Lack Luster
A/N: Thank you to all those who read, reviewed or left kudos. I hope you enjoyed the story. By the way, the GUY SAVOY really does offer the 18 course meal that Neal mentions.
Chapter 7
"Honey, why are you grinning?" asked Elizabeth.
"He reminds me of the Cheshire Cat," Neal interjected, "but I know why." Pausing to reach for the wine bottle, he glanced at his handler with a knowing wink.
"If I begin to expound on baffling philosophical points or even worse my body begins to disappear, give me a head's up," replied Peter.
Placing his fork down beside his empty plate, the agent sat back in his dining chair, looking up at his two attractive dinner companions. Having finished the last bit of El's delectable red wine braised short ribs, he sighed in gastronomical delight. A moment later, he acknowledged his wife's previous observation.
"Was I smiling?" asked Peter, casting a warm glance at Elizabeth. "Just recognition and sincere appreciation of this gourmet meal." A quiet twinkle danced in his eyes. "The meat was fantastic, hon."
Elizabeth looked amused. "Peter, I appreciate the accolades but you enjoy any meat dish I cook. This one just happens to be beef braised in Cabernet Sauvignon."
"It was delicious, Elizabeth," agreed Neal. "Did I taste a mixture of thyme, oregano, and parsley with a touch of rosemary?"
Elizabeth nodded. "Your palate is as sensitive as usual."
"I've enjoyed some classes in molecular gastronomy." Neal smiled. "And the meat paired with your creamy polenta was a winner."
Peter rolled his eyes as Neal turned his attention to him.
"A gourmet dish uses common or uncommon ingredients in a very creative way. It's not just the quality of the ingredients, but especially the preparation and a presentation of artistic flair."
"And of course, you know all about that," remarked Peter.
"In Paris, beef ribs are the preferred rib, since the chefs like to sear the meat, combine it with stock and vegetables and simmer for hours for succulent taste. But, have I ever told you about the meal I enjoyed at the GUY SAVOY in Paris?"
"No, but I'm sure you will."
"Peter stop. I want to hear about it," said Elizabeth.
"Owned and managed by Guy Savoy, the restaurant annually wins receives three stars from the Michelin Guide─"
"The tire guys?" questioned Peter.
"Yes Peter, the tire guys. The guide originated as a manual for motorists, and in 1926 it began to award stars for fine dining locations, becoming so popular in France that the Michelin brothers created a team of inspectors to review restaurants. The red Michelin Guide now covers 23 countries. Each year, when it's published in France, there's a media circus," Neal laughed, "like the Academy Awards. Everyone wants a Michelin star."
"Oh Neal, describe your meal at the SAVOY." Excitement laced Elizabeth's voice.
"I sampled an 18 course meal that included cubed oysters, caviar, artichoke soup with black truffle, roasted lobster, red mullet, salmon, rack of lamb… and assorted cheeses, biscuits and sorbets. It was a gastronomical delight."
Neal beamed broadly at them, flooded with pleasant memories.
"Sounds quite the experience," said Elizabeth, casting a somewhat wistful glance at her husband.
"Sounds like a road to poverty," replied her practical Peter. "And, tell us, how much did this 'gastronomical delight' set you back?"
"At the time, it was around $400 per person. I'm not sure what it would cost today."
Peter sputtered with indignation. "Wh…what? We're not going there, El."
"Honey, relax. I'm not planning to fly to Paris any time soon."
Neal raised his wine glass in a salute to the cook. "French dining experience c'est tres magnifique… but nothing surpasses a delicious meal served with love. Thank you, Elizabeth."
Wearing a warm, proud smile on his face, Peter happily joined his friend in the toast.
"Thank you both, gentlemen." Elizabeth paused. "But Peter, you didn't explain why you're so happy tonight. I know it's more than my cooking. Come on, fess up, mister."
"We plan to arrest Jenkins tomorrow."
Elizabeth smiled at the news; she was inwardly happy for the two men. She knew how much Jenkins' abuse of seniors had rankled the entire White Collar office.
"Neal and I are looking forward to nailing that SOB. I have him under surveillance; just waiting for all the paperwork to clear. Since we're charging him with mail fraud, I requested both the postal service and the Assistant US Attorney review the case. Always a good thing to dot the i's and cross all the t's."
"Peter enjoys dotting the i's and crossing all the t's," Neal added. "I think he savors that moment with every arrest. I'm sure he keeps a copy of my felony conviction in his desk."
"Wait. How do you know what's in my desk? And… if it's anywhere, your arrest paperwork would be filed in my private scrapbook collection."
"You have an arrest scrapbook?" exclaimed the conman, surprise evident on his face. "Am I in it? I must be. Where is it? Do you keep it here or at the office?"
Peter remained infuriatingly silent and smug.
"Elizabeth?" Neal presented his award-winning pleading smile and puppy dog eyes. "Does Peter have a personal scrapbook of his most celebrated arrests?"
"You mean 'Burke's Book of Busted Bad Boys'?" she asked, eyes shining with mischief.
Neal nodded.
"I'll never tell."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC
It was a much nicer day, weather-wise, than on Peter and Neal's previous visit to Jenkins' 'Elite Coin' shop. No blustery weather, no struggling with umbrellas, just bright sunshine and moderate temperature. Neal had a spring in his step as he held the front door open for Peter.
