into something more comfortable?” Diana frowned.

“Mm-hmm,” Neal nodded. So it seemed.

“I don't like this woman.” Her cell phone rang. “Hey, Jones. What's up?”

“Come on, Peter,” Neal mumbled to himself, knowing his handler did not hear him. “Plant the bug and get out.”

“If you can hear me, I don't see a computer, so the keylogger isn't gonna work,” Peter mumbled. “I'm going for the bug plant on the purse.”

“Thanks, Jones,” Diana said and hung up. “L.A.'s autopsy came in. Selena's fourth victim died of a stab wound to the throat. Street mugging. Selena was the only eyewitness, and they never caught the assailant.”

“Well, that's convenient.”

“The murder happened while they were out to dinner.”

“Maybe she is a serial killer.” Neal was not comfortable with the thought at all. Peter could be in more danger than they had participated.

“Or he caught on to her plan.”

“What are you doing?” they heard Selena’s voice.

“Thought I saw a bug.” In any other situation, he and Diana would have giggled.

“I'll call the exterminator in the morning. How about those drinks?”

They listened intensely.

“Surprise me,” Peter said without them hearing the question. Then, Neal was not sure, but she seemed to be near him.

“Oh, oh, I just spilled it on me,” Peter said. “Oh! Oh, I'm so clumsy.”

“He needs help,” Diana translated.

“All right, I'm gonna call him,” Neal through off his headphones and grabbed his phone. “Can you generate some sound effects? A steel mill, people yelling, something.”

“The Bureau can, and I can patch it through to the call.”

Diana made a call and made the request. It seemed to take ages, but Neal knew it was less than a minute. She nodded to him and got the sound of a factory through a speaker.

Neal dialed. A few signals went through then:

“Peter Williams' phone,” Selena said.

“Where's Mr. Williams?” Neal said, raising his voice to get heard. “Who is this? You know what? It doesn't matter. We need him here, pronto. Hamilton Mill is getting lit up like a Christmas tree. We have an induction furnace that is ready to blow.”

There was silence at the other end. Then:

“Sounds important.”

“This is Williams.” Peter. Neal relaxed. Nothing had happened.

“Hello, Mr. Williams. I'm looking for Phil -- Phil Landerer.” He smiled at his own joke.

“Right.”

“You know him?”

“Okay, on my way.” Somehow he felt that Peter did not get the joke with the word philanderer. Well, Peter was alive and healthy, and that was the most important.

“We're good," he told Diana.

Please join me on BuyMeACoffee.com/Altankatt

Chapter Text

"What was that with the name you asked for?" Peter asked when they stepped into the elevator the next morning.

"Phil Landerer?" Neal replied, glancing at his handler. "I thought you had googled it already."

"No. Spend the evening with my lovely wife trying to forget that I spent the previous two hours with a woman who either thinks a hunting knife adds to the romantic mood or was ready to stab me."

"She won't likely stab you until you're married," Neal said and got a grim stare back.

They reached the third floor and joined the others in the conference room.

"Selena made a call after you left," Diana told Peter when they arrived. "I'm pulling up the audio now. Hang on."

"It's me," Selena said. "He left early, but I think I got to him."

"Did you spook him?" a male voice asked.

"Not at all. I'll have Williams down on one knee by the end of the week. After that, you finish the job, and it's payday."

"She has a partner," Peter concluded with a grin.

"Whoever her partner is, they probably run the endgame," Neal said.

"You're gonna have to keep seeing her," Diana sighed.

"Is there another option?" Peter asked. No, he pleaded. "Anyone?"

"I'm sure Elizabeth will be completely…" Neal searched for the word. "Supportive?"

Peter did not seem to agree.

"We'll find out when we talk to her."

"'We'?"

"Yes, we," Peter insisted.

Neal did not want to be part of any argument between the two of them.

"Oh, come on," he objected. It felt unfair.

"You're coming. I know someone who got me into this."

"You?" Neal suggested. "You got yourself into this."

"With a great deal of help from you."

"And Jones." As far as he could remember, Jones had pushed just as much as he.

"Stop it, Neal. You're coming. End of discussion."

Neal tried to stay quiet. It worked for five seconds. Just when Peter was about to say something else to the group, Neal burst:

"Why me and not Jones?" He glanced in Jones' direction, and he seemed amused.

"Because you're a convict with an anklet, and I own your time," Peter said. "And El will not kill me while you're present."

"But she will kill you while Jones is watching?"

"Neal. You're coming."

"But—"

"Unless you prefer an orange jumpsuit instead of that tie."

“Why do you have to see her again?” El was not pleased. Of course.

“We've run into some...” Peter started but did not find the words. What had he expected, really? To arrest her on their first date? “…complications, but—“

“Elizabeth, this, this woman is a murder,” the kid said beside him. Peter was not sure he was helping.

“Another reason I don't love this!”

“She needs to be taken out,” Peter said.

