CHAPTER TWO
Stephanie sat in the cabin of her private jet, en route to Washington, D.C., quiet in her thoughts as she stared at her laptop monitor. On the screen was the storage room filled with the treasures she helped Nicholas Caffrey steal back from Vincent Adler. The hidden camera he placed in the room gave her a three-sixty degree view of all the contents.
Stephanie manoeuvred the webcam around the room with her touchpad, slowly inspecting each piece of treasure. She knew that Nicholas visited the room frequently. There was a clock which he had carefully placed in a corner to ensure the feed she was watching was live and had not been tampered with. She was mentally checking off each piece as she looked around the room. Everything remained untouched – all but Degas' The Entrance of the Masked Dancers. She had noticed it missing the day after she took Neal to the storage room and told him the truth about his father and her connection to him.
Stephanie had called Hale immediately. Only two people beside her had access to that room, and only one would be brazen enough to take the painting.
"Hale," Stephanie had greeted on a secure line. "Has Nicholas been to see you?"
"He most certainly has!" Hale had replied with great enthusiasm. "He brought me the most exquisite piece of art that has not been seen in nearly seventy years."
"You can't sell it, Hale," Stephanie said. "I need it back."
"I'm so sorry, my dear, but I already delivered it to the new owner this morning," Hale replied.
"How is that possible, Hale? That painting can't have been gone for longer than twelve hours!" Stephanie said.
"Nicholas told me three days ago he wanted to fence a 'new' Degas and asked me to start gathering bids," Hale explained. "With a piece like this that had been out of sight for so long, it didn't take long for the bidding to heat up. To be honest, I probably could have got even more for it but Nicholas said he was worried it would draw attention with the Feds if we held out any longer."
"How much did he get, Hale?" Stephanie asked.
"Six million."
And with that, Stephanie knew there was no going back.
Nicholas was right – it would not have taken much longer for the painting to come to Peter's attention had it still been on the market. Maybe it already did.
She knew Peter had found something that could lead him back to the art but she had not figured out what yet. DC Art Crimes being involved in Peter's investigation did not surprise her. Although she had not been in contact with Peter since he joined the FBI, she had always followed his career carefully and had known that he had spent time working for Art Crimes after graduating from Quantico. She had no idea what she might find in Washington but she knew she had to stay one step ahead of Peter, or at least keep up with him.
Stephanie switched off the webcam and opened up the personnel file she had obtained on Agent Kramer, head of the Art Crimes Division in DC. He had been Peter's first boss and mentor, and also had a reputation for catching some of the biggest white collar criminals in the country. He was also very well-respected amongst his peers and internationally.
She remembered some of the stories her own bosses, Hughes and Bancroft, had told her about him when they first recruited her into the FBI. They said Kramer could spot a forgery as well as any art expert in the world – in fact, he had been responsible for identifying many of the forgeries that Neal was suspected of masterminding. None of that mattered now that Peter had given Neal full immunity during their hunt for Vincent Adler.
She had no doubt Kramer knew about the missing art and was investigating this. If she was to help Nicholas get away and ensure Neal remained clear of Peter's suspicions, she needed to find out what he knew and create diversions.
Stephanie re-read Kramer's background and professional history. Peter had always been a just and righteous man – that was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him a lifetime ago – and she could see from Kramer's record that he had been the perfect mentor for Peter. Justice defined them and they defined justice. They did not believe in greys.
Finally, Stephanie shut off her screen. Her head throbbed with an ache that would not go away. She had always known this day would come when Nicholas would finally be able to have the life he had wanted, and to have it with his son.
His son. Neal Caffrey.
Suddenly, her heart began to beat faster. She had spent years searching for him when, out of the blue, he appeared at Adler's table at the Antiquities Recovery Project charity dinner over eight years ago. They didn't meet then, of course. But even then, she realised he was different from any other man she had met.
She knew she had fallen for him the first time they danced together at the fund-raiser at the Harper Gallery six months ago. He had completely taken her breath away. She had tried to keep her feelings in check – for nearly twenty years, 'Neal Caffrey' had just been a mission she needed to complete to fulfil her father's dying wish to help his former partner, Nicholas Caffrey.
