Prints

When Peter returned from the meeting with the Marshals concerning Mitchell Neal was waiting for him when he walked back into the office.

"That was surprise on Mitchell's face when we told him his prints were on the gold," Neal noted.

Peter nodded in agreement. An agent handed him a clipboard for a signature. He glances at it and signed it.

"I noticed that. But that doesn't get him off the hook."

"There's something else," Neal said with that awkward voice that Peter had learned to recognize by know.

Peter glanced at the kid. Oh, God, not another crime he did not know of, Peter thought since he could not remember anything including gold.

"What?"

"Before I go on, what's the statute of limitations on-?"

"Just tell me." That was the price Peter had to pay to have this kind of expertise. He walked back towards his office and Neal tagged along.

"You can't melt down gold without getting splash blisters on your arms no matter how careful you are."

"Well, Mitchell may be burn-free, but that doesn't make him innocent."

"Maybe we should check out this Aimes guy," Neal suggested.

Peter grinned and handed him a file.

"Already did."

Neal flipped the file open and Peter walked into his office to grab his suit jacket.

"He was working for the State Department overseeing the reconstruction of Mosul a few months back," he summarized the file contents for Neal.

"Where is he now?"

"Working for a private security contractor here in New York."

The jacket's collar had a habit of not getting in the right place. Peter fiddled with it.

"Sounds like he's done well for himself."

"I'm gonna go see how well." He took the file from Neal and left the office without his protégé. It was not fair to Neal to leave him to desk-job and any other day he would gladly have brought him along. But he needed some time alone. This case was too close for comfort and it would affect his private life as well since it was Elisabeth's best friend. He needed all his strength to pull this off.

Peter parked the car on the almost abandoned parking lot. By the fence with a view over a construction site stood a group of people. Peter stepped out of the car. He recognized Aimes as in the group. It seemed as he gave the others a tour of what the place would look like in the future.

"Mr. Aimes?" he called the man's attention. He pulled out his badge. "Am I interrupting? Peter Burke, FBI."

Aimes turned to his company.

"If you don't mind waiting for me by the cars, we'll finish this in a minute."

Peter glanced at a man by Aimes' side. While the others dropped off, he remained. Probably Aimes' bodyguard.

"If you don't mind, I have a few questions about some stolen Iraqi artifacts."

Aimes frowned for a second.

"Oh, right. I had read some important pieces were recently recovered."

"That's right. We have a suspect in custody."

"Well, good. I'm glad to hear justice will prevail."

Peter did not fancy the attitude that a suspect was the same thing as they had caught the guilty one. It did happen all too often that a suspect remained guilty in the eyes of the public, though they were freed by the law. But Peter was not there to discuss attitudes. He was there because this man had been pinpointed as involved.

"Given your past experience, you might have some insight as to how a bunch of gold from Mosul finds its way to a storage shed near Fort Monmouth."

"Of course. Call my office. We'll set up a meeting."

"Sure."

Aimes and his bodyguard walked passed Peter towards their car. Peter turned.

"There was one other thing. The suspect says you framed him. Any idea why he might say that?"

"I wish I knew." No emotions on the man's face what so ever. It was blank as a mask. If you were blamed for something you had not done, you did at least become surprised.

Peter took a step closer but the bodyguard held up a hand, blocking his way.

"Is there something else, Agent Burke?" Aimes asked.

Peter glanced down at the other man's arm. It had blisters. He grinned and looked at Aimes.

"Nope. I got everything I need."

Aimes stepped into his car and the bodyguard took the driver's seat. Peter brought out his phone.

"Jones, have every recovered artifact moved to our office ASAP. I want to re-examine the evidence."

"Where's Peter?" Neal asked as he entered the conference room and only found Jones and Lauren there. "I thought he called this meeting."

"He's been poring over this with the Evidence Recovery Team," Jones told him, "since he saw blisters on Aimes' bodyguard."

Neal grinned. It felt good to be able to aid Peter with intel.

"Said something about a breakthrough," Cruz added.

Neal took one of the bowls. It was an amazing piece of art. Lauren pulled it out of his hands.

"Wow. I'm looking for clues," he told her.

"You're looking for your next jail sentence." She wore gloves. He did not. He grabbed another item and she took it away again.

"God!"

"Didn't you just join this unit?" It was so fun teasing her. He glanced at Jones who followed their little exchange.

"I didn't even have to go to prison first." Lauren handed him a pair of gloves.

Jones interfered.

"So if you were gonna frame somebody, how would you do it?"

"I've never framed anybody. Only been framed."

"Yeah?" Lauren stared at him. "What for?"

"Counterfeiting stock certificates and about a dozen other confidence schemes, frauds, and forgeries." A lie. But they knew it. He grinned. He was not about to give them anything they could use against him. He trusted Peter and Peter only.

Peter marched into the office.

"Hear you had a breakthrough," Neal greeted him.

"I got something," Peter confirmed. "Notice the prints." Neal took a bowl with a glove.

"Very clean," Jones noted.

"Maybe a little too clean?" Peter asked as he knew where it was heading.

"They're all Mitchell's?" Neal examined the bowl in his hand.

"Yup," Peter confirmed. "Notice anything else?"

The three of them studied at the prints.

"They're all left-handed," Neal concluded.

Jones glanced at him, seemed impressed. Peter nodded in agreement.

But Neal was baffled.

"That's improbable." How could someone handle something only with his left hand, Neal wondered.

"It's impossible," Peter stated with certainty. It was unless you made a thing of only leaving prints from one hand. But why would you do that? Normally you did not want to leave any prints at all.

