Chapter Text
Charles Cameron Wentworth III was running late, but he needed his morning fix of java to get him through a tedious morning of wrangling deals with foreign investors. The blueblood lawyer reigned over the firm of Wentworth and Associates, situated in a prestigious building on Wall Street. He was the first to admit that he hadn’t worked his way up the proverbial ladder. He had simply swanned into his position of power after dear old Dad’s Mayflower genes hadn’t protected him from a cerebral aneurysm a few years back. Wentworth II had simply keeled over at his desk, telephone in hand, in the midst of wheeling and dealing.
Charles had been an only child who went the route that had been mapped out for him at birth. He attended the Phillips Academy at Andover, and then matriculated through Yale, his father’s alma mater. Later he slogged through law school and busted his chops trying to keep the old man happy. He was always disenchanted with his life, but afraid to break from the mold, not to mention all that family money. He dated the right girl at Yale, and eventually married her. Deidre was a debutante more into social climbing than paying attention to her husband. They stayed married for twelve years, ten of which they spent trying to tear each other apart. Somehow, during a momentary lapse, they had produced a child. Annabella was now four years old. Shortly after the infant’s birth, her mother had an epiphany. She wasn’t cut out to be a nurturer, and she certainly wasn’t cut out to be Charles’ wife. After a generous divorce settlement, she scurried off to Europe and was now living with a ski instructor in Gstaad, Switzerland.
The second wife had been a model. No way was she going to ruin her figure with childbirth, so that was a relief. Charles certainly didn’t want anymore rug rats underfoot. The model quickly became disenchanted with her “boring” husband and divorced him in record time. This go-around he was savvier, and a prenup agreement prevented her from taking him to the cleaners. However, Charles Cameron Wentworth III was still saddled with little Annabella, now asleep in the snazzy Jaguar’s back seat. Yeah, that car seat was a real buzzkill when he dated women. It just seemed incongruous with a vanity license plate that said “SWAGG’R.”
The pompous lawyer really didn’t relish the role of parent, and relegated the child’s care to a revolving door of nannies. This morning, the latest one had called to tell him, in her fractured English, that she couldn’t come in to do her job. Lord, couldn’t these people learn to speak the language after they crossed the damn border! So, here he was dragging Annabella to his office. His secretary was going to be doing double duty today keeping her occupied and out of Charles’ hair.
With a sense of egocentric privilege, the lawyer parked in front of his favorite coffee shop. It was a definite “No Parking” zone, but what the hell. If some lowly meter cop ticketed him, he’d just pay the fine. Annabella was deeply asleep and had listed to the side in her car seat. You couldn’t even see her blonde head from the driver’s seat. Charles wasn’t about to lug her into the coffee house. He had noted that his favorite barista was behind the counter this morning—a pretty, naïve college kid from New York University. Mr. Casanova liked to chat her up just to see her look of awe when he let her know how important and powerful he was. So, this morning he simply locked the Jag after leaving the child in the car, and strutted into the busy shop to take his place in line. As he was pushing through the door, a tall, dark-haired man bumped his shoulder and immediately offered an apology.
“Hey, man, sorry about that!”
Charles sent him a dark look and snarled, “Watch where you’re going, Dude!”
He thought no more of the incident until twenty minutes later when he exited the shop, cappuccino in hand, and found only an empty space where his beloved Jag had been parked.
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Annabella wasn’t quite sure what had caused her to awaken. Maybe it was the absence of the lulling motion of a moving car; maybe it was the slamming of the car’s door. She looked around for her father and found that she was alone. That didn’t upset her as much as the fact that her favorite Beanie Baby, a snow-white unicorn that she had named “Sparkle,” had fallen from her grip and now lay on the floor of the vehicle. She really loved “Sparkle” and knew that he was just as upset as she was. He needed her to hold and cuddle him because they were never separated from one another. She had to rescue him before he really got scared!
