Coricopat leaned against his car a couple days later, his eyes focused on the prison gates as they opened to let Mistoffelees exit, "Let me see it."

The short man paused and pulled up his pant leg, revealing the tracker around his anklet. "There it is. Happy?"

The agent offered a half shrug and nodded slightly, "You're aware of how this works, right?"

"I'm in your custody, well, the FBI's but under your supervision and I'm stuck with this on my leg for the next four years. Missing anything?"

"Yeah, just one thing. If you run, and I catch you again, or anyone catches you, you're not back here for four years. This becomes your permanent home," Coricopat replied.

Mistoffelees' spine tensed obviously and he bit the inside of his mouth. "I know.

Coricopat looked him over, "You're going to be tempted to look for Pouncival. Just don't."

"I'll keep your warning in mind," Mistoffelees replied dryly. "But I already told you, that bottle meant goodbye."

"Alright." He nodded to the car, "Hop in. This is a temporary situation. Help me catch the Dutchman, we can make it permanent."

Biting his lip again, the shorter man nodded, walking away from the prison and glancing back at it. "Where are we going then?"

"Your new home." Once they were in the car, Coricopat hesitated, reaching into the back seat and offering Mistoffelees a brown paper bag, "I managed to get this out of the evidence locker. It's not really needed after all."

For a moment the shorter considered him before taking the bag and blinking. "The bottle," he said, voice not revealing any emotion. "Why?" he asked, looking back up to him.

"Because it's the only thing he left you."

Swallowing, the art forger paused before nodding, cradling the bag against his chest. "Thank you."

"Of course," Coricopat pulled away from the prison, heading to the place they'd located for Mistoffelees on the stipend he had per month.

Entering the run down hotel Mistoffelees' entire posture changed again, tensing. "You can't be serious," he managed.

Coricopat was in the middle of speaking to the clerk, who handed him the key to one of the rooms. He turned to Mistoffelees holding out the key, "This is what your budget will pay for in NYC."

"How much is that budget?" Mistoffelees asked, looking around and shrinking back from the counter and walls and trying not to touch anything. "Besides, I think I'm going to get an STD just looking at some of this room."

"Seven hundred a month, same as it costs to house you inside. If you find something better for that, take it. At this point this is as good as it gets."

Mistoffelees took a deep breath. "What about clothes then? This is sorta my entire wardrobe here."

"You learn to like thrift stores. There's one at the end of the block."

The shorter man's mouth dropped and he snapped it shut again, the set of his shoulder's tight. "And do I have a budget for that too?"

"Well, I'm hardly handing you a credit card." Coricopat fished out a couple of twenties, "See what you can find."

Taking a deep breath, Mistoffelees accepted that. He had asked for this after all, and he'd expected life wouldn't be nearly the same as when he was sitting on piles of stolen art and money, but he'd still expected something else. Something cleaner at the very least.

Reality had a way of sucking. "Alright. How far can I go?" He realized he was holding the bottle a little tightly and tried to relax his grip.

"Anywhere within two miles of where we're standing now." Coricopat shifted a stack of files from under his arm, depositing them in Mistoffelees' hands, "Your homework. I'll be back at 7 am."

Looking from the files back up to Coricopat, Mistoffelees bit back the first several things he planned to say. "I'll see you in the morning then."

The agent nodded once and left, heading back to work.

Looking around the lobby, Mistoffelees bit his lip hard before going up to the actual room. It was even worse than the lobby and he sat down on the bed for a long moment. Finally, he left the bottle on the cleanest surface he could find, and left the files on the bed. Heading out, he tried to avoid touching any of the walls, taking a deep breath when out on the street. Alright, he thought, squaring his shoulders. A thrift store. For a moment he considered using the twenties to buy a deck of cards and increase his income but he was supposed to do better now.

So instead he entered the thrift store.

About ten minutes after he arrived an older lady dressed in furs and wearing expensive jewelry entered, a couple of suit bags in her hands. She moved over to the clerk and set them on the counter, "I'd like to donate these."

The clerk blinked at the bags, going through then. Abandoning the rack of pants he was going through, Mistoffelees meandered over, considering the new clothing.

