Chapter 6

Neal stared at the man sitting across from him. He rather prided himself on his ability to "see things coming." His mind worked fast – as a con artist's must – so that he could analyze, react, and improvise in a situation as needed. It was a combination of natural ability and skill, honed to admirable sharpness by long experience. Neal was secretly pleased whenever Peter showed his surprise -.

Peter!

Their parting earlier that day had left a bad taste in Neal's mouth. The always (or so it seemed) cool consultant might never admit it to anyone, but it had hurt that Peter believed that he, Neal, would've pulled that kind of con on his FBI handler, no—his friend. Black thoughts had shadowed his mind ever since he'd thrown his reply in Peter's face, "Then prove it!"

And now his father was deliberately plotting to make sure that it got around that Neal indeed had possession of the priceless treasure?

In a rare, bitter moment Neal's thoughts ran to an adage he didn't normally subscribe to: Life's a bitch.

Steele knew his answer had shocked his son. "If this wasn't of such an urgent nature, I would've asked and made sure to seek your cooperation beforehand, Neal — ."

"Really?"

The native Irishman heard the bitter edges of the response. "Really," his father affirmed steadily. He saw the blue eyes so like his own flick away and glance down at a well-shod foot. What is . . . ahhh, not the Gucci shoe, the tracking anklet above it.

With a dark eyebrow quirking upwards he asked, "And what does that high-tech accessory have to do with my needing your help?"

A barely noticeable flush washed Neal's cheeks as he realized he had betrayed himself with one unconscious glance. Damn, he hasn't lost a step has he?

"That," he said with a rueful smile, "is the only reason I am living here, drinking good wine, and wearing these clothes, and not in prison, drinking tap water, and wearing an orange jumpsuit." He lifted his crossed leg a few inches higher, as if to display the tracking device better. "Behold my leash."

"And who holds the other end?"

"The man who spent three years to catch me: F.B.I. Special Agent Peter Burke, head of the New York White Collar Crimes Unit."

Steele was watching his son closely and listening even closer. There had been no anger, no bitterness in the admission.

"He has you on this leash in order to . . .?"

" . . . To help him catch bad guys," Neal squirmed a bit as he shared this last revelation with his father. "I get to stay out of prison, live almost normally, and in return I am a 'consultant' on Peter's tougher cases."

Now it was the elder con man's eyes that emptied of good cheer and darkened with the shadows of a blacker emotion.

"Isn't that a familiar deal with the devil? Haven't you suffered enough at the hands of Federal agents?"

The Irish temper flared into bright anger when Steele heard his son's explanation, making the chair no longer comfortable but restricting. He hands curled into fists as he glared down at his boy. "My God, Neal, I always thought you had more brains than that! Why would you make the same mistake I did?"

"Dad," Neal said, rising to put a hand on his father's shoulder, "this is different, it's not the same."

Steele impatiently shook off the hand, refusing to be comforted by touch or words. He strode to the balcony, needing a greater sense of openness around him, needing to escape the feeling of confinement.

"Different? How do you figure that, Son? Sounds damn near identical to me!" His leaving hadn't saved his family. Neal was living the same hell he had. Was that choice somehow his fault as well?

Neal drew in a deep breath and took a measured sip from his glass of wine before starting to follow the understandably angry man onto the balcony. His gamble hadn't paid off. By explaining the anklet so casually he had hoped it might prevent what had just happened.

Clearly it didn't.

And despite the near ten-year absence that had separated this meeting from the last, Neal knew his father well enough to see that this wasn't anger directed at him, but at Steele himself, still enraged and guilty over choices made so long ago.

Leaning against the doorframe between living room and balcony, Neal spoke softly, wanting to make his father turn back to him to hear him. "It is different, Dad. Peter Burke is no Tony Roselli." He saw Steele's whole body flinch briefly at the sound of that name. "And the rest of his FBI team is nothing like the corrupt bastards Roselli surrounded himself with over 20 years ago."

There was no response from the man at the railing.

"Dad – please – I wouldn't lie to you, not about this."

Slowly Steele turned around to once again face his only child. Neal closed the distance between them and fixed a steady gaze on his still-grieving father's face.

"I have Peter's back, and he has mine. I trust him, and he —." Neal stopped himself from completing the sentence and amended, "Well, he did sort of trust me, until this morning. Your plan is already in motion; Peter believes I stole the Nazi treasure. Your work is convincing, Dad."

Can I really fault Peter for believing I'm guilty? Not even the great Agent Burke is sharp enough to not be taken in by one of the world's greatest art swindlers and thieves! Neal's personal sense of pain began to fade as realized his own father had laid the perfect trap. It was hardly Peter's fault he was the first one to get caught in it.

Every instinct in the one-time private detective wanted to say the hell with the entire dangerous scheme and drag his son off and far away from anyone in the U.S. government. He knew from experience that such a tie could be infinitely more dangerous than the plan Steele came to New York to propose. But the conviction in Neal's voice made him ask instead, "Will he help you? Will he help us?"

"Help us what?"

"Help us use the treasure to recover $75 million dollars in stolen diamonds."

TBC!

A/N: Again, my thanks for your patience with my slow posting, and even more so, thank you for your enthusiastic enjoyment of my little tale! I am soooo glad to know it's been a good read for many of you.

I will admit I've had to make a significant plot adjustment as I had planned to make use of the art theft from the Gardener Museum in Boston. Then, just the other day, I discovered the great story If You Play with Fire by canadianscanget and saw that that device was already in play! Luckily there is another famous, unsolved theft I can use instead.

P.S. Tony Roselli was/is a character from the final partial season of Remington Steele. He was an interfering INS agent (played by Jack Scalia) who was out to "get" Remington Steele and who presumed to flirt with Laura! I plan to have fun by indulging myself and making him a full-fledged bad-guy.