Apologies for the late update.

My chapters are getting steadily longer :)

But I did enjoy the season finale immensely, and the cliffhanger at the end...Can't wait till summer!

As always, thank you to all my reviewers, especially Kimberly S, SopranoandBass, and NJD-NW-GG-E-HP for reviewing practically every chapter.

Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar or any of its characters.

Enjoy!

Peter stared at the dark shadow sitting innocently on the hidden little niche in the wall. It stared right back at him.

Neal's hat! What the hell was it doing there? Neal loved his hat to the point of insanity. Of course, Peter thought that the infatuation was slightly ridiculous, but it wasn't like Neal cared what he thought of it. Carefully, he stepped closer to the hat to look for more clues to Neal's whereabouts. His instincts screamed at him to be cautious, but it wasn't like he needed to be told. Finding the hat here, right next to the dead body, would have ignited suspicion in the greenest of agents.

He noted the position and snapped several pictures of it from different angles, but he couldn't find anything that would lead him anywhere. The hat laughed at him from its spot. Had Neal put it there? Or had someone else taken his hat and hid it there? Peter couldn't figure out why someone would want to leave such an obvious clue for the FBI, but he decided that they would have to take fingerprint analyses anyway. Just in case.

Jones and Lauren came over at his wave. "Hey, isn't that Neal's—" Jones began, but Peter cut him off.

"Yeah, I know. What we need to find out now is why it's there." Looking slightly abashed, they moved into the closet for a closer look. Peter stepped out, letting them in, and walked over to the other side of the hallway to think. The security guard Bentley, who stood opposite him, was taking in the scene with wide eyes. Realizing that the guard's normal morning had been interrupted by the sight of a murdered person, who he might even have known personally, Peter went over to see how he was taking all this.

"Hey, are you alright?" he asked gently.

At the sound of his voice, Bentley shook himself as if coming out of a daze. "I—I don't know…Mike…" he mumbled, waving his hand vaguely at the direction of the body. "I talked to him just—just the other day…he showed me pictures of—of his baby son…" his voice trailed off.

Inwardly, the words sparked rage and sadness at the pointless killing, and the tearing apart of a family. He even felt a bit of guilt for the deaths, that they hadn't managed to catch the killer before this man—Mike—got in his way. But this was part of the reason why he worked for the FBI, to stop criminals who thought that the laws didn't apply to them, even if he mostly dealt in theft and cons. The White Collar division didn't often get cases involving murder, and Peter knew that the corpse meant that other people would now have to get involved. On the outside, though, he displayed none of the tumult of emotions and thoughts he was embroiled in. The guard looked young and lost. He was suddenly reminded inexplicitly of Neal. Maybe it was their reactions to guns and their aftermaths. He put a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder.

Human touch seemed to shake Bentley out of his shell-shocked state. "I'm—I'm sorry," he fumbled for his radio. "I should call—I should be calling the head of security."

"You have nothing to be sorry for. His death was not your fault; you couldn't have done anything," Peter said firmly.

He waited while the guard shakily reported the murder to his boss.

"But you can help us to catch his killer by telling us about him," he pointed to the body, "and bring him to justice." Rather cliché lines, but the message behind it was clearly heartfelt.

Bentley seemed to sense it, because he said, "I didn't even know Mike that well. We just said 'hey' to each other when we passed in the hallways. My morning patrol brought me past his rounds, you see. Went out to lunch once or twice. I hadn't ever seen his family before he showed me that picture of his son." He fell silent, remembering the very next time he had seen him.

Peter considered this information. How did this fit into Neal's unexplained disappearance? There was no doubt that the two events were connected. And the original theft and subsequent occurrences seemed like an inside job.

He asked, "Did Mike have any other people he was close to here? Or anyone who would wish him ill?"

Bentley frowned. "Not really. He was pretty well-liked here. Amiable and pleasant sort of guy. But I wouldn't say he was close to anybody."

Now it was Peter's turn to frown. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, but he felt almost ashamed of thinking suspiciously of a man who had just died hours ago. He was FBI though, and he was trained to think past the instinctual niceties that society engrained into people.

"How long did he work here for?"

"You can't—You can't be thinking that he's somehow involved in this?" Bentley asked with surprise and, Peter noticed, a bit of anger.

