Chapter 11: A New York Christmas

December 11, 2004. Saturday morning.

Neal had no trouble falling back asleep after his phone call with Henry. The next thing he knew, it was eight o'clock the next morning. Twelve hours of sleep should be enough to satisfy anyone, even any mother hens out there, but Neal decided to laze in bed a while longer. Still plenty of time before his eleven o'clock lecture.

He gingerly pressed on the wound on his side. It hurt more to the touch than he'd expected. Still, no dinosaurs or bumblebees had visited him during the night so no one would hear complaints from him. It was fortunate he had still been under the influence of whatever they gave him at the hospital when Peter was over yesterday. Convincing Peter he could stick to his original plans for the weekend had not been difficult. If Peter had insisted on canceling the brunch at La Palette, he would have ruined the surprise.

Neal considered taking another one of the pain pills. But if he did, would he go loopy again? He decided not to risk it. He had a full day of activities ahead and needed to be sharp. Before his lecture he planned to stop off at his studio at Columbia and make a final inspection of the painting. Later that day Fiona and he would drop it off at La Palette. He'd finished the painting the previous Sunday and had stored it out of sight to dry. He hadn't had enough time to varnish it, but he could do that in February once the oils had dried fully. An oven would have sped up the process, but this was one painting he didn't want to take any shortcuts on.

Neal tossed off his comforter and got out of bed. After a shower and leisurely breakfast he was in the holiday spirit. No outstanding work assignments. There was the small matter of papers to finish but he'd tackle that next week. For today and tomorrow Neal Caffrey was off duty, and he was going to make the most of it.

When he arrived at his studio, Neal retrieved the painting from its hiding place and placed it on an easel. Fiona was stopping by before the lecture, and he wanted to give her a chance to see it before wrapping it up. She'd only seen his paintings that he was preparing for the spring exhibition. What would her reaction be? Neal stood back to study it one last time. Would she find it too derivative?

He heard a knock on the door. Fiona must have arrived early. "C'mon in," he called out without turning around. Big mistake. The voice he heard behind him wasn't Fiona's unless she'd become a bass overnight.

"Neal, my boy, I thought I might find you here. If you have the—what's that?" Sherkov had stopped in mid-sentence when he spotted the painting. His relaxed, jovial features hardening into an intense stare. It would have been futile to try to stop him from looking at the painting, although Neal for a fleeting moment considered flinging a cloth over it and pleading for a do-over of the previous couple of minutes.

Neal stepped to one side and waited uneasily for what Sherkov would say. No point in making excuses till he could assess how severe the damage was. Neal knew he'd been foolhardy to paint this in his studio. He could have used the loft instead but with Peter dropping in all the time, the risk was too great. Now he'd have to face the consequences.

Ivan Sherkov was a large man. In Neal's small studio he loomed a giant, and at the moment a none-too-friendly one. His advisor had visited him before in his studio and had seen several of his works but they'd all been contemporary pieces. Neal had learned to have a healthy respect for Sherkov's keen intellect. He was too shrewd to simply brush off the implications of what he was now studying.

Sherkov ignored Neal while he scrutinized the painting first at a distance and then close up. At times his nose was almost touching it. He muttered to himself in Russian. Neal knew Russian but even so it was hard to catch all that he was saying. Names of colors, brushwork techniques. After what seemed like hours, Sherkov wheeled around and addressed him in a rumbling voice. "Did you switch topics for your paper?"

"No, sir."

"That's unfortunate. If you'd informed me you were making an analysis of Gerrit van Honthorst's technique and were going to present this as your paper, you might have scored a hundred."

Neal let out a sharp exhale when it became clear Sherkov wouldn't immediately pillory him, but he knew he wasn't off the hook. Before launching an attack, Sherkov liked to lull his victim into a false sense of security. Neal compared him to an immense Russian bear who appeared amiable from far off but didn't hesitate to reveal his fangs when approached.

"If you hadn't chosen a modern subject, I very well might have proclaimed this a lost masterpiece." Sherkov sat down on a stool and motioned Neal to do likewise. "I've seen other paintings of yours, but none like this. How did you learn to do this?"

Neal shrugged. "My teachers emphasized copying masterpieces as a means of developing a solid foundation for my own works."

