Summary: With Mozzie out of commission, Neal's strongest link to the criminal world is broken. When a new case comes along that requires all of his usual resources-and then some-can he trust an old accomplice enough to cash in a few favors?
Author's Notes: Well, this is my first (posted) White Collar fic, and I'm really enjoying writing it so far. XD I'm currently working on the second chapter as we speak, and I have the general plotline mapped out in my head. If I manage to finish this, I have a feeling that this will be a fun fic. I'm currently trying to find and work on the major weaknesses of my fictional writing, so bear with me if some scenes or conversations feel a bit stilted or too fast. Let me know if you think the pace is too fast, because I don't mind slowing down. :) Read and review! Remember, if you don't review, I don't know what I do wrong, therefore things don't get better!
Disclaimers: White Collar belongs to Jeff Eastin, because if it was mine, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction - I'd be out writing scripts. Song lyrics for this chapter are from the song Straight Lines by Silverchair.

Wake me up lower the fever
Walking in a straight line
Set me on fire in the evening
Everything will be fine
Waking up strong in the morning
Walking in a straight line
Lately I'm a desperate believer
But walking in a straight line

When a new-looking folder was dropped onto his desk, obscuring the sketchbook that he had been aimlessly doodling in, Neal glanced up with a mildly irritated expression. Seeing that the person that dared invade his drawing session was only Peter, he asked casually, "What's this?"

"Our new case," the agent responded, looking amused. "An art theft ring – I think you'll enjoy this one."

"Oh?"

"Diana and Jones thought of something to make it more interesting for you," Peter said, deliberately being vague.

Neal glared at him, annoyed that he was still completely out of the loop. With the whole debacle that had grown out of the music box and climaxed with an attempted murder, everyone had suddenly gone tight-lipped around the consultant, and losing his most reliable (and sort-of legal) source of information had been a painful blow. "Which is...?" he persisted.

Peter grinned wickedly. "You'll have to wait until the case briefing after lunch to find out. Until then, I stuck a general overview and a photocopy of what's supposed to be a really hard puzzle in the folder there. Time yourself on the puzzle – I have a bet that needs settling."

Neal laughed, with a lighthearted response, "The great Peter Burke, betting? I'm shocked."

The agent deliberately rolled his eyes at the ex-conman before retreating to his office and leaving Neal alone with the new folder. He skimmed the case overview at super-speed, taking brief mental notes as he read. Like he expected, it was considerably more interesting than mortgage fraud, though the overview was rather bland compared to some cases he'd seen in the past. But any case was a welcome distraction from his own thoughts, which had a tendency to circle back to the latest sources of stress in his life: Mozzie, recovering from attempted murder in a private hospital well out of his radius; Alex, always getting caught up in some problem or other; Peter, being Peter; and just life itself. Added to that was the ever-frustrating presence of Fowler, who appeared at the Bureau every so often to speak to Peter and Hughes about something yet to be revealed to Neal.

Determined not to let his anxiety get the best of him, Neal set aside the case overview and glanced at the puzzle. It was a sudoku puzzle, plain, simple child's play, but an amusing challenge nonetheless. Neal pulled out his phone and located the timer function, then, with pencil in hand, started the clock.

Supposed to be really hard? Neal snorted, stopping the timer. I've done much harder sudokus, let alone puzzles in general. Can anyone say ciphers? He glanced at the timer and smirked when he read the display: three minutes, forty-seven seconds, and thirty milliseconds. Cake. Now reduced to boredom again, he returned to doodling in his sketchbook. Somehow, pointless scribbles had gradually become more unified, reaching the point where he found himself sketching out the faces of his past. Kate, first, then others: Mozzie . . . Alex . . . Keller . . . a handful of other accomplices and associates that had cut ties long ago . . . his mother, and step-father . . .

"Found the puzzle too easy, I see," interrupted Peter. Neal's head shot up with a start, though he was careful not to look too surprised. "Forgive my asking, but who were you drawing – aside from the obvious, of course."

Neal smiled faintly as he set down his pencil and leaned back in his chair to gaze at his partner. "Just people – the ones who changed my life in some way, I guess, looking back. Some old friends, mostly: people you wouldn't know or care about. That sort of thing."

Peter, who was leaning on the side of the ex-con artist's desk, pointed to the most recent pair of faces, near the bottom of the sketchbook page. "What about them?"

Neal's smile widened slightly as he said, "My first of two families, I guess. Though my second, surrogate family lasted far longer."

