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Neal Caffrey wasn't a hard man to track, especially when he wasn't trying too hard to disappear. Long gone where the days when Peter had to figure out cryptic clues only to discover Neal had managed to once again evade his reach. Nowadays Peter knew exactly where Neal lived, and when he needed to catch up with him, all he needed to do was put a man on his tail.
Peter had put one of his probies on Caffrey that morning, so he knew exactly where to find him. The (former) criminal was sitting at a sidewalk cafe, head buried in a newspaper.
"Morning, Neal."
"Agent Burke!" Neal looked up from his paper with a quick smile. "It must be a Thursday."
Peter nodded towards the table. "Mind if I sit down?"
"Of course not." Neal gestured nobly towards an empty chair. "I always love chatting with the FBI." Truth was, he did enjoy meeting up with Peter.
"I'm sure."
Peter decided to skip the chitchat this morning, and instead produced a picture from his jacket pocket. "Do you know this man?"
Neal reached over to take the picture, studying it for a full minute before he looked up at Peter. "No. Should I?"
"Rumor has it you've been seen meeting with him."
"Hm." Neal took another look at the picture, then handed it back. "One of your snitches, uh? You know you shouldn't believe everything you hear, Peter."
"His name is Carlos Garcia. He's a Colombian fence, known for his interest in high-end items." Peter paused to emphasize his next words. "Stolen items."
Neal shrugged that off, and returned to his paper. "Well, there you go. Since I don't steal, I guess your source must be wrong."
Peter looked at him for a long moment. "Anyway. Coincidentally, the Sotheby's Auction was hit last week, and that job had your fingerprints all over it."
Neal glanced back up. "Not literally, I hope. That wouldn't be like me at all, would it? And, as much as I'd love to take credit for that one, I was in Paris last week. See?" he brushed the lapels of his jacket, "I even picked up a new suit while I was there."
Peter could taste the disappointment. Putting all the pieces together, he'd been pretty sure he'd get Neal this time. "I'd like to see your passport and tickets."
Neal grinned at him. "Sure, but you'll have to wait in line. The fine officers of the NYPD asked for them first." The FBI were by the far not the only law enforcement agency constantly on his tail.
"Sir." A waiter showed up by their table, and put a coffee down in front of Neal.
Neal smiled his thanks. Catching Peter's stare he raised a finger. "Can you please bring another one for my friend here? My treat."
Peter's gaze moved between Neal and the waiter. "Oh, no, that's not necessary."
"It's good coffee. Better than that swill they give you downtown." Neal had had the pleasure of tasting Fed coffee. It wasn't anything to write home about.
Peter turned to the waiter, more firmly this time. "Thank you, but no."
Neal sipped his coffee, waiting till the waiter was gone before speaking. "You think I'm trying to bribe you."
Peter raised a hand. "No, I'm not, Neal."
"Peter. Good coffee is not a bribe."
"Nonetheless."
Neal gave Peter a calculating look. "Besides, if I'd want to bribe you, I'd do a much better job than just buying you a cup of coffee."
"Ok, Neal-"
"Yeah. I could double your salary, Peter."
"Neal, don't." Offering a bribe to a Federal officer was a Federal crime. And he now had Neal on tape doing it.
"Whatever the Feds are giving you, I'll pay you twice that amount. You could get a decent suit, buy a normal car, redo your house, take that beautiful wife of yours on the vacation she deserves. Think about it, Peter."
"Neal.."
"What?"
"You realize you're committing a felony?"
Neal placed his cup down, then put his hands out, wrists together "You're going to arrest me?"
Peter sighed. "I wouldn't have to if you wouldn't be so intent on breaking the law."
Neal snorted. "Right. The police have it in for me, Peter. You have it in for me."
"No, Neal-"
"Couple of weeks ago the police picked me up because they got a tip from one of their informants. I was in a holding cell for five hours, Peter. Five hours. With gangbangers and pimps and drug dealers. They had no evidence against me, of course, they had to let me go, but they knew that when they picked me up."
"OK, I realize you're having a hard time, Neal."
"Hard time? I will never get that stench out of that suit, Peter. Who's going to compensate me for that, uh?"
"So why don't you move somewhere else? Start over?"
"I'm not going to let the police run me out of town. This is my home, Peter."
"Hm." Peter shook his head. "I think you're staying around because you enjoy the challenge."
Neal glanced over at him.
"Because you enjoy running your cons and your heists right under our noses. It's much more exciting."
"That's an interesting theory, Peter. But if you're thinking of turning into a psychologist full time, I'd suggest you keep your day job."
"What about your day job?"
Neal shrugged. "Are you my career counselor too?"
