Brigittes

When Peter returned to his office Neal met him outside.

"How's it going in there?"

"It's fine," Neal assured him "Any luck on Dorsett?"

"No," Peter sighed. He had noted the kid's change of subject but let it be for now. "Assuming you just walked with a hundred grand in cash and the painting, what do you do?"

"Go to ground till things cool off."

"Where do you go?" Peter wondered. Neal did not have an obvious answer. "Dorsett said something about having a girlfriend."

"Brigitte."

"Yeah. How many Brigittes came in from France last night?"

"I'll get a list," Neal moved towards the stairs. "Or rather, I'll ask Jones, since I don't have that clearance. Peter, don't you think it's time-"

"No, I don't. Come back in three years and ten months and ask me then."

"Do you mean I can work for the FBI when I'm released?"

Pleased, Peter saw glitters of hope in Neal's eyes.

"I didn't say that," he replied but felt it was too harsh. He wanted nothing more than have Neal around. But it was too far ahead to make such plans. "Lets' see when we get there, right?"

Neal grinned and disappeared towards Jones' desk. Peter walked into his office and Julianna.

"That painting belongs to me and my grandmother before me," she stated.

"I understand."

"But that doesn't mean you'll return it to me if you recover it, does it?"

"No. I'm sorry."

He got a glare from the young woman reflecting no understanding whatsoever.

"Can I leave?"

"Of course you can. I'll keep you posted."

She rose.

"Goodbye, Agent Burke." She said it with a tone as if she wanted him out of her life forever, which was probably just what she wanted.

"I follow you out."

He did, but the young woman could not have cared less.

"Take care, Julianna."

When he returned into the office Jones jabbed a list on a clipboard into his hands.

"Brigittes as requested."

Peter saw a list of about twenty names. Then he saw it was the first page out of two and the second page was just as full.

"Accounting middle names and spelling variations a lot more than I thought," he admitted.

His team gathered around him.

"Discount connecting flights," Neal suggested.

"And women over fifty," Peter added and met Neal's gaze. Jones stared at him, too. So he had presumptions but… "Tell me I'm wrong."

None of them protested.

"Well, that leaves seven," Jones concluded.

"All right. So let's pull in some teams and everybody take a Brigitte."

"We'll take the girl staying at the Gansevoort," Neal pointed at the list as if he had just waited for it. Peter glared. What was the kid up to now?

"That's where I'd stay," Neal explained. He looked innocent enough. Didn't he always?

Though Neal had suggested the location, he did not fancy sitting in the car watching the fun. It was even harder than in the van to sit still. In the car, he did not have to fight claustrophobia, true, but he saw people doing all the things he wanted to do and could not.

He ripped a page from an old newspaper, shaped it to a square and folded himself a crane to keep his mind and fingers occupied.

"You'd think they'd have a satellite for things like this," he said. He had seen enough movies to believe that sitting in a car surveying people was utterly outdated.

"Only thing a satellite is gonna tell us is that he's not on the roof," Peter pointed out. "This is old school."

"'Old school'."

"Will you relax? Do you meditate?"

"No."

"Really? You look like a guy who meditates."

What does a guy that meditates look like when he is not meditating, Neal wondered. Peter opened a lunch box and brought out a zip bag with two sandwiches in.

"Sandwich?" he proposed.

A whiff of onion and mustard hit Neal's nose like a hammer.

"What is that smell?"

"It's deviled ham," Peter answered and held out the bag to him, offering him one. Neal stared at Peter. Was he for real? Deviled ham was not food for a closed vehicle! Obviously, his handler thought so and took a huge bite.

Neal was fed up with it all. At least he could listen to something else than baseball. He switched the channel on the radio.

"No, wait. Go back to the game," Peter protested.

"No, I called it," he grinned.

"You're just touching buttons, that's not calling it."

"What are we, twelve?"

"I guess we are. When we're in your car, we can listen to your station."

"I don't have a car." So he would sit with Peter's baseball games every time they did surveillance from the car. It had a depressing feeling to it.

"Poor life choice."

Neal sighed and Peter switched back.

"And we're back at the game!"

Neal twisted his origami crane between his fingers. He looked past Peter out onto the outdoor restaurant outside the hotel. Peter saw him looking.

"What do you think you can afford in that place?"

"Spot me a twenty."

"Why don't you use the new Gold Card?" Peter replied with a smirk.

"You know about that?" Neal laughed embarrassed. He was not supposed to have it. But, he had not kept it secret. Just not told Peter about it. They shared a grin.

"Keep it. Makes it easier for me to know what you're buying." Gracious of you Peter, Neal thought but kept looking out on the women. And a possible Brigitte with a friend. Peter saw his look.

"All right, go. But no shenanigans! You've got ten minutes. And keep your phone on."

Neal placed the crane on the dashboard in front of Peter.

"That's for you." He stepped out of the car. 'Shenanigans'? This was a day for old school indeed.

Peter inspected Neal's paper bird. How could a guy with the energy of a squirrel have patience enough to fold one of these? But Neal was a contradiction. He put the bird back on the dashboard. He ate his sandwich, listened to the game and kept an eye out for Dorsett. It was not that bad to be alone. No one complained and no one touched the radio.

