Neal called Moz.

"Where are you?" his friend asked.

A justifiable question. He would have been in at the warehouse by now if it had not been for Jones following him.

"I've got a tail."

"What?!"

How many times had Peter put a tail on him when he was off anklet before, and he had not noticed? Well, Peter had picked Jones for a reason: Neal would notice him. Why? Because he did not want to frame him but make sure he stayed out of trouble, like an overprotective dad. Although it was comforting, it was mostly annoying.

"Have you started?"

"Of course, I started, but without you here, I'm not sure which colors to sample, so this whole thing might be an exercise in futility." What Mozzie was doing was really a little bit of blasphemy. You did not do damage to the master's art. But it would not be any visible damage. No one would know. In brushstrokes, there was often thicker paint at some parts, bumps, really. They could be lowered without lowering the quality of the art.

"Just pull the primaries. I can mix the rest." His painting had not contained green. A good green was impossible to mix with the primaries. It was funny really, the idea that you could replace the color of verdigris or malachite with a mix of blue and yellow, like alchemists trying to make gold. It was a myth based on the idea that everything consisted of trinities.

"I'm not an idiot!" Moz said. "I scraped a titanium white from the Rembrandt, a midnight blue from a Vlaminck."

"Oh, you should get a Monestial blue."

"You know, I should get a Monestial blue. If you find one thick enough, feel free to let me know. Oh, that's right, you're not here!"

"Breathe, Moz," Neal said. "How are we doing on the canvas? Did you check the Dalí?"

"Evidently, our friend Salvador liked to stretch time but not canvases. I'll find something."

"I know you will."

Neal grinned and ended the call. It would be fun to fool Peter. He had missed that. He missed their friendship more, but this would have to do.

He had walked into an open space along the docks before he started his call to make sure Jones could not hear the call. He cast an eye over his shoulder and saw no Jones. With a quick move, he dumped the phone so that the place of the warehouse could not be traced. Mozzie knew where to find him.

Neal continued the walk and made plans for tomorrow. He checked the weather for tomorrow on his FBI phone. Something he did every day, to not make it suspicious when he actually needed the information. Some habits needed planning indeed. It would be a risk of rain. He grinned. That would be perfect. Poor Jones. Would he see the fun in it or give him a hard time at the office later?

Back in his apartment, he started to paint a new painting of the Chrysler building, the one Peter had seen and was now nothing but a burnt scrap that could seal his future in prison.

"Practicing?" Moz asked as he flung the door open.

"Yeah, I figured I should have a copy of the Chrysler lying around in case Peter came looking for it." Mozzie chuckled at this. "You get everything?"

"Some canvas and a spectrum of prewar paint that would pass any wood's light or I.R. spectroscopy they want to throw at it," he replied, unpacking. "The red is from a portrait of Fernande Olivier."

Neal looked at the samples Mozzie very thoughtfully placed in sterile containers.

"The last person to mix this paint was Picasso." It was… just… wow. Moz chuckled again. "We're taking from masters."

"Oh, Picasso was a communist. He'd be happy to share," his friend said.

"What's the plan for the gallery?"

"Ah! The plan for the gallery. I pried some information from a loose-lipped gallerista," he said, spreading a blueprint on the table. "They're sending our swatch out to an authentication lab at 11:00 A.M. tomorrow morning. The gallery opens at 10:30, so we have 30 minutes to get inside, make the switch, then get out."

"It's gonna be close." He was a fast painter and it was a small work, but still… "Security?"

"A standard Schlagel by the door, with surveillance cameras."

"We'll need a distraction while I pick it."

"I can't buy you that much time by myself. How about a Kansas City mud slide?"

"You gonna work the jackhammer?"

Mozzie's smile faded.

"No."

Neal heard some sounds from downstairs, and he got an idea.

"Let's run a Phoebe Cates."

"Who's the girl?"

"I don't think June would mind if we used her granddaughter."

"Well, she's pretty enough. Will she do it without asking questions?"

"I'm sure she's up for a little excitement." Nothing that could ever put her in trouble with the law, though, or get her naked body exposed to the world. She was an adult. The real Phoebe Cates had not been that lucky.