"You want me to believe you've changed?" Peter waved a hand around, "You have no obvious means of income, and yet you spend your days in cafes, wear expensive suits. You've got a penthouse on Central Park, for chrissakes. You expect me to believe you've left your past life behind?"
Neal raised an eyebrow. "I'll have you know my grandmama was a very wealthy woman, Agent Burke. Poor woman passed away a year ago. And I was her favorite grandson. Her only one, actually," he mused.
"And you have her will, I suppose?"
"Give me a couple of days, I'll send it over."
"I'm sure." Peter sighed, getting up. "Don't think I won't check into your Paris story."
Neal smiled, already returning to his paper. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Peter just shook his head. It was frustrating. He'd so much hoped that Neal would straighten out after his jail stint. As if. For now Neal managed to stay one step ahead of the law, but one day he would trip, like all other criminals, and when he did, Peter would be there, waiting for him.
And yet, he didn't expect it to happen so soon.
*****
Peter had been working on the Laroque case for close to eight months now. John Laroque was a highly visible socialite. He filled the gossip pages. People fought over invites to his parties. And on the side, he preyed on people looking to join the social elite, 'helping' them acquire instant art collections with which they could show off. Peter had first come across him when the NYPD arrested a man in possession of stolen loot. He'd since picked up two more similar cases. Laroque kept his hands clean while he used his marks to do his dirty work.
Peter had worked hard to set up the sting. He met Laroque while posing as Peter Billings, a rancher from upstate who'd recently made money off land speculation. A man not yet fully comfortable with the money he'd suddenly come into. He showed interest in acquiring anything which smelled of old money and let Laroque nurture a relationship. He was getting close, he could feel it. Laroque had promised him he'd get him in touch with people who could get him real art. The type they display in museums.
Which was how Peter got to finally be invited to one of Laroque's famous parties. For all the hype, he would have preferred to stay home and watch a game.
But, instead, he was walking around with Laroque, who stopped at every turn to greet his guests and urge them to have more food and drink.
"You've got to meet Nick. The Uffizi Gallery job I told you about?" he glanced at Peter, who nodded. "All him."
"You're kidding."
"I tell you, this guy is amazing. And he can get you anything you want, for the right price." Laroque tapped a man's shoulder. "Nick, meet Peter. Peter, this is Nick, an old friend of mine."
The man turned around, and Peter found himself looking at a man he knew all too well. Neal Caffrey.
Peter swallowed hard. Caffrey would ID him as a Fed and eight months of intensive work will go down the drain.
Begonias. The 'everything just went to hell in a handbasket' phrase was 'Begonias'. It had sounded like a good idea when Peter was surveying the grounds before the operation begun, but now he couldn't think of one sentence with that word which wouldn't sound extremely suspicious.
To hell with it. He was about to ask whether begonias were now in season when Neal smiled widely, and offered his hand. "Peter, nice to meet you."
"Peter here is interested in some Renaissance pieces," Laroque added.
Neal considered Peter with a quiet smile. "Renaissance. Really."
Peter could still feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. What game was Caffrey playing? "Yes."
Laroque clapped Neal on his back. "This guy here. I tell you, he had the Feds chasing him for three years, and when they finally caught him, they couldn't prove anything."
"Well-" Neal cleared his throat.
"Almost nothing. Don't be so modest, Nick. He's been running circles around the police, the Feds, everybody. You heard about the Sotheby's hit two weeks ago?"
Peter was about to nod, but Neal broke in first, his smile never wavering. "-Which has nothing to do with Renaissance art."
"Right. Well, if you want Renaissance, Nick's the go-to man." Laroque chuckled. "I'll leave you two alone. I'd guess you've got some business to discuss," he gave Peter a meaningful glance.
Neal sipped his wine as Laroque moved over to another group. "So.. what are you doing here, Peter? I have to assume you didn't suddenly develop an interest in redecorating your house."
"Neal."
"It's Nick."
"Right. Nick." Peter glanced over at Laroque, making sure he was out of earshot. "I could ask you the same question."
Neal shook his head with a quiet laugh. "You're here to raid the party?"
Peter couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "Neal, why are you hanging around with this guy?"
"He throws great parties." Neal finished his wine and put the glass down on the tray of a passing waiter. "Any more questions?"
"So.. the Sotheby's job.."
"Don't believe everything you hear, Peter." Neal produced a business card. "Here. So your friend over there will think we're doing business."
Peter took it. It simply said "Neal Caffrey" with a phone number. By the time he looked up, Neal had disappeared.
*****
The next day Peter found Neal in his usual morning spot - a sidewalk cafe, sipping his coffee and watching the crowds of passers-by.
Neal watched Peter suspiciously as the agent approached, but put on a smile as peter got closer. "Peter! Still interested in Renaissance art?"
