Happy NaNoWriMo Day One! Today's chapter summary: Neal is believed to be D. B. Cooper by the team, despite...logic.

It was late evening in late February and an animated discussion was breaking out over a dinner table in a lovely restaurant in New York City. The most difficult case for the White Collar Crime Unit (in recent memory, which was about a month) had been cleared up perfectly. For starting as a perfectly boring and ordinary case of billing fraud, it had erupted into something much more difficult and-in the team's opinion-fun. However, the case was cleared and so, Peter had decided to take the four main members of the team for a celebratory dinner. They had finished their meals and were now taking up space that other diners could be using while ordering drink after drink and discussing all sorts of topics.

The current topic of discussion: Neal's old crimes.

"So, Neal," Diana started, taking a long sip of her Manhattan. "Most daring escape?"

Neal thought for a few very long seconds. He took an equally long sip of his drink, the house red which was a pretty decent Cabernet. "Um...most daring." He took another sip of wine. "Probably scaling and sliding down la Pyramide du Louvre to escape la Police Nationale. And Interpol, I think. Not so clear on that one."

The team stared at Neal like he'd lost his mind. What was he doing at the Louvre? And why climb the pyramid?

"Allegedly," he added with a smirk half-hidden behind a glass of wine.

Diana crossed her arms while leveling a look at Neal. "Well, you can't leave the story at that," she said. There was an unspoken question in her words. Tell us the story, Neal.

Neal rolled his eyes. "There isn't as much of a story as you'd like." He took a sip of wine. "I robbed the Louvre, obviously." He paused for a moment before looking at Peter. "Your badge is in your car, right?" he asked off-handedly.

Peter laughed and nodded. "Yes, it's in the car." He took a sip of his beer. "So is everyone else's."

Neal nodded, satisfied with this answer and ready to continue the story. "Great. So, I robbed the Louvre. Walked in. Someone came over and asked me if I could use a guide." Neal broke into a fit of giggles and had to take almost thirty seconds to compose himself. "I guess I looked like an American tourist. So, I said, verbatim, 'Bonjour. Je m'appelle Neal Caffrey. Je suis ici pour te voler. Merci beaucoup.' And walked off to where I needed to go."

Diana burst out into hysterical laughter, gasping for air before laughing until she couldn't breathe, and repeating the cycle. "You said that?" she said before breaking out into another batch of giggles. "You said that? In an art museum? To a curator?"

Neal smirked, pretending he was trying not to smile at the story. "Yeah. I thought I was really clever."

Peter and Jones gave each other a look. This was apparently hilarious to the two people at the table who spoke French. However, to the other half that were monolingual English speakers...the joke didn't land. Jones took a sip of his whiskey sour and gave Peter a look. You ask.

"What did you say?" Peter asked, pretending to be mad at Neal. "Only two people here speak French."

Neal beamed, full-on beamed, before translating himself. "'Hello. I'm Neal Caffrey. I'm here to rob you. Thank you very much.'"

The table fell apart into hysterical laughter. Neal guessed that they were being a little bit loud. The rest of the table noticed the looks they were getting and tried to quiet down. It took a few minutes, but they managed to get control of themselves again.

"Keep going!" Diana almost yelled.

"So, I got a few paintings," he said, casually, as if this was an everyday situation. "A Caravaggio or two, the Mona Lisa, the Virgin of the Rocks. I wanted Liberty Leading the People, but it was too big and I'd have to crease the canvas. So-"

Peter cut him off. "Neal. Did you say the Mona Lisa?"

"Yes."

The FBI agents shared a look over the table. Why is he admitting to this? Does this mean...oh no.

"Neal," Peter said flatly.

"Peter," the young man answered, still upbeat.

"Neal. The Mona Lisa is still hanging in the Louvre."

"Yes." The time for humor, Neal decided, was past. Now was the time for seriousness-as serious as Neal could get.

"Is that the original?"

Neal had, in Peter's opinion, the audacity to look offended that Peter would even think to ask that question. "Of course it is!" the young man erupted. "I took it to say I did. I gave it back. Well, Kate did, but it got to the Louvre the next day."

"And the others?" Peter wasn't about to let this subject go.

"If it makes you feel better, they also made it back." Neal's tone wasn't reassuring and the eye roll didn't help. Peter's dirty look made Neal surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. They all made it back. I couldn't find reference pictures for one, so I needed a reference. They were all found anonymously in the next month."

Oh, the members of the table thought. That's okay then.

"So," Diana said with another sip of Manhattan. "You didn't get to scaling the pyramid yet."