“Down,” Neal corrected him.

“Down. She needs to be taken down. El, I want this over with more than anyone.”

The woman he loved above all else looked at them both like she was about to cry in a way that reminded Peter of a sulky five-year-old.

“Is she attractive?”

Peter shook his head at once.

“Not really.” A big, huge lie. But sensual as Selena might be, it would never be a woman that he could love, murderess or not.

“Define ‘attractive.’” Neal added to the story and somehow confirmed that Peter was lying.

“You know, I'm gonna—“ El started. “I'm gonna take Satchmo for a walk; get a little air.”

She got the dog.

“Bye,” the kid said beside him.

“See ya, honey.” Peter wanted to make sure there was an agreement to come back. He did not get anything in return. But she was not that mad. Not now. Would a walk make it better or worse?

“That wasn't a complete train wreck,” his pet convict said.

“But that's as far as it goes,” Peter told Neal. El was not a woman that would shout and yell and throw things. This was what El was like when she was angry.

“You're seeing Selena again tonight. What's your plan?”

“Well, I'm gonna try to get to her cellphone and find out who she's talking with. The sooner this ends, the better.”

“Then propose.”

“Right. What?” He had not realized what the kid was saying.

“Well, you said you want to speed things up, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing says ‘enamored’ like—“

“Polygamy?”

“’Marry me,’” Neal corrected him. Sure, it was just an undercover job, and they would never be married for real, but he could not, would ever, propose.

“No! No, the cell is a good start.”

“All right, it's your operation.”

“And I'm not changing it. Diana has already prepped the team. She's following me in the van.”

Neal pulled his jacket on.

“Sounds like you got it covered. Do you mind if I take off?”

“Where are you going?”

“Sara's coming to my place. You're not the only one with dinner plans.”

Neal left before Peter had time to object. Not that he would. He just still could not see the con-man he had chased for four years seriously dating, maybe setting down.

There was a knock on the door, and Neal put the phone on silent and put it in a bowl far away from the dinner table.

He opened the door. Sara was outside. Every cell in his body tingled when he saw this fantastic woman.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, I got your message. Is everything okay?” He had not asked her to come over to dinner. Just texted her and asked if she could come over and help him ASAP.

“I don't know,” he said with a serious face. “You tell me.”

He opened the door fully and backed away, letting her in.

When she saw all the candles and the laid table, her jaw first dropped, and then she smiled as she inspected the room.

“You're trying to impress me.”

“Well, look, I know you said I didn't have to, but...”

She moved up close to him

“But it makes you feel better,” she said. They kissed.

“The dinner is not quite ready yet,” he said. I was not sure how fast you would get here. “Some wine while we wait?”

“Sure.”

He opened the bottle and poured two glasses. He gave her one of them, and they walked out on the patio.

“What if I hadn’t come?” she asked.

“Then I would have left-over lunches and probably have less hopes for the future.”

“That’s not fair,” Sara objected. “I might have been out of town, not able to get here.”

“I was pretty certain you had not left, and if you were, and were still interested, I guess you would have texted me back.”

“You knew I was in town?”

“You live here.”

“Yeah, but I travel a lot.” Sara looked at him, expecting him to answer the underlying question. “You checked up on me.”

“Just a little bit. Just to raise the odds.”

She giggled.

“Good thinking.” They kissed again and drank their wine.

“I’ll have to check on our dinner,” Neal said.

“It's very lovely for a first date,” Sara mused at all the candles as they walked back inside.

“Don't expect this every time.”

“Oh, there's gonna be a second date?”

“Guy can hope.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I could be talked into it.” They moved to kiss, but Neal glanced over her shoulder at his phone, which was clearly active and buzzing. She noted. “Neal, go check your phone.”

“Thank you.”

“Yep.”

He picked up the phone and saw there were four messages from Peter. The latest, which had made the phone buzz said, ‘clear out - I’m commandeering your date RIGHT NOW’.

Neal turned around in panic, scanning the room.

“Who is it?” Sara asked.

“We got to get out of here right now. Peter's undercover. He's coming up the stairs. I'll explain everything later.” Sara picked up her empty glass from the table and moved towards the door with no questions asked. “No, no! Not that way! The closet,” he guided her in the right direction. “Uh, new bottle.” Could not have an opened bottle on the table. Sara was on it and grabbed both their glasses and the bottle. “Through there.” Neal took out four portion-sized quiches from the oven and placed them on the table. He heard Peter and Selena in the staircase going up. Sara had her hands full and could not get the door opened. “I got it, I got it.” Neal opened it. “Sorry.”

“Ooh, grab me a quiche,” Sara said, disappearing from the living room.

Neal hurried to the table and grabbed one of them as Peter put his head inside. The first thing he did was to make a gesture with his head for him to leave. Thank you, Peter, but we need to eat too. Neal wanted to say but just hurried to join Sara in the back region.

Peter waited down on the sidewalk this time. He did not want to risk getting inside her apartment again if possible.