"What does it mean?" Neal asked. It did not make any sense.

"I don't know."

Peter had that face of someone who enjoyed to find answers to riddles. This case had turned from an awkward situation to a challenge of the type he knew Peter enjoyed.

When Peter got home that night he found Dana crying by their kitchen table and El as the comforting friend. This was worse than he had feared. Not only was El involved, now was his suspect's wife in their home.

"Hi," he greeted them, out of his comfort zone. Elisabeth rose and gave him a hug.

"Hon, I offered Dana to stay here tonight."

Peter forced a sympathetic smile to his face that felt as fake as it was.

"Of course. You're welcome, any time."

"I'm so sorry," Dana cried. "I just can't stand the thought of our house without John right now."

Peter nodded, still with that sympathetic face glued on. This would not be just for this night. He would not get John out tomorrow. Right now it seemed as if he had been framed, but God knew if it was so or if Peter could prove it. Even so, it would take days, maybe weeks.

When they had dinner Peter just wanted to be somewhere else.

The morning Neal had walked into his home Peter had felt a sort of panic because he needed the comfort of his home and his wife to survive. Maybe it was true as El said that he never stopped being a federal agent just because he got home, but for him home was freedom. Freedom for his body and soul to recover. Somehow he had imagined that Neal would stay out of that bubble. When he had not, Peter had panicked. Then he had adapted and considered Neal as any other occasional guest.

Now when Dana had invaded his home, he felt the same panic only more of it. He could not remove Dana by a phone call. What worse was that he felt like an alien in his own home.

It did not get better the next day. Nothing had moved forward on the case and Dana was still staying in their home. He had not been able to have a private conversation with his wife. Not even sleep in his own bed. Dana had been unable to sleep so El had made them switch beds so she could comfort her friend.

Peter knew El meant well and had a big heart. She also saw things in another way. For her, it was a short-term arrangement. She could handle having her home turned upside down. She was an event planner, used to unexpected situations and solving problems involving people. Peter knew she would not through Dana out without hating herself and Peter for insisting, so Peter did not bring up the subject.

When another day's work came to an end Peter stared out of the window of his office, for the first time in his life not wanting to go home.

Neal entered with two files.

"Finished these two cases," he said as he placed them on Peter's desk.

Was this what Neal felt like all the time, Peter asked himself. Prevented from doing things, forced to do others? Left to the mercy of others. Peter pushed the thoughts away. He did not want to feel like a victim.

"Want to go for a beer?" he asked Neal.

The kid eyed him with surprise. Then he smiled.

"Sure thing, Peter."

Neal enjoyed the beer after work in Peter's company. Generally, he was not into beer much but to sit down after work as any normal man would do with a friend made up for it.

"You think the prints were planted?" he asked the senior agent. Neal's gut feeling told him John was innocent, but he knew very well that it did not count in this world.

"Well, it wouldn't be hard, would it?" Peter asked in return.

"Don't look at me." He had never used anyone's prints. Peter gave him a look. Sure, he knew how it was done. And he trusted Peter not to use the information against him. "It wouldn't be that hard. Starts by getting a clean set of prints and somebody got Mitchell's."

"But only his left hand," Peter considered. "Why only the left?"

"How was the gold found?" Neal wanted to know.

"Anonymous tip." Peter drank from his bottle.

"There's a red flag."

"Mm. Could be." Peter gulped more beer. Not the easy sips as he usually took.

"Easy. Easy there, Tiger," Neal stared at Peter. Something was nagging his handler. "Shouldn't you be getting home to Elizabeth?"

"Dana's been with us for a few days." And this was the reason Peter was not heading home.

"Oh. How's that going?"

"She's been through a lot," Peter replied with empathy.

"Oh, no. This has gotta be rough on her. It's gotta be." Had it been rough on Kate? Probably not in the same way, Neal had to admit to himself. His arrest had not landed out of the blue for her.

"Look, I try to be a good person," Peter began.

"You have your moments," Neal agreed. It was an understatement.

"Yeah, just— I don't—"

Peter fumbled for words. Neal tried to help him out.

"Is it the crying?"

"Yeah. I can handle everything else but women crying," Peter confessed to Neal. "That's all. I don't know what to do. I try to fix it. With you, I give you a slug on the shoulder."

"Totally."

"And I tell you to cowboy up. But it's—"

Peter had no words to describe the situation. Peter with his respect for human dignity, who had cared for the well-being of a criminal he had been chasing for years could not handle a crying woman. When Neal faced one, they usually huddled up close to him to get a hug and he gave them one. He guessed they did not do that with Peter.

"We got the print theory. That might cheer her up," Neal tried but was already thinking of something else.

"Yeah, it could be something, if I can link it to Aimes or the bodyguard." Peter noted Neal staring at him. "What?"

"We've been here an hour. But in that whole time, you've only touched these bottles with your right hand."

Peter was on his line of thought before he even had time to finish the sentence.

"Mitchell had drinks with whoever lifted the prints."

"Can you ask him?"

"Marshals are sitting on him. I could take the time to reach out, file the paperwork, go through the usual channels—"

"Or you could just ask his wife—"

"—Wife right now," Peter finished. He looked afar and gulped some more bear. "Can't say I look forward to it."

"But it'll go faster, right?" Neal encouraged.

Peter nodded. Neal wanted to add that Peter could not run from his own home, that he had to get back sometime anyway, but kept it to himself. It felt like it would not make things better. Besides who would he be telling someone not to run when he had spent more time of his adult life on the run than staying put and face the consequences.