I disclaim. An longer chapter to make up for the shortie earlier! Also this is Julia heavy but dont worry- the boys are coming up next!

Chapter 6

Mozzie rustled his paper in agitation as the brunette teacher angrily threw herself down on the bench behind him. "You walk past twice and then sit down!" He hissed, upset that she failed to follow protocol.

"Give me a break Mozzie." Julia George set her paper coffee cup at her feet, the signal that she hadn't been followed. "Who walks past a bench that many times, then sits down?" She pulled out a book and pretended to read.

"Plenty of people walk past benches every day." The small man defended himself and they fell silent a moment, each lost in their own thoughts regarding the situation at hand. "Sorry about your boyfriend." Mozzie offered, still feeling somewhat responsible that the kid had been shot.

Julia sighed, closing her eyes. "He's not my boyfriend. But he shouldn't have been anywhere near that apartment. And you should never have come to the hospital. What were you thinking? Involving Neal—he's working with Burke—you don't think he'll report everything to the Suit the minute he catches up with him?" Now it was Julia who was angry, a hint of an Irish brogue slurring her words.

"Oh I think the kid's more interested in the mystery than in Peter Burke's approval."

"Neal is a good person Mozzie—he's not the type to get dragged into this sort of thing."

Mozzie turned a page violently. "Oh I think there's a little more to your little friend than there appears to be O'Brien." He shot a glance over his shoulder. "You might not know him as well as you think. Did he tell you about my little visit?" Julia stiffened. Neal hadn't said anything about the conman, but Julia had seen him disappear down the hall, seen the look in Neal's eyes, the bullet clutched in his hand. It hadn't been hard to put two and two together, even easier remember the number she'd once memorized. "And don't talk to me about risk little girl. I wasn't the one flaunting in front of a federal agent—why didn't you just paint Burke a picture of your wanted poster? I'm sure Interpol would just love to have an updated photo."

Julia whipped around, unconcerned with security in her rage. "And what should I have done? Left him by himself after you got him shot!" She kicked her cup, black coffee staining her shoes and the cracked sidewalk. " Fuck you! I was out—why couldn't you have just left me alone?" She took deep breath and stood, mechanically moving to pick up the trash and toss it in to the garage before sitting back down.

For once, the balding con looked suitably abashed. "I didn't know it would got his far. If I'd known Burke was sniffing around…" He trailed off. "I'll give the Suit credit—he's good. I didn't even know he was having Alex followed. Me, not noticing a tail—I'd be impressed if he wasn't trying to put the metal bracelets on me."

"Alex." Julia puffed out a derisive sound. "She knew better."

"She took risks." Mozzie wasn't quite ready to speak ill of the dead, superstitions getting the better of him.

"She was reckless. Her obsessions finally got the best of her." The teacher's dark eyes clouded, lost in memories of old battles. "She cared too much. She made it personal." Mozzie inclined his head, accepting the point; it was part of the reason that he wanted nothing to do with the job from the beginning. Alex had wanted it to much. He also knew that of all his younger colleagues, Julia George knew a great deal about obsessions—about the hasty danger they created.

Julia was part of his old life, never discussed, a tie to Detroit that he preferred not to think about. The Dentist was gone, leaving Mozzie behind, and the girl behind him was a uncomfortable reminder of his sins. Her father had been a fanatic, an IRA man who fled Ireland with his young daughter to Boston, helping other's escape MI5's keen eye when needed. But then Detroit had called, and Tommy O'Brien enforced for the Irish mob. He was good it, enjoyed it a little too much, and even Mozzie, who admittedly hadn't exactly been upset when a little blood was spilled, had been a little afraid of him. Mozzie had mostly worked for the Russians and the Czechs, but he wasn't picky so long as the money was good and during the construction boom the money was good with the Irish. He'd even been invited for dinner a few times, and had always awkwardly greeted the small girl along with whatever woman O'Brien was sleeping with that week.
Say what you will about the man, he'd loved his daughter and took prestigious care of her. The women never stayed because it was clear that O'Brien had just enough room in his heart for one woman—Julia. He sent her to the best art schools, paid for private tutors; but even Julia hadn't stopped his dangerous tendencies and he was like a junkie; he needed the hit of danger and explosives and chaos.

He made it personal.