"I'm only here to talk. No wires, OK?" Peter lifted his hands up to show he's unarmed. "Off-duty."
Neal snorted. "I didn't realize Peter Burke ever goes off duty."
Peter smiled at that as he sat down. "Something's been bothering me since last night. You didn't blow my cover."
Neal looked at Peter in surprise. "And that bothers you?"
Peter opened his mouth to answer, but came up with only one word. "Why?"
Neal sighed. "Laroque doesn't like cops."
"Yeah?"
"He knew you were a Fed," Neal pointed a finger at Peter, mimicking a gun, "you'd be dead before your minions outside could rush in to save you."
"So what, I owe you my life?"
"In another time and place, your life will be mine," Neal agreed.
Peter chewed it over. Even if Laroque was dangerous, the White Collar team would have probably arrested him before anything serious happened. But obviously Neal thought the danger was real enough, that he kept his mouth shut. He could have made his life a whole lot easier by fingering Peter. "But why do you think he'd resort to murder?"
Neal shrugged. "He once killed a cop."
"Laroque doesn't have a criminal record."
"So?"
Peter leaned forward intently. "You're saying he killed a cop and got away with it?"
"That's your job to find out, isn't it?"
"That's what I'm trying to do. What do you know about it?"
"Nothing."
"But you just said he killed a cop."
Neal held Peter's gaze. "I'm saying you're the detective, go and detect."
"Oh no, you don't." Peter couldn't believe Neal would clam up now.
"What?"
Peter shook his head. "I get it. You don't want your criminal friends to know you're helping out the Feds. Bad for business."
Neal's eyes flashed. "I don't need to worry, because I'm not helping out the Feds."
Peter considered Neal for a long moment, then he got to his feet and produced handcuffs. "Neal Caffrey, you're under arrest."
"For WHAT!?" Neal spluttered.
Peter clapped the cuffs over Neal's hands. "For obstructing a murder investigation."
"You can't be serious."
Chairs were pushed back around them as people turned to look, a wave of whispers washing over the small cafe. Peter raised a calming hand. "It's OK, everybody. There's nothing to see here." Then, back to Neal. "Let's go." Grabbing Neal's arm, he hauled the younger man to his feet.
"Wait. I didn't pay my bill yet."
No way was Peter going to let Neal try any of his tricks here. Instead, he reached for his own wallet. He dropped a dollar bill on the table, and after a moment's hesitation dropped another one.
Neal looked at him in shock. "I hope that's your tip."
"What do you mean?"
Still cuffed, Neal reached for Peter's wallet, and took out another two tens, dropping the bills on the table.
Now it was Peter's turn to be shocked. "You must be kidding me. It's coffee."
"It's premium coffee. Worth its weight in gold. And I had a danish too."
"Unbelievable." Peter grabbed Neal's arm. "Come on."
*****
Sitting in the back of Peter's car, it didn't take Neal long to realize they weren't going downtown. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere we can talk," Peter replied. He'd arrested Neal on impulse, but now he wasn't sure what to do. Putting Neal in an interrogation room wasn't going to do any good at this point. And so instead, he headed for the safest place he could think. Home.
The rest of the drive passed by in silence. Finally Peter pulled up outside his brownstone. He got Neal out of the car and uncuffed him. he needed Neal to help him of his own accord, and he needed Neal to trust him. Both not easy tasks at the moment.
"Look, I realize you don't want to help the Feds, you made that perfectly clear." Peter ran a hand through his hair, "You don't want to talk, that's fine. You're free to go."
Neal rubbed his wrists. "You brought me all the way out here to tell me that?"
"I just.." Peter took a deep breath. "I'm going to bring Laroque down. When I do, he'll bring you, and all your other party friends down with him. And then he'll use this dead cop as his 'get out of jail' card and walk. Do you understand me?"
Neal didn't reply. Peter had no idea whether he was reaching the guy. "Nobody knows you're here, and I swear nobody will."
"I'm not one of your snitches, Peter."
"No, you're not. Now, you want to stand here while Laroque gets away with murder?"
"You didn't Mirandize me," Neal pointed out.
"That's right." This wasn't an interrogation, and he wanted Neal to speak freely. "So, since we're here, you want to come in? At the least, I owe you a drink."
It was really more curiosity than anything else that led Neal to agree.
*****
The house was empty when they entered, but it had a comfortable feel to it. Neal looked around, taking in the dog-bitten furniture, the cheap reproductions on the walls. "Homie." So this was the place Agent Peter Burke called home.
Peter wondered if he hadn't made a mistake bringing a criminal into his home. As non-violent as he was, Neal still didn't care much for private property, and Peter hadn't asked El about it first. He was quite glad that she wasn't there. Swallowing down his doubts he led the way into the kitchen. "You want a cold one?"