"But this is no ordinary copy. It's as if you transformed yourself into the artist. The technique, the brushwork, you captured Honthorst perfectly." Sherkov studied Neal for a long minute then wagged an accusatory finger at him. "The art world should consider itself very lucky you've chosen art history rather than forgery as your career. Now that I know what you're capable of, it's up to me to make sure you succeed so you never feel tempted."

"So about that paper," Neal said with a hopeful smile. "I no longer need to write it?"

"That offer's off the table. I shall expect an even longer paper, with fresh insights into Rembrandt's technique based on your perspective as an artist. Unless . . . do you intend to present me with one of Rembrandt's lost masterpieces?"

This was working out better than he'd dreamed possible. He could start work on it this morning. It'd be a tight squeeze, but he already knew the subject he'd use. A few all-nighters . . .

"I should clarify. That was a joke," Sherkov broke in, banishing his pipe dream to the netherworld. "I could tell from your eyes what you were thinking, and there are already far too many Rembrandt forgeries. I've no intention of encouraging you along the path of a master's in forgery."

Been there, done that. Neal contented himself with a good-natured laugh. "No fears on that score. You'll get your analysis in writing."

"Good. I know I can count on you." Sherkov fixed him with a no-nonsense look that was out of Peter's playbook. "And be advised, if the art world ever announces that a lost masterpiece by Honthorst has been discovered, I'll remember this discussion." The bear retracted his fangs as his expression softened. "Now tell me about this painting. What's the story behind it?"

Fifth Avenue. December 11, 2004. Saturday afternoon.

"Those were the best windows yet," Fiona said, with a final admiring glance. They'd spent the past hour strolling along Fifth Avenue looking at the holiday displays. The sky had been a brilliant sapphire blue when they started. Now the sun was low on the horizon, and their breaths came out in white puffs, but they were enjoying their walk too much to mind. Their coats were warm, and Fiona was wearing boots. When she walked, her coat parted to reveal a short red dress underneath. Very easy on the eyes.

"Better even than Barneys?" Neal asked. "Or Bergdorf's? I especially liked their vaudeville scenes."

"The one with the magician pulling the rabbit out of the hat? That could have been you," she said with an infectious laugh. "After seeing that painting you created out of starlight and fairy dust, I'm tempted to call you Merlin." She slanted her head and scanned him appraisingly. "Perhaps Neal the Wizard?"

Neal broke into a grin. "Did I ever tell you, I was once mistaken for Harry Potter?"

"Of course, I should have seen the resemblance! I can't wait to tell my niece in London that I'm dating the chosen one." She gave him an impish look. "I hope Hermione's not too upset."

They continued their stroll, stopping to look at Henri Bendel's display. "I still give the prize to Bloomingdale's," Fiona remarked. "How could you not go with Phantom of the Opera? Their windows were truly magnificent. You know I've never seen the musical. Maybe this year in London." Fiona was going to like her Christmas present. He planned to tell her over dinner.

"My wizard has a mysterious smile on his face," Fiona said. "It wouldn't have anything to do with our plans this evening? You've been resisting all my efforts to coax it out of you."

"All in good time," Neal said. "It's still early to go to dinner. We could hit one more store. Where do you want to go?"

Fiona hesitated. "You're sure you're not overdoing it? I don't want to get in trouble with Peter."

"Peter was the one overdoing it with his protective dad bit." Neal waved airily with his hand. "I just cast a magic healing spell."

Fiona wasn't dissuaded that easily. "How exactly did you injure your side? I didn't think white-collar crimes were violent."

"They're not generally. This was a fluke accident. Not worth mentioning." Fiona had more than once expressed her concern about the crime situation in New York. Hearing about an attempted bank robbery and the yakuza wouldn't ease her fears. "So where to next?"

She put her arm through his. "Okay, my wizard with magic powers, how about whisking us off to Regnier's? It's only a block away. I've been so busy at work, I haven't had time to see The Queen's Jewels exhibit. It's been on my list ever since you told me that your group recovered Marie Antoinette's diamond earrings."

Fiona knew the earrings had been stolen from the truck delivering them to Regnier's from the Smithsonian, but she knew nothing about how the earrings had been used to frame him. And the forgery he'd made of the ring would also remain a closely-guarded secret. Neal hadn't seen the full exhibit himself and was happy to go along with her suggestion.

