Written for a prompt in a White Collar community at LiveJournal: "June gets back in the game." Two-part.
Act I.
Peter, Neal, June.
Neal's apartment; late in the afternoon of a cold winter day. Orbs of golden light around the wall lamps fill the room with a warm glow. Outside, the sky is dark and grumbling; the wind bangs on the glass doors of the balcony.
Seated at the table are Neal and Peter, a bottle of wine and two glasses before them. They're discussing a case they've taken on just a few hours ago: a particular fence the FBI has been tracking for almost a year has recently resurfaced in New York. The man's name is Benjamin Lenart; a black market arts dealer who works alone. He's smart, evasive and good at covering his tracks.
Neal looks tired; Peter, awake and focused, the way he always gets when he's caught up on a case. He's frowning as he stares unseeing at the half-finished painting on Neal's easel, his chin rested on his hand.
"Alright," he muses thoughtfully. "What's the way to go if you want to draw out a particular fence?"
"Force him to make a sell that we can track," Neal obediently supplies.
"And we have the advantage; we know Lenart's got two sixteenth century hand-mirrors and an emerald-cocked hairpin that the Interpol has recently flagged."
"We spread the word that the feds know about the smuggled items; he'll get spooked and try to sell them to the first eligible buyer."
"Then all we need is your 'street contacts'," –Peter throws Neal a meaningful look- "and, of course, someone to go undercover as the eligible buyer."
Neal sighs as though he's suffering. "You have anyone in mind?"
"Obviously you can't be the buyer," Peter asserts, waving his hand, "we need you to verify the authenticity of the items, soyou will be the art expert."
Neal rolls his eyes, sitting back in his chair. Peter cocks an eyebrow.
"What; too boring for you, Caffrey?"
"No, not at all," Neal says, shaking his head. "It keeps getting more and more interesting every time I play the art expert. I just love it; it's always so fulfilling to have the chance to pour something from myself into the character, you know. The man behind it, Peter Burke- man, he did such a good job with the casting, and I'm just so grateful to get the chance to work with him—"
"Alright, Brad Pitt," Peter cuts him off, amusement on his face, "I get the picture."
"But do you get the big picture, Peter? The motion picture- because sooner or later this character will have to be made into a movie-"
"Seriously, Neal. Enough."
Neal closes his mouth shut and moves his hand from one side to the other as though zipping it.
There's a knock on the door, and June walks in. She smiles at them, holds up a hand to tell Neal not to bother, and gestures towards the big bookcase. Neal nods, and he and Peter continue discussing who to send undercover as an interested party. They're taking it lightly, keep getting diverted from the subject, but always coming back to it.
At some point, Neal mentions that they'll also need the proper setting for the sting. That's when June joins the conversation. She's already by the door, holding a few books in her arms.
"Why don't you bring this man here?" she suggests, as though it should have been the first thing they've thought of. Peter and Neal exchange surprised looks.
"Here?"
"Sure," June says, shrugging. "I could always take the part of the rich lady with an interest in rare artifacts." She sounds like she's merely offering Neal to use the balcony for throwing a party.
"June, this could be dangerous," Neal says after a pause. June looks to Peter.
"Is this Lenart man violent?"
"Not as far as we know," Peter replies, ignoring Neal's glare.
"Well, then," June puts, as though the conversation is over, "what is life without a little excitement?"
But neither Peter nor Neal looks as ready to accept. "I don't know…" Peter muses uncertainly.
"Well, I wouldn't want to insist," June revokes politely. But Peter is gripped; they talk about it for a few minutes and it doesn't take too long for Peter to be convinced that June's offer is too good to be turned down. He tells her they'll talk about the specifics tomorrow, June nods and rises to leave. Neal, however, looks unsure.
He asks her if she's sure she's up for this. June tell him she won't that as an offence.
She turns, walks out, and pulls the door behind her back.
/
Act II.
June, Neal, Benjamin Lenart.
June's house, the next day, eleven o'clock. The curtain is about to rise. Her hand on the doorknob, June allows herself one brief moment to take a deep breath. (It has been years, so many years since she's last done something like this, but it feels exactly the same. The thrill of anticipation buzzes within her like an electric wire; a slight tingle in her fingertips, and the metal of the doorknob is ice cold against her skin. The sweet shot of adrenaline is gently tossing against her mind, blurring the edges of her conscious, preparing her for what running a con requires. She'll loosen up enough to go with it, and be alert all the time.
Doing this again, right now, feels like switching on the attic light and seeing the cloud of dust floating about the light bulb.)
Steeling herself, June twists the knob and pulls the door open.
/
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Fey?"
