Paul Ignazio

There was a stir down in the office. Hughes gave orders. Neal heard something about N.Y.P.D. but could not make out the context. The number of agents around Hughes spoke its own language though.

Hughes and Jones walked into the conference room. Peter had noticed the disturbance, too.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"One of Barelli's men just got shot," the senior agent replied.

"Who?"

"Paul Ignazio," Jones replied and sent a folder across the table with a mug-shut paper-clipped on the front. "Barelli's number two."

Peter picked up the file.

"Barelli's nephew," he mumbled, stunned.

"That's him," Steve declared. He was watching the photo on the file.

Peter swung his head around and stared at the homeless man.

"Who?"

"The guy that asked me to take the Bible," Steve explained. Neal figured they all stared at the man. Had Barelli's own nephew stolen the Bible? And was now killed? Peter sent him a look. Neal shrugged. It did not make more sense to him than to Peter.

"Guess you'd better get down there to have a look," he suggested to Peter. Neal was not so keen on going himself. He had seen two dead bodies since he started to work for Peter and he was not eager for a third.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Jones, tell Cruz that Steve has found the guy and tell her to do the paperwork and buy Steve lunch before he leaves."

"Let's go," Hughes ordered and left the room with Peter on his tail. Neal lingered. Peter turned in the doorway and pointed for him to come. A pointing not to be ignored. Neal sighed and followed.

Peter and Hughes showed their badges to the police officer and walked under the tape out on the pier. It was chilly. Peter was glad he had taken his FBI windbreaker for once. He had not thought about it at the office though. Then it was more a courtesy to his boss. Together with Hughes, he was second in command, not first, and Peter hated the awkward situations when he was addressed instead of Hughes, and Peter forgot himself and took command. With his windbreaker with FBI printed with huge letters on its back he visually appeared less in ranking than one in a suit, so Hughes was addressed first, instead of Peter.

He pulled on rubber gloves and kneeled beside the body, pulled the tarpaulin aside, and watched the dead man on his back in soaked clothes.

"That's our boy," Peter confirmed. "Close range."

"No eyewitnesses," Hughes sighed.

"Body's not waterlogged. So it's fresh," Peter noted. He saw a shell lying between to planks. He picked it up on top of a pen. "Twenty-five caliber casing. European gauge." European? What was this?

"It's a twenty-two caliber," a voice said behind him. A voice Peter knew and hoped to never hear again. "This is Brooklyn, buddy. Not Bavaria." He turned and there he was, squatted by the body. Joseph Ruiz. One of the most incompetent and nasty FBI agents he had ever met. "Pete Burke… This is a homicide, not an art exhibit. What are you doing here?" Ruiz knew fully well Peter did not like being called 'Pete'.

"Ruiz, I see they let you out of your cubicle."

"Yeah. This is my show now," the man claimed. Peter got to his feet, sending Hughes a stare. "Where's your pet convict?"

"I left him in the car with the windows cracked." Unfortunately, that was truer than Peter wanted to admit. Neal had asked to stay and Peter knew why. He had seen no reason to push it.

"What are you doing at my crime scene?" Ruiz asked with that unpleasant attitude of someone unwilling to cooperate.

"This tails into my case," Peter pointed out.

"This is mob retaliation. It's my investigation now. If you don't believe me, ask Hughes."

Peter sent Hughes a glare and took a step towards his boss. Hughes guided him away from the body and Ruiz.

"Don't start with me," Hughes told him.

"You've got Ruiz running Organized Crime? That's unbelievable."

"We offered you that bump, you turn it down," Hughes pointed out. Yes, but Ruiz? There were thousands of FBI agents that would do a better job than that man. But it was no use arguing about that. Now he needed to stay focused.

"This isn't mob on mob," Peter explained. "The Bible's the key to this thing."

They walked further out on the pier.

"All you've got is a guy with a spotty memory who thinks Ignazio may have enticed him into stealing that Bible," Hughes argued against him. "What we've got is a member of the Barelli family probably killed by the Morettis."

"All right, fine." Peter knew he would not win this argument. His boss was right. "I'll stay out of the active investigation. Just let me take a look at whatever's on that body."

"It's Ruiz's case. He's not comfortable sharing intel while Caffrey's with you."

"Oh, come on." Ruiz does not want to share because he is Ruiz he wanted to say but kept his mouth shut.

"He's a convicted felon, Peter. And Ruiz isn't the only one with reservations."

"All right."

"You have plenty of other cases on your sheet," Hughes patted him on the shoulder. "Let Organized Crime handle this one."

"All right," Peter sighed. This day was not going to be his favorite ones. Hughes left. Finding the Bible was still one of his cases but he was denied access to a vital piece.

Neal had not been able to sit tight in the car and wait. He had left a note in the car and taken a walk around the block. When he got back Peter was waiting for him. His handler waved for him to follow him. Neal glanced out on the pier where the coroner's car still parked told him there was still a dead body out there.

"Relax," Peter said. "We're not going out there."

They walked out on one of the other piers. When they got to the end, Neal sat down on the bench, waiting for whatever Peter had to say so far from everyone. The agent leaned with his back against the railing. He seemed tensed and upset, but not with Neal. Someone else must have made him frustrated.

After a few minutes of silent waiting Peter told him about another agent on the scene, a guy named Ruiz, who considered it a 'mob-on-mob' without connection to the Bible. It seemed as if Peter had to fight not to spit curses at the man, which was unlike the Peter he knew.

"We're off the case?" Neal asked. It was the only thing he could think of.

"We've been asked to step down," Peter clarified and sat down beside him.

"Is this a retaliation killing by the other family?" Neal asked. If so it would not fall under White Collar division and explain why they were off the case.