She downed the rest of her vodka and lime, leant back in her leather seat and closed her eyes.
"Mrs Harper," said Eliza, the flight attendant who had been working for the Harpers for the past five years.
Stephanie opened her eyes. "How long was I out for?" she asked.
"Only a few minutes, ma'am," came the reply. Eliza handed Stephanie a warm towel and a fresh glass of water and said, "We'll be landing in fifteen minutes."
"Thank you, Eliza," Stephanie said. She picked up her BlackBerry to check for messages. She wished Neal would return her calls.
For the first time, she realised she needed Neal Caffrey.
"What's the emergency, Moz?" Neal asked his friend when they met in Bryant Park. They ordered coffee from a street vendor.
Neal paid for the coffees and the pair began to walk. Mozzie replied, "Word on the street is that Hale fenced a new Degas two days ago."
"Edgar Degas has been dead for nearly a hundred years, Moz. There can't be a new Degas," Neal replied.
"Go ahead and mock me, my friend," Mozzie continued, "but you know what I mean. Don't we have a Degas in that collection in the storage room?"
"'We' don't have anything," Neal said, and received an exasperated look from his friend. Neal stopped walking. "Moz, I have something to tell you."
"I've been waiting for a moment like this ever since you started getting serious with the Secret Suit," Mozzie said.
Neal frowned, giving his friend a "What?" look. "Did you ask her about the typewriter yet? Because I still haven't been able to work it out," Mozzie said.
Neal took a gulp of his coffee then looked away from Mozzie.
"Wait!" Mozzie exclaimed. "You did more than ask her about the typewriter, didn't you?" Neal remained silent.
"Did you tell her you had the treasure?" Mozzie continued. When he got no answer, he said, "I knew it! You told her! Neal, what if she tells the Suit?"
Neal turned back to look Mozzie. "She already knew about the treasure, Moz. She was the one who put it there," Neal finally said.
"What? How?" Mozzie asked.
"She had some help," Neal replied.
"Neal, what's going on? What are you talking about?"
Neal resumed walking. Mozzie followed.
"The morning after we solved that crooked priest money laundering case, I asked Stephanie to meet me at Ganesvoort," Neal began. "When we walked into the warehouse, she didn't look surprised at all. Then she handed me a classified file – a very thick file – marked 'N. Caffrey', only it wasn't a file on me. It was a file on my Dad."
Mozzie put a hand on Neal's arm and stopped. "Your Dad? I thought he was dead?"
Neal nodded. "He's alive, Moz. My father is alive and well and apparently has been watching me for years!"
"And Stephanie knew all this?" Mozzie asked.
"Not only did she know," Neal explained, "she was helping him. Her Dad and my Dad were partners with the NYPD, walking the Hell's Kitchen beat together thirty years ago."
"Whoa!" Mozzie exclaimed. "How did you not know this?"
"His files were sealed, remember? I have never been able to find out anything more than what my Mom told me when I was growing up," Neal said.
"So his supposed death was all staged?" Mozzie asked.
"Yep," Neal replied.
"So where has he been all these years?" Mozzie asked.
"Apparently busy making sure I met all the right people," Neal replied and saw Mozzie's confused look. "Long story short, June, Cindy, Stephanie and my Dad all worked together and switched the art in that warehouse by the pier and put it into the store room, then left me the note with the key to find it."
"And what was he expecting you to do with the art?" Mozzie asked.
"I think he wants us to run away together with it," Neal replied. "And by 'us' I mean him and me."
"Naturally," Mozzie said with mild disappointment in his voice. "So, have you talked to him yet?" Mozzie asked. Neal shook his head. "Are you going to?"
"I don't know," Neal answered.
"What do you mean you don't know? Neal, this is the dream, man! It's a billion dollars worth of art! You can do anything you want, live wherever you want, be whoever you want! No more being tethered to the Feds. No more cons. You can put your feet up, live on an island where it's sunny everyday."
Neal did not reply.
"I sense your hesitation," Mozzie said. "Is it Stephanie? Peter? Dare I say it…me?"
