34 EXPLANATIONS

Empty.

The room.

The metal carrying tube.

Both empty.

Peter sniggered. Everything with the Marshals had happened so fast, he hadn't noticed that they'd used a similar nylon zip cuff to the one he'd taken to Ireland. There wasn't any hint of tampering, yet the cuffs sat neatly on the table, next to the chair that was pressed into the far corner of the room on top of the table. The corner also provided the best support once through the ceiling. A suspended ceiling, which offered a potential escape route to anyone desperate enough. The room was designed for temporary detainment, not holding someone.

Peter put all his now-standard "Locate Caffrey" protocols into effect.

Peter spoke with El. She wasn't impressed, first with the Marshals Service, then with Neal. Somehow she managed to smooth Neal's actions over, suggesting he must have a reason. Peter had scoffed and suggested a couple of hundred million was a reason. El told him to count. Peter countered he hated counting.

Jones and Diana had spoken to June, both her granddaughters, and Sara. All negative. All worried.

Peter finally got through to Mozzie and received a text with a meeting location.

It turned into more of a diatribe by Mozzie than a meeting. Mozzie was irate, enough so that he never brought up a single conspiracy theory or called Peter 'Suit'. He just demanded the return of Neal, as though Peter had made him disappear.

"You wanted the new and improved Neal Caffrey. You couldn't just be satisfied with him consulting for you. Take responsibility for your actions, Burke! Return Neal."

Mozzie made it sound like he meant body and soul. He glared at Peter and stomped out of the small community garden, Mozzie's chosen meeting place. Peter stared after him but remained sitting on the slatted wooden bench. He was still no further ahead with finding Neal.

Peter hadn't even brought up the Gardner Artwork to Mozzie. He really couldn't say anything to anyone about it. At no time had he seen it. At no time had Neal ever confirmed having it. He hadn't seen what Neal brought through customs. The only thing was Rembrandt's Storm on the ea of Galilee, and Neal had insisted it was never in Ireland and was safe.

Peter let out a long slow breath. He really didn't want to believe Neal had conned him. Why go to all the trouble? If he had the artwork he could have gone anywhere, unless he wanted back in the States for some reason, for something bigger. Something bigger, and something Neal coveted, like Rembrandt's Storm, valued at over fifty million US dollars. He seriously considered throttling Neal if he ever laid hands on him again.

Peter took long steady breaths to calm his frayed nerves and quell the increasing throbbing in his head. He finally moved from the bench he occupied in the garden. There was something about the place that felt comfortable and safe. He pushed open the tall metal gate, then stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned to face the wall he had his back to the entire time.

A light mist had started to fall but the late afternoon sun still pushed through. It created a soft warm cast across the Northeast wall. A warm smile slowly emerged as Peter's eyes followed a small stone path, flanked on either side by an assortment of greenery and flowers. The path and flowers didn't end at the wall but seamlessly merged into it, or rather the mural painted nearly the full length of the garden. The edges of the mural faded into the old brick wall of a building, lending a surreal feeling to the farthest points. The perspective literally pulled the viewer to the center, where Peter now stood. The mist and light made the mural all the more vivid. The droplets of water clinging to the wall seemed to glisten and dance on the flowers and leaves like the real ones before it.

Peter's spirits lifted.

Peter pushed through the flowers pressed to the wall until he reached the far corner and found the mural -sized signature, perfectly executed, of Claude Monet. Only this signature had a period behind it, or more so, a circle nearly filled with a stylized set of initials—NC.

When Peter exited the small garden, he noted a man of short stature pressed into an alcove across the road. Mozzie stepped forward onto the tree-lined street and nodded curtly at Peter, satisfied apparently that Peter had received the intended message. Mozzie then turned and hustled off to some unknown destination.

As the sun started to set, Peter made his way back to the Bureau. He hoped someone had news, anything, as long as he didn't have to call the Marshals Service to confirm Caffrey really was out of his custody. He let Hughes know he was on his way in, before the man left for the day. He wasn't looking forward to reporting to his boss, but knew Hughes would want a face-to-face, only so he could determine how best to explain this latest turn of events to his superiors.

Peter hadn't even set foot through the glass entry door before Hughes barked his name from the top of the stairs. Not even the typical two-finger jab accompanied it. Hughes just stood in his door waiting for Peter to enter.

"Sir. Reese. I am sorry; I know I shouldn't have trus—" Peter caught the movement of the other person in the room getting to their feet and swung around to face them.