"Cold what?" Neal was still looking around.
Peter popped his head out of the fridge, holding a can in hand. "Beer."
"I'll pass."
"Fine." Peter pointed over to the small kitchen table. "Have a seat. How did you get involved with this Laroque anyway?"
Neal settled himself into one of the chairs. "I met him back when you were chasing me. He helped me out, and I helped him."
"I thought you stayed away from guys like that." Peter joined Neal with his beer and laptop.
"Yeah, well, I guess you thought wrong." It annoyed Neal sometimes that Peter thought he knew him through and through.
Peter didn't believe that, but he let that pass. "So what's the story with the cop?"
Seeing Neal hesitate he pushed further. "You already told me half the story, right?"
"There's not much to tell, really." Neal cleared his throat. "Story goes that Laroque was stopped by a traffic cop upstate, coming back from a heist. His car was filled with stolen artwork. Long story short, the cop's buried together with the art. Where no one will find him."
Peter had brought over his beer and laptop and was already accessing the FBI database. "How long ago was this?"
"Ten, eleven years ago, at least."
"Let's see.." Peter typed away, inputting the parameters of the search. He looked over at Neal as the computer worked away. He had so many things he wanted to ask, but was afraid to. Afraid to ask, afraid of the answers he might get. Finally he turned his attention back to the laptop. "Here we go. Sean Gale, State Trooper, disappeared in 2000. Last seen leaving his house, on his way to work."
"So he was off duty?"
Peter gave Neal a wry look. "Cops never go off duty, right?"
"Yeah."
Peter had continued reading up on the case, his face registering his disgust. "His son was five when he disappeared. Kid grew up without a father."
"It's not always a bad thing," Neal muttered to himself.
Peter turned sharply towards Neal, but the retort on his lips died down when he saw the look on Neal's face. Neal wasn't just being his flippant self. Peter didn't know much about Neal's past. Didn't know anything, really. He would have loved to explore further, but he had somehow managed to get the kid to help him out, and he was afraid to lose Neal if he said the wrong thing. Instead he turned back to his computer. "Right. So, you're saying Laroque was coming back from a heist."
Neal nodded. "So the story goes."
Finding out which heist wasn't difficult, now that Peter had a date and general area to search. There was only one robbery that fit all the parameters: an art gallery in Rochester. The loot included at least 30 pieces of Modernist art. Most didn't seem to be worth much, either. Peter couldn't believe that this had cost a man his life.
"If he thinks somebody got to his stash, he'll go check it out. If we catch him with the stash and the body.." Peter would have his case all tied up nicely in a neat bow. No way Laroque could wriggle out of that one.
"He'd been selling off items from that job, one every few years or so." Neal reached over to turn the computer so he could see the information on the screen. "He'll be keeping the big ticket items for last, letting the heat die down as much as possible."
"Big ticket." Peter glanced at the list. "That would be-?"
"The Picasso, for example," Neal tapped a finger on the screen.
A quick search showed that the Picasso had never made it to market, as far as the FBI knew.
Peter considered his options. Assuming that Neal was right, he could have his CIs put out the word that the Picasso had been retrieved. Laroque might get concerned about rumors, but it would be too easy for him to discover they were only rumors. Peter needed a real piece to float on the market. Real enough to pass the test. He turned to Neal, who was staring thoughtfully at the computer. "How do you feel about forging a Picasso, legally?"
Neal smiled. "Where's the fun in that?"
"I'll pay for your materials." Peter wasn't sure Neal cared so much about that. "And you'll be helping catch a murderer who's been evading the police for thirteen years."
"OK, Peter, I'm not doing jobs for the FBI." He didn't want to think what Mozzie would say if he knew he was sitting in a Suit's kitchen, chatting away about crimes and criminals.
Peter held Neal's gaze. "Neal. I'll owe you one."
Neal grinned. "Now you're talking."
***** Epilogue *****
Having provided the painting Peter had requested, Neal hadn't heard back from the agent, and didn't really expect to. But about two weeks later, he opened his door one morning to get his paper, and discovered a tray outside. The headlines that morning shouted out that the FBI had managed to crack a missing man case after thirteen years, local playboy arrested for being involved. Somehow, Neal didn't feel guilty at all.
The tray included a plate of homemade cookies and an ice bucket with a beer can. A little note attached said that the 'Cookies are homemade, worth their weight in gold." Neal turned it over, the other side had another note: "p.s. If you ever want to talk, my door's always open." There was also an envelope there with two IOUs. Unsigned.
Neal put the beer can in his display cabinet. If anybody asked, he'd say it was his idea of Modernist art.