Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar. Nor Burn Notice for that matter.
"Today's lucky winner is Aleksandr Morozov," Peter Burke said, slapping a picture down on the conference room table.
Neal Caffrey took a minute to examine the slightly blurry profile of a man stepping out of a café. Captured by a telephoto lens of some kind, it was obvious that the man was unaware his picture was being taken. Heavyset and frumpy, he was dressed in what looked to be Salvation Army cast offs and was walking a similarly scruffy dog. It was an outfit crafted to make the wearer invisible, but Neal knew that hidden beneath the slouching grey cap and holey overcoat was a dangerous master of his craft.
"Scary guy," Neal said, serious for once.
"You know him?" asked Peter, picking up his mug of coffee.
"Not personally," said Neal with an expression that revealed how glad he was of this fact. "What did he steal?"
"Degas' The Dance Class, from the Met's 'Impressionism: A Centenary Exhibition'," said Peter, placing a photograph of the painting next to Morozov's picture.
"Good taste," commented Neal, with an approval that Peter didn't like to hear. Peter shot him a look that said clearly Whatever-you're-thinking-don't. "What? I love Degas."
"Is there any artist that you don't love?"
"Dali," said Neal immediately. "Well, only his paintings. His jewels on the other hand—beautiful."
Peter ignored this last comment. Judging by Neal's admiring tone, he had a sinking suspicion that at least one of Dali's jewels had ended up in Neal's possession. "Morozov is a member of St. Petersburg's Tambov gang. His friends are equipped with Kalashnikovs and are smuggling diamonds."
"Mob?" asked Neal.
"Da," confirmed Peter. "What do you know about Morozov, Neal?"
"Only rumors."
"We like rumors."
"In prison…people talk," Neal said, lifting a shoulder, a tell of discomfort. He didn't like to be reminded of jail. "Morozov, he steals for profit—"
"Is there any other kind?" muttered Jones.
"Appreciation of beauty," Neal said a bit sharply.
"Go to a museum," replied Jones.
"Continue, Neal," said Peter, cutting off Neal before he could offer up a retort.
"Generally, whatever Morozov steals ends up on the black market and he sells them to the highest bidder—someone who doesn't mind buying a hot painting."
"A risk taker then," Peter said, writing this characteristic up on the whiteboard that Neal had borrowed from Missing Persons, three floors above them.
"Anyone who tries to steal from the Met is a risk taker," asserted Neal, taking advantage of Peter's turned back to put his feet up on the table.
"Didn't you steal from the Met?" Diana turned to Neal.
"Allegedly," said Neal, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. He grinned comfortably at Jones.
"Allegedly," Peter repeated, and rolled his eyes. "Right."
"What'd you steal?" asked Jones.
"Do not ask him that," snapped Peter, then caught sight of Neal's feet and snapped his fingers. "Off the table."
"Well," drawled Neal, ignoring Peter's demand. "I may or may not have walked off with Sir Richard Westmacott's letters. See, the curator and I—"
"I don't want actual details," said Peter, pushing Neal's feet off the table himself. "I'm having a hard enough time keeping you out of jail as it is."
Neal leaned back in his chair and grinned in response.
"But…if the letters in question end up back at the Met, I'm sure there won't be any questions asked," Peter said, voice heavy with meaning. Diana and Jones exchanged glances. "So...if I'm Morozov, and I have a stolen painting worth millions of dollars, where am I headed?"
Neal's hand shot up and Peter ignored him. "Anybody?"
"Back home?" offered Diana.
"Where Interopl might intercept me?" Peter said. "Not likely. Jones, any theories?"
"Hide out until the pressure's off?"
"Wrong," singsonged Neal.
Jones scowled.
"That's good," Peter countered, writing it up on the whiteboard. "Then maybe he can fence the painting to a suitable buyer."
Neal imitated a buzzer and leapt out of his seat to erase the phrase 'go to ground'. "He's not going to do that."