Annabella knew how to get out of her car seat. It was easy for little fingers to push the latch to release the straps. The rule was that you never, ever got out of your car seat when the car was moving. But it wasn’t moving now, so she really wasn’t being naughty. Four-year-olds are as lithe as eels, and she easily shimmied down between the seats. She gathered her furry little pet into her arms and rocked him soothingly. All that accomplished was making her so relaxed and contented that she quickly nodded off again on the car’s plush carpeting. The Jaguar soon resumed its journey, and the hypnotic motion sent her deeper into a child’s fantasy dreamland.
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Neal Caffrey, thief and con man extraordinaire, had come into Manhattan early because it was going to be a very busy, and hopefully, very profitable morning. He had dressed carefully in a conservative, well-cut, three-piece suit to look the part of a successful broker representing a discriminating client. Actually, he was really representing himself when he showed up at a very high-end rare coin shop on 47th Street. Mozzie’s clandestine sources had passed along information that the establishment had just recently come into possession of a 1913 Liberty Head nickel. Back in the day, that little piece of change had been minted without the approval of the U.S. Mint, which had switched the five-cent piece’s design from that of Lady Liberty to the profile of a Native American. Only five had made their way into the public domain, and it was said to be valued at almost $3.7 million.
Neal had studied every picture of the coin that was available, and painstakingly replicated it using lead. The newly minted doppelganger was now nestled in his pocket, and he hoped to make the slight-of-hand swap during his appointment today. Everything went according to plan; the owner had been temporarily distracted by Neal’s impromptu coughing spell that necessitated a glass of water that was “accidently” spilled. The con man left the shop a few minutes later, promising to meet with his wealthy client and follow up later in the week with the shop owner about a possible sale.
Neal wasn’t worried that his fingerprints would be found after the theft was discovered. Both he and the numismatist had examined the piece while wearing cotton gloves. However, he knew that his face had been captured on the shop’s camera, and the authorities could then track him on street cams. So, as quickly as possible, he descended the nearest subway stairs and hopped on a train heading downtown. He exited near Wall Street and sauntered into the first coffee shop that he saw. Police walking their beat certainly wouldn’t get suspicious of a well-dressed man on Wall Street casually sipping an expresso before work.
He spent a half-hour simply people watching when Fate tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a nudge. He astutely observed an entitled jerk pull up right in front of the glass windows like he owned the keys to the city. Neal had to admit that the guy had a sweet ride, and it couldn’t have been better timing because the con man/thief knew that he had to get out of the city as soon as possible. This vision in sleek silver and chrome sure beat public transportation or renting a car. He knew that he was acting on an impulsive whim, but he couldn’t help himself. It was meant to be!
His nimble fingers again performed their magic, and the guy’s keys found their way into his pocket beside the valuable coin. There was a long line of customers waiting to place their orders, so Neal would have a bit of a head start. Settling himself into the plush seat, he bent down and quickly disabled the car’s LoJack system and tossed the round tracker from the keyring into the street. Finally, he buckled in and headed toward the Holland Tunnel at a sedate pace. That egress from the island would take him over to Jersey City where his temporary safe house was located in a quiet little residential neighborhood mostly populated by senior citizens.
Neal was pretty sure that New York’s “Finest”—those proud men in blue who pledged to serve and protect—wouldn’t place auto theft very high on their list of life-threatening priorities. The owner of the missing car would most likely be instructed to come down to the precinct house to file a report. That would entail lots of red tape, and by the time anything was acted upon, Neal would be long gone. He had a livery pickup scheduled for the next night to take him to the international terminal of the airport. Once across the pond, he would be staying in a pied a terre in Denmark until Mozzie finished some business abroad and could join him.
As he had hoped, the Jaguar handled like a dream, with all those powerful horses under the hood purring like contented kittens. Forcing himself to use restraint, he was careful to drive the speed limit, finally turning into the quiet little tree-lined street. Ultimately, he pulled into the driveway of a modest 1940’s bungalow with an attached garage. Once the garage door had descended on its track, it triggered a fluorescent light in the dark confines of the enclosure. The warm car engine was softly ticking in cool-down mode when, suddenly, a small face, amidst a cloud of blonde ringlets, loomed up in the rearview mirror. Neal startled so abruptly that his body surged upward causing his head to make contact with the roof of the classy sedan. This unexpected apparition stared at him for a moment with big blue eyes, and then timidly ducked back down from sight.