She came out, and he hurried to open the door.

“Wow. Look at you,” he said. She snuck her arm around his. “No purse?” he noted as they walked to his car.

“No. I was in the mood for something a little more private tonight,” she said. “Let's go to your place.”

Peter stopped dead.

“My place?” They could not go to his place. Not his real home. But there were other places. “Sure. Sounds good.”

“Oh, it will be.”

He let her inside the car. As soon as he closed the door, he brought out his cell phone. Neal was not answering. It got to voice mail.

“Neal, change of plans. You have fifteen minutes to clear out of your apartment, or my cover's blown. I'm commandeering your date.”

He got inside. He could not call Neal now. He started the engine and drove.

They passed a flower store, and he got an idea. He parked by the sidewalk.

“Wait here a second, will you?” he said to Selena and hurried out. He jogged to the flower store. Inside, he tried to call again. Still voice mail. He sent a text as well.

Then he bought a single rose. It was as close to a proposal as he would get.

He handed it to her when they got to the car.

“Oh, Peter… Thank you!”

He drove to June’s house.

“Is this your place?” She was baffled.

“No, no. I rent a small apartment only.”

They walked up the stairs as slowly as possible.

“Just let me make sure we're all set,” he said as he peeked inside. Neal was there! But he seemed to know what was going on. He did not seem happy, no surprise, but that was a later issue. The door closed behind the kid, and Peter opened it for Selena. “Here we are.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Amazing!”

Chapter Text

Selena watched the laid table and the candlelight with what seemed like true awe. Peter was quite stunned too. The kid sure brought the word 'romantic' to a new level.

"Oh, Peter, you shouldn't have."

"Surprise." So much for preparation and Diana in the van.

Selena walked about in the apartment.

"Very eclectic, right?" she commented on the mixed styles. Peter nodded absent-mindedly. "Peter, you didn't tell me that you were an artist."

He got cold. Of course, Neal had his things out. He had no idea what she was looking at on the aisle.

"I dabble. I wouldn't say I'm any good, though."

"Oh, don't be modest," she said, and Peter guessed there was one of the kid's little miracles on the drawing pad. "You know, this may sound silly, but..." she pulled an armchair "...would you draw me?"

"Oh, I'm sure that we could have—" Peter stared at her, sitting down. "You mean right now?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

"I-it would take time to do it right."

"We have all night."

"It wouldn't do you justice."

"Oh, but you will. I won't take no for an answer."

"Okay. But, uh... You should know that I'm experimenting with some very, very primitive styles."

"Ooh." That trigged her. He should've guessed.

"Yeah…" Peter tried to chuckle. He looked into the mirror and adjusted his hair a bit. Was Neal watching? He hoped so. Turning to the aisle he saw the sketch on the pad that Selena had admired. No way he could do that. "All right." He drew off that page and put it aside. "Let me make sure the light is right." Yeah, the kid ought to see the pad from the mirror. He took a piece of charcoal and wrote "HELP ME" on the paper.

"Is the pose okay?"

"Yes. That's perfect."

"Okay."

"But, remember, no peeking."

"Peter, I have to ask, how did you... set this all up so fast?"

"Um..." he had picked Neal's home on instinct. He should've picked Jones' apartment instead. Except he had no clue how the man lived.

The door opened, and Neal's funny little friend walked right inside without knocking or anything. Or looking for that matter.

"Hey, do yourself a favor. Never try to send a grappling hook through the post office." He met Peter's eyes as he stood by the aisle. "I-I mean, that is, if... you ever needed to send... a grappling hook, that is."

Peter stared and tried to make sense of this odd trio that they had become.

"Perfect timing," he said. "This is my... man. Haversham. He made the arrangements. Haversham, everything is perfect. Thank you. You may enjoy your night off."

"So sorry to interrupt," Mozzie said with a foolish grin. "Such a suspiciously amorous evening."

"Haversham, do you mind?" he asked, pointing at the other door. "I'll need my suit for tomorrow."

"A suit?" Mozzie asked, trying to figure out what Peter could mean by that.

"Yes."

"I'll be right back."

"Good."

"How handy," Selena said.

"Yes, he's one of a kind." Peter continued to draw on his… something looking like a slouchy cucumber with a head. Mozzie walked out sideways.

"Your turncoat for tomorrow, sir." He was holding a suit, and in front of it, he held a drawing of Selena from Neal.

"Ah, yes. Thank you. That is exactly what I needed." He moved the drawing onto his own pad, and Mozzie moved along to hide the transfer, hanging the suit on the aisle.

"Oh, I'm gonna need some cash," Mozzie said. "For the dry-cleaner."

"Of course." Peter should have seen that coming. But it was worth it.

"Fifty should do it."

"Don't know what I'd do without you." Peter handed him a fifty.

"Oh, I might need more," Mozzie said and pulled a hundred from his wallet instead. At least he looked a little embarrassed. And almost stumbled over Selena. "Ah. Good evening."