The interior of Regnier's, with its colonnades, tall vaulted ceilings and chandeliers, sparkled any time of the year, but over the holidays it was a winter fantasy. Lavish holiday displays had been a seasonal highlight for decades, and this year's was by general consensus the most spectacular of all. The theme was Marie Antoinette at Versailles. Replicas had been built of several of the palace rooms as well as the more rustic retreats on the palace grounds where the queen led a simpler life and played at being a milkmaid. The jewelry exhibit included replicas of her famous necklace and the Hope Diamond in addition to the earrings and a ring once owned by Marie Antoinette.

The exhibit was in the back of the main showroom, allowing visitors ample opportunity to first admire the dazzling collection of gift items. Fiona and Neal indulged in their own playacting, choosing extravagant items for each other, to be bought as soon as their fortunes were made.

Regnier's had been smart. The Marie Antoinette jewelry exhibit was so over-the-top that it made their own pieces seem eminently affordable. "Breathtaking, isn't it?" Fiona said as they studied a replica of the queen's necklace. "Every bit as ornate as her lifestyle in Versailles. It's no wonder that people are so fascinated by her."

Neal heard his and Fiona's names being called and turned around to see Sara and Bryan approaching them. "Are you two following us?" Fiona asked with a laugh. "First the gala and now here!"

"Combining work and pleasure," Sara replied. "Regnier's is a client. After the robbery, they called on us to advise them on strengthening their security. We decided to take advantage of being here to get in some Christmas shopping. Are you shopping, too?"

"Only the window variety," Neal said. Sara was carrying a couple of Regnier's lacquer red shopping bags. Sterling-Bosch must pay much more generously than the FBI.

"Have you seen their purses?" Fiona asked Sara. "Some of them look like museum pieces."

"Sara now owns one," Bryan said. "I got her a Lana Marks clutch."

Fiona's eyes widened. "Not the one encrusted with diamonds?"

Sara laughed, "Not quite. She designs some that Bryan didn't have to ransom his soul for." Apparently Fiona shared Sara's love for purses, and she continued to ply Sara for details. The clutch Sara had gotten had already been gift-wrapped so Fiona insisted on Sara showing her which one she'd chosen from the display. Promising they'd be back shortly, they abandoned Neal and Bryan to their own devices.

Neal exchanged wry smiles with Bryan. He'd vowed to make the effort to get to know the guy better. This was the perfect opportunity. But that proved to be not as simple as he would have expected. Bryan evaded all of Neal's questions with a skill Neal couldn't help admiring and riposted with his own series. "I heard about how your team was instrumental in the recovery of the earrings," he said. "White Collar is building up an enviable record. Your own skills must be impressive to be hired as a consultant. How did you acquire your expertise at such a young age?"

"I lived in Paris for many years where they place a greater emphasis on the arts than the schools in the States," Neal said calmly. The Marshals had provided him with history going back for ten years which was adequate for just such questions. He redirected the questions around Sterling-Bosch's authentication methods which Bryan in turn deflected into a discussion of Neal's art. Anyone listening to Bryan would believe he was simply engaging in polite conversation. But Neal's distrust of him was growing with each question.

"Have you exhibited anywhere?"

"Sara must have exaggerated my skill. I'm not ready for my own exhibits."

Bryan eyed him speculatively. "You're being overly modest. If what I hear is true, your talents are considerable. That was a complicated case around the earrings. The manager said they'd been stolen from the FBI vault and then recovered, but he was unsure of the details. Can you fill me in?"

That distrust was turning into warning pings to tread carefully. "The case is pending. I shouldn't discuss it—sorry."

"Quite a black eye to have them stolen from your own vault."

"We've improved security measures to ensure it doesn't happen again."

What was behind this interrogation? Bryan's smile stopped at his mouth, and his eyes were sizing him up as if he were a fencing opponent. Did he consider Neal a rival? Had something leaked out about him being suspected of the robbery?

It was a relief to see Fiona and Sara return. Conversation became much more lighthearted as the four of them resumed their stroll through the jewelry exhibit. They'd almost finished when Bryan's cell phone rang. Glancing at the display, he said it was a business call and walked over to a less noisy area of the showroom to take it.

Sara shrugged as she watched him depart. "I've learned to expect that. I've never seen anybody get so many calls on weekends. I hope that won't be my fate at Sterling-Bosch." Looking over at Neal, she added, "Fiona mentioned you'd been injured on a case. Nothing serious, I hope?"

Neal waved it off. "A couple of stitches and I was as good as new."

