AN: Hello. I've been completely neglecting everything else so I could put together an outline for this! Ah procrastination- the best way to get anything done! So I really enjoy the idea of Neal's dad being dirty and how that affected how he saw the world and his place in it. This is a 'What If' fic that basically revolves around what could have happened if no one ever told Neal his dad was dirty and he went to the academy as planned. The other characters are all effected accordingly. I really like how this first chapter turned out and I hope you will too.

I disclaim- I own nothing except the characters that I create.

Prologue

This day could not get any worse. Alex Hunter stuffed her hands into the soft fur of her jacket pockets and cursed Mozzie. The paranoid little megalomaniac was the only person she knew who would set up a meet in below freezing temperatures outside. The balding thief was somewhere in the area she was sure, making sure she didn't cheat him. Despite the blatant distrust, the fence couldn't be that upset with him- Mozzie didn't trust anyone, didn't care about anyone as far as she knew, so she didn't take it that personally.

That would change if she lost her extremities to frost bite though.

Her buyer was already five minutes late and she was quickly losing her patience. Nothing had gone smoothly today. This morning her landlord had given her notice, informing her that he was kicking her out so his bitch of a wife could give the apartment to her son. Then, some jackass had spilled his coffee on her when she tried to pick his pocket and after all that all he'd had in his wallet was twenty bucks and punch card for a free sandwich. Now her new client wasn't even showing up?

Her mother was right- she should have married Bobby Nuyck and popped out babies in some Chicago suburb. Bobby Nuyck's wife was probably in a Starbucks of her own somewhere, warm with her fat babies and Stepford friends, discussing knitting or someone's divorce. Bobby would never let his wife stand on a dirty New York street corner waiting for some low life to drop a suitcase of cash while a Napoleonic obsessive compulsive skulked in the shadows.

She smiled and shook out of her day dreams as she watched her client finally approach, the moron waving his hand jauntily as he bopped towards her with his suitcase swinging beside him.

On the other hand, Bobby Nuyck's wife was probably two hundred pounds and thought Chicago was the biggest city on Earth. She eyed the approaching suitcase and imagined herself on a beach in Monaco- screw her landlord, who needed an apartment when you had the world.

Alex was so busy watching her future swing along towards her she never saw the car whipping around the corner.

But Mozzie did. Across the street, hidden under a coat and hat, the ex-mobster watched as the body that had been Alex was thrown violently into the street. He debated, momentarily, crossing to check on her, but instead stood and slipped out the door was the crowd surged towards the accident.

It wasn't worth the trouble.

Chapter 1

Special Agent Peter Burke was sick and tired of the talking head in front of him. The baby cop had been spitting the same bull for over a half hour now, effectively blocking his access to the scene but utterly frustrating the sandy haired FBI agent. "So you see sir, agent, that I just can't let you in until your supervisor gets here and officially tells my supervisor that you're in charge. So really, it's the supervisors that are causing the holdup sir, not me, although next time you may want to just come down after your supervisor. I've always said- never go anywhere without your sergeant telling you first, because otherwise you just end up waiting-"

"What's the damn hold up Pete?" Supervisory Special Agent Colin Kent's clipped tones broke the beat cops monologue but it didn't make Burke feel any better.

"They won't let me in the damn crime scene until you talk to their detective." Peter didn't appreciate the implication that it was his fault. He sent a look at Jones, his probie, checking to make sure the man was still out of earshot. "What took you so long- the call came in an hour ago."

Kent clipped his badge to the front of his suit and sent a glare at his second in command. "Watch it Burke- don't forget who's in charge." With that he pushed by the NYPD drone and marched towards the homicide detective lingering over the victim's body. Peter turned away, frustrated, unwilling to go help out his boss. He stalked over to the curb where he pretended to look for security cameras, but really just seethed about Kent's cruel comment. The man knew how much Burke had wanted the promotion to supervisor, how much he needed the pay grade raise so he could help El with her business costs and pay off his fucking college loans. Peter knew that the man knew, because it had been Peter himself who had confided in his old partner when the position had opened up.

Kent, who came from old Boston money and dressed in fancy suits, hadn't needed the money and didn't care enough to really throw himself into the job. Not like Peter. Peter had slaved over his application statement, prepped for his interview, had worn his best suit- blue, red tie- to the interview—and had been systematically and thoroughly destroyed for his lack of experience as a lead.

But it was hardly his fault that he worked well on a team, and that he'd never caught his 'big fish'. Most of the big criminals had Interpol agents working their cases and every forger Peter hunted down ended up being small time or part of some larger bust he wasn't given credit for; but he knew he was a good agent. Knew that he was supervisor material and could handle the big cases.

