Chapter 7
"He wants a meeting," Denise watched as Vic took a deep breath, blinking, and ran a hand over his face.
"I can't do it, but I can't jeopardize my identity," He turned to Robbie.
"We can hold off just long enough that he gets curious. Hire a man to go sleep in your apartment for the night, send in Denni to make it look real. He barges in in the morning and our actor follows his script. Tired, cranky, you know. Not a morning person. Throw him off target," Exasperated, Vic leaned his hands on the chair back.
"And where are we going to find this stand in?"
"Oh, I know a down on his luck thespian that will happily learn the part for the right price. He specializes in ad-lib based on a guided script, if you know what I mean. He fits the Moreau bill too, dark hair, dark eyes. You know,"
"Great, let's set it up,"
Peter sighed unhappily. It was the second time that his meeting with Moreau had been bumped back, and he was starting to get suspicious. Diana had been by. Just like El, her advice was always the kick he needed.
It was time to make progress of his own.
He lifted his hand and knocked on the door. The badge had gotten him to the penthouse, but only the man inside would get him any farther. A thump resounded from the other side, and Peter listened intently for the sound of footsteps pattering towards him. The door swung open after a moment and…
Before him stood a bedraggled man of sculpted figure and shaggy dark hair. He held his breath. The man looked up and brown eyes met Peter's. A crooked nose and more scruff than Neal had favoured met his gaze. He let out his breath.
"What?" The voice of the man that Peter assumed could only be Victor Moreau was deeper than Neal's, a bit more gruff, and very obviously not pleased to be awoken so early.
"I'm Agent Peter Burke, and I've been trying to get a hold of you regarding your recent donation to the Museum,"
"Could you have come any earlier?" Moreau trudged inside, beckoning Peter to join him. The room was open, with no walls separating the rooms. Peter scanned the interior. On a bed of silver grey sheets, He noticed another head of dark hair. Denise was more than just friends then. Hardly surprising. Moreau had stopped at a breakfast bar and was pouring himself a glass of juice.
"We've been playing phone tag. I simply wanted the chance to meet in person, get out of your hair. I'm sure I've been a nuisance to try and fit into your schedule, and I want this over and done with as much as you. I've been tracking Caffrey since he first came onto our radar over two decades ago. Have you got any information for me?" Peter slid the photo across the granite countertop. Moreau gazed at it intently for a moment, and then shook his head.
"I've never seen the guy before. I'll tell you what I know, but it's not much, and I've never heard the name Neal Caffrey before. A while ago, almost, what, six, seven years maybe? I was making my way up in life in Seattle. I like art. Anyway, and I had some money and a man I knew told me about this, well…let's just call it a blowout sale. I went to the location. It was a telephone booth, and the phone was ringing. I picked it up. We made a deal, but I never got his name. I was told, that, in seven years I should donate the pieces I would find on the list with the art, and all the information about the dedication. The whole speech actually. I was paid well for it, and, as a settlement, was given several pieces on the aside that I could keep to do with as I pleased. I got to choose which ones. It was a good deal, and I took it. I haven't had contact with the guy since then," Moreau fingered the photo, then slid it back across to Peter. "That's all I've got. If the pieces I kept in my private collection are contraband, then, by all means, you can confiscate them. I'm legitimate now, and I haven't dabbled since that phone call,"
Peter sighed, pocketing the photograph.
"No. No, it's not much. But then, he always was good. I guess I just underestimated him. Thank you…for your time. I'm, a, sorry I had to wake you up so early. I'm going to have some of my people come by and take a look at the pieces you mentioned, if that's alright," Moreau shrugged.
"I'm here right now. We might as well get this over with,"
"I don't know El," Peter ran his hands down his wife's shoulders, lent into her embrace. "Moreau was there. He's notoriously private, and he didn't offer any other information about himself, but he fit the description. He was there with Denise. He gave us everything, even the art. I just…it felt like Neal in there, El. It felt like his ghost was watching over my shoulder. I could see him in that apartment, sitting at the dining table drinking wine as clear as if it was in June's loft. It's him. It's got to be him, El, and I have nothing. Not one thing, to prove it,"
"Maybe it's best this way, Peter. I think…I think it's time. To give up the ghost. You said it yourself. He's haunting you. You need to let it go. Seven years ago, Neal set up this apology to you. And I think it's the best that you're ever going to get. Don't let a ghost run your life,"
Peter didn't say anything for a long, long time.
Epilogue
It had been three years since the Dediction. He'd kept tabs on the man he'd come to consider family from the very beginning, and so when he had heard that Elizabeth was pregnant, he'd immediately set up a trust fund for the child, set to be accessible to the Burkes upon his or her eighteenth birthday. They'd receive a letter of notification with access codes and everything.
He hoped that they wouldn't mind.
Neal knew that while Peter still suspected that he and Vic were one in the same, there was no proof linking them. And despite that, Peter had still given up the chase.
Neal owed his life to Peter, and he'd never jeopardize the precious remains of what was once a close friendship.
He peered through the window of the Burke house subtly. Peter was holding his son, cooing at him awkwardly, with the inelegance of a new father. Neal smiled, then walked away.
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught the shock of dark hair, the flutter of a coattail, at the window. He turned, called out.
"Neal! Neal!" He called out, but the man didn't look back, kept walking. "We named him Matt!" The figure paused slightly, but didn't stop. Peter sighed, and watched till the man turned the corner, then went back inside. He'd long ended his obsession with the criminal, but not the man.
The End?
A/N: I am so very sorry that this took so long. I have no excuse except lack of muse. If you want a sequel, you're really going to have to beg….and probably wait too. I'm working on a kid!Neal story. But it's very different from any I've read so far, so please don't disregard it when I start posting. I want to focus on his father and his past life, and I think it would be an interesting angle with him as a child, and not a teen.
Thanks so much for all of the support and love that this story has gotten. I know that there were some pretty big gaps in between, but muse is a fickle thing and you stuck with me, so thank you.
