Lack Luster

A/N: I apologize for the delay in posting Chapter 2. Freelancers are often hit with an onslaught of unexpected work. Hugs to Phoenix-cry for her unending support and nagging to finish this story. :)

Chapter 2

"Why wasn't I invited to your barbeque?" asked Neal.

Grimacing, Peter started to speak, stopped and shrugged.

"From what Elizabeth told me, it sounds like you've become a consummate grill master." Neal paused, voice holding a hint of smug amusement. "I had no idea, Peter."

Seated in Burke's office, the two men had the Jenkins fraud file open in prominent view on the agent's desk. Peter was still wearing his Le Moyne College t-shirt, Dockers pants and sneakers, his go-to comfortable clothes for grilling, having decided there was no need to revert back to morning Brooks Brothers. Neal, on the other hand, was still attired in a trademark outfit. Wearing a blue, well fitted three piece Devore with pin-striped vest, white shirt, striking gray satin tie, and brown Italian-made shoes from Barneys' of New York, he vastly outshone in the splendor of attire.

After briefing his handler on the details of the phone conversation with Paul Hendricks, the conman now had ample opportunity for one of his favorite pastimes; razzing his favorite Special Agent. Casually placing his size ten and half shoes on Peter's desk, Neal leaned back and laced his hands behind his head.

Peter breathed deeply, abruptly leaning forward in his seat.

"Take your feet off my desk, Caffrey."

Peter's glare bounced off Neal's seemingly impenetrable self-confident, Teflon shield.

"Why do my feet, on the desk, bother you?" asked Neal, pinning a bright, innocent, open grin on face.

"Besides the fact that it's my desk?" Peter questioned. "Because it's undignified and not acceptable in a Federal Agent's office. That's why," he explained, eyeballing Neal until the man casually shifted in his seat and sat back up.

"Hmm . . . I didn't know collegiate tees were now part of the FBI's sedate attire. Peter, school spirit and affiliation are one thing, but─"

"You didn't get the memo from HR?" interrupted Peter. "Neal, I've told you over and over, it's important to read our policy newsletter. 'News You Can Use' covers office attire during dress-down afternoons. "Today was school pride," he chided. "Maybe if you had attended an institution of higher learning, you too would have felt compelled to participate."

Neal smiled. "You know I never read propaganda."

"Your loss. Now getting back to the main reason I left my beautiful wife holding grill utensils . . . tell me again about Isaac . . . Isaac whoever."

"Isaac Kleid. Retired violinist from Bloomington, Indiana. Henderson told me Mr. Kleid, who he met at the International Numismatic Convention, called him several months ago asking him how well he knew our 'renown' coin dealer, Bradley Jenkins. Henderson seemed to feel Kleid was fishing for any hint of impropriety or fraud in the man's background. When Henderson pressed him for more information, the violinist quickly shut down and ended the conversation. Henderson thought it was odd at the time."

"Henderson met him at a Coin Show?"

"A numismatic convention; I believe that's what I said. The Waldorf Astoria hosts them periodically."

Peter frowned. "And you know this how? He shook his head. "Never mind."

The agent shifted in his chair. Picking up his laser pen, he pointed it at Neal, saying, "And I'm aware that numismatics is the study of currency, including coins, paper money and tokens. I just don't want my Saturday burdened with hearing about the minutia of coin collecting."

As Neal began to open his mouth, Peter interrupted.

"Stop. You don't need to tell me that minutiae is one of the reasons people enjoy coin collecting. All those little differences they identify and research, to find out what they mean, knocks their socks off."

"Ah, but Peter that's one of the most fascinating aspects of coin collecting. Just ask Mozzie."

"Of course," Peter winced, shaking his head. "Mozzie is a coin collector. Is there anything he doesn't try to get in his little culpable hands?

Neal just shrugged his shoulders.

"And I'm sure you've been obtaining his expertise on this case."

"He's a card carrying member of the PNG," answered Neal.

Confusion flared in Peter's unblinking stare.

"Professional Numismatists Guild. P N G," Neal explained. "An organization of rare coin dealers, paper money and precious metals dealers. But it's been hard to convince him to help us on this one."

"Why is that?" asked Peter, straight-faced. He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a quarter. Holding it up, he smirked. "Can't you make him see 'the other side of the coin'?"

Neal ignored the pun and rolled his eyes.

"He said his quota for helping Uncle Sam's minions is filled for the year. However," the younger man added, "I think Mozzie's curiosity about Jenkins' modus operandi has worn down his resolve to stay aloof. It's time to bring him in."

"You think he'd ask his street contacts and numismatists cohorts for the skinny on Jenkins? We could really use any help. Hughes is getting hot under the collar over our lack of progress, and so am I."

"Once Mozzie learned more about the men Jenkins targets, his resistance quickly ebbed," said Neal.

"Meaning the elderly?"

Neal nodded solemnly, his blue eyes suddenly not meeting Peter's but darting off to the side.

Peter smiled at him.

"What made you stay so late today, Neal? After everyone had left? You're the first person out the door on weekends. I usually have to warn my agents to clear the doorway."

Neal returned the smile.

"I was sitting at my desk going through back issues of the CCDN Bluesheet. I remembered reading an older article about Paul Henderson, Kleid and Jenkins meeting at the U.S. Heritage Coin Auction. There'd been a photo beside the caption promoting Jenkins' business. I know Henderson wasn't willing to say anything derogatory about Jenkins, but maybe he'd be willing to provide us with some information about someone who would."

Peter sat back and listened. Neal spending his Saturday tediously rifling through old Certified Coin Dealers Newsletters? That alone was remarkable. The weekly report of the American coin market had the ability to put Peter to sleep within minutes.

"I thought it was worth a shot," the conman continued. "At first, Mr. Kleid and I chit-chatted about coins . . . he's been interested in them from childhood . . . the weather in Bloomington . . . it's cold there by the way . . . his career as a professional violinist . . . twenty-eight years of experience in the local orchestra and weddings . . . but when I broached the subject of Jenkins, he stopped me cold."

Neal raised his hands in frustration. "Let's go to Bloomington. If I talk to him face to face, I know I can change his mind."

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Peter shook his head. "No."

Neal sank back into his seat and closed his eyes.

"We'll send a local agent to talk to Klein directly. Maybe that will stir the pot."

"Kleid not Klein. German origin meaning garment or clothing," Neal stated morosely.

Peter looked across at him with concern.

Neal shifted again, opening his eyes and starring at the floor.

"Solving this case is very important to you."

"Peter, Jenkins targets men from small towns and takes their retirement and life savings. He doesn't go after high rollers, the corporate world or high society."

"Financial fraud occurs all the time, Neal. We've taken down sleazy operators before."

"Jenkins targets the elderly. Some of these men are over eighty years old." Raking fingers through his hair, Neal gestured to no one in particular.

Peter rolled the quarter on his desk absentmindedly between his fingers, listening to his partner as he pocketed the coin with a sweep of one hand.

"He owns two lucrative coin businesses in New York, creates a sterling reputation gaining the trust of his clients," Neal continued. "He zeroes in on the lonely and infirm. Those too embarrassed to admit to being swindled. He's convinced he'll get away with it."

"And you're determined he won't."

Standing up from his desk, Peter assumed his usual office stance. Elbow cocked, right hand perched on his belt, he looked at Neal with fondness. "Come on, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"You are coming home with me," Peter stated. "Prepare yourself for an ultimate culinary delight. We'll eat some steak, drink some beer and brainstorm strategy that'll put Jenkins behind bars."

Neal jumped to his feet and followed Peter out the door.

"Um, tell me Peter, when you grill do you wear a toque?"