Neal's smile was right back where it belonged in two seconds flat. "Okay, so. Obviously, the Louvre staff didn't like that I was robbing them. They called the police, hence getting chased. The fastest way between any two points is, of course, a straight line. So, I scaled the pyramid. Not easy while holding a briefcase and a painting." The last sentence sounded like Neal was talking to himself rather than the people at the table.

"And?" Jones asked. "Why both?"

"The Caravaggio was too big," Neal answered, like that was a problem the FBI agents had regularly. He plowed on with his story. "So, I climbed up and ended up at the top. The police were at the bottom, surrounding it. Problem was, I was at the top."

Jones thought of something. "Why not break the glass?"

Neal gave him a look. A look that implied Jones had lost his mind. "Because that's a really far drop. So, naturally I slid down." Neal giggled, actually giggled like a girl. "It was actually really fun. Then I ran."

"You outran the national police of France." Peter wasn't buying that. That would mean Neal managed to outrun a car. Neal was many things, athletic even being one of them, but not a sprinter.

He nodded earnestly, his eyes wide. "It's not hard to outrun a Citroen, Peter. You could do it."

"Is that an insult?" Peter said around his beer bottle.

Neal took a casual sip of wine before leaning back in his seat. "Just a statement."

Diana took a sip of her Manhattan. She was almost out. She'd need to get another pretty soon. "I'd say that's pretty daring."

Neal smiled pleasingly. "I aim to please, Diana. Is it my turn for a question?"

"Go for it," was Jones's reply.

Neal took a sip of wine. "If you could catch any uncaught criminal in the history of law, who would it be?"

The assembled FBI agents fell silent, contemplating their answers. The question Diana gave to Neal was small, self-contained. His experiences, the one they would find most interesting. However, Neal's question was very open. Any criminal in the history of law. There were almost too many to count.

Diana was the first to decide on her answer. "Jack the Ripper." She slugged down the last of her drink. "Or do they have to be American?"

Neal shook his head. "Nah, Jack the Ripper's a good answer."

Diana smiled pleasingly before smirking. "I aim to please, Caffrey."

Neal shared her smile. He took another sip of wine before looking intently at Peter.

"Is 'you' an acceptable answer?"

"I've already been caught," said Neal with a shake of his head. "Pick someone else."

Peter was all out of ideas. He was desperate for Jones to cover up for him. Come on, man. You've got to have some idea.

"D. B. Cooper." Jones took a sip of his whiskey sour again. "I need to know who it is."

Neal nodded absently while smiling. Well, to him it was a smile. To everyone else, it looked like Neal was smirking because he knew something they didn't. Neal took a sip of his drink casually. To everyone else, Neal looked like he was covering his face before he started grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

"Are you D. B. Cooper?" Diana shouted. Other diners looked over disapprovingly before turning back to their conversations with a muttered 'Who do they think they are?'

Neal went bright red. This didn't help prove his innocence. He started choking on his wine, coughing rapidly. His eyes started watering before he managed to clear his lungs of the astringent burgundy liquid. He spat the wine left in his mouth back into his glass. Peter, Diana, and Jones politely pretended not to notice. Neal wiped a napkin across his face.

"What?!" His voice was hoarse, but indignant.

"Are you D. B. Cooper?" Diana repeated.

"Come on," Jones cajoled. "You can tell us."

Peter joined in on the teasing. "No 'allegedly,' no jumping around. Come on, tell us. Are you D. B. Cooper?"

"No!" Neal ran the napkin over his face again, clearing off imaginary wine. He coughed, into the napkin this time, his lungs still burning. "I'm being honest." Neal decided to throw an insult into that sentence. "That's a thing I can do."

Diana waved her hand, dismissing what she imagined to be Neal's concerns. "Listen," she said. "None of us have our badges. Any evidence we get won't be admissible in court. Come on, tell us."

Neal sighed heavily. "What's next, am I Professor Harold Hill too?"

The agents shared a look over the table. I asked last time.

"Who?" Jones asked.

Neal rolled his eyes like a teenage girl determined to prove that it isn't a phase. "The Music Man. Go watch it. Great musical."

"So," Peter started, "you aren't saying you aren't D. B. Cooper."

Neal rolled his eyes again, somehow with more attitude than last time. He took a sip of his wine and collected himself. "Guys, I am 100% certain that I am not D. B. Cooper."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure or are you just not telling us?" He took a slug of his beer.

Neal took a minute to assess the situation. Flat denial wasn't working. In fact, it just seemed to be encouraging the agents. Another tack was definitely needed. Logic.

"Peter," Neal said, flatly and almost emotionlessly. "He disappeared in 1971, right?"

"Yeah," Peter said with a nod.