"Shouldn't have trusted me." Neal finished somberly. "Guess I made the wrong move then."

Neal reactively stepped back as Peter swiftly closed the short distance between them. There was nowhere to go. He cringed when Peter stepped within arm's length, half expecting a fist to connect with his jaw. Instead, he found himself being jarred in a tight embrace.

"Damn it, you'll be the death of me," Peter grumbled affectionately.

Hughes let the smallest of grins show and shook his head at Caffrey's shocked look. Neal had stalked into his office less than twenty minutes ago, plunked himself on the small couch without invite, and bluntly informed him that he needed to give Peter something before the Marshals took him. Hughes had eyed the bedraggled-looking man on his couch. The show of confidence seemed to drain out of him once he'd sat down. A worn defeated air swept across his features; it exposed the darkness under his eyes, the still-noticeable bruising down the side of his face, and, a sense of loss.

Hughes had said little to him. He knew Peter was on his way and decided to leave this current 'Caffrey mess' entirely in his hands. The only thing he'd found himself doing was strolling out of his office, requesting Jones to call off anyone that needed to be, and obtaining a glass of water for Caffrey. He'd dismissed the astonished looks from the bullpen with a wave of his hand. When he held the glass of water in front of Caffrey, he thought the man was going to jump out of his skin, before recognition set in, and he took the glass. After that Caffrey sat with his hands pressed down between his knees, head down, with a foot rocking nervously.

Hughes cleared his throat.

Peter relinquished his hold on Neal but still rested his right hand across the nape of Neal's neck. He faced back to Reese, a little abashed by his unexpected show of emotion.

"I'm—" Peter started.

"No. You'll only be sorry if you don't get that thorn out of my side. He's all yours." Hughes grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed out the door. "Oh, and lock my door when you're done, Agent Burke."

Peter grinned. He liked Reese Hughes. He turned back to Neal.

Neal swallowed. Peter was all back to business.

"How the hell did you get here?"

"Walked."

"Walked! You walked? From the airport?"

"What, you'd be happier if I'd picked someone's pocket for cab fare?"

"Don't start with me, Neal." Peter paced. "Why run, only to come here? Here. Hughes' office."

"It's the only one with blinds."

Peter glowered.

"Where else was I going to go?"

Peter gave him a serious look. "Why run?"

"I couldn't take the chances with..." Neal paused. "Why should I trust you, Peter?"

Peter brought his face within inches of Neal's but spoke softly, "Where's the art, Neal?"

"Safe."

"But you're not." Peter narrowed his eyes. "I like challenges, but I'm tired of this one. Where's the art?"

"Here." It was barely a whisper.

"What?"

"Here. You have it." Neal sighed.

"How the hell can I have the art?" Peter's frustration boiled over.

"I gave it to you at the airport. Well, part of —"

"You gave me an empty carrying tube. I had the thing cut open. Empty. Completely empty, Neal."

"Peter." Neal waited until Peter stopped gnashing his teeth. He held up his jacket.

Peter eyed him and finally snatched the jacket from him. "What am I suppo—"

"Now you have all the artwork."

"I don't u—"

"Where's my satchel?" Neal started out of Hughes' office.

"Where do you think you're going?" Peter snagged Neal's arm.

Neal twisted free and faced Peter. "Tell me you have the satchel?"

"My office." Peter scowled.

"Good." Neal retrieved the satchel from Peter's office. He nearly bumped into Jones and Diana, with his attention on the satchel, as he headed towards the conference room.

They'd been standing aside, waiting on Peter's direction. Neal looked up at them, and without skipping a beat, smiled and asked them if they wouldn't mind clearing the nearly-empty office and keep everyone out; Peter would explain after, but it was best they stayed clear of the conference room themselves.

Peter rolled his eyes and gave them a nod, before he gaffed onto the scruff of Neal's neck and guided him into the conference room.

"Explain now?"

"I told you I would." Neal furrowed his brows indignantly. "No need to get pushy."

"Caffrey."

"Fine." Neal snatched his jacket back from Peter and laid it on top of the satchel. He settled into one of the chairs and rocked back.

"It's not always easy keeping promises, Peter." Neal sighed. "It's even harder when two promises conflict with each other."

Peter remained neutral, his eyes intently trained on Neal.

Neal let out a pensive breath, dropped his shoulders and pressed his hands between his knees. "My brother, Ryan, needed an influx of cash. The recent financial crisis hit some of his investments hard. And, well, the family's other enterprises offered some options. Namely me, or at least my specific skills. I copied several new pieces for him. I was crating them when things came to a head with Zantele. Zantele was set to put a bullet in me when Roberts stepped between us. Roberts saved my life."

