Neal Caffery handed Peter a cup of coffee as soon as he walked in the door.
"Peter, please tell me you have a case." He begged as his boss/firend took a sip of the coffee and grimanced.
"This coffee is cold." Peter complained and placed it on Jones desk as he walked by toward his office.
"It was warm when I made it at nine." Neal commented, closing the door behind him and handing today's paper to Peter.
"When you stole a painting..." Neal raised his eye brows at Peter.
"When I allegedly stole a painting." He corrected,
"Fine, allegedly. Whatever. The point is, if you had to steal a painting from a high security bank vault, in the middle of the day, how would you do it?" He asked.
"Didn't we already do this? I went through the basement, up the elevator, faked a visitor's pass, and lifted the guard's keycard." Neal answered.
"No, that was money. This is a painting." Peter pointed out. Neal rolled his eyes.
"What's the difference? I would do the same thing, just with a bigger briefcase."
"Would you ever leave a calling card?" Peter asked.
"If it fit the situation. Why?" Neal was getting more curious by the minute.
"What would it say?" Peter demanded, his voice tight.
"It depends. Why?" Neal asked again.
"We've got a problem." Peter winced.
"Would you please explain to me what is going on!" Neal exclaimed.
"A card was sent to a local bank this morning. By ten past twelve two Vermeers were missing from their vault." Peter explained.
"What does this have to do with me?" He asked.
"The card said, 'Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The clock is ticking. What time will the alarm go off? With love, The Forger.'" Peter read from a card in a small plastic bag.
"I still don't get what it has to do with me." Neal said.
"What did you call yourself in France, Neal?" Peter persisted.
"The..." Neal trailed off.
"They don't really think it was me, do they Peter?" Neal sounded genuinlly worried.
"Look at the script on the card Neal. The signature. The name. It all screams Neal." Peter exclaimed.
"You don't think I did it, do you? Check my anklet."
"I don't know what to think, Neal. Your tracker was off. You were off grid. Black. What I think doesn't really matter anymore, Neal." Peter nodded to the long line of men in black coming out of the elevator and through the glass doors.
"I'm not going back to jail, Peter. I just got out." Neal begged.
"You don't have a choice." Peter said as Neal was taken into custody and dragged on his heals from the FBI building.