"Yes," Selena agreed.

"Madam." The man bowed! And giggled!

"It's great to meet you, Haversham."

Mozzie giggled again. And finally left.

"He's curious," Selena said.

"Very high-functioning, considering his condition," Peter said. "Done." He took a step back and took the drawing down. He showed it to Selena. She gasped.

"Wow! That looks amazing!"

"Yeah, it is," Peter said, forgetting for a second that he was supposed to have drawn it.

"Peter, what's this?" Selena asked and pointed.

"Oh, that?" A ring on the finger. Her left ring finger. Where there was no ring in real life. He drew a deep breath when he realized what that son of a bitch of a con-man had done. Why did he always get things his way? Nothing to do but play along. "I wanted tonight to be special."

"Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?"

"Oh... Oh!" He could not make it a yes. She, on the other hand, had no trouble with that word. She threw herself around his neck.

"Peter! Yes. Yes, yes."

He sent a deadly glare into the mirror.

"What is going on?" Sara asked, standing with half a bottle of wine and two glasses in his walk-in closet.

"Remember that case I was working on?"

"The killer bride?"

Neal relieved her of the bottle and his glass and put them on a shelf.

"Yeah. Peter's dating her now."

"Really?!"

"Yep." He placed her glass on the shelf as well.

"So what are we doing?"

"This apartment was a backroom speakeasy," he told her and moved a whole bunch of shirts and suits. "And this was the observation room."

He pushed a panel aside and saw through the mirror built into the huge set of drawers on the other side.

"Oh, wow," Sara said, hanging over his shoulder.

Peter glanced in their direction, but Neal could think of anything he could do to help him.

They could barely hear what happened on the other side, but they could see.

Selena studied Neal's sketch of a woman. Then she pulled out a chair and sat down, posing. Peter looked more and more awkward.

"Can Peter draw?" Sara asked, as it was obvious that Peter was expected to do a picture of Selena.

"Unless she's expecting a breathtaking stick figure, he's in trouble."

"Uh-huh," Sara sounded. "Does he know that you're here?"

"Unfortunately, yes, he knows about this room." He had shown it to Peter once when he felt he needed to build up Peter's trust in him. When Sara had had him arrested for stealing a package Mozzie had stolen. That was a story to tell her one day.

Peter got started by the aisle and drew 'help me' with big letters.

"Okay," Neal sighed. "All right." He pulled out one of his sketching pads that he had in storage in there. And a box of drawing coal.

"Hold this," he asked Sara and handed her the box. He sat down by the little window. Sara had opened the box, and Neal took a piece of coal.

"This is not how I saw the night going, by the way," he told her.

He drew the outlines of Selena.

"Oh. I mean, any guy can make a girl dinner. Only you could sketch a black widow from a hidden back room."

Neal chuckled. Sara did seem pleased and genuine. He drew fast. He did not know what kind of timeframe he had. And whatever he produced, it would be better than what Peter was attempting on his side. The trick was to enhance the good features, and polish the less attractive ones. Artists have done so forever. One of history's best portrait painters Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, became the painter of the royals because she had understood this trick.

Then Mozzie walked right in. Neal had no time to focus on them. Mozzie might be their help to get the drawing to Peter.

"He's sending him this way," Sara said, keeping an eye on the scene.

"Good," Neal mumbled.

"I should have known," Mozzie said a moment later in the doorway to the walk-in closet.

"Finished." Neal looked at the drawing, rather pleased.

"It looks good," Sara said.

Neal looked at the scene outside the window. And wondered how he could really help. Bugging this lady's phone would not work.

"Something's missing," he said. Then he added a ring with a big gem on her left ring ringer.

"Neal, are you sure you want to do that?" Sara asked.

"Well, Peter said he wants this case closed fast. This should help."

"Okay, but Peter is gonna be really mad."

"But she won't. All right, Moz, get this to him without her seeing."

"Oh, sure. I'll hide it under my gargantuan clown sleeve."

"Oh, come here. Try this." Sara hooked down one of the many suits.

"Oh, I'm more of a spring—"

"Moz, we don't have time."

"Okay. Oh. I got it. Okay."

They saw Mozzie, odd as always, walking sideways into the room and delivering the drawing to Peter, who placed it on his own horrible attempt.

"Good work, Moz," Neal mumbled.

They saw Peter show the drawing to Selena. And she saw the ring. So did Peter. And they embraced. Peter turned and sent those lava glares at them.

Sara giggled.

"Best date ever."

Chapter Text

Thank god that Selena left after the 'proposal.' Considering what they suspected her of it was not likely that she would insist on sex, now when he was on the hook, but he had no idea how not to without blowing the cover. And blown it would have been.

And knowing that Neal and Sara were watching, he did not even want to have the dinner waiting.

Once Selena left, Neal and Sara came back into the room.

