Neal took a walk with Mozzie. The way Peter had looked at him, the way he had asked the question. There was a reason Peter had accused him of stealing, and that reason must have been something substantial.

"Peter's not playing a hunch," he told Moz. "He knows something."

"Impossible."

"He's breathing down my neck."

"He's messing with your head," Moz said with gusto. "That's what suits do."

Perhaps that was true. Perhaps he imagined things. But he wanted to be certain.

"So, there's nothing from the heist that could be tied back to me?" There should not be because he had not done it, but… He stared at his friend, who had stopped and looked uncomfortable. "Moz…"

"You know that art studio where you keep all the paintings you've done?"

"What about it?"

"Now it's just a studio."

Neal gasped for air.

"You switched my art for the art on the sub?"

"Neal, you're talented, but Van Dyck has you beat."

"I can't believe it." It was his art! His belongings, his work! Not only had Moz taken it to put it on fire, but he had also done so in a situation where anything pointing in Neal's direction would be fatal. And Moz had taken his art!

"Look, they ran forensics tests on the burned warehouse," Moz said and started walking again as if what he had done was completely natural. "They needed to find traces of paint and canvas."

"Do you know what this means?"

"Nothing could survive that fire." Neal glared at him. Mozzie saw his look. "Nothing should have survived the fire."

"Thank you."

And something most likely had. Peter had seen something there by the fire. And it was most likely a painting that did not belong in a sub that had not seen the light of day since World War II.

Peter had not gone to bed. He held the piece of the painting that landed by his feet, packed up in an evidence bag. The proof that Neal had been a con man all the time. Or?

"Honey, you've been staring at that all night." El's arms wrapped around him where he sat by their dining room table.

"He took it, El. I know he took the art. I'm standing there, watching the warehouse go up in flames, and this floats down at my feet. It's a piece of the same painting that was in his apartment."

El was silent for a moment.

"You're positive it's the same?"

"How many paintings like this could there be of the Chrysler Building?"

"Actually, you'd be surprised," she said, walking to their bookshelf, searching. "Art Deco started in Paris, so there was a lot of European interest in the Chrysler. Yeah, here," she pulled out a book, browsing it. "It's been around, what, eighty years? Here it is."

She handed him the opened art book. On the left page was an image of a painting of the Chrysler Building. Not the one he had a piece of, but the same style.

"'Countless artists would interpret the Chrysler's majesty using a variety of styles and techniques,'" he read.

"It was built in 1931. Could've been on the sub."

"Or maybe Neal painted it."

"Or maybe you've been chasing him for so long, you don't know how to stop."

"Or maybe I know him better than anyone else." Peter shut the book and El did not bother to argue more. But he knew El too. She believed Neal was innocent. He sighed. She had a good heart, but that did not change things. "If not him, then Mozzie or Alex. Neal's involved, somehow."

"Well, there's a way you can find out. Have the forensics team test it. If it's from the 1930s, then you know it's not his."

"I can't involve the Bureau. Not yet." He should, but he could not quite bring himself to face it yet. "If I'm right, and Neal's behind this, he goes down. And so do I." He had already lost him as a friend. And a partner, probably. Would he also lose his job because of this?

El took the bag and studied the piece for a moment.

"I could have it tested."

"You have a lab in the basement I don't know about?"

She chuckled. He loved that. He needed that right now.

"No, the Dearmitt Gallery. They go through private labs to authenticate work."

"It's been years since you worked there."

"I keep in touch."

"You would call in a favor?"

"For you? Anything." She kissed him. "Especially if you come with me to bed. It is cold and empty without you, and for the last two years, you've spoiled me by being there."

"We made contact with Lawrence through your Rydell e-mail account," Diana told him, walking into the conference room. Neal kept it to himself that he disapproved of the FBI invading his e-mail account, even if it was for one of his aliases.

"He wants to meet you at the Gramercy Fencing Club in a few hours," Peter said, reading from a printout. "Why can't guys like you ever just grab a beer?"

"Imported or domestic?" There was never a thing as simple as 'grab a beer.'

"Just meet with him, lead us back to the cash," Peter said. "I'm pulling your anklet."

Neal grinned.

"As usual." He threw his leg up on the table in front of Diana.

"Don't get cocky," she smiled. "We'll be listening."

Peter threw him the familiar watch.

"And I'll be close."

Of course, he would be. He beamed at Diana as she left with his anklet. She, at least, behaved the same.

"Thank you."

"Anything you need?" Peter asked.

"A plane ticket out of the country?"

"I meant for being Rydell."

Neal shook his head.

"No. I figured this would happen. I dressed as him this morning." Peter stared at him. "What?"