The man standing outside the door is tall and impressive at the first glance; a long black coat hangs from broad shoulders, giving him a both charismatic and mysterious look. A hard-set jaw, long, straight nose and grey eyes make for a cold handsomeness. He holds a leather briefcase in one hand, and a recently closed umbrella in the other that's dripping rainwater onto the doorstep.
"Mr. Lenart, I presume," June says with her usual grace, "Come in."
"Thank you," Lenart returns, stepping inside and leaving his umbrella on the stand next to the door. June turns and gestures for him to follow.
"You'll have to excuse me; I'm afraid I do not have too much time for business today. I'm expecting some guests, so I hope we can make this quick."
"Of couse, ma'am," Lenart returns easily. June leads her to the study; they walk in, and right on cue, Neal rises from a high-ended armchair in one of Byron's well-fitting suits and thin-framed glasses that complete the look of an art expert. He wears the expression of a bored man who's losing time because of a late meeting.
"Mr. Lenart; Victor Wright," June introduces. "Mr. Wright is an expert on Middle Eastern material culture; he was kind enough not to turn me down and be present today."
Neal and Lenart tightly shake hands as June sits behind the big, walnut-tree desk, puts on her glasses and folds her hands.
"Alright. Mr. Lenart, I believe you're here to show me some pieces."
"Yes, ma'am. If I may."
Lenart approaches with two long strides, leaves the briefcase on the coffee table and flicks the lid open with a slick move. He's carefully practiced, like a man who's been doing this for a long time. Neal walks closer as Lenart lifts the open briefcase and places it on the desk, revealing the contents to 'Mrs. Fey's' expectant eyes.
"Here they are," he presents, "two fifteenth century china teacups from Hussein Baiqara's palace, and Ali Shir Nevâi's own set of pen-cases and ink bottle."
Teacups from where?
June frowns as she leans towards the briefcase and observes the display. What she's seeing are definitely not what Peter has showed her and Neal in a photograph; there's supposed to be hand mirrors and a hairpin, not teacups or pen-cases with ink bottles.
Without a word, she looks up at Neal.
"Mr. Wright. What do you make of these?"
(The shadow of worry is threatening to materialize somewhere in her heart as Neal leans forward and carefully removes one of the teacups from its niche. Lenart was supposed to bring them items that the FBI has proof that are illegally obtained; without them, for all she knows, she may end up having to actually buy these pieces and let the man walk free.)
It doesn't take long for Neal to make a discontented grunt. He carries the china cup back and leaves it down without any of the delicacy he's lifted it with.
"These are fakes," he declares, his voice steely.
Lenart, however, looks perfectly self-assured. "They indeed are," he confirms. June takes a breath to ask what does that mean, but Lenart continues to speak. "Where did you say you were employed, Mr. Wright?"
Neal's narrowed gaze pierce throuh Lenart. "Metropolitan Museum of Art," he replies, leaving no room for debate. "Four years last month."
"Ah, then it is possible we may have met before," Lenart suggests, "because you look rather familiar."
"Do I?" Neal looks searchingly at Lenart's features for a few seconds, and shakes his head. "No, I have perfect recall. I don't think we've met."
"Of course, I may be mistaken," Lenart relents. "But allow me to congratulate you, Mr. Wright. Those are pretty high-quality forgeries; it would take a real expert to distinguish them from the real articles."
"They're good," Neal agrees, throwing a look at the items on the desk, "but they're not works of art."
Lenart's lips quirk. "You classify good forgeries as works of art?"
"I'm an art expert," Neal puts stoically. "That a man can't sign his own handiwork doesn't mean it doesn't deserve appreciation. But that's hardly what we should be discussing, is it?"
"No, it most definitely isn't," June interrupts angrily as she pushes herself up from the desk. She glares at Lenart from above her glasses. "Mr. Lenart, will you care to explain why you've brought me forgeries? I thought you had exquisite pieces. Real ones."
Lenart immediately turns to her. "You'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Fey," he says, not unkindly. "It's a necessary precaution. Your generous donations to museums and art societies and your astounding private collection are well-known, but I have a habit of making sure my clients' art consultants are just as trustworthy."
"But why would you want to test my art expert?" June questions, eyebrows raised in confusion. Lenart smiles again.
"Let's say that it's an extra service I provide for my clients."
"Which indicates you assume your clients may not be working with real experts," Neal asserts in his smoky undertone. His eyes are watchful of Lenart's every move. "You have trust issues?"
"Well," Lenart shrugs humbly, "who doesn't? But you know to take the extra mile if you've met Neal Caffrey once."
And before either of them can comprehend what's happening, Lenart has a gun in his hand, and it's pointed at Neal.