"You should try a quiche," Sara said, chewing on the one Neal took from the table. "They are gorgeous."

"Thank you," the ever-smiling convict said. "And that went well, don't you think? Far more effective than trying to bug her phone."

Peter was angry. He could claim it was because Neal had taken command of his operation, but Peter knew that was only partly true. It had turned out for the better if you just looked at the goal, and that was what counted. No, Peter was angry because:

"How am I going to explain this to El?"

"Elizabeth?" Sara asked. "Why would that be a problem?"

"Because I'm just engaged with another woman!" Peter almost yelled.

"Wasn't you undercover?" Sara asked, and he could not help wondering if she had been drinking or the world had gone insane.

"Peter," the kid said in his most comforting voice, "why tell her?"

"Because I don't lie to my wife!"

"Technically, not telling is not lying. Besides, you do lie to Elizabeth on occasion."

"No. I do not." He had a transparent and honest relationship with his wife.

"Yes, you do. You told her Selena wasn't attractive, for instance. A lie." Neal leaned his head to the side, watching him. Peter felt accused and embarrassed at the same time. "But it's okay, Peter. Most people lie once or twice a day."

"Some have made it a profession," Peter stabbed him back.

"I never lie to you, Peter." The young man's face was serious. "You, on the other hand, have lied to me on several occasions. Do you want me to tell your wife? Or not tell?"

Peter took a deep breath.

"No, I'll tell her." He glanced at the untouched food. "I'm sorry for your dinner." He left and walked down the stairs. Maybe Sara was right. What was the problem? He was uncomfortable, sure, but he was undercover, doing a job, and would never, ever have sex with, or have any feelings for, Selena.

But he would tell El because that made him more comfortable. He did not believe in hiding information just because it was not, technically, a lie.

He drove home and sat down beside his wife on the sofa.

"So, how did it go?" she asked.

"Neal made me propose."

"Did Neal make you propose? How did he do that?"

"Long story. But, she said yes."

El flew out off the sofa.

"She said yes?!"

"You could look at this as another victory for Team Burke." He attempted to rise and hug her, but she raised her hand, stopping him. "El, I'm putting my life at risk here."

"Yes! You are," she nodded, angry. "I mean, this was… this was supposed to be a date, not a 'save the date.'"

"The investigation's almost over."

"Yeah, I recall hearing that after the first date. Now you're engaged?"

"All I need is to find out who her partner is. That means contacts, figuring out who she's close to."

El's face turned thoughtful.

"Maybe you need a guest list."

"Guest list?" Peter did not get it.

"For the wedding. You want to wrap up this case?" she asked, and Peter nodded. "You need an event planner."

"You."

"You bet."

"El, I…" He was about to object. But she was not the one in danger. Maybe this would make her more comfortable with the situation. And… "That's not a bad idea. You could ask questions that I can't."

"Like what?"

"Isn't there legal stuff around divorces and previous marriages? People getting married to different people in different states at the same time? Things you as an event planner need to check up on?"

"Well, I don't check those things up, generally, because it's none of my business, but I can make an exception."

Peter rose, and this time El did not object.

"I love you, hon," he said. She put her arms around him and hugged him.

"I love you too, hon. I'm sorry I was upset."

"You've nothing to be sorry for." Things were alright again.

Peter hoped she remembered this when she met him and Selena as a couple for the first time.

"Look at you two," their event planner smiled. "Peter, you didn't tell me she was so beautiful."

"Thank you."

"You're so welcome. Now, I was thinking of setting you guys up by the gazebo."

"Oh. That sounds great."

"I'll need a head count to make sure we have enough room. Did you bring your lists?" Peter pulled out his from his pocket. "Selena, friends and family?"

"Oh, no. I'm new to the city. I don't know many people here. Plus, I have all the family I need in this man."

Selena hugged his arm, and Peter exchanged a look with El. It seemed as if she was ready to roll her eyes.

"I understand. You want to keep it small. Weddings can be so chaotic. In the end, you're making a schedule instead of a memory."

"Sounds like you've had experience."

"You know, my husband and I wanted to keep it small, but somehow our wedding ballooned into this massive event."

Peter could not believe what he was hearing.

"You didn't enjoy it?" he asked, feeling his heart drop.

"Oh, it was lovely. It was really lovely," she assured him. "But I think if I were to do it again, I'd keep it a little more intimate, simple. Just us."

"Well, hopefully, ours will be more special."

Selena turned to kiss him.

"Mm...We...have to get going. We have reservations for lunch in a half-hour."

"Oh, Peter, do you mind if I borrow Selena for just a moment? I would love to go over invitations with her."

"Sure. I'll go get the car."

"Okay," Selena said. "Thanks, honey."

Hopefully, El would get her to send over a bunch of documents to confirm she was entitled to marry him, and they would get a paper trail and maybe, just maybe, would lead somewhere.

The two ladies exited the building shortly after he had fetched the car.

"Okay. So, we'll be in touch."