The woman glanced at Mistoffelees, and then back at the clerk who clearly didn't realize the value of what he was handling.

"Old suits mostly then?" the clerk asked and Mistoffelees was suddenly right there and looking over the counter, picking up a fedora that had fallen to the side of the pile.

The woman smiled thinly at that, "Mhm. That's what they all are."

"May I?" Mistoffelees asked and the clerk shrugged and handed over a jacket. Looking it over, a small smile appeared on Mistoffelees' face. "This is beautiful," he murmured and paused. "It's a Devore!"

That earned a genuine smile from the woman, "They belonged to my late husband, Skimble. And that Devore you're holding he won from Sy himself."

Mistoffelees' eyes widened. "Won it?" he almost squeaked.

"He beat him at a back door draw, it was quite the sight."

"Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?" Mistoffelees managed.

"He certainly did. And so did I," Jenny added with a teasing grin.

"No," Mistoffelees said, hazel eyes going huge.

"Oh yes. They would let me sit in on a hand once in a while. I wasn't too bad either."

"Been a while since I had a hand of poker," Mistoffelees said, flipping the fedora onto his head. He'd missed hats too.

She smiled at him, "That looks fantastic on you. I'm glad to see you appreciate these. I did hope someone would. I have a whole closet full of them."

"A whole closet?" Mistoffelees asked, eyes widening as if he'd found a treasure trove. He took the jacket from earlier, shrugging into it. It fit his shoulders almost perfectly and he smiled.

"Well, it's more of a guest room. I only use it for storage anymore." She looked over the jacket, "The shoulders fit, and my guess is the waist of the slacks would as well. It would be simple enough to have everything hemmed." She got a wistful look in her eyes, "Skimble use to wear that one when we went dancing. The neighborhood was...much nicer then."

Something in Mistoffelees matched her wistful look. "Been a long time since I had any chances to go dancing," he murmured. "So you live nearby then?"

"Not far. There's a tailor I use between here and there who could see about adjusting the sleeves and pant legs for you probably as well."

"Any estimates on the mileage there?" Mistoffelees asked, hope kindling in his chest. "And was that an invitation?"

"It's a few blocks, not much over a mile is my guess, we' have to clock it on the odometer to get you specifics. And, if you care to accept it was." She extended her hand, "Jennyanydots."

"Mistoffelees," he said, taking her hand and grinning. "And I would love to. Think we can grab the all of two things currently in my possession first?"

She smiled at that, "I think we certainly can."

His grin made his entire face light up as he swept the suits off the counter, leaving the clerk blinking about the entire exchange. Jenny nodded to the clerk and headed for the door, already explaining what would need to be done to clear out the guest room so it could be used again.

w-w-w-w

The next day, right about 6:30, Coricopat entered the hotel he'd left Mistoffelees at and strode over to the clerk. After a moment the older man behind the counter located the note that Mistoffelees had left. The agent blinked at it for a moment before frowning. It simply read "Dear, Coricopat, I have moved 1.6 miles" and gave Jenny's address. Crumpling the note up in his hand, Coricopat left and headed for the address.

Getting out of his car once there, he double checked it before shaking his head at the elegant townhouse that looked to be from an entirely different era, "You have got to be kidding me." He knocked and a maid answered, "I think I have the wrong address," he confessed.

A voice was heard from inside before Jenny came out of one of the side rooms, her small dog cradled in her arms, "You must be Coricopat."

"I...I'm looking for Mistoffelees Caffrey, terribly sorry to have-"

"He's upstairs," she answered with a smile.

Coricopat blinked at that, but followed the maid up to the door to the roof. His grey eyes swept over the roof, finally focusing on Mistoffelees.

The shorter man was lounging on the roof, the remains of a breakfast in front of him and a newspaper in his hands. He looked up when he heard footsteps, giving Coricopat a relaxed grin. "You're early." His entire posture had changed since the day before but there was something still brittle around the corners of his eyes.

The taller man was still blinking at his surroundings, "We're chasing a lead at the airport. We got a hit on Snow White."

