Apparently Kramer was very well satisfied with the Matisse copy.
When Neal was taken back to his room, he found an ice bucket with a bottle of a decent champagne chilling in it. There were even two flutes – plastic – on the counter.
Someone had also provided him with a box of condoms and a bottle of lubricant.
It was funny, in a way, because he fancied himself something of a romantic, and, to date, at least, a serial monogamist. He did want that lasting relationship, though he wasn't fully convinced it would ever truly be within his grasp.
And yeah, after the whole Rebecca/Rachel thing, maybe his relationship radar needed some tuning.
On the other hand, he'd realized early on that sex could be an extremely valuable tool in a con. He'd quickly learned to separate the physical act from any true feelings. And really, this was just another con – or, more specifically, a play to add to his meager stash of escape tools. The weekend reprieve was over, and he was back to being searched on his way back to the studio from the cafeteria, and when he left the studio at night. But, since his captors thought they so closely controlled what came into his quarters, he was not searched going out in the morning.
If things went the way he hoped tonight, they might soon have reason to regret that.
The house was everything he had hoped it would be.
With the rather tight timeframe for the move, and the slight complication of a manhunt for a highly trained assassin to deal with, he hadn't been able to travel to DC to look at the houses their real estate agent suggested. But El – bless her organized heart – had taken advantage of the time she had spent here under Bruce's care to not only work on finding her dream job, but also to visit the leading contender from the listings they had looked at.
She fell in love with the house, and that assured Peter he would love it too. Whatever made El happy made him happy – and it wasn't as though either of them expected that he would make many of the decisions on furnishings or decorating.
Well, except, perhaps, for the finished media room in the basement. He could picture setting that up as his man cave, with a big screen TV to watch all the games…
Assuming he ever actually got to live here, and not just visit, of course.
He recognized the house immediately as El turned onto Davis Street. The brick exterior was set back from the street – they had an actual front yard! The building itself was on a small rise, with a handful of steps leading up from the street.
It wasn't a mansion by any means, but the two story home had seemed to have some good floor space. And judging by El's enthusiastic descriptions on the drive, she found that to be true.
When they finally walked in the door, and she turned on the lights, Peter had to agree.
High ceilings and burnished hardwood floors greeted him. There was a large room in front where El had set up the couch, the television…
And a dog bed.
That was as far as Peter got on his initial inspection of the house, because Satchmo launched himself at his human, demanding attention. And Peter was happy to oblige, even as El disappeared around a corner, announcing she was getting a bottle of wine.
She'd already decreed that he needed to bring her up to speed on what they knew about the search for Neal, so a little time with his dog first was good.
Then they had a lot to talk about.
"Have a good night, Aaron!"
He acknowledged the greeting with a wave of his hand and kept walking. There were too many thoughts jumbling in his mind right now to actually reply.
Just a few short years ago, he'd had everything – a good job, promise of advancement at work, a wife he loved with all his heart, and who loved him in return. But all of that was gone.
He'd been at a low period in his life, with few options, when a mysterious offer had come to work security for a powerful organization. The money was decent, and he could convince himself that 'security' was somewhat within his experience. But some of the things he'd been asked to do had precious little to do with anything he considered security work.
And now? Now he was escorting an escort – a hooker – to a rendezvous with someone who was, for all practical purposes, being held prisoner by the Group. He had no idea who the recipient of this little visit was, but judging by the woman's appearance, the guy was in for quite a night.
They turned down the final corridor and then stopped in front of the door. He raised his hand, knocked firmly – even though the occupant couldn't open the door, it seemed only polite since he was delivering company. But he didn't wait for a reply before entering the code to open the door…
He saw his own shocked expression mirrored, just for a moment, on the face of the man inside.
Caffrey!
Neal heard the knock on the door, and he popped the cork on the bottle of champagne, pouring two glasses. He turned toward the door, which had just opened, holding one out…
Garrett Fowler?
He allowed the shock to register on his face for just a moment, then pasted a smile on. "Ah, my company for the evening has arrived."
Fowler had seemingly regained his composure too as he let the woman in. "Someone will be back for you in the morning," he said, his voice not quite as steady as the look on his face. Then he pulled the door closed and locked it.
Neal forced his hand to steady as his date for the evening walked in. "Hi, I'm Neal," he said, dropping his voice to the pitch that had always seemed most effective for times like this.
Fowler managed to secure the lock, and then he leaned back against the wall, breathing hard.
Shit!
What would the Group be doing holding Caffrey? And why did the con man's fate seem to have become so irretrievably intertwined with his own?
He needed answers, and the operations center was where he might find some.
"Shanelle," she answered, returning the smile and accepting the champagne flute.
"Like the perfume?" Neal asked. She actually had a necklace with her name spelled out in what looked like diamonds, but would probably turn out to be cubic zirconium. Still, it was a good opening line.