She smiled understandingly at him. "All part of the job, I know. Danger follows you wherever you go, Mr. Bond."

"The same could be said of you, Tiffany. Done any diamond smuggling recently?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm hot on the trail of a jewel thief in Paris," Sara said, looking pleased. "If I manage to corner him, I just might be covered in diamonds myself."

Fiona listened to their banter with an amused smile. "You're two of a kind. Clearly I wasn't meant for a job with the FBI. I'm in agony over a paper cut."

When Bryan returned, Sara said, "We should take off. Bryan's never seen the Christmas tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then we have reservations at La Grenouille." That was one of New York's most expensive French restaurants. It was clear Bryan was sparing no expense on Sara. How much did Sterling-Bosch pay its investigators anyway?

With a final exchange of holiday wishes they went outside to hail taxis. Neal was taking Fiona to a restaurant near the Theater District for dinner. It might not be as prestigious as La Grenouille, but Neal consoled himself that the restaurant he'd selected had live jazz for Fiona, the music lover. Located on the ninth floor of the Museum of Arts and Design, Robert restaurant also had panoramic views of Central Park and Columbus Circle. On the ride over, Fiona said, "Sara and I spent a lot of time together this week. In February Weatherby's is holding its European Masters Auction and I worked on the insurance arrangements with her. She said she may be back for the event. We should go out together, perhaps go to a play."

That was welcome news. Neal enjoyed being in the friend zone with Sara and was glad Fiona did too. But currently all he wanted to think about was the green-eyed blonde sitting next to him and the evening coming up.

La Palette Bistro. December 12, 2004. Sunday midday.

Traffic into Manhattan had been light on a Sunday morning, and Peter had no problem finding a parking spot. The bank case had been successfully resolved. Neal had made a quick recovery and El was glowing from the favorable reviews of her play—Peter felt ready to celebrate.

When he and El entered La Palette, they spotted Neal at the bar talking with the owner, Jacques Legault. Neal had mentioned El would like the Christmas decorations and he was right. El's eyes widened as she gazed around the interior. Peter knew that look. She was already getting ideas to copy for her own parties. Grapevine garlands woven with twinkle lights and birds had been strung between the rustic wood beams of the ceiling. Holiday greenery decorated with red velvet bows and Christmas balls added warmth to the wood paneling and paintings. A large Christmas tree next to the bar was ablaze with lights and what appeared to be antique glass ornaments. Peter suppressed a groan. He had the feeling coming here was going to result in him having to hang a lot more lights himself.

The walls of La Palette were covered with art. Jacques gave the artists who had been chosen to display their works a discount off their tabs, a winning strategy which provided publicity for the artists and a unique attraction for the bistro. Peter knew Neal had a painting on permanent display but had yet to figure out which one. Neal wasn't making it easy and hadn't given any hints. Today Peter was determined to solve the puzzle. In the spirit of the holidays, Neal would have to share at least one clue. Peter had already discussed it with El. She planned to initiate a stroll among the paintings so Neal wouldn't be suspicious. A carefully dropped hint or two should suffice and he'd be able to check off another one of Neal's secrets.

Over greetings, El took the first step. "Before we sit down to eat, let's look at the paintings," she suggested. "Peter won't mind if our shopping's a little delayed."

"Good idea," Neal agreed readily. "The origami workshop I'm leading doesn't begin for several hours." He ordered glasses of wine for them to have while they strolled.

The walls on all sides of the bistro were thick with paintings. Peter knew he'd have his work cut out for him. Watercolors, oils, landscapes, abstracts, the assortment was far-ranging. His eyes narrowed as he wrestled with what style Neal would have chosen. Nothing realistic. Maybe something with a lot of splotches? Most of his works for the exhibition were so abstract, it was damned near impossible to figure out what the subject was. Peter looked over at El who was having a great time discussing the art with Neal and when he caught her eye, nodded toward the paintings. Time to wheedle a clue.

Several minutes later, he was forced to admit that it was not going as well as he'd hoped. El was dropping hints, but it was as if Neal guessed what she was doing and he was being annoyingly vague and charming. Peter sighed as he continued his search. Would Neal have signed it? If so, would he have used his own name or one of his many aliases? It would have been just like him to sign it with Henry's name.

The bistro was already crowded with brunch patrons, many of whom were also checking out the art. A group of people had gathered around one painting toward the back. El nudged Neal. "That painting's getting a lot of attention. Do you know what it is?"