Agents Jones and Berrigan, along with a few of the Harvard crew, remained in readiness outside the storefront, waiting for the signal to act. They had requested to be present during the takedown. Although the office believed, once Jenkins was aware of the federal felony warrant, he would surrender peacefully, lawyering up and letting others fight the charge, several agents were hoping the coin dealer would resist arrest thus earning him another charge and additional time in federal jail. Diana was secretly thrilled to be the one chosen to escort the man to the federal building for questioning.
Even Agent Hughes planned to be in on the act; he would take first crack at the interrogation. The senior agent was hoping to initiate a plea bargain ensuring Jenkins' cooperation in providing restitution to his victims and return of any and all senior citizens property he still maintained.
After barely stepping over the threshold, Peter and Neal's appearance alerted Jenkins' assistant, Elliot. His body tense, face lapsing into a disfiguring frown, the well-dressed clerk hastened from a side aisle of the store to confront the agent and his consultant.
"He doesn't look pleased with our reappearance," observed Neal.
"My mom used to warn me that someday my 'face might freeze like that'. Scary thought, actually."
"Oh, I don't think you should have any worries in that concern."
Peter looked surprised.
"You should be more worried," winked Neal, gesturing down to his ankle monitor, "that 'someday, you'll thank me for all this.'"
"Let's skip the 'mom-isms', before I remind you 'you don't always get what you want. It's a hard lesson, but you might as well learn it now.'"
Peter's cautious gaze scanned the store. "Lookie there. Someone else has taken notice."
Bradley Jenkins, well-groomed as always, clad in a perfectly-fitted blue, slim legged Hugo Boss suit, stepped out from the rear of the store, swaggering slowly toward the entrance.
"I see you've returned to our store, gentlemen," greeted Elliot. "If I remember correctly…stamps and baseball cards for you," he said, dismissing the agent with a turn of his back. "And Kugerrands for you," addressing Neal.
When Neal failed to answer, the clerk added peevishly, "I would be delighted to help you with bullion coins, but I'm afraid your friend will need to go to the Bronx for his obsession."
Neal grinned, rocking back on the balls of his feet, smoothing his fingers across the rim of his fedora hat.
Peter was content to display a serene smile that flickered into a predatory grin as he waited for the store owner to appear.
"Well, well, well, gentlemen. I'm surprised to see you again so soon. But let me guess; you've solved the case of Morris Brown's missing coins?"
"Yes, we have," replied Peter.
"Wonderful. This is just like a real Hardy Boys Mystery. You must be so proud."
"I am," said Neal.
"I'm so glad to hear that." Jenkin's crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. A disparaging smile showcasing his belief that he held himself infinitely superior to the men he was addressing.
"Did Morris find his lost coins somewhere in his house? He once told me he was a rather messy housekeeper."
"No, they weren't found in his house," replied the agent. "Actually, my consultant and I had an interesting conversation with a Mr. Reginald MacDonald over on Canal Street in lower Manhattan. I believe the name and location are familiar to you."
Jenkins stiffened slightly, straightening his back. "Not at all, Agent Burke. And, although I'm quite happy for Morris, I'm also quite busy. Definitely not in the mood for name games or further chitchat."
Dropping his arms, he turned to go but Neal put out an arm to block his path.
"I don't believe Agent Burke finished his explanation," said Neal. "It's quite a fascinating story; I'm sure you want to hear it."
Jenkins' assistant watched the interplay between the three men, puzzlement showing on his face. It was obvious he had no clue about what was going on.
"Mr. MacDonald is the station manager of a Manhattan branch post office; he claims to know you. Picked your face out of a photo lineup." Peter reached for his cuffs. "You're under arrest Jenkins." As the agent cuffed the man, and began to read him his rights, Neal waved the agents outside to come in.
"This is outrageous," sputtered the red-faced dealer, "on what charge? Elliot," he addressed his befuddled clerk, "call my attorney right now!" Eliot scurried away without a word.
"The charge is mail fraud, Jenkins. Devising a scheme to defraud another of property and using the United States Postal Service to execute the scheme," Peter was happy to recite. "MacDonald showed us your fictitious change of address documents causing mail to be forwarded to a box rented under your sister's name.
"Mail fraud has been a federal crime since 1872," Neal felt compelled to add.
"You would know," muttered the dealer, as he was led quietly away by Diana.
"Peter?"
"Hmm."
"Did you read the Hardy Boys when you were a kid?"
"Yup. Practically the whole series. Why?"
Neal paused, wondering if he should continue. He suddenly looked much like a young boy, unsure of himself.
"Would this case be more like 'The Melted Coins' or "Hunting for Hidden Gold'?"
"'The Melted Coins, I believe. Although that was one of the lesser books in the series," answered Peter, a hint of nostalgia evident in his voice. "Neal, as a kid, did you ever fantasize about being one of the Hardy Boys?"
"You must have," Neal digressed, with a slight smile upon his face, "and I'm sure it was Frank Hardy. Methodical, level-headed, older brother, bad-ass bookworm who's no slouch in a brawl."
"You forgot solicitous of younger, impulsive hot-headed, Joe; his crime fighting partner."
"They made quite a team, Peter; both boys equally protective and always there for the other."
Peter stopped for a moment, his face displaying mixed emotions before his lips curved into a gentle smile. "Yeah. That was a given; their friendship sacrosanct."
Neal paused for mere seconds before beginning to saunter out the front door.
"Now let's discuss this memory book of yours. You need someone to ascertain the accuracy─"
"Neal…I'm not going to let you─"
"Ghovat is in it; he must be. The Dutchman? I'm sure Tulane captured at least a page... I know I'm in it. You were obsessed with me for three years…come on, Peter!"
Peter scowled and without a backward glance, began walking briskly to his Ford Taurus.