Neal resumed walking.
"Moz, do you remember the first time you met Peter?" Neal asked.
"Of course! I have perfect recall," Mozzie replied.
"Remember what you said to him about why we do what we do?" Neal asked. "It's not about the money, Moz."
"Not living by anyone's rules," Mozzie added.
"The long con was your dream," Neal said.
"It was yours, too," Mozzie corrected.
"Dreams change," Neal replied.
"So what are you going to do?" Mozzie asked. When there was no answer from Neal, Mozzie continued, "Do you think your Dad would believe me if I told him I was you?"
That brought a laugh from Neal. "Somehow I don't think even you could fool him on that."
"What does Secret Suit think you should do?" Mozzie asked.
"She said I have to choose," Neal said.
"I hate to agree with her but you know she's right," Mozzie said. "And you know you have to do it before the Suit finds out – that is, unless you plan to tell him."
When Neal did not answer further, Mozzie asked, "If you were to decide to talk to your Dad, how would you contact him?"
"Stephanie gave me a number," Neal replied.
"Can I assume Caffrey senior has access to the art?" Mozzie asked.
"I believe so," Neal answered.
"So he must be the one who asked Hale to fence the Degas," Mozzie said.
"That would be a safe guess," Neal said.
"If he's liquidating the loot now then he must be getting ready to run," Mozzie said.
"Also a safe guess," Neal replied.
"Neal, if he keeps selling more art from that collection, it won't be long before the Suits tie them together as art from the sub. Does Peter still suspect you?"
"He said he can't tie me to the explosion at the warehouse but he wasn't convinced I was completely innocent of the switch and he still believes the art didn't burn," Neal replied.
"So we need to make sure Peter doesn't have any evidence that could potentially tie you back to the art or to prove that anything new being fenced on the market came from the sub," Mozzie said.
"I know," Neal said. "I just haven't figured out how."
"Can Stephanie find out? Peter trusts her," Mozzie suggested.
"I can't put her at risk in this," Neal said.
"Neal, you said yourself that she had everything to do with all of this beautiful mess you find yourself in. She's been in cahoots with your Dad for years. You wouldn't be putting her at risk – she's already been in this deeper than you. You need to know what Peter knows, and you need to find out fast," Mozzie said. "It's either that, or you call your Dad and you leave right now and never look back."
Diana stood at Peter's door and waited till her boss looked up from his paperwork and gestured for her to enter his office.
"Close the door," Peter instructed. Diana did so. "Sit down."
"Boss, who was that?" Diana asked, referring to the woman who had just left his office.
"That," Peter began, "was Agent Melissa Matthews from the Art Crimes Division in D.C."
"Oh?" Diana replied. "Is she here about the missing art from the sub?"
"Yes. She works for my former boss, Kramer. I called him to ask for his help tracking any potential matches to our partial manifest from the sub," Peter explained. "I don't expect them to be popping up en masse but if they do start to appear, we can be pretty sure they won't just be hitting New York. That's why we need extra eyes and ears to keep a lookout."
"Have they heard increased chatter about new art floating around?" Diana asked.
"Not yet," Peter replied. "It's been a few weeks now. Our thieves are holding out for something and we need to figure out what."
"Do you still think Caffrey had something to do with it?" Diana asked.
"I've been monitoring his tracking anklet, like I always do, and there have been no unusual movements since the fire at the warehouse," Peter replied. "So, if he does have the art, he's either got it hidden in his apartment, or he's got someone else looking after it to make sure it's still there."
"What makes you say that?"
"If you had a billion dollars worth of art, would you just let it sit in a warehouse somewhere unguarded?" Peter asked.
"You think Mozzie has it?"
"I think he might at least know where it is," Peter replied.
"Do you want to put a tail on him?" Diana asked.
"Mr Conspiracy? No, he thinks someone is tailing him even when no one is," Peter said.
"So, what do we do?" Diana asked.