Neal looked over to where she was pointing. "Probably a new work."

"Let's go over," she said. As they approached they could hear the people talking. "Amazing piece . . ." "It reminds me of Caravaggio . . ." Peter knew the crowd at La Palette tended to be an artsy one. If they liked it, it must be good. Caravaggio was an artist after his own heart, with not an abstract to his name.

Glancing over at Neal, Peter saw a small smile flit over his face. As they got closer, one of the patrons caught sight of Peter and exclaimed. "You're the one in the painting! You have to tell me about the artist."

Peter looked at the painting in astonishment. No doubt who the artist was . . . or the subjects. Neal had recreated their night of stargazing at the family cabin in the Catskills when they'd been there at Halloween. The three of them were seen close-up reflected in the glow of the red-filtered lantern. Peter and El's faces were clearly visible; Neal's profile was in the shadows. Peter's telescope glowed dimly in the reflected light of the lantern. The night sky rose high above them, dark and mysterious, with faint stars in a midnight-blue sky. As Peter got closer to examine it, he saw the three constellations. That night Peter had related that he was the herdsman Bootes protecting El, the mama bear or Ursa Major, and they'd joked about Neal being Perseus. The constellations were all there, faint but recognizable. The scene moved from the chiaroscuro of the people to the midnight-blackness of space.

Peter stood speechless staring at the painting while El wrapped Neal up in a hug. "It's beautiful, Neal!"

Neal gazed over at Peter nervously. He still hadn't said anything. "Do you like it?" he asked.

Peter finally spoke, his voice gruff with emotion. "I love it."

"It's yours. A Christmas present."

Jacques came up. "But don't feel that you need to take it home right away. You're welcome to display it here as long as you like."

"Sorry, Jacques, this is coming home with us today," Peter said firmly.

Jacques laughed. "I'm not surprised, but I thought I'd try." He removed a Reserved card from the table in front of the painting. "This is your table. When you're ready to order, let me know."

They sat down but Peter continued to stare at the painting. "The style? You're going to mock me, but it reminds me of Honthorst."

Neal was unexpectedly serious. "You told me how much you liked the style I'd used for the documentary paintings of Azathoth's house of horror. I wanted to give you something in that same style that was not of terror but of happiness. Besides," he added with an impudent grin, "I figured it was time you had an authentic Neal Caffrey forgery."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

They took their time over a brunch of Gruyère cheese soufflés followed by crepes with raspberry-cassis sauce. Peter sat back with a sigh of contentment as the waiter whisked his plate. Now if he could only talk El out of shopping, the day would be perfect.

El's maternal side was showing as she continued to quiz Neal about his injury. "Any redness? Does it appear swollen?"

Neal appeared amused by the interrogation. "Do I hear more clucks?" He waved a hand in Peter's direction. "Peter's already done a remarkably good imitation of a mother hen. Not that I mind … But there's no need for ruffled feathers. No signs of inflammation and I'm behaving myself. Even yesterday, Peter," he said in response to Peter's raised brow. "Fiona remembered to be gentle with me."

"Peter explained he'd dropped the hint," El said. "Clever of him."

"I loafed around the loft all morning. Called Henry. He'd phoned Friday night and insisted on knowing what happened. I figured if I didn't call in with a progress report, he'd be checking up on me, too."

"What's Henry up to these days?" Peter asked.

"He's joined the facial recognition team at Win-Win. They're focusing on the global airport security market. Early next year they'll start beta trials." Neal beckoned the waiter over to serve them coffee and added, "Henry's wasting no time on filling up his schedule. He's also signed up to volunteer with a UNESCO project. Have you ever heard of GEMI?"

El looked thoughtful. "That's the education through music group? I recall reading something about them in the paper. "

"That's right. GEMI stands for the Global Education through Music Initiative. Henry heard about them when he was in India last fall."

"I missed the article," Peter said. "What's it about?"

"They provide assistance to local communities and educational organizations, working primarily in underdeveloped regions with a high rate of illiteracy," El explained. "My understanding is that they feel even though kids may not be able to read, they can make music. Music can help educate and lift them out of poverty."

"Henry's sitar teacher is involved in GEMI and introduced Henry to some other contacts," Neal added. "Supposedly, rock musicians are getting involved in it, helping groups make CDs and promoting some of the kids in concerts. Henry contacted GEMI last week to offer his services. He's been looking for a way to do outreach and this is a good fit."

