"Agent Landry!" I look back over my shoulder. A short, balding man trots toward me. "I'm Joe, from the lab."

I smile at him, just the slightest bit insincere. "I am aware of that." He looks confused for a second until I gesture at the breast pocket of his lab coat, embroidered with his name.

"Oh, yeah." He grins widely. "I just wanted to say, it's a pleasure to be helping with the case. And-And to meet you."

"I beg your pardon?" What on Earth and Heaven is he talking about? I cock my head to the right, raise an eyebrow. Inquisitive, but still acceptable.

"Well, I mean, your father-"

"My father is no longer, how do you say, important. He is of the past. While this-" I gesture with one hand, looking around the brightly lit office. "-this is the future. This is current. Modern." I look back at Joe-from-the-lab. "My father is not."

"Oh." Joe-from-the-lab grins again. "All right. See you later."

"Certainly." I smile faintly, heading for the-my cubicle.

It's nice enough, certainly. Small, but I don't need much space. It'll be nicer if I ever get the chance to put my pictures up… I glance at the bottom drawer of the-my desk, just thinking about the photos that lie in the dark there. The top of my desk is covered in new suspect sheets. There's also a Post-it on my desk- a sequence of numbers. Neal Caffrey's handwriting. '86753', whatever that means. I tuck it into my pocket, just in case.

I can barely hear my phone buzz over the cacophony outside.

'OK let's get the investigation moving again. Latest intelligence on the White Shadow points to an artist's loft here in the city. A Bertrand LeBlanc owns the property. Did some checking, guy is definitely shady. Should have full report back soon. In the meantime, check out loft and see what comes up. Move it!'

Peter Burke. Should be an idol of mine, but the guy's a bit… I don't know, slippery. Has a tendency to go behind the Bureau's back that shouldn't fly. He's just lucky that it does. Him and his pet convict are an example of that.

I grab my coat- how is it colder in New York than in the Alps?- and manage to catch the elevator before it closes.

"You're, ah, Agent Landry?" the man asks. He's medium height, black, shaved head and face, dark gray suit with a light blue tie. Clinton Jones.

"I am," I admit, pulling on the heavy wool coat.

"From Switzerland, right?" I change my phone to vibrate, looking at it rather than him so he won't see me gritting my teeth.

"France," I correct when I can answer politely. "My mother was Romany, French by birth. My father was an American."

"Dual nationality, huh?" No, you moron, I was only accepted to one country. Of course I have dual nationality!

"Yes."

"What's it like in, uh, France?" Is this bubblehead trying to flirt with me?

"Cold." The elevator doors open, and not a moment too soon. I head for my car. Taurus. Ugly as sin, but Bureau-provided. I pause for a second, digging for keys that I realize I don't need. My phone vibrates as I reach for the keypad.

'Maybe you saw, maybe you didn't. I wrote the combo for the car on a yellow sticky note and left it on your desk. Before we go any farther, you need to remember that getting into the mind of a white collar criminal means noticing every detail.'

Neal Caffrey. Pet con-man. I look up at the building. He's standing by the glass wall of Burke's office on the seventh floor. He waves, and I can tell that he's grinning even from this distance. I don't look back as I get in.

I'm halfway there and stuck at a red light when I remember the computer system. Let's have some fun, shall we?

"Change language settings," I order.

"Current language: English. What would you like to change to?"

"French."

"Langue courante: Français. Est-il ce correct?"

"Oui."

I'm already in the apartment when the door opens. I pretend not to notice.

"You move fast, Agent Landry." The convict. I put down my camera and pick up the hotel key, not bothering to look at him.

"Certainly more fast than you, Mister Caffrey."

"I think it's 'faster'." Damn. I was close! "And my name's Neal. Mr. Caffrey was my father."

"Really." I finish my examination and bag the key. "Was he a criminal like his son?"

"Low blow." Caffrey's wincing theatrically as I stand. I wouldn't look at him if I didn't have to- just to annoy him, really- but he's standing right in front of me. "Isn't this where you say Agent Landry is your father?"

"Special Agent Landry was my father," I correct him. "And I would appreciate it if you would let lying dogs sleep." I push a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Annoying you, apparently."

"Yes, you are. However, the question was meant to inquire as to your purpose here."

"Peter sent me." Of course he did. I hold back a dispirited groan. Of course he would realize I disliked his convict, and therefore send him to help. Of course. This is Peter Burke we're talking about, after all.

"Fantastique." I roll my eyes, pulling a spare pair of gloves out of my pocket. "Put these on, and go nowhere that has not been cleared."

"You didn't check for people?" He looks nervous. I manage not to smirk.

"I did, thank you for your confidence." I hold out the gloves, which he takes. "Do not go through any secret doors you may find." I turn away, heading for the radio. "I know your kind is fond of them."

"Hey-"

"Simply- do not do anything stupid. Is that to your liking, Caffrey?"

"Sure." He sounds hurt. I can't tell without looking if he means it or if he's just being theatrical. "Whatcha doing?"

I sit on my heels in front of the table, so that my eyes are on the same level with the radio. "Looking for a secret door," I murmur, hearing him walk up behind me.

"How?"

I press the red 'tune' button with one finger. There's a rumbling noise as the bookcase moves. "Like that."

"What about-" I key in the combination swiftly, before Caffrey can even finish his complaint. "Oh."

The door clicks, unlocked.

"I thought you said not to go anywhere that hadn't been cleared," he half-whines.

"I have a gun," I tell him, testing the handle.

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" The door swings open at my touch.

"Would you like it to be?" I draw my gun. "Stay here until I say it is clear."

He does, surprisingly.

"Safe," I call over my shoulder. He flicks on the lights as he comes in.

"Nice." He's staring at the paintings on the wall.

"Fake," I say.

He gives me a look. "That's a quick assessment."

"It is correct." I don't bother explaining to him.