"Snow white," Mistoffelees nodded. "What you decoded from the Dutchman's Barcelona messages."

"Right. I see you moved," Coricopat observed dryly.

Mistoffelees looked around. "I think it's nicer than the other place. Nicer people around too."

"Yeah, I really don't remember the other place having a view," Coricopat shook his head. "How did you land this?"

"Well, I went to that thrift store and the lovely Jenny was there donating some of her late husband's clothes and we got to talking and she offered me the old guest and storage room. Except in a house like this the guest suite might as well be its own functioning apartment."

"Of course it should. You got all this for seven hundred?"

"Yeah," Mistoffelees nodded. "And access to her late husband's wardrobe. But I'm to help out around the place too." His grin was back in force.

Coricopat just looked at him, thinking back to the maid, "Right, of course. Feed the dog, things like that."

"Wash the jag," Mistoffelees added. "And watch her granddaughter from time to time."

"She's got you babysitting?"

"I'll have you know I am very good with children, but…" Mistoffelees shrugged as a slender collage age student walked by.

That earned another long, disbelieving blink as the girl greeted Mistoffelees and settled down on one of the chaise lounges, "Granddaughter?"

"She's an art student," Mistoffelees smirked. "We have a lot to talk about after all."

"You are unbelievable. Go get dressed, we need to get going."

Still smirking, Mistoffelees rose, leaving the rooftop.

Coricopat shook his head, "Unbelievable." He poured himself a cup of coffee as Jenny came out on the roof. "It's perfect. Even the coffee's perfect..."

Jenny laughed, "Can you begrudge him that?"

"That's not jewelry on his ankle," he replied. "He's a felon."

Jenny smirked at him, "So was Skimble."

Great. Just great. Coricopat set the coffee cup down, "I'll go wait for him in the foyer."

"Of course. Have a good day."

A short while later, Mistoffelees strolled down the stairs, suit from yesterday tailored down to his fit and fedora on his head.

The agent shook his head, "You look like a cartoon. What are you wearing?"

"Classic rat-pack Devore," Mistoffelees replied, adjusting his slender tie. He bowed, to show off better, flipping the hat back on his hair.

"Would you stop with the hat? Let's go," he turned and headed for the door.

"You're upset," Mistoffelees said, leaning against the banister.

Coricopat turned, a hand resting on his hip, "Now what would give you that idea?"

"It's not hard," Mistoffelees said. "Your face gets sorta pale and your shoulders get tighter. So what'd I do? What rule did I break?"

"I…look, I work hard. I do my job damn well. And I don't have a ten million dollar view of Manhattan that I share with a twenty-two year-old art student while we sip espresso! You're out for not even a day and manage to con yourself into this place."

"I didn't con myself in here," Mistoffelees replied, shoulders tensing. "She invited me when I appreciated the suits she was bringing in to donate."

"You know this is what gets you into trouble. This is a start of a slope you've slid down before. One of those something-for-nothing schemes that lead to frauds that got you locked up."

"Rent is being paid and I am serious about helping out, taking her dancing when she wants, making sure things are going, this isn't a scam!" Mistoffelees protested.

looked him over and finally shook his head, "Forget it. Just get in the car."

"No, this appears to be an issue," Mistoffelees said. "You have no idea what started that slippery slope for me in the first place, the first time, so can you really claim that you know what's going to set me off this time?"

"Alright, then. Enlighten me. What warning signs should I look out for?" the FBI agent snapped.

Something froze in the other. "We should go," he said, suddenly moving quickly across the foyer.

Coricopat grit his teeth and followed the smaller man out to the car. The drive to the airport passed in silence. Once they arrived and got parked, Coricopat led the way through the terminal toward the customs' center.

Mistoffelees followed him inside. Macavity and Bombalurina both looked up, Macavity looking the short man over. "Where'd he get that suit that fast?"

"His new landlady had an entire wardrobe of them," Coricopat answered for him.

"What?" Macavity asked, blinking as Bombalurina arched a brow.

"Didn't we put him up in a hotel?"

"I moved," Mistoffelees deadpanned.

"Has a view and everything," their boss added, evenly.

"What sort of view?" Macavity asked.