"Well, everything has to be considered," Peter began carefully.

The guard scowled at him. "The guy stopped breathing not even a day ago! He wasn't a criminal; he was just a normal person! And you're accusing him of being involved in this?" Peter resisted the urge to tell him that Mike, as the murder victim, was in fact involved. Now the question that remained was whether he had been involved before his untimely death.

"Look, I'm not accusing him of anything," Peter held up his hands in a placating gesture. "But I'm an FBI agent, and we're trained to be suspicious." The noncombatant tone and the reminder of his status as a federal officer drained the fight out of the guard.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, "I don't know what came over me."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Peter repeated. "You've had a trying day—or morning—and you have a right to be upset. But please, anything you can tell me may be of use in the investigation."

The conversation stopped there, as Jones and Lauren came back out from. They had taken Neal's hat and placed it in a large bag, to be sent in for fingerprint analysis. Peter, catching sight of the museum's head of security, Kenneth Harrow, coming towards them at a brisk walk, left Jones and Lauren to try and get more information from Bentley.

Peter's first impression of Harrow was his cold, expressionless face. He was of medium height, with dark hair, and some it turning steel-grey. His flinty eyes were sharp and took everything in at an instance. Peter found himself doubting his theory of an inside man for a second, because who would be foolish enough to cross him?

"Agent Burke," Harrow greeted him with a nod of the head. "I understand that you and your team were investigating the recent theft when you discovered the body?"

"Yes," Peter said, "My team and I would appreciate any help you can give us."

"Of course," Harrow replied, sparing a cursory look at the body that was slightly illuminated by the light spilling in from the door. "The police have been notified, and I'm sure more FBI will be arriving shortly. In the meantime, I will try to answer your questions." He went over to take a closer look at the body. Peter was surprised by his reaction—or lack thereof.

A question that had been at the back of his mind all morning, but had been temporarily ignored in the "excitement" following the discovery in the closet came to the front of Peter's thoughts again. Who exactly was the guard Smithers? Bentley had said that he didn't know anyone named Smithers. It didn't escape Peter that it was a little too coincidental that an unknown guard had been the one to meet them. Of course, there was a possibility that he was a new guard, and Bentley simply hadn't had the opportunity to meet him yet. Still, at least it was a tangible lead that they could follow.

"Is Smithers really a guard at the museum?" Peter asked Harrow.

Without turning around, he responded, "Yes, he's just been hired a few days ago." Well, so much for that lead, Peter thought.

"Why'd you send him down to meet us then?"

"What?" this time, Harrow turned around to look Peter straight in the eye. "I would never send a newly hired guard to escort the FBI team investigating the largest theft the museum's had in a very long time. We'd better go check the cameras."

Peter informed Jones and Lauren that he was going with Harrow to the security footage room, noting also that Bentley was looking slightly better, though still a little pale.

At the video room, Harrow and Peter began viewing the morning's footage. Peter watched intently as Jones, Lauren, and himself were met by—"There, that's him," he said, pointing to the guard who had just approached the figures on the television.

"No it's not," Harrows said. He and Peter looked at each other, wondering what had happened to the real Smithers. Neither wanted to find out.

As Harrows began reviewing the footage again, Peter half watched, half pondered the trying discoveries of the day—morning. It was only eleven o'clock am. He sighed slightly to himself. Still morning, and he'd already seen one body and a possibility of a second. Whoever was behind this whole tangled web was obviously not averse to killing to get what he wanted. Neal, and this time it was a groan, I know I've asked myself this many times, but what have you gotten yourself into this time?

"Here," Harrows broke into his thoughts. The scene that the screen was paused on showed the so-called Smithers getting into a dark blue sedan. "Here's that fake guard." The video now played and the man on the television drove away.

Peter remembered Neal telling him that you couldn't trust New Yorkers who didn't take the subway, which Mozzie had apparently said to him once. He wished that random reminders of Neal would stop popping into his head, especially if they were quoted from that strange man Neal considered his friend. Though, he supposed, this time, Mozzie was right. You really couldn't trust New Yorkers who didn't take the subway. And no matter how much Peter wished that he could trust him, whether Neal Caffrey was an exception to the rule was still to be determined. After all, FBI agents were trained to be suspicious.