He glanced out over the patio of the hotel. He saw Neal sit by himself with a glass of wine. That was another thing that fascinated him. Officially, Neal did not have much money. He got a small paycheck every month to cover the basic needs. The money for the rent went directly to June. Yet, Neal spent money on wine. Perhaps Neal used some secret holdings. As long as the kid was discreet enough about it to not cause suspicions, Peter could be decent enough not to pry. No, it was not a matter of decency. It was him hoping to keep Neal out of prison because he liked working with him. Because Neal made a difference. And he preferred to have Neal out and other crooks behind bars than the other way around. So he was not going to pry as long as Neal kept a low profile.

"Hey!" Neal popped up by his open window.

"What?"

Was he back before ten minutes had passed even? Neal gestured towards two slender, blond women standing on the other side of the street, by the edge of the restaurant. They both winked at Neal.

"What do you think?" the Kid asked with pride.

Peter glanced at them. What was he up to now?

"Hookers?"

"No!" Neal sounded shocked. "No, that's Brigitte and her friend."

Peter stared at the women.

"I convinced them to invite us up to their suite," Neal continued. "Brigitte likes me, you can have Claire."

"Are you completely out of your mind?"

"The room is rented in her name," Neal returned. "We're not breaking any laws if she invites us in."

Peter sighed. He did not want to. Not because of any laws, but because he was married. No, because he never ever walked into a room with an unknown woman with the idea of doing something else than drink tea. He did not want to. It was not him.

"The hundred grand and the painting could be inside," Neal grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know if we're sitting in the right place? Peter…"

Neal was right. And it was legal. No one would blame him. Well, no one but his wife maybe. He would not stay long and not be intimate. He was just moving a bit out of his comfort zone.

"Which one's Claire?"

Neal did not reply but opened the door and invited him to get out. The women giggled and the second he stood on the ground he knew he would regret it. Neal guided him over and presented him. Claire looked at him as if he was a Greek god. It was flattering but it made Peter want to flee.

Neal and Brigitte walked towards the hotel, and Clarie was not late to grab him like a trophy and pull him along, following the other couple.

Peter made an effort to chat with her but to his horror, she seemed to only understand French. Which Neal could speak of course, but what he said to Claire about him he did not know and would not have trusted if told.

Claire had to pull him into the hotel room. The two women giggled and laughed and disappeared into a bedroom.

"Claire is cute," Neal told him as if he had not noticed.

"Yeah. She's exactly what I need in my life right now."

"All right," he mumbled and began to scan the room. "There are no men's socks lying around. Brigitte does not look like a girl who's worried about her boyfriend coming home."

"Peter, you have to relax." Neal made four drinks with the aid of the mini bar. "If we have the wrong Brigitte, we'll know soon enough."

Not soon enough by far, Peter thought.

"Beats sitting in the car eating deviled ham," Neal reminded Peter who did not seem to enjoy life at all.

"All right, fine. The second we find out if Dorsett is staying here we leave and we call in reinforcements."

"Done," Neal agreed.

"They're coming," Peter mumbled.

And out from the bedroom came the two beauties. Neal picked up two of the glasses. Brigitte locked the door to the room from where she came. He exchanged a look with Peter and saw he noticed it too. With his biggest smile, he walked to the ladies and handed them their glasses.

"Voila."

They smiled and took their glasses and thanked him.

"Je vous, je vous."

He returned to Peter and the two other drinks waiting for them.

"She doesn't want us in there," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I saw her lock the door," Peter confirmed.

"If there's a door that connects to the master suite, I can open it."

"No. You can't."

"I won't tell anyone," Neal tried.

"No, no. You understand the rules here."

"Yes, I've heard the speech."

Brigitte had already finished her drink and danced a sexy dance, asking him to put on some music so they could have some fun.

"What's that?" Peter asked.

"They wanna play strip poker," Neal translated just to tease Peter. "I'm kidding. But could you imagine? They want music, all right? Come on, relax." Neal saw the stereo and guided Peter in that direction. "All right. It's over there. Come on."

Neal took Brigitte's outstretched hand and begun to dance with her. She pressed herself close and Neal took the opportunity to take her key.

"Just un moment," he smiled at her and backed away and slipped into the bathroom. Peter was too occupied to understand the stereo to see what was happening before Neal had locked the door.

"Neal, I know what you're doing," his handler hissed.

"Just un moment," Neal assured him.

"Cut the French crap. Get out here."

"Keep them occupied," Neal suggested.

"I can't keep them occupied. I don't speak French."

That was the last he heard of Peter before he slipped into the bedroom through the door he just unlocked. He searched the room in a way Peter would never allow without a warrant. Well, he was not the FBI. He heard the music turn on outside. Where was the painting?

"Hey, Neal," he heard Peter outside. "Caffrey!" Oh, he was upset now. "El called me with these two crazy women in the background."

Neal stared at the large mirror. It had a thick frame. Thick enough to hide something behind it, maybe. He unhooked it. Yes, there it was.

"If Elizabeth holds this over me, I'm revoking your badge," he heard Peter saying. "What aspect of the warrant law are you still struggling with?"

Neal took the frame out and took the painting out of the frame. He would return this to Julianna. It was hers. When the FBI stormed in here and found an empty frame, they would presume Dorsett had sold it or hidden it. Neal grabbed a scarf to cover it when he read the inscription on the back: "To my dearest Julianna. Keep this forever."

Not only was he sure of his choice to return the painting to its true owner. He also wanted Dorsett to know that George Devore took it back.