"This is not the point," Bomba said. "We have a flag, we should deal with it," she turned, glancing at Mistoffelees over her shoulder. "Nice hat, by the way."

Coricopat nodded once, "What exactly do we have?"

"Name's Tony Field, customs flagged him coming in from Spain for our Snow White," Bomba said as they walked.

"Is customs playing nice?" Coricopat asked.

"Usual chest pounding," she replied, Macavity bringing up the rear of their group. "He's in their custody, not ours."

Coricopat shrugged, "Well, that's less paperwork for me. What's he carrying?"

"You'll love it," Mac said as they entered a room. Several suitcases lay open, full of the same children's book.

Coricopat slid on a pair of gloves and picked one of them up, "Blancanieves y Los Siete Enanos?"

"Snow white and her little men," Mistoffelees translated, flipping through it and tilting it up and down.

"This is what triggered our alert?" Coricopat looked at Macavity and Bombalurina, "What do we know about this guy?"

"Rare book dealer," Bomba said, looking over the pictures in the book.

"Anything wrong with his paperwork?"

"No, he's come in three times with the same stuff, declared it each time."

"Huh." He glanced at Mistoffelees, "Are we wasting our time on this one?"

The shorter man paused when everyone stopped to look at him. "Uh, well, they're not limited runs or special editions," he said. "They're not worth much on their own, so if there's anything afoot it's not going to be the books as they are."

Coricopat considered that, "Well, he went to all the trouble of flying them in, the question is still why."

"He was sure nervous for having the right paperwork," Bomba added.

"I want to talk to him if customs will let us," her boss murmured, still thumbing through the children's book.

"I'll set it up," Bomba said. "I'm getting some coffee, you want any?"

"Anything but decaf," he answered. "Thank you."

"Hey, I would like-" Mistoffelees started, leaning back.

"Coffee shop's outside," Bomba said bluntly, swaying outside.

"You are so far out of your league it's not even funny," Coricopat murmured, glancing at the smaller man.

"She likes the hat, and besides, it's just harmless flirting. Like a dance," Mistoffelees said with a grin and a shrug.

"She would rather be wearing the hat. I can guarantee you're not even on her dance card."

"Not on the dance card?" Mistoffelees arched a brow.

"I know her girlfriend," Coricopat answered.

"Oh," Mistoffelees said, looking down at the book and turning it on the spine. "I thought you people had a policy," he said after a moment.

"That's the military. We don't ask, we don't care."

The book suddenly became even more fascinating. "Oh," he repeated.

"Don't you have a boyfriend?" Mac offered and Mistoffelees tensed.

"Had," he said, turning the book over to the other side.

Coricopat arched a brow at that, but turned his attention to the cases the books were in. Moments later Bomba entered, glancing around and considering the tension. "Here," she said, handing Coricopat a coffee. "Let's get you talking to him."

Her boss took the coffee gratefully and exited, heading to the room where the suspect was being held.

The man blinked up at him. "What's going on here?" he demanded.

"You're Tony Field, the book dealer, correct?"

"Yes, and who are you?"

"Coricopat Zimmerman, FBI."

"FBI?" he asked in some surprised. "You're kicking things up a notch, aren't you?"

"Well, when a shipment like yours kicks off one of our alerts that tends to happen. What do you deal in when it comes to books?"

"Rare ones," he replied, frowning.

"Rare? You have 600 of this one in your luggage this trip alone."

"Old then," he amended. "Either way."

"So, you brought, over the course of four trips approximately twenty-four hundred copies of Snow White...in Spanish."

"Snow White was hardly created by Disney," he replied. "There are other versions of the story that people enjoy."

"You mean folklore, the virginally pure queen? Like Alexander Pushkin's "Tale of the White Princess and the Seven Knights." Is that what you mean?" He smiled thinly, "What are the books for?"

The book dealer blinked at him, caught off guard. "They..."

Just at that moment the door burst open, a man in a suit entering. "I'm his lawyer," he said and the book dealer's eyes widened. "I'd appreciate if you didn't talk to my client. Constitution and all."

