Peter knew that look on his pet convict's face.
"Are you thinking about how you'd steal it?" he asked and glanced at the huge stone face marking the mansion's entrance.
"It weighs 2 tons and is worth maybe a couple of grand. Pass."
"But you were thinking about it."
Neal did not object.
"It's an involuntary reflex."
They moved through the gate into a "courtyard" of a house only a handful of people in the world could afford to own. Nathaniel Roland had been one of them.
"Well, Nathaniel Roland's inheritance is worth forty million," he said as he looked up at the walls of the three-story building.
"You really think one of his sons forged his will?"
The kid seemed surprised by the idea.
"People do some crazy things for money."
"You think they'd be that stupid?" Neal asked-
"That's what we're gonna find out."
"Well, what I'm gonna find out," the kid said, sounding awfully proud, stopping to admire what looked like a sundial.
"You're saying I'm irrelevant in this case?"
His pet convict, who Peter suspected had not fully forgiven him for the rash judgment he made, watched him with a smug smile.
"The Bureau requested that I authenticate the will. I don't remember you being mentioned. Me. Not you."
Peter followed him up the stairs to the front door, front gate really, and they were shown inside.
"Right this way." A butler who looked as old as the house itself showed them into what Peter thought ought to be a dining room for somewhere between ten to twenty people. The ceiling was ornamented, and fake pillars held it up.
A young man got to his feet and met them.
"Hi. Josh Roland. You're here to authenticate my will?" He reached out his hand, and Peter shook it.
"Agent Peter Burke. My associate Neal will take a look at it," he said, gesturing to the kid. "I become relevant in a little bit." The young man's eyes turned to Neal, who reached out his hand.
"How're you doing?"
"Good."
"May I see the wills?"
"Yeah, they're both here on the table," Josh showed him. "Look, I really don't want him to go to jail over this, but if he's trying to steal forty million dollars..."
"Hey, sorry, I'm late," a man came in carrying a little girl. "Savannah's nap went a little longer than expected."
"I didn't take a nap," the girl objected.
"Shh," her dad said. "Why don't you go upstairs and play, okay? See you in a few minutes." He put her down, and the little girl named Savannah rushed to Josh with open arms.
"Hi, Uncle Josh!"
Josh lifted her up.
"Hi, sweetheart." He kissed her and put her down.
Josh's brother reached out his hand to Neal.
"How're you doing? I'm James."
"Neal."
"Hello," Savanna said, bouncing down on the sofa where Peter had sat down.
"Hi."
"I don't know what my brother's been telling you," James said, "but I haven't been doctoring up anything."
"There's no way dad would have left you everything," Josh hissed back. "You'd squander it."
"Squander it? That's a good word. Don't you mean I'd blow it? Maybe use some of this family's money to do some good for a change?"
"Dad's charitable foundation—"
"Tax dodges."
"You're saying that with FBI agents in the room?" Josh asked.
"Are they always like this?" Peter asked the little girl.
"Yeah."
"Anyway, mind if we get this over with?" James ended the argument.
"Yeah," Neal agreed and sat down by the two wills.
"Who's he?" the girl asked.
"His name is Neal," Peter said. "He knows a lot of stuff."
"What's that thing on his leg?"
"That's a tracking anklet."
"I have an anklet. Want to see?"
"Yeah." She lifted her leg and showed him a golden chain with lots of charms attached to it, child's stuff. "Oh, cute. Where'd you get it?"
"My grandpa." The dead man. For a second, Peter was afraid she would start crying, but she did not. "Where'd he get his?"
"It's part of a federal work-release program where..." Oh God, he was talking to a child. Peter lost focus and just stared at the girl. "Uh... I gave it to him. It's so I don't lose him."
"Oh. Are you his grandpa?"
"Weren't you supposed to go to your room?" The girl nodded and giggled to this and made no intention of moving from the sofa.
"His is a forgery, right?" Josh asked Neal, who lifted his head from the papers.
"This is a forgery," the kid agreed.
"What?!" James spat.
"I knew it," Josh hissed.
"Hold on," Neal said and looked at Josh. "So is this one."
"That's impossible."
"They're both forged?" Peter asked, now on his feet.
"Yeah."
"How can you say they're both fake?" James asked.
"The witness signatures," he answered, pointing, "the velocity, acceleration, and pressure both have exactly the same anomalies. They were signed by the same person."
