As dull as surveillance could sometimes be, Peter found that this time it was a welcomed relief from the pressures of the office.

The park wasn't an ideal place for observation, but Jones and Diana had set up a good plan. He reached over, panning the camera that had been set up.

Jones had drawn the hot dog cart this time, and he was making a sale. A woman handed over some cash, taking two hot dogs in return and handing them to the two young boys with her. They ran off, joining a man and a little girl who were sitting on a blanket on the grass.

Diana and Drew were playing a lazy game of Frisbee on another patch of grass. He smiled as he watched the woman make a fancy catch under her leg. Not bad.

There were four other agents in the park, reading newspapers, watching birds. Combined with the two agents in the van with him, and the plainclothes NYPD detectives on call around the corner, they had good coverage.

He flipped to another camera, watching as Neal strolled casually into the park. The white carnation in his lapel looked out of place, and he knew Neal had grumbled about it. But it was the recognition sign that the contact had insisted on.

Neal looked relaxed and natural as he made his way to the isolated bench described in the message. Relaxed, even though he was meeting a thief, with no idea what that other man was like. And yet he knew Neal was acutely aware of his surroundings, despite appearances.

That's the skill Peter wished he could master.

Another man came into view, walking toward Neal. In contrast, however, this guy was glancing around every other step, obviously nervous. He had a wrapped roll of something under his arm.

Like maybe paintings, cut out of the frames and rolled up…

Peter reached over and keyed the microphone. "Possible suspect approaching from the south. White male, approximately forty, red hair, blue jeans, green polo."

A number of clicks responded as the agents keyed their radios in acknowledgement. Jones moved the cart a little closer to Neal's position, and Diana overthrew Drew, forcing him in closer as well as she followed.

The man stopped in front of Neal, shifting from foot to foot. For his part, Neal just looked up slowly, nodding.

Peter pressed the headphones closer to his ears, listening. Neal, of course, was playing the role of a fence flawlessly. Well, the man had had enough practice on the other side of the equation.

As the conversation came around to money, Neal insisted on seeing the paintings to evaluate any damage. Good, good, this was it…

The man leaned over the bench, unrolling his package. Neal leaned over the contents, studying.

"An impressive collection," Neal's voice said in the headphones. "Let's do business."

Peter keyed his microphone again. "All right, that's the signal. Neal has the artwork. Move in. Move in!"

Around the park agents started to move…

So did the suspect, reaching into the waistband of his jeans, coming out with a gun.

"No, no, no. There weren't supposed to be guns," Peter muttered. "Keep monitoring," he ordered one of the other agents as he threw open the van's door and ran out, toward the park.

The action was over by the time he got there. Jones was putting the handcuffs on the suspect. Neal was getting up from the ground, dusting himself off, and handing a gun over to Diana.

"What happened?"

Diana grinned. "Neal made an open field tackle that would make Darrelle Revis proud."

"Good job on that," Peter acknowledged. "But why didn't anyone catch that the guy was carrying?"

Jones tugged on the man's green polo as the suspect was led away. "Loose shirt," he said. "Sorry, Neal."

Neal shrugged. "No problem. It worked out. I hope you got that tackle on tape though," he said, turning to look at Peter. "Just in case I need to make a career change."

Career change? Could Neal know… "Not for the next twenty one months," Peter said, hoping his voice wasn't shaking. "You've got other plans."

"Right."

Peter turned, unable to meet the younger man's gaze. "Except for missing the gun, that was a good job everyone. And really good job getting the guy to commit himself, Neal," he added, chancing a quick glance.

"Thanks."

"All right, we'll debrief back at the office," Peter continued. "Let's clean up here."

Neal followed Jones toward the hot dog cart, though he kept stealing glances in Peter's direction. Interesting that the agent couldn't seem to look him in the eye. Did it confirm Neal's theory that Peter was feeling frustrated about not being able to find out who cut his budget? Or did it play into Mozzie's theory that the Suit was part of the group making the decisions?

Well, he wasn't going to find out here in the park. Better to just keep quiet and watch for a bit.

"Do I get my hot dog now?"

Jones grinned. "Sure. Extra mustard coming up."

Neal watched, smiling, as the agent put the hot dog together…

"That'll be four dollars."

The smile vanished. "What?"

Jones pointed at the pricing sign on the cart. "Four dollars."

"I just tackled a guy with a gun – something that is not in my job description, by the way – and you still expect me to pay for the hot dog?"

"Hey, man, I gotta account for my inventory."

Neal rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket. "Where does the money from this actually go?"

"We donate it. This month it's the children's hospital."

Neal grinned and handed over a twenty dollar bill. "In that case, keep the change."

Jones returned the grin as he turned to wave some of the other agents over. "Now I just have to sell out."