"For now, we wait. I've given a copy of the manifest to Agent Matthews to take back to DC. They'll keep us posted if anything comes across their radar," Peter replied. "In the meantime," Peter added, handing over the original manifest, "I need you to translate this. Do it at home. Don't leave any trails – not on your computer, not on paper, don't print anything out, and don't leave anything lying around."
"Don't worry, Boss," Diana said. "I'll sit down with a cup of tea and a German dictionary and get this done in a couple of hours."
"Good. Keep me posted."
"Are those bags under your eyes, Neal?" Peter teased as he leant over to inspect Neal's face closely when he picked him up the next morning.
"Can I have some personal space, please, Agent Burke?" Neal protested as he pushed Peter away.
"You're supposed to be a model. You can't have bags under your eyes," Peter teased as he settled back into the driver's seat and started to drive.
"Just what kind of model am I supposed to be if nobody has seen my face on anything other than some Wanted posters?" Neal asked.
"You're modelling accessories," Peter replied. "They don't need to have seen your face. Sorry buddy, but they're only interested in you for your body." Peter tried to stifle a laugh.
"OK, please wipe that stupid grin off your face, Peter," Neal said. "Does this fall within the workplace sexual harassment guidelines? Does the FBI have a Human Resources department I can file a complaint to?"
"Oh, you want to complain about me? Guess where you'll end up if I'm removed as your handler?" Peter asked.
"Wow, and now sexual harassment has turned into a threat to send me back to prison," Neal said. "I'm sure you can crack this case without me."
"Oh, look, stop sulking, Caffrey," Peter said. "Listen, I'm sorry for teasing you. Where's your sense of humour disappeared to this morning? Cranky that Stephanie hasn't called since she left?"
"Not everything is about Stephanie," Neal replied. "So what's the plan for today?" Neal asked as he changed the subject.
"Well, the plan is that you will strike some poses while I talk to some of the staff, especially Katelyn Parson. She's the founder and senior fashion editor for Bon Chance magazine for the past twenty years," Peter said.
"She was named one of the top ten fashion editors by the International Fashion Council for a few years not that long ago," Neal said.
Peter gave him a look and thought to himself: of course Caffrey would know even something as trivial as this. But then again, what seemed trivial to him was probably what made Caffrey one of the best conmen in the world before he was arrested. Heck, he probably spent his four years in prison doing nothing but studying potential marks.
"Yes, she was – from 2004 to 2009, as a matter of fact," Peter continued. "Since then, the fashion industry had been hit pretty hard by the global financial crisis and most print magazines, including Bon Chance, lost a lot of advertising dollars. It's been struggling for a number of years so she's our prime suspect."
"What about the others?" Neal asked.
"Nothing that particularly stands out yet," Peter replied. "The photographer's assistant's background is a little patchy though. Diana and Jones are still trying to find out about her. She seems to have popped out of nowhere a few years ago so she probably changed her name. We should have more by the time we get back to the office."
Neal and Peter rode on in silence for the remainder of the trip to the photography studio.
"You're late!" a voice barked at Neal and Peter as they exited the elevator at the studio. Music was blaring from a distant room. They soon saw the woman behind the bark. Peter put her somewhere in her early-20s – a tall, skinny, bleached-blonde in heels that added an extra six inches to her already tall frame. Peter and Neal looked at each other, and then back at the woman, who continued yelling at them.
"When we say call time is 7.15am sharp, we mean 7.15 sharp. Mr Lamoray doesn't like to be kept waiting! I honestly don't know why Lena and Carol wanted to pick a model we've never worked with before! Manhattan is filled with experienced models and they want us to use some amateur who can't even read the time. Well, don't just stand there! We don't have all day! Come!" The woman spoke rapidly without taking a breath between sentences.
Neal and Peter quickly followed her as she turned around and headed back to where she had come from.
They saw flashes coming from another room which they assumed to be camera flashes. A man with his back to them, probably in his mid-40s, was taking photographs of a heavily-made-up, heavily bejewelled woman, naked but for the feather boa draped strategically around her neck, straddling a chair backwards. She continued to offer some pouts and poses at the camera as the photographer snapped away.