"I don't think Paul would've met a Moretti alone by this river," Peter was thinking aloud. "Not with all the bad blood in the water."

"Now, if Ruiz is right?"

"That Moretti killed him? We may be sitting on the edge of a mob war."

"So, what do we do?"

"I can't do much of anything. Ruiz is not willing to share the case file."

"So where does that leave us?" Neal felt that he missed something.

"Like I said, I can't do much of anything," Peter repeated and gazed at Neal in silence. Neal got the message. He smiled.

"You know, I'm getting a little chilly by this water. Aren't you? Can I borrow your jacket?" Neal asked. Peter's eyes narrowed. "I swear to you, Peter. Under no circumstances will I impersonate the FBI."

Peter gave him the jacket and Neal put it on and rubbed his arms.

"Is it okay for you if I leave for lunch?" Neal asked.

"As long as you don't wear that jacket," Peter replied. Neal rose and took off the jacket but kept it, slung over his shoulder.

"I told you, Peter, I'll not impersonate an FBI agent. See you at the office."

He left the pier, called Mozzie and asked him to meet up a block away from Paul Ignazio's place.

"You're gonna love this," he added.

It felt like ages waiting in Paul Ignazio's backyard before Mozzie opened the door and let him in.

"Any problems getting in?" he asked while he sneaked inside. He had given Mozzie Peter's jacket and a standard kit with pubes and sponges for getting evidence. As expected an N.Y.P.D officer had been guarding the front door and as expected Mozzie was the one to get passed him.

"None," Moz claimed. "He thinks I'm swabbing toilets. We've got about 10 minutes until he gets curious." Neal wished he had heard him. Mozzie used a completely different technique than him. While Neal relied on his charm and confidence, Moz made people uncomfortable and awkward and made sure they knew they could be blamed for it all. He was the short, anonymous guy no one could describe afterward because they were all so glad to be rid of him.

"Why? Is that the standard toilet swabbing time?"

"Yes. That's exactly what it is."

"You look comfortable in that FBI windbreaker," Neal grinned at his friend. "It's time to consider a new career path."

"No. I prefer to keep my soul. What are we looking for?"

Neal scanned the small, cheap apartment. Seemed like being the nephew of a gangster boss did not come with favors.

"Paul convinced our guy to steal a Bible. I wanna know why. I wanna know who killed him. And I wanna know if they're related."

Mozzie grabbed the pile of mail on the counter. Neal took the two steps to the sofa table. It was cluttered. Someone had been eating fast food. As Neal leaned closer he saw the napkins were covered with text.

"He was researching something," he mumbled. "Hundred Years' War… the Crusades… illuminated manuscripts." A Medieval Bible could fit into that context.

His eyes went to the small but stuffed bookshelf by the bed. He scanned the books. He knew most of the titles and he guessed Mozzie had read what he had not. He opened one he had not heard of. The pages were full of marks and notes, like an eager student.

"Why is a mob guy researching medieval history?" he asked, mostly to himself. He turned to the back cover. An image of the writer. "You know the name Maria Fiametta?" he asked Mozzie who viewed Paul Ignazio's wall calendar.

"Doesn't ring a bell. Who is she?"

"Art historian, Brooklyn State."

"Serendipity. Paul had an appointment at Brooklyn State," Mozzie pointed at a note in the calendar with a grin.

Peter's phone rang.

"Special Agent Peter Burke."

"It's Neal," the kid replied.

"You find anything?"

"Your hunch was right," Neal confirmed at the other end. "Ruiz is on the wrong trail."

"And how did you learn this?"

"A friend," Neal answered, short, saying there was nothing more to say on the subject.

"The same friend who-?"

"Same guy. He's real. I'm not making him up."

Peter grinned.

"Oh, I know he's real." When Neal's job as a consultant had been permanent the first thing Peter had done was to let Jones tail Neal's secret friend, since Neal had solved the case before Peter had met the guy as promised. Jones had seen him and knew what to look for. All he had been able to tell was that he visited Neal quite often, but every time Jones had followed him he had lost the guy.

"How much do you know?" the kid asked and Peter could tell Neal got worried.

"Enough. What'd you find?"

"A professor who writes about the black market. Sicilian grave robbers, Egyptian smugglers, and Serbian mobsters. Can't run with those crowds unless you're willing to get dirt under your nails."

"What's his name?"

"Her name is Maria Fiametta. A woman."

"A regular Cindiana Jones," Peter grinned at the image he got of a female grave robber. Neal did not seem to share his amusement.

"Do you wanna go meet her?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think I do," Peter replied. "I set it up for tomorrow. Good work, Neal, and thank your friend from me. Take the rest of the day off and take my jacket back to the office tomorrow."

"I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Peter." He hung up.

Peter smiled. Without a doubt had Neal been with his friend wherever they had found the information. Peter's first guess was Paul Ignazio's apartment because that was where he would go first himself. In that case, Neal was there illegal, but none of them was stupid enough to put themselves in a situation where Peter or any other part of the law-enforcement would know about it.

What if Neal got caught? What if N.Y.P.D caught him during such break-in? Peter would take responsibility for him, take most of the heat away. As long as he was doing something within reason at least. Slap him with a symbolic house arrest to keep everybody else pleased. Peter knew he was moving in a gray zone. It was nothing he wanted to make a habit of. But Ruiz had pissed him off. He also wanted to prove what he could do together with Neal, his 'pet-convict.'

When it came to Neal's friend he figured he would meet him sooner or later. Peter had no intention to pry to get him behind bars. If the man was in Peter's own age as Jones had guessed and had a habit of melting away in a crowd Peter guessed this friend was probably never to be caught. He had probably flown under the radar for most of his life.