"Thank you so much," Selena answered. "Okay. Ready?"

"Ready as you are," Peter answered and held the door open to her.

As he passed around the car, he saw El glare at him. Had he sounded too pleased, too happy?

Then he heard tires screech behind him.

"Peter!" El screamed in pure terror.

A car rushed towards him, and in an effort to move out of its way, Peter fell to the ground. The car passed him awfully close.

Peter got to his feet and was met by El, who guided him in front of their car so he could sit down on the hood. Selena appeared, too, worried, sure, but not as El.

"I'll get you some water," El said and soon returned with a bottle from her car.

"Did you, uh - did you get a look at the license plate?" she asked.

"Uh, no tags."

"All right, thank you very much. I got it from here," Selena said to El. His wife was not that eager to leave, though, but she had little choice if not to cause suspicion. "Thank you," Selena said again, devouring. She left. "Wow. That car came out of nowhere." Peter glanced over her shoulder at El and wished for her hand on his cheek instead of Selena's, and she understood there.

"Yeah. If she hadn't warned me, I—"

"Oh, I don't want to think about that. I don't know what I would do if anything happened to you."

Peter looked at her. So Selena had arranged this little happening, had she?

"And if something did?"

"How close was it?” Neal asked when Peter had told him about the car.

“Close. Got my heart pumping. But then Selena and I had one of those ‘should anything ever happen’ chats.”

“Oh. That's a pretty good scam,” Neal nodded. “Car nearly runs you down, which prompts a discussion about what happens when you're gone?”

“Exactly. She told me if worse comes to worse, she wouldn't want a dime of my money.”

“Really?” That was odd.

“She'd prefer I leave it to charity,” Peter said. And it all made perfect sense again.

“One of her choosing?” he asked. Peter grinned, confirming.

“I went through the wills of her victims. Each one left a significant contribution to a charitable organization.”

“I'm guessing these don't exist anymore.”

“No.”

“So where'd the money go?”

“This may tell us.” Peter pointed at Diana coming in, all smiling, with a folder.

“We got something from the legal papers Selena gave Elizabeth,” she said. “The lawyer's name was a bogus ID. We tracked to this guy.” She opened the file. “Look familiar?”

Oh yes, that face was indeed familiar.

“It's the emcee from the auction,” Neal said.

“Gerald Jameson.”

“Yeah, he hosts dating events worldwide,” Diana said. “Never stays in one place for more than a year. Always changes the name and charity of his latest auction.” Doing that for so many years was impressive if you did not reflect that four men were dead because of it.

“That's a great setup,” Neal said. “He puts on these auctions, lines up the suitors...”

“She knocks them down,” Diana finished.

“We need a concrete link between these two and the charities,” his handler said. Peter had Selena. He could not risk appearing as something else than a suitor in love. But, he, he was in another situation.

“I'll talk to him,” Neal suggested.

“What are you gonna say?”

“That my date didn't work out.” He looked at lovely Diana. “She was a nice girl who prefers— “

“Nice girls.” Diana sent him a warm smile.

“I was gonna say ‘blondes,’ but we can run with that, too. Should give us enough time to case the office.”

“Who is ‘us’?” Peter asked. Neal just sent him one of those glances. Peter sighed. “Why'd I ask? I’m getting an annoying habit of relying on you two.”

“Me and who?” Neal asked.

“Neal, don’t. You know what I mean.”

“You know we should arrange a catch-the-flag contest,” Neal said, jamming his hands down in his pockets, beaming at Peter and Diana. “Me and we-know-who against the FBI White Collar unit. I can be gracious to let you leave my anklet on as a handicap.”

“Get out of here,” Peter said, trying to sound annoyed.

“All right, we're looking for safes, vaults, and locked cabinets,” Neal told Mozzie as they walked inside the venue. “Keep an eye out. Hey, hey!” he called out at once as Gerald Jameson said appeared. “Great to see you again.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Munroe,” Jameson said, shaking his hand. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I was just wondering about your next event,” Neal said.

Jameson glanced at Mozzie at his side.

“Aaah…” the man pulled Neal aside, “I take it things didn't work out.”

“Well, you know, some guys propose on the first date. Some don't make it to the second.”

“I see. And with regards to your little friend over there, we have a certain height requirement.”

Neal could not believe his ears. That was just ridiculous.

“Oh, no, no. He's all set with the ladies,” he assured the idiot.

Jameson sent Mozzie a stare.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah.” Why wouldn’t he be? His friend had brains.

The man still stared as if Mozzie came from outer space. Then he found himself and focused on Neal.

“Well, I'm sorry to say my next event won't be for two months, and that's in Florida.”

“I love the Sunshine State. Am I still tall enough to fill out an application, or...?”

“Yes, of course. I'll go get it from the back.”

Jameson walked to a door with a keypad.

“8414,” Mozzie said when Jameson closed the door behind him. “Standard Banks-Smith security system, but it's gonna be hard to get in here with him hanging around.”

