Day 2, Apartment in Paris, 8:00 am, local time

Sitting in his tiny balcony, Neal was sipping his coffee admiring the view. A few clouds drifted in the sky casting soft shadows over the river. At the tip of the island, the French Miss Liberty was keeping guard over the Island du Cygne.

When he had started his hunt for a place to live, Neal had a few unescapable criteria; one of them was a clear view. Real estate prices in Paris were on par with those of New York, but he wouldn't live in an apartment whose windows faced the neighbors' ones.

When he had seen this place, a single glance at the balcony had been enough to make his decision. The irony of seeing the Statue of Liberty from his window hadn't escaped him. Often he thought about the view from his loft in New York. Truth be told, both were pretty amazing.

He loved New York; he always would. His heart belonged to the city and the idea that he would never step foot on it again chilled him to the bone. But living in Paris, for an artist like him, was like being in a dream. He had gone to all the museums, many, many times, had literally haunted the halls of the Louvre. One evening, after a visit to the Musée d'Orsay, he had stopped on the way back home to buy brushes, pigments, a canvas. He had spent the night painting, drugged by happiness, like a junkie who had been given a dose after too long.

Since that night, he had purchased more material and the paintings were starting to pile up. Now and then, he dropped a bunch of them in a small art gallery that sold them quite easily. Whatever Peter might have said, he could live honestly by his art.

Peter… whose face was currently displayed on his Ipad.

In the end, leaving New York and the FBI had turned out to be the only way out. Negotiating his freedom as reward for bringing down the Pink Panthers had made him realize he would never be able to leave that life behind him. Only death could change things.

Slowly the idea had bloomed. The danger represented by the Pink Panthers gang had only spurred it further. He would leave everyone, everything, his world, his whole life. From there, it was only about logistics. In many ways it was not even the most complicated con he had to set up.

He had just underestimated one aspect; two if he was being honest with himself.

The first were the side effects of puffer fish poisoning. Being injected with the poison to slow his heart until he was declared dead had worked perfectly well. Not that he remembered anything about it. Having to trust somebody with that had been almost more frightening than feeling the serum enter his arm. What he hadn't anticipated was the time it would take his body to get rid of the poison. When he was expecting it the least, his body would betray him, muscles paralyzed by the leftovers of the serum. Once, he had felt his heart slow down so much that he had feared his last hour had come. He was saved by an instinctual panic as fear released such a burst of adrenaline that his heart actually picked up again. Those symptoms were now history, but he still felt weak when he thought about it.

The other aspect was how badly he had misjudged missing New York. Who was he kidding? If he had to put what he missed the most into one word it would only take five letters, a single name. Peter.

Neal had never really understood how the FBI agent had been able to get into his life that deeply, how he had trusted him, how he had been ready to sacrifice his own life. Losing Mozzie had been like turning a page of his life. His young, carefree days. Mozzie had been his teacher, the one who had seen the rough diamond and turned it to all its splendor. The "Mozzie years" were fun, light, happy, fluffy like a fruity champagne.

As for Peter… Peter had opened the door to a world where human beings were not just marks, suckers and patsies, but full blooded beings ready to give you their hearts without asking for anything in exchange. Years where life had taken a new meaning, where planting roots meant something and had an appeal like nothing else. Peter was like an old cognac, whose taste lingered long on the tongue.

A day didn't go by without thinking about him. Suddenly surprising himself by turning his head to point something out to him, only to find him absent.

After a few months of settling himself into his apartment; when his life had stopped being a whirlwind of museums, parties and wine bottles; he had finally admitted that he would never be able to totally turn his back on his previous life. He had contacted a private investigator through a secure line and had him send pictures on a regular basis.

That was how he had witnessed Elizabeth coming out of the hospital with the baby, Peter and El pushing the stroller down Central Park pathways, Peter's grumpy face at a crime scene. The last pictures, received this morning, showed Peter leaving his house, giving a soft kiss to his wife, his hand on the baby's head.

If anyone had told him Peter would give his name to his son, Neal would have burst out laughing. He wasn't that vain though. He knew the real reason the baby had his name was because he was dead. Peter would have never given him such a powerful blackmailing tool.

He would give his right arm to see Peter, just for a few minutes. But he was dead, and dead people didn't get second chances.

He slid his finger over the screen and brought up the New York Times web edition. Every morning, while eating a fresh croissant, he read the news from the US.

An article caught his attention. Just a snippet from the previous evening.

'Rembrandt's "Storm on the Sea of Galileo" found 25 years after being stolen at the Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.'

Now, that was going to get the FBI running! The headline briefly explained how the painting had been found on a crime scene and promised more news on the complete article the following day. Neal groaned. Because of the time difference he'd need to wait several hours before he had more information.

He started surfing the web to research the robbery. The case had baffled the police back then; it had never been solved. No one had ever seen the painting again. He enjoyed himself reading the stories on the web, not bothering to hide his admiration for such a heist, almost feeling jealous. He couldn't wait to see how the police would tackle the case this time.

Neal opened the door and threw the keys on the table, closing the door with his foot. He was back much later than expected. He didn't bother removing his jacket, instead reaching his Ipad.

The reappearance of the painting was on the front page of the New York Times.

'The robbery of the century about to be solved.

25 years after the facts, will the FBI solve the mystery of the theft at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?'

The article mentioned the press conference that had been held after the joint meeting with the FBI and the NYPD. Apparently, both agencies were working closely together to solve the case. A short paragraph caught Neal's attention.

'Peter Burke, current ASAC of the FBI's White Collar in New York, in charge of the case, travels back in time. 25 years ago, when he was just a rookie agent, Peter Burke worked on the theft of the paintings. No one knows all the intricacies of this file better than him. Let's hope this time the ending will be a happy one.'

Neal put the Ipad back on the table when he realized his hands were shaking. He exhaled softly and sat down, trying to calm the reaction of his body.

He wasn't the superstitious kind, but sometimes the stuff life threw at you made you wonder. If Neal had been in New York, there was no doubt Peter would have him chained to a desk to solve this case. If anyone could shed some light on a museum robbery, it would have been the Bureau's CI with a shady past and known acquaintances in the art world.

Peter needed him on this case. No doubt about that. Of course, Neal wouldn't go as far as going inside the FBI to offer his help, but he could easily send anonymous information.

It felt like a guilty desire. Seeing Peter, the baby, breathing the unique atmosphere of the most wonderful city in the world. But helping Peter solve the greatest case of his career? What better gift from a dead man? To thank him one last time…

Not allowing himself to think too much about it and find all the reasons that made this a very bad idea, Neal ran his fingers over the Ipad and booked himself a flight. He would leave in the morning, arriving in New York in the early afternoon. He would have time to drop his stuff at the hotel and then visit the container. He couldn't wait to see if Peter had touched anything.

TBC…

We are not doctors and don't know a thing about puffer fish poisoning, so forgive us for the liberties taken on the effects of the poisoning…