Neal stopped and looked up at Peter.

"You likely saved his," Peter offered quietly. He sat on the edge of the table, side on, with one leg still firmly placed on the ground.

"Yeah," Neal whispered and continued. "I'd already taken the opportunity to switch the new pieces out for the real ones. I was planning on skipping as soon as I finished crating the art."

"And what were you planning on doing with the art?" Peter asked quietly.

"I wasn't. I didn't have a ... I just wanted out." Neal closed his eyes briefly and held his emotions in check. "I wasn't trying to run some con on you, Peter. Taking the art, the stolen art, back, just ... just seemed like ... like..."

"Like the right thing to do." Peter's smile touched his eyes.

Neal stared up at Peter. Then he set his shoulders square, and with a hint of defiance, breathed out a "Yes."

"So, you liberated the Gardner Art from your Uncle Max, had your buddy Flynn smuggle it to Professor Rory Buchanan, and...?"

"You really don't get this, do you, Peter?"

"Enlighten me." Peter spread his hands open in submission.

"One. What sort of idiot would put a fortune's worth of art in the hands of someone like Flynn?"

"You mean in the hands of a known criminal." Peter smirked.

Neal scowled, then grinned. "Are you insulting me, or calling yourself an idiot?"

"Go on." Peter pursed his lips.

"Two. Rory's a good man, but I guarantee he had a look at the contents of my packing tube the moment Flynn delivered it to him. Who'd trust a thief, right?" Neal answered the question Peter was holding back, "Rory would do near enough anything for me. But he's a cautious man; he'd check to make sure it held something I'd have or something that wasn't so hot that it would bring the wrong people around."

Peter nodded.

"Three. What do I do best, Peter?"

"What sort of loaded question is that?" Peter scoffed.

"Okay, okay. Something I do all the time, that you constantly complain about?"

"Lie."

Neal rolled his eyes.

"Hey, you asked; I just answered."

"Fine. Misdirect."

"Misdirect? You mean Flynn, the delivery, the metal carrying tube was all a misdirect?"

Neal nodded.

"Why run?" Peter furrowed his brow.

"Peter, exactly where do you think the artwork is?"

"Well it's not ... Damn it! You said you had the Rembrandt on you the first time I brought you in for questioning." Neal continued to nod approvingly at him. "You've had the artwork on all the time?"

"Some of it. I like to hedge my bets." Neal stood and pulled the satchel to him and carefully emptied the contents: Some of the clothing Peter had brought him; an old flat wooden box with paintbrushes, pencils, pastels and some other small art tools—he'd watch them check it through screening at the airport; three artist's sketch pads; and a watercolor block. Neal stopped. "Peter, once I show you this, I know there's no going back, but you did agree to see me through this, to protect my family. You'll still do that, right?"

"You want me to sit on the Gardner Artwork for a year?" Peter was still surprised that Neal was pushing for his request.

"Yes. Only you won't be sitting."

"How so?"

"You'll need the time to collect evidence."

"Evidence? On what?" Peter snapped.

"The people my brother sold stolen artwork to." Neal smiled.

"You have...?"

"Yep, names, countries and which pieces. They'll all be paying top dollar for what they think is the real thing."

"The buyers will have them authenticated, but you think they'll pass, because...?"

"My brother isn't stupid. He brought Zantele and Roberts into the picture, not just to get his hands on me, but all the necessary materials to get the forgeries authenticated. Roberts had access to countless amounts of confiscated art supplies used by forgers—canvas, paints, paper, inks, pigments, you name it—they brought everything they needed to Ireland with them. I did the rest."

"You forged them, Neal. How am I supposed to keep you out of it?"

"It isn't a con when it's a sting." Neal beamed. "We. You have the originals. You follow things through, you'll have the forgeries too, the buyers, the charges, the glory."

"I don't do my job for glory, Neal."

"I know." Neal continued to beam. "But it's fun sometimes. Yes?"

"Yes." Peter smiled back at him. He had to give a bit somewhere. "There are still a lot of logistics to work out. I'd still have to sit on the art for at least a year."

"Yeah, but it would be so worth it." Then Neal's expression turned to one of graveness Peter had never seen. "I need you to do this for me, Peter: to wait the year, to let this play out. I know you want to go after my brother too. But please. Please don't go there. Let it go. You have the artwork. You'll have the buyers and my forgeries. Technically, you could lock me up forever. You already have me back in custody."