“Then we will have to get to it later.”

Jameson returned with a form that he handed over.

“There you are.”

“Thank you so much. One more thing. I love this space. Do -- do you love it?”

“Yeah,” Mozzie agreed. “High ceilings!”

“Do you rent it out?”

“Yes, it is possible.”

“My friend, Mr. Williams, we attended your last auction together—“

“Of course, yes. He's our big winner.”

“Yes, he had better luck than I did. And he asked me to help him with a... certain celebration.”

Chapter Text

Peter had a call from Neal telling him to get to the 'auction hall' run by Gerald Jameson. He had asked the kid if he had found something, and the answer had been somewhat cryptic: he needed a fully-fledged federal agent on the spot.

When Peter walked through the door and found a party going in which included women dancing in swimsuits, he got an idea what was going on.

"Peter!" Neal walked towards him with arms stretched out. "Welcome to your bachelor party!"

"Can't believe you did this."

"Oh, you're welcome."

Peter's smile felt stiff and embarrassed.

"Not what I meant."

"Come on. Now we have the entire night to get into Jameson's office. The Harvard crew is all over the place for backup. This is business," the kid insisted, looking at one of the dancing woman sipping from a drink. "It is not pleasure."

Yeah, sure, and that drink is without alcohol, I'm sure, Peter thought. Then he saw Mozzie walking around.

"What is he doing here?" he asked.

"I love National Geographic," Mozzie answered himself. "'The Mating Habits of Midlevel Government Employees' Totally captivating. Well, I'm not on duty. I'm going to get a drink."

Peter could not help watching the dancing woman nearest him. The music was loud, it was a lot of people. Most things that he did not enjoy and never found any pleasure in collected in one single room.

"This anything like your first one?" his pet convict asked.

"No." He had never had one. He did not know if it was because he was considered too boring or if his friends respected his lack of interest in these kinds of things. Peter did not care. He was glad no one dragged him away to anything like this.

"Peter." Neal nodded to the door to the office where Jameson just left.

"All right, I'll distract. You get in the records room."

He walked over to Jameson, shook his hand, and thanked him for letting them have the party there.

"No problem. You pulled home a lot of money for us. Congratulations on the winning in life as well."

Peter watched over Jameson's shoulder how Neal and Mozzie slipped into the office. Was this really a good thing, that he used these loopholes and gray areas?

"Is the future Mrs. Williams on her bachelorette party?" Jameson asked.

"I have no idea."

Peter felt he had a hard time focusing with the music and all the people, but somehow he managed a coherent conversation. After what felt like ages where he just wanted to leave, his two criminals slipped out of the office.

He patted Jameson on the shoulder.

"I'm gonna get a drink."

"Good luck with everything, Mr. Williams."

Jameson disappeared in the crowd and Peter met Neal at the bar.

"Nothing," the kid said, frustrated. He was not as frustrated as Peter, though.

"Great. I don't know who's gonna kill me first; my wife or my fiancée."

There was just a second of silence.

"What if I told you there's a way to spook your lady into leading us straight to the money?"

"How?"

"Use what we got."

"Neal, what we've got are strobe lights, probies, women, and booze."

"Exactly. Have a probie grab a camera from the surveillance truck. We're taking shots." Before Peter had the time to do that, Jameson passed them and the kid saw the opportunity. "Mr. Jameson! Come on, join us for a drink."

"Oh, no. No, I really need to keep an eye on the space."

"Oh, come on," Neal insisted. "I owe you one."

"We owe you one," Peter corrected him, following the kid's lead. "Yes, none of us would be here if it wasn't for you."

"Well, if you put it that way, I guess one little drink wouldn't hurt."

"All right."

Neal got the shots, and Jameson grabbed a glass.

"Gentlemen, cheers."

"Cheers," both of them agreed, and while Jameson drank his in one quick swipe, Peter and the kid poured theirs on the floor.

"Delicious. Thank you. You guys have fun." Jameson tried to leave, but Neal did not let him.

"No, no, no, no. Hold on. Bartender, another round."

"No, no. No, really."

"Come on. I disagree. This is my best friend's bachelor party. Let's make it a night to remember."

Peter raised his glass, but he disapproved of making someone drink against his will. Jameson took his second shot and swept it. To their good fortune, he then took the initiative himself.

And by the fifth shot, Peter could get a probie to get a camera.

Peter waited along the street, listening to what happened when Diana walked up to Selena and knocked on her door. The van was not far away where Neal was listening too, as well as Jones at the other end of the street.

“What are you doing here?” they heard Selena say as she opened the door and saw Diana outside.

“Miss Thomas. What can you tell me about this man?”

“You're FBI?” Diana had probably flashed her badge.

“I was undercover at Mr. Jameson's last fundraiser. We believe he had illicit financial dealings prior to his death.”

A photo of a passed-out, stoned drunk Jameson was convincing enough to serve as a photo of a dead Jameson, now shown to Selena.