"That's a wonderful way for Henry to give back and it's an area he has experience with," El said. "Does he have any specifics on what he'll be doing?"

"He was pretty vague about it. He thinks a fair amount of travel could be involved. Since he'll be traveling with the facial recognition project, it's possible he could combine work with volunteering. The GEMI office is here in New York at the UNESCO Liaison Office, so we'll get to see him more."

While El and Neal continued to talk about GEMI, Peter made a mental note to contact Tricia. If Henry had discovered Fowler's connection to Adler, he'd set himself up with the perfect cover to travel to Argentina. Adler had been on the FBI's radar for years, but as long as he remained out of the country they had to rely on Interpol working with local authorities for assistance. So far they'd had zero success. Win-Win could provide significant resources, but not if Henry was tackling it as a lone wolf. He told Peter he'd dropped the case, but was that just an act? When it came to Henry, Peter's motto was going to remain: trust but verify.

Peter focused back to the others' conversation. El was saying, "When Peter told me about you and Keiko leading an origami workshop, it reminded me of something I've been meaning to ask. How did you get interested in origami?"

"When I was a kid in St. Louis," Neal said. "The same person who introduced me to fencing also taught me origami."

Peter gestured to the waiter to bring more coffee over. "I'm sensing a story. Spill it, Caffrey. What would Christmas brunch be without a Christmas tale?"

Neal stroked his chin. "Well, let me see now. 'Twas the night before Christmas."

"Not that Christmas tale," El said with a laugh. "I want the one with three fencers leaping and two origami cranes."

"As my lady wishes, and actually there were three fencers leaping." Neal passed his coffee cup to the waiter and paused for a moment before starting. "When I was in the fourth grade, there was a Japanese girl named Asami who was in my class. She lived down the street from me. Her dad worked at a Benihana restaurant as one of the chefs. They'd been in the States only a year—Benihana used to bring in teppanyaki chefs on temporary work visas— and she wasn't very fluent in English." Neal hesitated and added, "As you know, I had my own issues with speaking at the time. This was in the fall and my first term to be back at school."

El nodded in sympathy. They knew after Neal had been hospitalized for child abuse, he'd been too traumatized to speak for a couple of months, and it must have taken much longer before he felt comfortable around adult men.

"Anyway, we became friends. Some of the other kids gave her a hard time over her broken English. One in particular seemed out to make her life miserable. At the end of class one day, she and I were talking when he walked up and started taunting her. I got mad, tried to get him to stop. He was a lot bigger than I was and fisticuffs have never been in my skill set. 'Nuf said." Neal winced. "It wasn't my finest moment."

Peter could well imagine Neal as a slender kid trying to fight some bully bigger than he was and what the results would have been.

"Afterwards, I walked her home. Mom had taught me a little Japanese, so when I met her dad, I used it. It turned out his English was worse than my Japanese. Mr. Yamamoto was grateful for my help with Asami. He cleaned me up, gave me a snack, and I wound up staying there till he needed to leave for work. I started going over to their house more and more. He'd fenced in Japan and began giving me lessons along with Asami. He was short—not that much taller than I was back then—and seemed very non-threatening. I helped him with English, and he taught me Japanese. Asami loved origami and the three of us used to practice origami together. That was a period in my life when I didn't want to spend any more time than necessary at home. I used to go to their house every day after school instead of my own. About two years later they moved away when his visa expired and he wasn't able to renew it. I never saw them again." Neal's voice trailed off as for a moment the shadow of an abandoned kid crossed over his face. But he quickly replaced it with an easy smile as he looked up at them. "And thus concludes the tale of Three Fencers Leaping."

"And a lovely tale it was." El said approvingly. "Do you have any pictures of Asami and her father?"

Neal took a sip of his coffee. "No, I don't have any pictures from my childhood. Scrapbooks weren't my thing."

Neal's tale was more revealing than Peter had expected. That had been a difficult period in his life when he was forced to deal with the issues of an alcoholic mother. The Yamamotos must have provided a welcome escape. Peter had wondered about Neal's familiarity with Asian cultures and had assumed at least part of it was because of the Asian federal marshal who'd befriended him in St. Louis. Neal had just filled in a few of those troubling blanks in his life. He laid a hand on Neal's arm. "A couple of secrets revealed make the best stocking stuffers."

