A/N: Part 2! Faster than I ever expected to get it done. Go me! I wrote this while distracted by the Cardinals-Packers game, so forgive me if it seems a little choppy. Also I am totally using the magic of non-linear storytelling to get this done. Bear with me! also, Go Cardinals! Also I use the word also a lot. ;D
Reviews for a starving high school senior/part-time college kid?
Chapter 2: Sting Like A Bee
Mozzie reported back to Neal first thing the next morning.
Neal was lucky to have even been out of bed when he heard the knock on his door. He had just put on a clean pair of pants as he picked up his shirt, pulled it on over his shoulders, and started buttoning as he walked to the door.
"Found him already?" Neal asked, stepping back to let the shorter man inside.
"Not specifically, but I did find the only guy currently in the city who has the smarts to tamper with the surveillance feeds."
"Jones said that was impossible."
Mozzie gave him a glare that told him the reason why Jones thought it was impossible – the criminals hadn't done it before.
Inwardly, Neal smirked. Less than twelve hours ago, Mozzie was mocking him for quoting their buttons-up-the-back old mentor; and now he had given Neal a glare straight from Firefingers's textbook – if the man had ever been sane enough to write a cohesive textbook.
They sat down around the coffee table as Mozzie opened a folder and turned it for Neal to see. Neal pulled it closer to him, his brow furrowing in study.
"Martirio Salazar, a Spanish national who once worked for the city before he got into the black market of the art trade. Guess what he used to do for the city?"
"I'm betting something to do with the surveillance cameras."
Mozzie nodded. "He did maintenance work. If a camera broke, he took it down and fixed it. If the recording machinery malfunctioned, he was called in to repair it. He knows the system intimately."
Neal scanned the paperwork, which he now recognized as Salazar's city employee file. It was three years out of date, but leaving it in existence at all was a big mistake on his part. Neal couldn't suppress the second-long flashback to Firefingers flogging the values of burning your trail – part of what gave him his infamous moniker.
"Find any photographs of him?"
"Just this one," Mozzie replied, taking the document out of his coat pocket. He handed it to Neal, who shook his head. Martirio Salazar was about a hundred pounds overweight, and although the photograph didn't clearly show his face, the man in the surveillance footage was beanpole thin and obviously not Salazar.
"It's not the same guy as the footage," Neal said. "He's too fat. The guy we're looking for is skinnier than I am."
"Maybe, but we were thinking partnership. What if Salazar took care of the cameras while the other guy did the dirty work?"
Neal nodded, thoughtful.
"It's a possibility. How can I coax him out of hiding?"
"He may know city surveillance systems intimately, but Salazar is stupid. He'll go after anything purported to be valuable. He's interested in money, not art."
"Is he fencing anything at the moment?"
"No, but he did get a very nice gift this morning from a secret admirer," Mozzie said, using a tone of voice that told Neal the "secret admirer" was Mozzie acting in anticipation of Neal's course of action.
"Perfect. Moz, I don't do enough to merit this from you," Neal said with a smile. "As soon as it hits the market, tell me, and I'll get the FBI to set up a standard bait-and-switch manoeuvre."
"On it, and I'm keeping tabs on what you owe me," Mozzie said as Neal stood up to finish getting dressed.
xxx
Neal brought the file to Peter and reiterated to the entire gang what Mozzie had said to him. Peter, appropriately, was wary.
"Are you sure that this is the right guy?"
"He's the best available option. A shaky lead is better than no lead at all, right?"
"Will he go for it?" asked Lauren.
"Standard art thief, shallow guy who goes for anything loud without really understanding it. If you tell him it's valuable, he wants it. I wouldn't put it past someone much smarter to be manipulating his skills with a promise of something shiny and expensive. Salazar is a Spaniard – if we get him, we can offer immunity in exchange for a name. He'd go for it."
All of the agents looked to Hughes, whose hands were on his hips, a frown creasing his already deeply lined face.
"Alright," Hughes said, much to the relief of everyone involved. "Use as much bait money as you need. This guy can't do much more damage than he's already done."
He looked pointedly to Peter.
"I'm trusting you with this, Burke. Do whatever you think needs to be done. I'm authorizing you for whatever you need. Get this guy, and get him fast."
Peter nodded as Hughes exited the room. He looked at Neal.
"When do we make our move?"
"We need to wait until the fake painting hits the market. If we move now, it'll be a little obvious that it's a set-up. Once it hits, we need to wait about a day – or twelve hours at the very least – so that we don't look too eager to snap it up. There's nothing to do now but wait."
Neal sat back, folding his hands across his lap and giving Peter his best innocent-boy look. He spun the chair a few degrees back and forth, watching without blinking. They locked eyes for a moment.
"You heard the man," Peter announced. "Busy yourselves with something else while we're waiting."
No one moved. Neal leaned forward and spoke softly.
"I think that was secret FBI code for 'shoo,'" he said sincerely.
Jones and Lauren scattered. Peter kept his eyes locked on Neal.
"I don't want to know how you managed al this overnight, but at the same time, I'm fascinated," he said.