Peter crossed his arms. "Okay, Neal, what do you think he's going to do?"
"Find a buyer and sell the painting," Neal said in an isn't-it-obvious tone. "The kind of buyer that Morozov caters to isn't going to care that it's stolen. In fact, I bet that this was a commissioned job."
"Someone paid Morozov to steal the painting?" Diana frowned.
Neal pointed his finger at her. "Exactly. You find the buyer, you find the painting."
"And Morozov," added Peter. "Okay, who do we think Morozov would work for?"
"Anyone whose name ends with an –itch or an –ov," Neal said, uncapping a marker and beginning to draw on the whiteboard.
Peter pinched his brow. "Okay, Diana, Jones, go rustle the feathers of the good citizens of Brighton Beach. Find anyone who has a taste for Impressionist art, and get a name."
Jones and Diana stood, gathering jackets and tossing empty coffee cups in the bin before leaving. Peter watched them go, before turning to Neal, who had drawn an unsurprisingly good rendition of the Cathedral of Saint Basil.
"Neal?"
"Yeah?" he replied absently, concentrating on shading in one of the domes. Peter was suddenly and sorely tempted to erase his work, but restrained himself, knowing that Neal would sulk if he did.
"Exactly how well do you know the curator of the Met?"
"Letters, Neal?" Peter said, tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as they waited in heavy traffic. "I would have expected something flashier from you."
Neal looked over him and smirked. "I thought you didn't want details, Peter."
"I don't, but…letters?" Peter made a face.
"Do you know who Sir Richard Westmacott is?"
"No, but I bet you're going to tell me."
"He was Great Britain's most successful official sculptor, producing approximately 275 works during his forty-year career," Neal reeled off with puppy like enthusiasm, reminding Peter of tours that he had taken with Elizabeth. "His greatest sculpture is widely thought to be 'The Progress of Civilization', a pediment for the British Museum. In 1837—"
"Why didn't you just steal one of his statues?" Peter cut in, cutting Neal off mid-spiel.
His train of thought interrupted, Neal briefly looked blank before giving a Peter a rejoining scoff.
"Monuments, Peter. He sculpted monuments. It'd be like trying to steal 'The Apotheosis of Washington'," Neal said, adding for further clarification, "That's the fresco in the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol Building."
"Thank you, Neal, for the history lesson," Peter said irritably. "I know what the 'The Apotheosis of Washington' is."
"You didn't know what a pediment was."
"Moving on…you still didn't tell me exactly how you and the curator met."
"I helped him out of a tight spot once," Neal said vaguely. "He likes me."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Of course he does."
He parked the car on a side street not far from the museum. Neal hopped out, and looked longingly at the bakery a few doors down.
"Can we-?"
"If you behave," said Peter, locking the car. He began striding down the sidewalk. Neal followed, pouting a little.
"You treat me like a little kid sometimes, Peter."
Peter looked back at him impassively, as if to say, Well, if you're going to act like one…
Neal shrugged his hands into his pockets. "Go ahead, give me your lecture. Don't touch anything. Don't even breathe."
"I'm not going to lecture you." Peter hid a smile at Neal's visible sag of relief. "Mostly because it wouldn't make a difference."
"Just say it," Neal said, hitting the crosswalk button. "You don't trust me."
"I do trust you. It's just that you don't travel very far when I throw you."
Neal grinned a little at that. "Touché."
They crossed the street, and began making their way up the long stretch of stairs leading up to the front doors of the Met.
"I need you to do something for me," said Peter.
"Oh?" Neal said, holding open the door for him.
"Get me an 'in' with the curator. Some of these guys…they stonewall so much, you wonder if they even want their art back."
Neal winked at him. "Not a problem."
"Guten tag!"
The joyful exclamation came from a stooped elderly man by the entrance, his voice heavily accented by a thick German accent.
"You've come back!"
Peter smiled. "Looks like I brought the right guy for the job."