Neal grinned. "Remember that. I expect my own stocking to be stuffed with Christmas tales from your childhoods."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

The American Museum of Natural History was a short drive away from the restaurant. El had already expressed a desire to go to visit the museum shop for presents for her family and after hearing Neal describe this year's origami tree, they both wanted to see it for themselves. When they arrived at the museum they headed straight for the tree. Impossible to miss, it was in the center of the ground floor lobby, standing at thirteen feet with over five hundred origami models.

"Are any of the origami ornaments yours?" El asked.

"A few." Neal pointed out a blue peacock. "That one's mine."

"Isn't that your Columbia lion?" Peter asked.

Neal looked pleased. "You remembered. That's a larger version of what I made for you when I found out I'd been accepted at Columbia."

"It's on our tree too," El said. "We didn't put up a big tree this year, but I decorated a small one where it has a place of honor."

"You kept it?"

"Naturally," she said. "When I insisted you refold it for me, did you think I was going to throw it away?"

While they talked, Peter circled the tree, scanning through the models.

"On the prowl for dinosaurs?" Neal asked.

"There's a Stegosaurus from last year I particularly admired."

"I'll help you search," El said. "Didn't you say it was green with red plates?"

"Yes I believe I did. Let me know if you find any bumblebees hovering around it."

Neal stopped searching to roll his eyes at Peter. "Is this what my life's going to be like now? It was bad enough to be called baby bear. Any chance of escaping dinosaur and bumblebee purgatory?"

Peter stroked his chin. "We may be able to negotiate an acceptable arrangement. Perhaps a trade for no more Wookiee jokes?"

Neal took a long moment to consider the offer and nodded his head slowly. "It will be a sacrifice but under the circumstances, I think it'll be worth it." He grinned mischievously. "Besides, I'm counting on you supplying me with new material next year."

The three of them continued to scan the tree for Peter's Stegosaurus. "Found it!" El called out and began giggling.

Peter went over to look. "Neal, did you put that bumblebee next to my dinosaur?"

Neal didn't answer but stayed rooted in place, his eyes fixed on something on the tree. "Neal? What is it?" Peter went over to see what he'd found.

"Got any latex gloves with you?"

"Yeah, why?" He'd acquired the habit long ago of always carrying a pair in his jacket. He'd lost count of the number of times he had an unexpected need for them. Peter pulled out his gloves and handed them to Neal.

Neal put on the gloves and reached into an inner branch of the tree. "What do you make of this?" He held out an origami shield on the palm of his glove. Peter studied it. There was no doubt. Painted on the shield was the glowing branch, symbol of the cybercriminal Azathoth.

Neal raised a brow. "Christmas greetings from Azathoth? What's he trying to tell us, Peter?"

Notes: Clearly, the message is to join me for my next story, The Dreamer, when Azathoth returns to plot new devilry while Peter and Neal are preoccupied with the search for the Dutchman. The action begins in January 2005, as Neal starts a new term at Columbia. Tricia has returned to New York and will be consulting with the team in her new role of profiler. Between Adler, Henry, and Azathoth, she'll have her work cut out for her. Mozzie's new organic honey venture will lead him off on a new tangent and a reunion with Neal's college friends.

Penna Nomen will write about Noelle and Joe's wedding over Christmas in her upcoming story, Caffrey Aloha.

By now you know how much I love referencing Penna's stories. Way back in the beginning of Caffrey Conversation, Neal described how he was pursuing a master's to be a renaissance criminal. That inspired me to send him off to Columbia for a legitimate master's instead, and I've been playing with the concept ever since. Neal's Harry Potter moment occurred in By the Book. Thanks once again to Penna for her help through these eleven chapters and for her seemingly infinite patience and good humor with everything I throw at her.

The origami tree is a long-standing tradition at the American Museum of Natural History. It started out as a small tree that Alice Grey of the Entomology Department decorated in her office with origami insects back in 1963. Nowadays the tree has an annual theme. I was unable to discover if there was a theme in 2004 so made it a generic tree. You can find pins for the origami tree, the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Christmas tree, and the holiday windows mentioned on the Evening with Genji board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. When I lived in New York, Christmas was my favorite time of year, and writing this story brought back many fond memories.

Thanks very much for reading—I hope you enjoyed my Christmas in New York story!