"I'm I supposed to see the difference?"

Neal got to his feet.

"No, Peter, I don't expect you to see the difference between one of my ties and one of Rydell's. Or his choice of suit." He did not bother to smile or sound overly friendly. The tie was expensive, and he knew he could never get the FBI to pay for it.

He left the office and walked to Gramercy Fencing Club. It was just fifteen minutes away, so he took a stroll further north and sat down by a café to get there at the right time from the right direction.

He saw a municipal van parking across the street. No surprise there.

When the time was right, he rose and got there. He heard the familiar sound of fencing already when the elevator door opened.

Two guys dressed in ordinary white dress with face masks were fencing. It did not take many moves for him to guess who David Lawrence was. The figure won the match and pulled his mask off.

"David. Good to see you again."

"It is good to be seen, Gary," he said, grinning, pulling his gloves off. "You know, I missed this place. Beauty here. They encourage disguises." He held up the fencing mask.

"Who are you hiding from?"

"You never can be too careful."

David took one of the older blades from a stand and gestured for Neal to take one too. He did and felt the weight of it in his hand. It had an elegance a gun lacked but could still be lethal.

"Is that why I haven't seen you in the last six years?" Neal asked.

"Oh, I retired to the islands."

"My friend, if you're retired, then why aren't we playing shuffleboard?"

"I haven't heard of you in the last six years, either, Gary," David returned. "How do I know you're still on your game?"

Though undercover, Neal was tired of being distrusted.

"Maybe I'm that good."

"Or maybe you lost a step."

The attack was quick, but not faster than he could raise his guard. He pushed David's sword away with his own blade. He attacked himself, and then David returned it. Neal stared at the down-most part of his tie on the floor. David had cut it with either a precision that was spooky, or it was just pure luck that he was not severely injured.

For the first time, he felt the hate that he had to do this for the FBI. To people who would never trust him. He glared at David.

"That was my tie."

"Come on. Show me you're still as good as the Gary Rydell I used to know."

Neal kicked the piece away from the floor and pulled off his suit jacket. If he happened to kill David with his sword, would he go free?

"Well, I'm still using a French grip. Still a fan of the depassement attaque." Their blades met. Then Neal attacked and got himself the upper hand. "Let's get to the point," he said, still with his sword in hand. "You stole sixty million but couldn't get it out of the country. Now you need me to move it for you. Tell me I'm wrong."

Instead of answering, David tried to attack, but thanks to Neal's fast eye, he lost his sword, and Neal put his blade by his opponent's neck.

"Nice attaque composée," David sighed.

"Feint left, thrust right, my signature."

"I remember," David said and took a step closer. "Get me and the green out of the country, and you will earn ten percent."

"Twenty."

"Well, I'm in no position to argue," he said, pushing Neal's blade away with his hand.

"Where's the cash?"

"Close." David returned his lost sword to the rack. "Set it up. I'll be in touch."

Peter picked Neal up in the van a few blocks from the fencing club.

"Can we take the route past June's?" the kid asked. "I'd like to change."

Peter grinned. He would have given a lot to see what happened. Clearly, Neal's fencing skills were not good enough.

"Why? I can't see the difference anyway. It's not that I'll mistake you for someone else."

The kid did not say anything else, but he sent him a glare or two. And smiled towards Diana in between. Peter found the little brat insufferable.

When the elevator door opened to the twenty-first floor, the kid was the first to leave.

"It's a cruel and unusual punishment for you to bring me back here like this," he complained.

Punishment? To get to the office in a cut tie. Yes, for some, it was, if you cared for those details.

"Yes, but I'm finally smiling," Peter said. "What's your plan for moving Lawrence's money?"

"I'll take it out by boat."

"Why a boat?" Diana asked.

"One, we're talking about a large shipment," Neal said as he pulled out one of the drawers of his desk. Peter saw, to his surprise, that it was full of organized ties. "That's easier to move on the water than by air." He showed Diana a tie that she disapproved of. He put it back. "And, two, it's easier to pay off dock workers than TSA employees."

Peter sighed. The kid was right.

"Sold. Diana, I want a team at the harbor."

"You got it," she confirmed. Neal held up two different ties. "Blue."

Neal pulled off his ruined tie and threw it in the waste bin. Then put on the blue one. Peter watched his vain pet convict, who filled a whole drawer with ties that looked all the same. The snob who knew everything. He rounded the kid's desk and pulled out the ruined tie from the bin.

"I've driven you to dumpster dive?" the kid asked.

"A souvenir of Neal Caffrey's imperfect moment? Priceless." He grinned and pocketed it.