Could handle them better than Colin Kent. Or at least just as well.

Colin Kent was an ass, but he was a good agent. More importantly, as least as far as Hughes and the other directors were concerned, he had more experience with the press and interagency diplomacy. Which meant, Peter thought bitterly, he looked better in a photo op. Colin could charm just about anyone if he wanted and he was unbeatable in interrogation. Peter knew all this, but he still felt slighted, still felt like he'd been passed over unfairly because of office politicking.

"You look like someone just ran over your dog." A smooth, female voice interrupted his foul thoughts. Sara Ellis stepped beside him, looking ridiculously glamorous for below freezing weather.

He couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face when her words registered. "Not my dog. Just my suspect."

The slender insurance agent titled her head, raising an eyebrow at the argument that was ensuing over their dead thief. "I heard. Accident?"

Peter cracked his neck. "I wish I knew. The damn PD won't let me close enough to even confirm that she's actually dead. For all I know there's a sack of potatoes lying under that sheet." Sara smiled at him, then pulled him behind her as she dazzled the baby cop and snuck under the scene tape. "You would be a good criminal, you know that Ellis?"

"Isn't it scary?" The auburn haired woman grinned and lopped her arm through his. "Don't worry Burke, I only use my powers for good."

"Well that's a relief." Kent interjected, souring Peter's mood once again. "Ms. Ellis. I won't bother asking how you got into my crime scene."

"Yours?" the smaller man bristled.

The supervisory agent grinned. "Only as far as the NYPD are concerned Pete. This is your case- god knows I've got enough crap on my desk to keep me busy for a month. I'd say this looks like a simple buy gone wrong but I'm sure you'll find a great conspiracy somewhere." He chuckled to himself. Sara and Peter stayed quiet. "NYPD is processing the body and dealing with the forensics, but the actual murder and missing painting are all yours. NYPD liaison will contact you ASAP." He slapped Burke on the back and headed back to his car, which was parked illegally in the fire lane.

Peter tried to not imagine shooting him in the back as he left. Sara interrupted his fantasy once more. "What an ass."

Peter tried not to grin. "That's my boss you know."

"No that's an ass." She turned to face him. "I can't believe they gave him a promotion- the man couldn't find a painting in a museum."

Although he would have loved to complain about Kent for a few more hours Peter bit his tongue, aware that it was unprofessional and his probie and half the NYPD were watching him. "Let's just take a look." He sent Sara a look. "Unless you'd rather just wait until I process the scene?"

Sara looked a little pale but shook her head. "No, let's just get this over with. My boss has been calling non-stop wanting to know if the Velasquez has been damaged and if I'm going to throw up today, I'd rather do it now—I ate a lot of carbs for breakfast and my gym membership expired."

He shook his head at his sarcastic colleague and motioned Jones over. "Help me with the sheet." He and the younger man knelt, carefully pulling back the covering.

Alex Hunter was not nearly as beautiful in death. Her pelvis and legs had taken most of the damage inflicted by the car, but it was clear that it was the impact with the sidewalk was cause of death. Her hair was matted with blood, skull split open grotesquely in the back. Blood had been smeared on her face, EMTs resuscitation efforts making her pale, empty face more macabre. Peter heard Sara quick intake of breath, heard her heels clatter to the edge of the scene where she vomited her large breakfast. "Boss?" Jones inquired.

"Leave her. She'll be fine." And a strong woman like Sara Ellis wouldn't appreciate being coddled. "What do you see?"

The new agent examined the body, his own dark face uncharacteristically pale. "Cause of death appears to be cranial damage, blunt force trauma from a vehicle. From the main point of impact we can assume it was a sedan and not a truck or van. No way to tell specifics at the moment though. There was no money found at the scene so we can assume that the drop never went down or that the buyer panicked and took his money without bothering to grab the painting."

"Or the buyer was the one to run her down." Peter added softly, carefully pulling the courier tube from the corpses grasp as he heard Sara approaching again. Jones pulled the sheet up and Peter gave him a nod, appreciating the gesture. "Well let's see what we've got." Unscrewing the damn plastic tubs was always harder with gloves on, but Peter managed the thing, tipping it slightly, hand posed to grab the famous Spanish bogeta before it could hit the blood stained ground.

Nothing.

He tipped it a little more. Still nothing.

"Fuck." Sara uncharacteristically swore. He couldn't have summed it up better.

AN: I killed Alex! I know- I'm terrible. But I just had no way to work her in otherwise but I really wanted to include her. So what did we think? Neal is going to be in the next chapter I promise!