"I was born in 1977." Peter seemed taken aback by this information. Neal couldn't imagine why, the older man had seen his birth certificates, right? He continued on. "I'm pretty sure I didn't commit a crime six years before I was born."

Neal had thought that this would be a slam-dunk argument. You can't commit a crime at negative six years old, therefore, there is no way that I can be D. B. Cooper. This means we can move on to something much better to discuss. This was a logical thought. Diana agreed that that made sense. Jones still looked conflicted. Peter, however, thought he had a brilliant counterargument.

"That's just what your birth certificate says," he pointed out, in what he thought was a measured reasonable tone. "You are a forger."

Neal lost his temper. "This is ridiculous!" he shouted. People looked over. He awkwardly smiled and waved until they looked away. "It's what all of them say!" he went on, not shouting, but still audibly angry. "It's what my mother said! It's what Ellen said! And school records, medical records, arrest records, things I didn't forge! I was born six years after he disappeared."

Neal threw himself back in his chair. In. Out. In. Out. Neal took deep breaths, trying to calm down before he started yelling again. And this time, it wouldn't just be yelling. He took a sip of wine and tried to focus on the flavor profile. Black cherry. Hints of oak and vanilla. Aged. Surprisingly good for a cheap house red.

He wiped his lips, finally calm enough to keep going. "And do you see a million dollars laying around my apartment?" he said, mocking Peter's previous tone.

Peter tried-and failed-to come up with a counterargument. That was a good point. There were many things in Neal's apartment. A million dollars was probably not one of them. Probably. Diana, however, started to have doubts again. She pulled out her phone and started typing madly on it. She nodded before showing the screen to the rest of the table. There was a webpage dedicated solely to D. B. Cooper.

"Um, Neal," she pointed out, as politely as possible. "He asked for 200,000."

He nodded. "Yeah, in 1971 dollars. With inflation, that's 1,076,819, plus or minus about a dollar."

"That's not how inflation works."

Neal shrugged. Jones had already finished double-checking Neal on the calculator app on his cell phone. He looked up in shock.

"He's right."

Neal gave Jones a sideways look. He...he's seen me do this before. "You saw me calculate almost 70 years of interest in my head while you were still typing it in. And you didn't think I could calculate inflation?"

Jones smirked. "Just checking if you were trying to make yourself look better," he quipped, obviously teasing.

Neal didn't get the teasing. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. That was a mistake. He rapidly began trying to fix his immaculately styled hair without the aid of a mirror. Diana tried to stifle a laugh. Peter thought of something else. We never found any of the art he was accused of...

"Why would you keep the money in your apartment?" he asked. "I know you have warehouses full of art."

"Warehouse," Neal replied automatically. "Singular."

The FBI agents shared a look. He didn't just say that. Unfortunately, they were pretty sure they had heard correctly.

"All the crimes you're accused of wouldn't fit in one warehouse," Jones pointed out.

"I didn't say it was all in the warehouse," Neal said with a knowing look directed towards Jones. "Just that there was only one warehouse."

Oh, that explains things, the FBI agents thought. There were multiple hiding places, but only one was a warehouse. That left open apartments, basements, attics, storage lockers, all manner of secret hiding places.

"Do I get to know where else art is hidden?" Peter asked. It's worth a shot.

Neal just shook his head.

"But, still," Diana pressed. "Peter does have a point. Why would you keep all the money in your apartment and not somewhere else? Or deposit it into a secret offshore account in the Caymans?"

"No, if you really want to keep your money secret, put it in Singapore," Neal answered, without thinking of the consequences. "No one looks in Singapore."

"Neal, how many offshore accounts do you have?" Peter felt the need to ask.

Neal shrugged. "None in my name." Peter gave him a look. "Or any other names I may have gone by in the past." Another look. "And they are not used for money laundering. I think." Peter gave up.

"Not proving you don't have 200,000 in an offshore account," Diana teased.

"For the last time, I was not alive! And nothing, nothing, about D. B. Cooper fits me!" This had to be the final argument, right?

"A man. In a suit. Known for disappearing after committing a crime. Who can't stop himself from flirting with a beautiful woman." Peter's voice was flat and emotionless.

Jones took over, in a very similar tone. "He's got you there. It does fit your M. O."

Neal had to acknowledge they had a point. In the event he could ever be convinced to commit air piracy, it would look pretty similar to D. B. Cooper. But, still. Not Neal.

"How old am I?" Neal asked. It sounded random, but there was a point hidden in this.

The FBI agents shared a look over the table. Diana thought Jones would have to know. Jones thought there was no way on Earth Peter didn't know. And Peter thought Diana would have read through the paperwork he ignored and known it. Their faces fell. Does...does no one actually know?

"Um..."