Her laugh was soft, almost musical. "Sure," she said, dropping her purse on the counter and moving closer.
He toasted her silently, raising his glass. She was… beautiful. Her skin reminded him of cinnamon. If he was painting her, he'd start with Old Holland's Red Umber, perhaps mixed with a touch of Brown Ochre Light…
Her navy blue dress was tight, showing off all the right curves, and it sparkled with rhinestones in strategic places. The shoes she wore would never work for, say, a stealthy entrance to a museum after hours, but he had to grant that they gave her legs a nice turn.
Most importantly, her hair – more Red Umber, less Brown Ochre – was carefully pinned up in a stylish bun.
"Well, I'm very pleased to meet you," he said.
He imagined she was going for coy with the smile she returned. "How pleased?"
He played along, setting his glass on the counter and stepping in close, his arm around her waist. "Very pleased."
"Mmmmmm, that's good to hear."
Well, he was good at that – telling people what they wanted to hear… "You even smell like Chanel," he whispered.
Her answering laugh was predictable. "So tell, me Neal, what would you like to do tonight?"
"Well, what if I told you I'd been kidnapped and needed you to get a message to…"
"Shhhhh." She put a finger to his lips, stopping him. "They told me you might ask me something like that."
"And I suppose they told you to refuse?"
"Honey, these lips will do a lot of things, but passing messages is not one of them."
Neal shrugged, a contrite smile on his face. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he said. On to the next part of the plan. "So tell me, what will those lips do?" he asked, reaching up to start unpinning her hair.
She leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear, as she whispered her reply.
And then she showed him.
They celebrated their first night together in the Georgetown house by making love. There was an urgency between them, more than indicated by the amount of time they had actually been apart.
Maybe it was an acknowledgement that they didn't know how much time they had together now.
Afterward, El fell asleep, cuddled into Peter's arms. But sleep eluded him for quite a while as his mind raced. What questions did he need to ask Bancroft? What did he really expect the senior official could do for him? What other avenues could he pursue?
Mozzie had mentioned something about running ground-penetrating radar over the National Mall…
Maybe it was a sign of a lack of sleep, or the desperation that was starting to creep in, that Peter wasn't willing to dismiss that idea out of hand. Though how they'd get around the thousands of tourists was another question…
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he slept.
Despite having spent a rather vigorous night, Neal woke early. He confirmed that Shanelle was still fast asleep and then slipped out of bed, pulling on the previous day's scrub pants for the moment.
He went to the kitchen first, setting out ingredients for the breakfast he had planned – a fluffy omelet, pancakes, fresh-squeezed orange juice. Then, with his alibi ready, he went for the real target.
Shanelle's purse.
There hadn't been much noise the night before when she put it down on the counter, so he was hopeful there wouldn't be some huge cache of loose coins, or a key ring with a gazillion keys. Still, he moved very slowly as he opened it.
To his relief, she kept a very tidy, and mercifully lightly-filled handbag. Of course, more junk might have offered him some good tool opportunities, but it would have also made it harder to search without making noise. There were only three keys – security door, apartment, and mailbox, he'd guess. She did have some coins, but in a small leather pouch; he left all but four dimes, which he slid into a drawer for the time being.
People underestimated dimes. Pennies tended to be too thick to work on most screws, but dimes fit just fine.
There was a cell phone, turned off. He checked to make sure his guest wasn't stirring yet and then went into the bathroom, turning on the water just in case it made some loud noise when it powered up. It turned out there was just a soft chime – and, as expected, a message that there was no service. And there was a password lock on the screen, which effectively eliminated keying in a text message and hoping it would send automatically when she did have service.
That had been a longshot anyway.
He went back out to the kitchen and finished his inventory of the purse. There was a nail file, which could have been helpful. This one, however, was metal, with fancy rhinestones – something she would be likely to miss. His plan counted on Shanelle not missing what he secreted away, so he reluctantly left the file. Three of the loose hairpins from the bottom of the bag disappeared into his cache however, as did a few that he had dropped on the counter the night before when he unpinned her hair.
Dimes weren't the only ordinary objects that people underestimated…
Nothing else seemed to be of any use to him. There were some makeup items, a couple of pens, a napkin with a phone number written on it, and a few condoms. Other than the makeup, he had access to the other items if he needed them.
Maybe he should order some makeup on his next supply request, see what Kramer made of that…
Neal made sure his precious few new tools were safely hidden and then he went in to take a shower. Shanelle joined him shortly after he started, which was cause to find out that there must be a good-sized water heater attached to the pipes.
Afterward, he made breakfast while she watched, and they ate and drank mimosas made with the leftover champagne. Then he told her stories about his world travels as he pinned her hair up; when he showed her the results in the bathroom mirror, she was genuinely pleased, and never knew it involved fewer pins than the night before.
And when the guards came, he kissed her goodbye as she was led to the exit, and he was taken back to the studio.