PROLOGUE

Peter had gone upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Neal scouring the files for something to jump out at him. They had gotten a new case this morning, but hadn't found any leads. Elizabeth was out of town so they had agreed to take the case home and eat take out over it. Frustrated, Neal got up to get some water. When he came back, he saw a photo album set on the mantle. He frowned, having not noticed it before. And it was set there as if it wasn't its real resting place. Neal placed his glass down and opened it up. The first page was just one 4" x 6" picture. There were four teenage boys, probably sixteen to eighteen years old. They were all wearing jeans, baseball t-shirts, baseball caps and with converse high tops. It was like something right out of the movie The Sandlot. They were gathered around home plate, each with a glove on them somewhere.

They were squinting into the sun and smiling big, everything in the world was perfect. The caption beneath the photo read: Paul, Andrew, Jimmy, and Peter. Summer 1978. Neal did the math in his head and found that Peter was 15. Neal was just about to flip to the next page when he heard Peter coming downstairs. Neal shut the album and started to put it back up but he wasn't quick enough.

"Watcha doin?"

Neal sighed, because that was Peter's 'I-caught-you' voice. He turned around with the album in hand.

"I saw the album and was just curious," said Neal. "Who are those guys?"

Peter chuckled as he took the album and sat down. "Don't worry Sundance, they aren't coming after you."

He flipped open the album to the first page with the pictures of the boys. Neal drew up his chair alongside Peter's so he could see clearly.

"That's Paul, my older brother," said Peter, pointing to the first boy. Neal could see the resemblance. In the picture he was slightly taller than Peter, but he had the same chin and nose and the same build. But it was obvious that Peter was catching up to his brother in size at the time. The older boy was holding his glove in hand and stood with authority. He was clearly the leader of the four boys.

"I didn't know you had an older brother," said Neal.

Peter chuckled. "What was that line you used on me when I asked you about your dad: 'I thought you knew everything about me'?"

Neal shrugged. "Okay, I did my research on you. I looked into you, but no further back than college. I have a rule: I don't look back into people's childhoods. Most people like to keep them private and it usually doesn't pertain to anything that has to do with whatever I'm working on."

"Your con doesn't have anything to do with their childhood, you mean," said Peter.

"Exactly. So, what about Paul?"

"He was 17 years old when this picture was taken. He had just graduated from high school and his birthday was in a couple of weeks. He's a great guy. He was the best older brother. We were close and he always watched out for me and Anne."

"Anne?"

"Our younger sister. She was two years younger than me. All three of us were close."

"That's nice."

"It was. Especially because times weren't always perfect."

Neal looked at him, expecting some sort of follow up to that statement, but Peter moved onto the next boy in the photo. "That's Andrew Jennings. He was Paul's best friend. He and Paul were like giants in the outfield. Anything that went out there way was theirs." Andrew was a lanky boy and was leaning on his bat like it was a cane. He had his baseball cap turned backwards.

"Where did you grow up?"

"Cayuga Heights, right outside Ithaca and not too far from Cornell. It's built up a lot more now, but it was pretty small then." Peter pointed to the next boy. "That's Jimmy Levi. He was pretty much my best friend and the best short stop I ever knew." Jimmy had longer blonde hair and had the bill of his hat on inside out. He held the bat over his shoulder with his glove hanging off the end of it.

"And there's me."

Peter stood beside Jimmy, his glove on his hand and holding a ball inside of it. His hat was slightly to the side and his stance wide like he was about to throw a pitch.

"Lemme guess," said Neal. "You were a pitcher?"

"You bet," said Peter. "The four of us were on the varsity team together. I was a closer pitcher. A month before this picture was taken we had just won the state championship."

"Nice," said Neal.

"It was nice," said Peter. "It was Paul and Andrew's senior year and it couldn't have ended better. Paul and Andrew each had two homeruns in the game and had made some spectacular plays in the outfield. They both got scholarships to play at Cornell."

"Go any further than that," asked Neal.

"No," said Peter. "My brother went into the Air Force and Andrew became an engineer and still lives in Ithaca."

"So what about you," asked Neal. "I know you went to Cornell. Why didn't you play baseball there?"

"I got injured."

"Oh, sorry," said Neal softly. "Must've been a bummer. What happened?"

Peter sighed. "It's kind of a long story." He looked out over the table where they had case files spread out.

"Oh, come on, Peter," said Neal. "We've been at this case all day. We can wait to get back at it tomorrow. Tell me about it. C'mon, I spent all that night telling you about my past. You should tell me a little about yours."

Peter looked at Neal wearily. "It's not like I got hurt on the field, Neal. I…I got shot."

Neal stared at Peter. "Shot? Are you kidding me?"

Peter shook his head. "Nope. Which is kind of ironic because I've never been shot on the job."

They both knocked on the wooden table.

"So, you got shot," said Neal slowly. "What the hell happened?"

Peter didn't answer right away. "It's a long story. Might take all night."

"I'm quite okay with that."

"Fine," said Peter. He put his hand on the album. "It's all in here."

"In here?" Neal looked at the album. "What did you do, stop and take pictures of what was going on?"

"No, it's newspaper clippings," replied Peter. "The detective in charge of this case had kept all of them while he was working on it. He died a few years ago and his wife sent this to me when she heard I was in the FBI. This case made the detective's career."

Neal was staring at Peter. "You got shot when you were fifteen? You were a part of a case? Peter, you have to tell me this story. There's no going back now."

"Okay," said Peter. "I'll get a beer."

"Um, grab me one too," said Neal as if it were obvious.

Peter returned with two cold beers. They popped them open and Peter turned the page.

The first newspaper clipping read: Local Athletes Witness Drive-by Shooting.