"Neal..." Peter dropped his head down.

"Peter."

Peter sighed and stared into pensive, deep pools of blue. "Your family doesn't deserve you."

Neal let the tightly-held breath finally escape. "Thank you."

"I can't guarantee how this will turn out though."

"Understood."

"You could end up back in prison." Peter held up a hand. "Of course, I'd likely be your cellmate, if this goes sour."

"Umm. In that case, could I retract everything I've said, collect my—"

"I have the Marshals on speed dial." Peter cocked his head and put his hands on his hips.

"Fine," Neal grouched but he couldn't hide the mischief dancing in his eyes. "Want to see the art?"

"Uh, yeah!" Peter rolled his eyes with an exaggeration annoyance.

"In fairness I don't have all the pieces. Only what I was given to copy. No Chinese Ku, no finial, no Flinck. I never liked his work anyway, always on the—"

"Caffrey!"

Peter watched in amazement as Neal revealed not one, but three, hiding places—in his jacket, the satchel and the watercolor block. He fished out the soft gloves again and placed the artwork over the conference room table. Rembrandt's A Lady and Gentleman in Black; Vermeer's The Concert; Manet's Chez Tortoni; Edgar Degas' La Sortie de Pelage, Cortege aux Environs de Florence, Program for an Artistic Soiree (both pieces), and Three Mounted Jockeys. Neal then carefully removed Rembrandt's Self-Portrait from a fourth hiding place. The small etching could have been carried in a wallet and no one would have been the wiser.

"Incredible," Neal mused to himself. "It really needs to be held in something larger."

Neal laughed, when he turned to find out why Peter hadn't made one of his usual comments. Peter stood gaping, spellbound by what had been set in front of him. Neal had no idea how much Peter's amazement was with him and not the artwork.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Neal nudged Peter.

"You have no idea," Peter replied wistfully.

Neal blinked, furrowing his brow slightly with a questioning glance at Peter.

Peter ignored the look. He instead started to rattle off the thoughts running through his mind. "We need to get this stored safely. I hope you're prepared for a long night. El's going to kill me. And yes, I get why you ran from the Marshals, besides not wanting to go back to prison; you couldn't take the chance of losing the artwork or getting caught with it on you. Next time call me. Never mind, just avoid a next time. What did you do with the artwork you showed customs?"

"I..." Neal gave Peter a dirty look. "Nice try, Peter. You didn't have to couch that question in some half rant. What would you call that, an anacoluthic ramble?"

"You've spent way too much time with Mozzie. What did you show customs and where did it go?" Peter persisted.

"You know, you can be obstinate at times, Peter," Neal quirked.

"Tenacious, and you didn't answer."

"Do I have to?" Neal asked hopefully.

"You've come this far."

"Yes, but it has nothing to do with..." Neal rolled his eyes at Peter's sardonic expression. "Fine. Technically, I stole them. No one will ever report them missing. And, if my Uncle Max realizes they are missing, he'll give Ryan permission to come beat the piss out of me."

Peter flickered his eyes. "What?"

Neal huffed. "I told you I used to paint with my mother. My uncle had several of her paintings. I took a couple... What? I left copies of the ones she did. Just not ... the ones I did with her ... and took. I didn't exactly have them hidden when the Marshals cuffed me. I couldn't take the chance. I didn't ... There would have been questions. And my name, and hers, and..."

"Neal. Neal! It's okay. I get it. I'm obstinate." Peter shook his head in a steady yes. He squeezed Neal's shoulder. "Come on. I'll send Diana and Jones for take-out, the necessary supplies, and see if we can get this done before morning."

It was four am by the time they'd finished. Peter sent Diana and Jones home, with a message to Hughes they'd be off tomorrow and back in for Monday. He walked both of them out of the office, thanking them again for going above and beyond. He turned his attention back to Neal. Neal had found his way into Peter's office, to his favorite chair, and now had his head cradled in his arms on the desk. Well, at least he didn't have his feet on the desk.

"Neal. Come on, it's time to go. Get up." Peter prodded him.

Neal stood with a tired sway.

"I need your ankle."

Neal propped his foot up on the chair and looked into apologetic brown eyes.

Peter snapped the tracker into place. The little green light blinked into existence. "I have to notify the Marshals once you're at June's. You'll be on close house arrest for at least a week, until all the paperwork is done and the higher-ups satisfied. Okay?"

"Just like old times, Peter," Neal offered. Even flat-out exhausted the charm of his smile wasn't lost.