"Excellent! Oh, now on to the bigger question. How do you plan on losing your tail, outside evolution?"

"I'll take a page from Magritte."

Around ten the next morning, Peter got a call from Jones.

"I lost him," his agent said.

"What? How?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"We're talking about Neal Caffrey," Peter reminded Jones. "I'll believe almost anything."

Jones did not chuckle at this.

"I followed him. It started to drizzle. Caffrey opened his umbrella, and passed the gates to a park. I jogged to catch up…" Peter could hear the frustration in Jones' voice.

"Yes?"

"Have you seen the posting on NYC Events?"

Peter opened the web page on the computer in front of him. He stared at the entry. 'Wear a dark suit and fedora, come to 22nd and 10th, Clement Clark Moore Park at 10 AM. Best-dressed wins $500.'

"I looked at thirty Caffreys in that park," Jones sighed. "With umbrellas. He's gone."

So Neal was up to something, Peter thought. Or had he arranged all this, just for fun, because he knew he was shadowed? That, too, would be likely. Neal did that, causing a diversion for nothing, just to cry 'wolf' for fun.

He checked the map. There was nothing in the area that rang a bell.

"Get to Caffrey's place."

"What if he's not there?"

"He will be."

Neal walked out through the other entry to the little park. He glanced back and saw Jones with his back to him, searching for his target's face on all the gathered men.

He called Mozzie.

"Okay, Moz. You're up."

It would take them both five minutes to get to the Dearmitt Gallery. While Moz walked in front with a package to a guy who no longer worked there, Neal would get to the back door. There, Neal could do nothing but hope for timing. Cindy would pass outside those windows, and Mozzie would call the guard's attention to her, where she would spill a latte all over herself.

Neal picked up the door's lock and slipped inside.

So far, so good.

The envelope was at the end of the corridor, at the bottom of the staircase. He glanced up and saw Sindy, who had just changed her top. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. The only thing she had been clear about was that Mozzie would be the one to hold up her coat as a cover and not the guard. The guard was behind his counter, and Mozzie was more at hand, so it was no problem. Neal was sure Mozzie had been polite and always looked the other way.

He wished he had seen her walking in, insisting on a quick change of top right on the spot. When did that ever happen in real life? Of course, the guard would stare at the whole situation.

He grabbed the envelope from the pile and found a room along the corridor. He turned on the light and unpacked his stuff on the table. With a portable steam-gizmo he got the envelope open and pulled out the evidence bag. He took the piece out and cut a new piece with the same measures from the canvas Mozzie found.

The paint was mixed with an oil that was as old as the paint Mozzie had pulled off the paintings. He had a bottle of oil dated from the 1920th that he had taken from a dead artist's studio once. It had come in handy before.

Now he had twenty minutes to paint and a few minutes to make the piece look like it had been through a fire.

He drew with charcoal. Not old enough, but he had no options. It was a little risk that they picked up traces from the charcoal in the tests.

Then he painted. When he was almost done, his cell phone rang.

"Hey, Peter."

"You gave Jones a nice runaround."

"That was Jones? I thought that could've been Lawrence. I didn't want to blow my cover."

"Mm-hmm." Peter did not sound convinced. Neal did not expect him to.

"Why'd you put Jones on me?"

"You really want me to answer that?" Peter asked in return. "You at home?"

"Where else would I be?" No lie, and Peter was probably experienced enough to notice. At least there were no odd sounds around him telling otherwise.

"What are you doing?"

"You know, arts and crafts, the usual."

"Jones will be at your place in twenty minutes. He's gonna stay on you. You're gonna let him."

"No problem."

"Good Bye."

Neal picked up a blow torch of the kind you had in the kitchen and went over the rim of his little painting. He glanced up to the ceiling, suddenly worried that he would set off a sprinkler or a fire alarm. But there was no need for worries.

He waved it to cool it off, put it back in the plastic bag, and back into the envelope. He tiptoed back to the bottom of the staircase and replaced the envelope.

The last phase of the plan was a risk but a calculated one. The guard might see him on camera while leaving.

He looked down to keep his face from the camera, opened the back door, and left as if he had done it hundreds of times.