He went back to Ireland, took her with him, and got them both blown up in a car bombing two months later. Julia lived. Tommy hadn't been so lucky.
Julia adapted, as she always had, to the situation her father thrust on her. She'd used the art skills he'd encourage to forge currency and euros for the IRA, eventually trying her hand at paintings. Word got out and she slipped away from the Northern Ireland, freelancing, earning enough to travel and study but her heart was never quite in it. Which was a shame because she was good; one of the best Mozzie had ever worked with.

He hadn't been surprised when she'd disappeared.

It had been pure luck he'd spotted her in New York, a lucky catch that he'd needed someone to authenticate a Spanish painting. She'd always had a talent for religious art. Asking her to check the Velazquez before he'd stolen it had been risky, but he trusted Alex as far as he could throw her, and considering his physical fitness that wasn't far. So he'd called in a marker with Julia and she'd looked over the piece the night before, authenticating the table arrangement on the canvas in exchange for him losing her number.

And then everything had gone to shit.

And now she was beside him, still a girl, and he felt like a terrible person, blowing up her world once more.

"Did you tell anyone? About the painting?" He had to ask.

"Of course not." Julia muttered. "I didn't even go the party under my real name. If someone found out about this it wasn't from me."

Mozzie rubbed his head and adjusted his glasses. "Well I didn't tell anyone. And Alex wouldn't have risked a payoff that large."

"How large?" Julia questioned sharply.

"Fifty million. I got thirty, she took twenty and her contact got the painting and the other ten." It had sounded too good to be true but he'd been tempted by the money, which would fund his private island for at least a few years. Julia scoffed. "What?" He turned, abandoning all attempt at deception.

She turned to face him as well. "That's bullshit. One of the most expensive Valazquez's in the world is estimated at eighty to a hundred million, Prince Baltasar Carlos on Horseback. It's a masterpiece; the piece you had me examine was a fifth graders art project in comparison. It was from early in his career and I'd estimate worth about two million in a legitimate auction. But even the Baltasar is questionable—it may not even be authentic. The most expensive Velazquez is Juan de Pareja, which the Met bought for five and half mil, which in the seventies was the highest price ever paid for a painting at auction. There is no way on god's green earth that that painting was worth that much at a Christie's, let alone on the market." Mozzie's paper had been discarded now, his fist clenched as he took in what his old friend was saying. "So either Alex was full of shit, or she was moving something else and not telling you about it."

"Alex wouldn't do that."

"Then someone was playing her." The ex-forger glanced around before standing, smoothing her skirt with shaking hands. "Playing all of us. I'll call you, if I hear anything. But Mozzie… don't call me again." She hurried away, disappearing into the quickly cooling night.

Mozzie sat a little longer, nervously watching the shadows close in on him. Under his shirt he could feel the hard metal of his gun digging into his hip—it wasn't as comforting as it had been this morning and he wished for the calm walls of Tuesday.

When the sun slipped behind the gleaming skyscraper and the park fell into darkness he finally stood, a dark smear amongst the twilight, moving quickly into the safe light of the street.

********************************WC********************************

"Is our little problem taken care of?" The boardroom was mostly empty, just two men facing off, both unhappy to be there. Somewhere on the floor a vacuum was turned on, the calming purr of the machine faint through the glass walls. A light clicked on a few offices away and the young man's eyes quickly cut away, glancing over suspiciously. A secretary bustled around, files deposited her and there. "It's just Janice." The older man answered the unspoken question and leaned forward eagerly. "So, is it done?"

The younger man tilted his head and reached up to check his tie. "Not exactly. My men missed the thief—they, ugh, hit a police man instead. A detective." He pushed a file across the table.

"Well what the hell was a cop doing at the apartment?"

"He was with a federal agent. Burke." Another file. The older man glared and the speaker rolled his eyes at the man's insistence that they not use names. "Anyway, the agent apparently knew fence was up to something, had her followed."

This was not good news. The files swished as they were thrown down the table. "And you didn't know this? How could you miss it? Our patsy has a goddam tail and we don't find out until after it's gone down?"

The finely dressed young man knit his eyebrows together, trying not to laugh at the ridiculous use of slang. "The operation was barely above board. It's nothing to worry about. What we to focus on, is finding the thief and taking him out." This time there was only a photo, grainy and almost worthless. "Once he's out of the picture we'll deal with the cops. For good, if necessary."

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