FBI HEADQUARTERS
LA
2017
'…wait, wait, am I hearing you right, Janet?' Jill Morgan, forensic analyst, just nodded in response to Jack Dalton, star FBI agent (though he annoyed the hell out of the higher-ups and wore that as a badge of honour). Jack gestured at the Mafia boss sitting in Interrogation on the other side of the glass. 'Someone robbed him and took him for almost everything he had?'
Jill nodded again, a wry little smile coming to her face after a moment.
'Yup. On one hand, they didn't have to worry about the long arm of the law…'
It wasn't as if said Mafia boss was going to report the theft of his ill-gotten gains, after all, since it was the very evidence that the FBI had been looking for for years to take him down.
Jack snorted.
'Yeah, just gotta worry about winding up in concrete shoes down by Santa Monica Pier or something.' Jack shook his head, bending down to read the file over Jill's shoulder. 'Whoever this thief is, they got a death wish, Jenny.'
Jill made a face that was almost a wry, slightly teasing smirk.
(Once upon a time, she'd been shy. Once upon a time, Jack had also not been able to remember her name.)
(Now, it was a little joke of his.)
'I haven't even gotten to the weird bit.' She pressed a few keys on her laptop. Documents popped up, showing financial transfers to a couple of orphanages, three veterans' support charities, a group that trained service dogs, two organizations supporting disadvantaged children through education and four domestic violence charities. 'Whoever this thief or thieves is or are, they donated every last cent to good causes.'
Jack boggled.
What kind of nutcase robbed a seriously bad guy of a serious sum of moolah and gave every last cent to charity?
Well, obviously, someone with no sense of self-preservation, an insane hero complex and a disregard for the law.
Which meant his previous point stood.
Nutcase.
APARTMENT BLOCK ROOFTOP
LA
FOUR MONTHS LATER
Jack held his weapon at the ready, muzzle pointed at the lean man standing on the edge of the rooftop, dressed in black, a balaclava and sunglasses concealing his features, a couple of bags of stolen ill-gotten gains over his shoulder, taken from a drug lord's lieutenant.
The Boy Scout robber, as he'd been dubbed.
For the fact that he only stole from bad guys and gave every cent of what he took to various good causes.
And for the fact that he either planned and prepared for every eventuality (impossible) or improvised incredibly well.
Plus, the last law enforcement agent to get even somewhat close to him had sworn up and down that the robber didn't have a single weapon on him. Just a red Swiss Army knife.
'You don't have to do this, son.'
There had to be no way out for the robber, surely. Jack had him at gunpoint five stories up. He would never survive a jump unscathed. He'd either be dead or almost by the time he hit the ground.
For one moment, one brief second, the robber stared at Jack. He got the feeling, somehow, that whoever this guy was, he was looking him straight in the eye.
'Yes I do.'
That was said with supreme conviction and stubborn determination in an unusually deep voice.
(Still, the voice sounded young to Jack's ears.)
Then, the Boy Scout robber jumped off the roof.
Jack swore, and sprinted the ten feet over to where he'd been standing literally half a second ago, bent over to look down…only to straighten up, coughing, as a huge plume of foul-smelling smoke that stung a little at his eyes rose up from the ground.
When it cleared, there was no sign of the Boy Scout robber.
(No body, lying broken, limbs at awkward, impossible angles, on the ground, balaclava waiting to be removed to show a too-young face…)
Instead, there was something made from a body-bag patched together with duct-tape, a fire extinguisher sealed to it through a length of tubing.
The fire extinguisher was labelled with the address of the medical clinic (closed) that Jack had chased the robber through.
Apparently, he'd stolen a couple of things to help him with his getaway.
From the street, Jack looked up at the rooftop, which seemed very high up from down here.
What kind of nutcase jumped five stories, hoping to cheat death based on some DIY science thing that Jack didn't get, just because he was genuinely, utterly convinced that he had to keep playing some kind of modern-day, even-more-noble Robin Hood?
The FBI agent suppressed that voice in his head that simply said a good man.
(Jack was a big believer in justice. He was also acutely aware that the law sometimes failed to get that…and he'd toed a couple of lines, bent a couple of rules…well, more than a couple…to try and counter that himself.)
He shook himself a little, and refocused on arranging a grid search for the robber.
JACK'S RESIDENCE
THREE WEEKS LATER
After a long day, Jack walked in his front door. He headed for his favourite La-Z-Boy, and was just about to flop down on it when he saw the note on the coffee table.
It gave an address, somewhere in one of the seedier parts of town.
After that, there was a time and a date, plus the words we should start a conversation.
It wasn't signed, but there was a paperclip that'd been re-shaped into a Swiss Army knife lying next to the note.
AN: With thanks to a Guest. This was probably not what you were thinking…but I've never seen White Collar, and my brain spat this out.