"Lasted? Why the past tense?" Peter knew very well that Neal considered Mozzie and Kate and Alex to be about as close to family as they could be – after all, it was difficult to see their dysfunctional group as anything else.

"Kate's gone, and Moz almost joined her. And Alex... is being Alex," the ex-conman responded absently, focused on the sketchbook again. As he quickly sketched out a new pair of faces, he continued, "But maybe I have a third family..."

When Neal moved his hand, Peter easily recognized himself and El – as if he needed further indication of the younger man's considerable skill. He smiled, and opened his mouth to speak, but was abruptly cut of by Neal, who slammed the cover of the sketchbook on top of the page. "Lunchtime," Neal announced, standing up quickly and smoothly. "I was going to visit that new place around the corner – care to join me?"

"No thanks, Neal," Peter said. "Plans with El – but maybe some other time."

Neal smiled widely, and as he flipped his hat onto his head, he remarked, "See you after lunch, Peter."

Peter watched the ex-con artist stride out through the glass doors, frozen temporarily in place. One moment thoughtful, almost letting his guard down, and the next up and out the door like nothing ever happened – no doubt about it, Neal could be the most confusing and frustrating person in existence. Peter chuckled softly to himself, finally moving towards the doors at a leisurely pace. Yes, Neal was excellent at sending frustratingly mixed signals, but he was also brilliant, and Peter was reasonably sure that they would both need every bit of that brilliance to help solve this case.

The new cafe turned out to be a nice enough place, with half-decent food and a comfortable atmosphere despite being crowded, too crowded for Neal's tastes. But the coffee was better than the slop at the Bureau, and that automatically won the place ten brownie points in Neal's mind. His food and coffee half-finished, he was mentally composing a restaurant review when he was suddenly distracted by someone unfamiliar sitting down in the chair opposite him, a steaming mug clutched in her hands. After a few moments, he recognized the face, and as realization dawned in his expression, the previously-unfamiliar girl smiled.

"Well, well, if it isn't the one and only Caffrey!" she said, an amused twinkle in her eyes.

He matched her smile with ease. "Rosalind. It's been a few years, hasn't it?"

She laughed and took a sip from her drink, watching him carefully. "Just a few. How many years, now? Five? Six?"

"More like seven, I think," he replied smoothly. "What brings you back to Manhattan, Miss Cooper?"

She shrugged, detaching one hand from her drink to adjust her glasses. "Alex got in touch, told me about Kate and Moz. How have you been?"

Neal brushed off the question with an airy response, "Fine. So you've been talking to Alex?"

If she was irritated by his change of subject, she didn't show it. "The girl is still an expert on finding people that don't feel like being found," she said. "She didn't tell me much, aside from the fact that you've gone fed. That true?"

"It was fed or prison. Wouldn't you rather be walking the streets of Manhattan?"

She smiled and agreed, "True, true. Though I'm sure you've made quite a few enemies this way."

"A few," Neal replied. While they had spoken, he had gradually worked at the remainder of his food, and with his plate now mostly clean, he reached for the bill left by the waiter some time ago. As he stood and counted out the meal, tax, and tip in cash and change, he said, "I'd love to chat longer, Roz, but I have things to do today. Maybe we can chat another time...?"

"Yes, I'd like that," Rosalind replied. She retrieved a pen from a hidden pocket and pulled an unused paper napkin toward her, scribbling a ten-digit phone number on it. "Give me a call, Neal, when you have a spare moment or two." She sipped from her mug for a few seconds, pocketing the pen, while he watched her. She had been writing with her right hand – which, if his memory could be trusted, was not her dominant hand. Neal gave her a questioning look, but she handed him the hastily scrawled note and he restored his trademark smile. Neal adjusted his hat on his head, nodded briefly to her, and left through the front doors, slipping the phone number into a pocket, already neatly folded.

"You're late," Peter observed when Neal entered the conference room. "Care to explain why?"

Neal smiled, just as fake as ever. "I ran into an old friend – I'm only about five minutes late, Peter."

The agent chuckled and handed him a folder, before his expression turned serious. As Neal went to lurk against his favorite wall, reading the previously-withheld information, Peter started his usual new-case spiel. "Over the past six months, we've seen very specific works of art stolen from museums all across the state. After the first few thefts, someone upstate found a link – we're reasonably sure that we have a single group of people with a particular interest in impressionist paintings." He glanced towards Neal, who was still skimming the folder contents, then returned to observing his team's reactions. "We have zero suspects and no leads. We've been handed the case because the latest theft occurred last week here in Manhattan, and sooner or later they'll strike again. We have to catch up to them before that happens. Our main tasks are mapping out this team of thieves, identifying them, and finding their next target before they strike."