“His death? What happened?”

“We're waiting on the toxicology report. I'm here because I need to question everyone affiliated with the society house's recent auction.”

“I'm sorry. Um... This is a shock, but I don't know anything.”

“Alright. Here is my card with my number in case you want to get in touch.”

Diana left and the show from that channel was over.

“Looks like Diana got to her,” Jones said over the radio. “She's heading towards the bank. She'll be clearing out the money any minute now.”

“Good,” Peter said and started walking towards the bank. “Give Jameson his wake-up call.”

They had left the sleeping Jameson on the floor with his cell phone on high volume close by. He would receive a text telling him to get to his bank because there was an ongoing fraud.

“Peter, you're on standby,” Jones said, telling him that Selena just left the bank with the money.

The agents followed, and when Jameson turned up, they closed ranks around them.

“Hey!” Selena yelled when her bag was yanked away.

“I got a ping from the bank,” Jameson said. “Why did you drain our account?”

“Wait a minute. They told me you were dead.”

“What? Who told you I was dead?”

“We did,” Peter said, stepping forward.

“Wait a minute,” Selena said, seeing several people moving towards them. “What's going on?”

Peter showed her his badge.

“You two are under arrest.”

“Wait a minute. You're FBI, too?”

“Yeah, let's just say I'm the adventurous type.”

“Speaking of, I think we were all a little adventurous last night,” the kid said, joining the party. “Further incriminating evidence. Should we give him a little slide show here?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” Peter nodded.

“Here's you on shot number eight, having a good time.”

“Here's you on shot number twelve, having a great time,” Peter continued. This is when you told us you had a big payday coming up.”

“Great,” Selena hissed and her partner. “Good job.”

“And that's when you told me I should enjoy the honeymoon phase while I can. Oh, here's where you said you were tired and wanted to go to bed.”

“Something about having to tie up loose ends in the morning,” Neal said.

“They say that alcohol's a truth serum for some people.”

“You are definitely one of them, my friend,” the kid said. “And, in case you were wondering, we got it all on tape.”

Jameson was cuffed and led away. And so was Selena.

“Peter. I actually thought we had something.”

“It wasn't real.”

“Not even our tango?”

Peter could not deny that the tango had been hot.

“You know, they say that breaking up is tough. For what it's worth, it wasn't me. It was you.”

“Peter...”

She was led away.

“That's a shame. Would have been a nice wedding.” Neal could not help himself. It was fun to teas Peter.

“Yeah,” Peter agreed, not taking the bait. “Elizabeth ordered most of the arrangements already.”

“I'm sure she did a great job. It's too bad we'll have to ship them all back.”

Peter was silent.

“Or ship them somewhere else,” he said at last. Neal looked at him, waiting for more. “You don’t have a date with Sara tonight, have you?”

Was Peter trying to get him and Sara married? He knew Peter meant well but…

“Peter, me and Sara, we—“

“Neal, I’m asking if I can borrow your apartment without causing inconvenience for you. And I know from my last visit, that I have much to learn, so I’m asking if I can borrow your apartment with you in it.”

“That sounds cryptic. But sure, Peter, you’re my friend.”

Peter waited in the kid’s apartment. He had changed into a tuxedo, and with Neal’s assistance, the room had turned as romantic as it would ever get.

He had sent Jones to pick El up with a somewhat stressed message that Peter needed help.

“Honey?” She stood in the doorway looking at the chandeliers and numerous string lights wrapped in chiffon.

“Hey, beautiful.”

“What is this?”

“I'm sorry for what you went through on this one. So, to make it up to you, I'm giving you the wedding you always wanted. Small, simple. Just us.” He got down on one knee and took her hand. He loved her so much. “Will you marry me again?”

“Yes.” She looked at him with those eyes that got his heart to melt. “As many times as you ask.”

He rose and kissed her. Then he took the white bridal bouquet that waited for her and gave it to her.

Neal had waited outside to give them privacy. Then the man he was waiting for arrived, dressed in an Asian-style golden-yellow shirt.

Neal stepped inside and saw Elizabeth with the big white bridal bouquet in her hands. He buttoned his suit jacket.

“Preacher's here.”

“That was fast,” Peter said.

“Sorry I'm late,” said Mozzie, carrying a book Neal was pretty sure was a Buddhist book and not the Bible.

“Don't tell me he's been ordained.”

“Twice,” Neal said.

“Tax dodge?”

“Oh, yeah, like I pay taxes,” Moz answered Peter’s question before turning to Neal. “Will you bear witness?”

“Of course.”

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of...Suit and Mrs. Suit once again.”

Peter had told him what he wanted and that it was a wedding just for the two of them. Neal had asked if he should leave, but Peter had asked him to stay. Now he watched his handler and friend getting married to one of the most kind and brilliant women he had ever met. And they wanted him to be part of it. He felt joy and pride, as he was part of the family.