Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar nor Burn Notice.

A/N: Degas' The Dance Class is indeed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. All of the information about the painting was reworked from the site's description. Names have been changed.

Also, changes have been made to the exchange from last chapter. The curator now greets Neal with 'Guten tag.'

"Wie geht es Ihnen, Herr Eichmann." Neal greeted the curator in what sounded to Peter like flawless German.

"Life, it goes on," the curator said, lifting a shoulder. "It has been a long time since I have seen you."

"Neal's been a little busy," Peter injected.

"Neal?" the curator queried, turning a surprised look upon Neal, who grinned sheepishly at a suddenly exasperated Peter. "I thought your name was Heinrich."

"Peter likes to joke," Neal said, lightly hitting Peter on the arm.

"Do not hit me," Peter hissed.

"Don't out me," Neal hissed back, maintaining his smile. He turned to Eichmann. "Will you excuse us?"

Eichmann bowed. "You know where my office is."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "'Out you?'"

"Not like that!"

Peter quirked a small smile. "I won't blow your cover on one condition—you promise to return those letters."

"Peter…" Neal said, a little bit desperate now. "That might not be possible."

"Or—you use your considerable talent to replace them."

Neal tilted his head. "Are you suggesting I f—"

"Don't say the 'f' word," Peter said, forestalling any further words by holding up his hand. "Just find a way. A legal way. Well…semi-legal."

"I thought you were of the 'law is black and white' school of thought."

Peter grabbed Neal by the arm. "Come on, Heinrich."

Eichmann's spacious office was decorated in the semi-formal style of longtime academics: rich cherry wood furniture, and an assortment of liquor bottles collected on a table away from the window.

The curator was sitting in his cracked green office chair when they entered, and he motioned to the armchairs in front of his desk.

"Please sit. Would you care for something to drink?"

Peter shook his head 'no', and after a small pause, Neal followed suit.

"Heinrich, what may I do for you? Are you undertaking one of your investigations?"

"I'm out of insurance fraud now," Neal said smoothly, running a hand down the front of his suit. He refused to look at Peter. "I'm actually working with the FBI as a consultant."

Eichmann leaned back, folding his hands across his stomach. "So. You are here about ze painting then."

"We are. I'm Agent Peter Burke. Can you tell me a little bit about it?"

"Certainly. It was first shown in 1876 at ze second Impressionist exhibition and was willed to ze museum in 1982 by Mrs. John Lewis Wrentham. Ze subject is a dance class conducted by Jules Perrot, who was a famous ballet master." The curator took off his glasses and began polishing them on the corner of his tweed jacket. "Have you seen it?"

Peter grinned slightly. "In my college art history class. It has dancers, right?"

"Most people assume that Degas painted ballerinas exclusively," Neal said. "He actually started painting traditional historical portraits."

The curator opened the laptop on his desk, a curiously modern item in the midst of all the history. "My granddaughter insists I keep in contact with her through BookFace. I do not understand what is so difficult about writing a letter with this new generation."

He pulled up a picture of the painting. "If you examine the artistic composition, it at first look appears to be an Impressionist work. However, Degas considered himself a realist."

Peter nodded. "Right. I'm familiar with that one. I'm actually more interested in how the painting was stolen."

"Well, I do not know." Eichmann spread his hands. "That is why I have enlisted you, ze polizei, to help."

"I was thinking more along the lines of security. Alarms, cameras—that sort of thing."

"I will get you Lena." He picked up the phone. "Olivia, please tell Lena to come to my office, thank you."

"Who's Lena?" Neal asked, frowning. "What happened to Freddie?"

The curator frowned. "We had to let him go. He was become unreliable. It very much was a shame."

"And Larry?"

"Mr. Daley returned to his previous employment at ze Natural History Museum." Eichmann leaned forward. "Heinrich, one reads ze most interesting things when one looks at ze internet."

Neal nodded a bit warily. He didn't like how suddenly serious Eichmann looked.

"Including articles about ones' former work companions who have been arrested. Curious, is it not?"

Neal tried for a beguiling smile, but it came out more as a wince. "Herr Eichmann…"

"I am not one for pretty stories as excuses. I only wish to remember ze kind young man who assisted me many a time. Consider ze incident behind us."

A knock sounded at the door, and Peter turned around, eager to be out of the office.

Lena turned out to be a whip-thin woman with brownish-blonde hair gathered into a severe bun. The traditional black and white security guard outfit hung on her frame, and Peter thought the regulation gun on her belt looked more like an Uzi than he was comfortable with.

"You rang," she said in a rippling British accent, looking from Peter to Neal with curious eyes.

"Yes, Lena, this are Peter and Neal. They are here for looking at ze painting."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "You look familiar. Have I arrested you before?"

Lena gave a snort. "Hardly. I'd never allow myself to be caught."

The three men stared at her. She chuckled blithely.

"Oh, you should see your faces. You thought I was serious!"

Eichmann gave a slight smile. Peter still looked at her suspiciously, and Neal was trying to figure out why her gaze seemed to be boring a hole in his head.

"Well, you want to have a look at the scene of the crime, don't you?" she chirruped saucily, and left the room.

"I don't like the look of this one," Peter said in an undertone as he and Neal followed Lena up the flight up stairs to the Impressionist Exhibition room. "New head of security and the painting 'mysteriously' goes missing right after her arrival? Smacks of inside job to me."

"Coincidence," Neal offered up, only half-listening. There was a Monet in the room just beyond that he had always wanted to get his hands on. If only Peter hadn't been there…

"I don't buy it. Find out her story, Neal."

Neal looked at him sideways. "Do you want me to take her out on a date?"

"I want you to get information."

"Am I paying for this out of pocket?"

"The FBI is not going to pay for you to seduce a woman!"

Neal grinned unrepentantly. "Just checking."

He ran his fingers through his hair and caught up to Lena, who was holding open the door with an expectant look on her face.

"Thank you madam." Neal gave her his charming smile—the one that no woman except for Britney Nicole had been able to resist.

Lena merely swept in front of him, leaving him momentarily dumbfounded. Peter, despite himself, couldn't help but chuckle at Neal's clear rejection.

"Go get 'em tiger."