"Are we so sure that it's a team and not just one person?" asked one of the younger agents, shooting an obvious glance at Neal, who grinned in response.

Peter nodded and explained, "We've done our research on the past thefts. None of them could possibly have been pulled off by a single person with a couple of accomplices. No, this is a team job, where they share the profits." His gaze traveled to meet Diana's, and he nodded at her with a knowing expression.

She smiled back, then joined the discussion with a confident voice, "Jones and I shared an idea earlier: Caffrey is known among other white-collar criminals, right?" Neal snorted with laughter as she paused briefly. "So, theoretically, he could be picked up by this group, giving us a first-hand source of information."

"You do realize that my name carries a traitorous connotation, right?" Neal said, looking thoroughly amused.

"We all know you have aliases that aren't on file, Neal. Don't tell me that none of them have ever been used for criminal purposes," Peter commented.

Neal grinned widely and consented, "I might. So this means I get to participate in criminal activity without the unhappy prospect of jail time?"

"Within reason," the agent responded firmly. "You and I will discuss that later." Changing subjects, Peter looked towards the same young agent that had spoken up before. "You got a hold of our other CIs like I asked?"

She nodded. "We have two assigned as lookouts, and a third that will be working with an FBI hacker to keep tabs on any suspects we identify. Two retired CIs are on standby if we need them, though if this all works, we won't need them."

Peter glanced around the conference room with a thoughtful expression. "I feel like I've forgotten something," he mused aloud. When no one suggested possibilities, he shrugged to himself and declared, "Start sniffing around, folks. I want a list of possible museum targets before the day is up." The agent busied himself at the head of the conference table with a quick reorganization of his scattered papers, while his team dismissed themselves. Within a few short minutes, Neal and Peter were left alone in the conference room, the former still grinning at the idea of government-sanctioned crime. Peter took one look at the ex-con artist and sighed, "I told you that you'd love this."

"And you were right," Neal agreed. "So – details?"

"No anklet, since it has to be believed that you're one of them. And I'll expect you to keep in touch with both myself and Jones. As for immunity, Hughes is permitting you to forge or steal, but only if asked of you. Anything else – murder, leaving the city, and so on – will result in another day at court. Am I understood?"

Neal nodded, still smiling. "Perfectly. When do we start?"

"Immediately. You have three days to reestablish a criminal reputation," Peter answered. "The techies have already modified our files to say that your work with the FBI lasted six months and that you promptly went off our radar. It's a temporary change, set to expire and revert after a few months. Will that be enough?"

"I can make it work," Neal said with a nod. "Let me guess, you're giving me the watch again?"

Peter smiled knowingly. "Better. The techies have some new things to test out, so you're the guinea pig. Microphones and a tracker that's supposedly impossible to find unless you know where to find it. Stop by the tech department before you leave, since they wouldn't even let me touch them, let alone attempt to explain how they work."

"So long as it isn't the US Marshals and their tracking anklets, I'm not too picky," Neal remarked. "Any particular times you'll want me to check in?"

"Whenever you can," Peter said, "though I'd prefer that you not call and wake me up at two in the morning, personally. Save the two am phone calls for Jones." The agent paused, studying Neal's expression. After a moment: "I know that look."

"What look?" Totally innocent – totally Caffrey.

"That devious glint in your eyes. And you're smiling. That's a pretty worrying combination, knowing you."

"Ah, but do you really know me as well as you think you do?"

"I know you well enough to catch you when you stray too far," Peter retorted with a faint smile. "Don't cause too much trouble."

Neal's grin widened. "Actually, I was thinking of just calling in a few favors and visiting a friend. Can I lose the anklet now?"

Peter sighed, handing over the key. As soon as the anklet was released, he made a point of retrieving the small electronic key and confirmed, "No one planning murder, dismemberment, or revenge, I hope?"

He laughed softly in response. "No, no, she's really a sweet girl, underneath a few thick walls that were a result of childhood. Nothing too serious. It's nice to know that you take such an interest in my associates, though." Neal absentmindedly reached for the phone in his pocket as he finished, "Suddenly, this case has gone from yawn-art-theft to an actual challenge. I like that."