Diana pulled up a calculator. So, if he was born in 1977, and it's 2011... "34?"

Neal smirked. "Nice try. 33. It's February. Birthday's in March."

They stared at Neal.

"Your birthday is in March?" Peter exclaimed.

Neal stared blankly at Peter. How did he not know this already? "You don't know when my birthday is? You knew my entire daily routine, all my credit card numbers, all my clothing sizes. And you don't know my birthday?"

Peter was amazed that Neal thought he did. He shrugged. "It didn't seem important."

"It didn't seem important?! Peter, it's the one day you could count on me not committing a crime. I'd be at home. With Kate. Celebrating."

A wave of nausea passed over the table. Neal would be in his 20s when they were chasing him. No one particularly wanted to imagine what the word 'celebrate' meant to Neal and a girlfriend.

Neal carried on without a second thought. "Hell, I know your birthday, your anniversary, your wife's birthday. And you never learned my birthday?" Peter shook his head. Neal sighed. "It's the 21st. 3-2-1."

The FBI agents put down this information for later, mentally cataloging the need to look through the case files later. To prove that Neal didn't actually commit crimes on his birthday, because, if so...ew.

"Anyway," Neal said, finally getting to his point. "I'm 33. He was in his mid-40s in 1971. Which means I would be 70. Either I've aged gracefully, or you're wrong." He crossed his arms across his chest. "I think you're wrong."

Jones was swayed. "He's got a point, Peter."

"Exactly," Neal said with a distinct sense of frustration. "I am not D. B. Cooper." He took a sip of his wine. "And one more point. I don't drink bourbon."

The way Neal said that implied that it should have been the final nail in the coffin. The unfortunate result was nothing. None of the FBI agents at the table understood what Neal was trying to get at.

"How's that an important note?" Jones asked.

Diana thought for a few seconds. I read something... She checked her phone before nodding. "He asked the stewardess for a bourbon and 7-Up."

Neal flashed a grin at Diana. She wasn't swayed. "Thank you, Diana. You've all seen me get drinks. Even tonight, before I switched to wine." He took a sip of his wine for emphasis. "What did I get tonight?"

Slowly, and slightly drunkenly, the party remembered the only hard liquor they'd ever seen Neal drink.

"Right," Peter finally answered. "Ketel One on the rocks."

Neal nodded, as if this was the final point of evidence. "Yeah. Which is vodka. I will sip whiskey. But bourbon?" He shook his head. He really wanted to stick out his tongue, but thought that might make his point a little more childish. "Don't like the taste."

Jones shoved Neal playfully. "This isn't proving you wouldn't commit air piracy."

Neal gave Jones a strange look. Then gave the same look to Diana and Peter. "I can't use guns," he said slowly.

"No, you can't," Diana said cheerfully, as if that was perfectly reasonable.

"I've seen you try," Peter teased.

"Thanks for the confidence boost." Neal's voice was flat. Okay, I'm not good and I don't like guns, but they could have pretended. "Why would I be able to build and defuse a bomb?"

Diana and Jones looked eagerly at Peter. What counterargument could he have for this? That, that, was a damning point.

"Different skill sets."

Neal rolled his eyes. "I'm a genius, Peter, but not the engineering type of genius. All I can do is art, really. And, another thing, I can't skydive. I don't jump off tall things for no reason."

It was Peter's turn to give Neal a strange look. "You jumped out of a window to avoid going to trial."

Neal's cheeks went pink. That was a thing that had happened. He did jump out of a window to avoid going to trial. Well, he was avoiding giving a confession, but close enough to the same thing. And he did jump out of a window, but...aha!

"I wasn't guilty that time," was Neal's entirely logical counterargument. Then, he thought of a better counterargument. "And it was a fourth-story window. 56 feet above the ground. Not 10,000. And I landed on an awning. Not a river."

Finally, finally, Peter surrendered to logic. "Fine," he capitulated. "Maybe you aren't D. B. Cooper."

"I'm not!" Neal nearly shouted.

Peter smiled and punched Neal's shoulder playfully. Neal still rubbed his shoulder as if it hurt.

"Alright, Cooper," Peter said. "You're paying for this round."

Neal took a deep breath, looking to Diana and Jones for support. Both of them were stifling their laughter at their boss's antics. They also couldn't remember ever seeing Neal as flustered as he was now. It was hilarious. Neal buried his head in his hands.

"I'm never getting out of this, am I?" he mumbled into the heels of his hands.

"Not likely."

Neal groaned. Now Joe McCool? That's another story.

I hope you enjoyed! Review if you really liked it, and another oneshot's coming tomorrow! Good luck for everyone else participating in NaNoWriMo in your authorial pursuits!