"So, what happens now?" James asked, perplexed.
"Before we jump to any conclusions," Peter took control, being a federal agent after all, collecting the two wills, "we need to verify the witness signatures. We'll run a couple more tests. When we get something, we will let you know."
"Thank you," Josh said, and Peter left with Neal on his tail.
"They are both forged, grandpa," the kid grinned on his way out. "Your experts will tell you the same."
"Shut up before I give you a wall of bars instead."
"I bet hers were not as heavy."
Did he complain about the weight now? Peter sighed.
"With all those charms, it ought to weigh as those old anklets with an iron ball attached to it."
When Neal got home, Mozzie awaited him with a box on the table.
"Do I want to know what's in that box?" he asked.
"Well, to paraphrase the man who brought down the Soviet Union, it's easier to trust when you can verify."
Mozzie turned on an old record player, and a fanfare with plenty of noise came out of the old speaker.
"You gonna show me a shining city on a hill?"
"Shining, yes, and with it, you can buy any city on any hill."
Mozzie lifted the box and revealed an open laptop. And Neal saw what was on the screen at once.
"A treasure-cam?" A perfect move from his friend. It was easier to trust when you could verify.
"Look, I know how hard it must be to see the promised land and not be able to enter because of your leash, and I don't want this to come between us. So now, we can both keep an eye on our fortune twenty-four-seven."
"Thank you, Moz." He could not have gotten a better gift.
"Oh. See the Degas?" Moz pointed.
"Yeah."
"Think I've lined up a buyer."
"Kind of had my eye on that one."
"Oh, well, fortunately, there's two other Degas to choose from, mister... Did you pick a name?"
Just to be sure, he had ditched all the documents with the name he had picked for their previous plan. It was a bad name, anyway. One he had come up with in haste.
"Close," he assured Mozzie.
"Glenn Close?"
"No, I'm working on it. Might have to live with this next one till the end. Want to make sure it feels as good as 'Neal Caffrey.'" But how could any name be? It may not be the name on his birth certificate, but it was his name, his official and legal name. The name he had had since he was eighteen. It felt so long ago.
"A rose by any other name, Neal," Mozzie smiled. "Choose, because, very soon, we're gonna be on an airplane to a different life."
Another life that he would have to live the rest of his life. It felt strange. And he was supposed to be excited about it. He did not feel that way. Neal shrugged it off.
The next day Peter called him up to his office.
"Hey. We got back biometrics on Roland's witness signatures," Peter said. "They are definitely forged."
"Could've told you that," Neal said, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, wait. I did."
"Yeah, and based on your observations, we ran a couple of other tests," Peter said and leaned forward, showing him the wills. "See how the 'a' is connected to the 'e' two letters later? As Roland did in his youth." He handed him an old letter.
Neal stared at the two wills.
"Roland forged the witness signatures?"
"On both wills to his children," Peter pointed out.
"How did I miss this?"
"You didn't know he was ambidextrous," Peter explained. "He signed these with his left hand. And the names are weird. Horace Byth? Hatch O'Brey?"
"It sounds like they're ripped from a Salinger novel."
"Well, they are fictional," the agent confirmed. Neal stared at the two names. "What do you see?"
"The same letters. They're anagrams."
They both dived for a pad and a pen each, writing down the letters.
'Cathy Behore, 'Beth Yrhoeca'… They sounded worse than those he started with. He continued down the paper, trying out new combinations.
Then it all fell into place. He looked up.
"Tycho Brahe." He said it at the same time as Peter. He loved those moments when they connected like this.
"15th-century Dutch astronomer," Neal said.
"16th and Danish," Peter corrected. "Close, though. Almost impressive."
"Well, well," Neal watched Peter. "Who is relevant now?" They were a perfect team, an indisputable fact.
"What kind of message do you think he was trying to leave behind?"
Neal studied the two wills.
"He closes both wills with the line, 'in the end, there should be nothing between you, which is everything.'"
"Cryptic."
"Wait a second." The pattern in the corner of the papers, those watermarks. Same, but not the same. He rose and put them on top of each other on Peter's window.
"What are you doing?"
There was a compass rose printed in the same corner, but they were not pointing in the same direction. He turned them so they did.
"Interesting. Peter, come here." Peter looked over his shoulder. "These look like streets. A compass rose. This isn't a message. This is a map."