Coricopat turned at that, looking the lawyer over, "Were you chasing the ambulance or did they give you a ride?" He shook his head and exited, closing the door behind him and striding off to find the Customs Inspector.

Bomba was waiting with Mistoffelees. "Felon here was right," she said and Mistoffelees gave her a quick, shut off look. "The books aren't worth much. You can pick them up for a couple bucks on ebay."

"Great." He turned as the customs inspector approached, "Hey, why didn't you tell me Field lawyered up? The second he makes that call I can't talk to him."

The other man blinked at him, "He didn't call anybody."

"Then how did his lawy-Oh goddamnit." He whirled on his heel and took off at a run back to where he'd left the bookseller.

They entered the room to find him head, a needle in his neck. As the customs inspector radioed for paramedics, Coricopat shook his head, backing up away from the scene, "Damn it. Did nobody think to frisk the lawyer?"

"Apparently not," Bomba said and swore as Mistoffelees turned to lead the way back to the books, where Macavity was still going over them.

Once they'd returned to the books, Coricopat turned to him, "All right, as a reformed professional counterfeiter, what is the Dutchman's interest in a bunch of worthless books?"

Drumming his fingers against the table, Mistoffelees considered one of the books in front of him a long moment. Finally he moved forward to open it again, eyes going down to the copy right. "Published 1944 in Madrid," His eyes lit up. "He's after this," he said, sliding a ruler under the top sheet of the book and pulling it off, displaying the blank page folded in half.

"The top sheet?" Coricopat demanded.

"The 1944 Spanish press parchment," Mistoffelees replied.

"So that's what he was after. Good. He'll counterfeit something originally printed on paper like that. There have been three prior shipments with these books," he considered the books, trying to calculate how much that could mean.

"Two blank pages per book is 600 sheets," Mistoffelees said not looking up.

"Too much for paintings, not enough for currency." He shook his head, "Bomba, where's the wallet at?"

"Here," she said, handing it over as Macavity craned his neck to see.

Coricopat thumbed through, finally pulling out a visitor pass to the National Archives. "Here we go. He was here the day before he left for Spain."

"Shall we pay it a visit?" Mistoffelees offered with a grin at the thought.

He eyed the other and then nodded, "I think we shall."

w-w-w-w

Entering the archive building, Mistoffelees craned his neck back, a wistful smile on his face at entering the building for the first time in over four years. Coricopat kept a wary eye on him as they met the archivist and were led into a room where they could see what Field had been interested in.

"I've missed buildings like this," Mistoffelees mumbled, more to himself.

"I'm sure you have," came the murmured response before Coricopat attention returned to the man who was carefully laying a piece of parchment on the table.

"This is what he came to see. The Spanish Victory Bond. He took several photographs of it, said he was going to write a book. It really is a shame he's dead, as the bond has a fascinating history."

"It's Goya," Mistoffelees said, surprised but pleased.

"Yes, beautiful isn't it?" The archivist, Vincent, asked.

Coricopat withdrew one of the parchments from one of the books, holding it over the bond, "What do you know, a perfect fit."

"You said it had a history," Mistoffelees said, looking at the archivist and offering him a charming smile.

"Quite. It was issued during the war. The U.S. issued it to support the Spanish underground in their battle against the Axis. Very few have ever been redeemed. There's speculation that entire boxes were captured and many are still hidden away in the caves of Altamira."

"Whole boxes?" Mistoffelees asked, bending over the bond and pausing.

"Yes, that would be something wouldn't it?" he looked at Coricopat, "This is the only surviving copy."

"Except it's a forgery," Mistoffelees said not looking up.

The FBI agent turned to him, "What are you talking about?"

"It's the ink," he explained. "This is iron-gal mized to match the period colors. But it hasn't dried out yet, and I can smell the gum arabic."

Vincent shook his head, "That's not possible. This has been here since 1952."

"It's been here less than a week," Mistoffelees said, raising his eyes to meet the other's before looking at Coricopat.

"That-"

Coricopat sighed, "If he says it, I believe him. If we can take it and have it tested? I'll make sure the utmost care s afforded to it." Mistoffelees turned on his charming smile.