"I am a paradox just by existing," Neal responded with a cheeky grin. Peter gave him a rueful smile before leaving the room himself.
xxx
Salazar was eager to put the painting up for sale as soon as possible. The note that had been attached to the canvas said the painting was worth at least a million dollars – something about being the last painting of a prolific artist before her sudden and tragic death. She did beautiful work inspired by the circle of life, but Salazar couldn't care less about the brilliant earthy tones and careful, elegant brush strokes.
He didn't understand art. He understood money.
"How soon can we sell?" were the first words out of his mouth, spoken in his heavily accented broken English.
His partner immediately saw that it was a forgery, but he got forty percent of Salazar's money, so he was happy to shut his trap and sell it. He was certain that there was Some Idiot who wouldn't know the difference between the Mona Lisa and a coffee stain that vaguely resembled a potential child of Mona Lisa and Jesus. Besides, maybe this would be his chance to do what he'd been planning for quite some time – and he'd get the bonus of something for nothing without as much mess as doing it with a real painting.
So he gave the stock answer of the wait-a-day rule so that he could scope out some potential buyers, figure out who was in town and who had money. Salazar beamed over a tall glass of champagne, sitting surrounded by beautiful women in his upscale New York crime den.
"I want two million," he said through the liquor.
His partner nodded and fled. The overweight Spaniard exuded a foul odour that no one could stand for very long without being paid handsomely for it – which, of course, he was.
Neal was on the man like glue.
xxx
The White Collar Crime Unit was abuzz with activity the following day. The proceedings were standard and uneventful – Mozzie acted as Neal's representative and arranged a time and place for a Mr. Tory Shepherd to meet with Mr. Salazar and his representatives to negotiate the terms of the purchase. Salazar priced the canvas at two million – which secretly made Mozzie want to do cartwheels – and Mozzie said that Mr. Shepherd would be willing to negotiate a fair price.
A few pleasantries, a superhuman effort in resisting the urge to do a dance of joy, and the deed was done.
Lauren had bullied Neal into wearing an overly-long pair of trousers that, if properly folded inward, hid his tracking anklet, even if he were to sit and draw up the fabric unintentionally. He whined about the fact that they and the matching shirt and jacket were designer knock-offs, but Lauren gave him a death glare and he silenced.
"We're spending enough money on you as is without having to buy a new one of these things every time we put you up to something like this," she scolded.
Neal had to physically bite his lip to keep his complaints at bay.
Peter poked his head into Hughes's office. Even though the agent had all the authorizations he needed, he felt more comfortable keeping his boss informed.
"We've got the set-up. We're taking--"
Hughes held up his hand, not looking up from his work.
"Don't want to know," he said, placing emphasis on every word.
Peter paused, then backed out of the room. Jones wrapped up the last coordinating phone call, and Lauren finished the intricate fold on Neal's pant leg.
"Ready?" Peter said to his motley little troupe of crime fighters.
Neal spun his hat and put it on his head.
"Lock and load, amigo," he said with a smile.
xxx
Neal blinked. Interestingly, it was the most physical reaction out of anyone.
They were all coated in a thick layer of dust, hunched in varying degrees of protective crouches. The explosives hadn't been enough to cause any real damage to the building or the people inside, but it had created enough smoke and mirrors for Salazar's partner to get away with the suitcase full of money.
Salazar himself, on the other hand, had a pair of agents sitting on top of him as a third cuffed the dazed and confused man.
The painting – and, more importantly, a million dollars – were gone.
"Well, that was interesting," Neal said.
"What... just happened?" said Peter.
"The sting got stung," Neal replied, trying to sound casual despite the bad grammar. He looked to Salazar.
"But we did get a consolation prize."
The agents hauled Salazar to his feet. With the change in orientation, the massive, moronic thief seemed to find his voice.
"Nicholas Kerrington!" he screamed. "Su nombre es Nicholas Kerrington!* He take money! He betray me!"
"Mouth like a steel trap, he does not have," intoned Neal as Salazar was hauled away. Peter flicked Neal's shoulder and grabbed his radio.
"Did we catch anyone on the way out?" he barked, ignoring protocol.
The radio crackled a negative response. Peter resisted the urge to curse and instead turned to Neal and prodded him in the chest. Neal swallowed his annoyance at this.
"Nicholas Kerrington. Find him, use the short guy, whatever. This guy now has a million dollars of FBI money and I want his head on a stick. You do your thing, we'll do ours. Got it?"
Neal saluted. Peter narrowed his eyes, but let it go. Neal distanced himself from the gaggle of still slightly confused FBI agents, dusting himself off somewhat and reaching for his phone.
"Moz, you're not going to believe this," he said, shaking his head to clear his hair of dust.
A/N: Firefingers will show up in the next two chapters or so, k? Calm down. I beg for patience in explaining what the heck is going on in the hope that this confusing strategy will keep you coming back for more. Also those of you who guessed what the twist is... you're half right. I've got what I think is a clever twist-upon-twist that I hope you'll enjoy.
Reviews are the fuel of my fire. ;)
*Su nombre es = his name is