"Why was she yelling at us about being late if they're not even ready for us?" Neal spoke into Peter's ear so as to be heard above the music whilst making sure the woman they were following could not hear him. Peter merely shrugged in response; as if afraid any sound he made would be greeted with more yelling from the woman.
"Hair, make-up, in there!" the woman barked at Neal as she looked him up and down, then added, horrified, "are those bags under your eyes?"
Despite having made a similar comment earlier and carrying a gun, Peter dared not laugh. For some reason, this woman terrified him more than he ever imagined possible.
Before Neal could answer, the woman yelled as she pushed Neal into what he assumed was the make-up room, "CLAIRE! OH MY GOD! You've got your work cut out for you darling!"
Peter followed.
The woman whom they presumed to be Claire turned towards the door at the sound of her name being called. She grabbed Neal by his elbows, pushed him into the make-up chair and immediately pushed her face close to his to inspect every minute detail.
The first woman stood behind Claire with her arms crossed across her chest. She looked as if her head would burst with fury. As Claire continued to inspect Neal's face, the first woman suddenly looked up at Peter, "And what kind of manager do you call yourself to let your model turn up to a photo shoot with bags under his eyes?" Her emphasis on the word "bags" sent shivers up Peter's spine each time she said it.
Claire continued to poke and prod at Neal's face – she seemed to be inspecting each pore and stubble on his face at close range. She held his chin with one hand and turned his head roughly one way, then the other, before finally straightening up again and announcing, "He's not a completely lost cause, Scarlett."
The first woman, now known to the men as Scarlett, breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Oh, you're a darling, Claire! Can you get him ready in half an hour?"
Claire turned to Scarlett and said, "I've done more with less."
"Great!" Scarlett said. "Send him out when you're done," she added in a sing-song voice, much relieved by the news that Neal would be presentable soon. She marched back out of the make-up room, the click-clack of her heels muffled by the blaring music outside.
With Scarlett gone, Claire turned her attention back to Neal and commanded, "Now strip."
Peter's jaw dropped slightly with surprise.
"Excuse me?" Neal replied.
"You heard me," Claire said.
"You're not going to buy me a drink first?" Neal joked with his usual charm.
"Are you deaf?" Claire asked. Neal shook his head. "So, which part of my instruction did you not understand?"
When Neal remained seated and fully-clothed, Claire explained in an exasperated tone, "You're a body model. You are modelling accessories, not clothes; therefore, you won't be wearing any. I'm a make-up artist, which means I need to make sure your face and your body are flawless for the camera, and I can't do that if you've got your clothes on, can I?"
A still-shocked Neal shook his head again.
"Do we have a problem? Do I need to speak with Randy or Katelyn about this?" Claire asked Peter, who simply shook his head. "So, strip!" Claire turned back to look at Neal and commanded again.
Neal stood up from his seat slowly and looked hesitantly at Peter, mouthing "HELP!" but the FBI agent merely shrugged and gave Neal a reassuring thumbs-up and a wink as he attempted to hold back a laugh.
Neal looked back at Claire, who was now standing with her arms crossed, drumming her fingers on her arms as she glared at him impatiently. "You heard Scarlett. Randy Lamoray is a very busy man. We haven't got all day!"
Neal kicked off his shoes and removed his tie as he attempted to start a conversation. "So, Claire," he began as he looked around for somewhere to hang his clothes. Not finding what he was after, and with Claire not offering any help, he started handing his clothes to Peter, much to his annoyance. "Claire," Neal started again, "how long have you been working for Mr Lamoray?"
"Long enough," Claire replied. "And if you don't strip any faster, I'm going to come do it myself," she threatened. "The rate you're going, I'm going to end my career watching you take your clothes off."
"Going out on a high?" Neal said with the most charming smile he could muster.
"You're not the first pretty boy to come in here thinking you're God's gift to women," Claire replied. Then she stepped right up to Neal till her mouth was almost touching his ear and added, "and if you don't hurry up, I'm going to make sure your friend over there and I are the last ones to see what you're made of." She stepped back, then said, "You have sixty seconds."
At this, Neal began to remove his three-piece suit with the speed of a man on fire.