Neal stepped away, making room around the cart. Biting into his hot dog, he savored the taste. He might never buy a pack of hot dogs for his kitchen, but there was nothing quite like a New York street dog…

He pulled the white carnation from his lapel, offering it, with a bow, to a young girl who was walking by with her dog.

And then his eyes found Peter. The agent was standing across the street, directing the activities of several people gathered around the van.

What's going on, Peter? And when are you going to tell me?

Peter found his team assembled in the conference room, though not exactly in working mode. Neal and Diana were playing some strange form of table football, with Neal's rubber band ball in play. Jones seemed to be officiating, and alternately cheering for whoever made the best move.

"Oh, yes, he scores!"

Diana put her hands on her hips and glared at both men. "I thought bouncing the ball off the back of a chair wasn't allowed."

Neal grinned and picked up the ball, tossing it into the air. "Diana, really, how can you argue the rules in a made up game that doesn't have any?" He settled into a chair, tossing the ball up into the air again and snagging it neatly with one hand.

"Yeah, what he said," Jones agreed, laughing as he sat down too.

Diana huffed, but she was smiling too. "Next time I get to make up the non-rules."

"All right, children, back to business," Peter said, trying to bring the room to order. It was almost too bad though – he liked seeing his team coming together like this. And now someone was trying to tear that apart…

He tossed folders and an assortment of pencils down in front of each of them. "All right, there were civilians in the area, and an uncovered gun, so you know the drill. Sketch out the scene – where you were, where everyone else was, where everything happened." He rapped the table in front of the team's consultant. "And Neal, this time, there's no need to draw in every blade of grass."

"What about the birds?"

"Birds?" Peter shook his head in amazement. "Did the birds play a role in the take down?"

"Well, no, but they were chirping…"

"No birds."

Neal rolled his eyes and picked up his pencil. "Whatever happened to capturing all the details?" he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

"You missed the qualifier of 'relevant' – stick to relevant details, Neal."

"I always feel like a two year old just learning to hold a crayon when I draw around Neal," Jones complained.

Neal perked up. "Ooooh, do we have some crayons? This would be much more authentic…"

"No," Peter said quickly, cutting the younger man off. "No crayons."

"I always liked burnt umber," Diana said.

Jones grinned. "Sea foam green here. Neal?"

"The whole rainbow of the sixty four color box," Neal said, quite seriously. His concentration never left the paper in front of him as his pencil flew across the page. "You need way more than sixty four colors to capture life, but it's a start."

Peter threw his hands up in surrender. "I'm going to get you all coloring books," he threatened.

"I like the activity books," Neal said. "Coloring pages, mazes, dot to dots…"

Diana finished one section of her sketch, the pencil flying off the page with a flourish. "I always liked the ones where you painted the page with water and colors appeared."

Peter just shook his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "All right, sketches on my desk within the hour. And I want your full write-ups on my desk by the end of the day."

The others watched as the senior agent walked out, heading into his office.

"That might be a record," Jones said.

"Yeah," Diana agreed. "He gave up a lot sooner than normal."

Neal looked up from his sketch, leaning back in his chair so he could see into Peter's office. Even now the senior agent was at his desk, simultaneously checking messages on his desk phone and his cell phone, and opening up his e-mail.

Still looking for answers…

Still no replies…

Peter locked his computer screen and stalked out of his office, heading for the corner office. The door was open, and he could see Hughes sitting at his desk, head in his hands.

"Reese?"

"Peter." The older man sighed, looking up. "I hear congratulations are in order."

"We caught the thief," Peter confirmed. "He had the stolen paintings with him."

"Caffrey confirmed they were authentic?"

"Yes."

"Any problems?"

"Well, the suspect got a hidden gun into the operating area."

"Shots fired?"

"No."

"Well, you had good agents on the detail."

Peter sighed and dropped into a chair. "It wasn't an agent who took the guy down," he said slowly.

Realization hit Hughes quickly. "Caffrey?"

Peter nodded. "I'll have to watch the tape, but Diana said it was one hell of a tackle."

"He's all right?"

"He's fine…" Peter stood up suddenly, pacing toward the window. "Damn it, Hughes! He's not an agent, not trained for this, but it's not the first time he's kept a situation from maybe getting much worse. And yet…" He paused, taking a deep breath. "I assume you haven't gotten any more answers than I have?"

The older man shook his head. "All my years in the Bureau, I've never been stonewalled like this."

Peter sat down again, slumping in his chair. "You should listen to the tape, Reese. He was spot on. You'd never know he hadn't been in the fencing business for years."

"Well, he has had some experience on the other side of that equation," Hughes pointed out.

"Yeah, I know. But the point is, every curve the suspect threw, Neal countered without a flinch. That's a real skill, not something you can just train any agent to do."

"I know the value he's brought to your team, Peter. And we still have time…"

"Oh, there's time until January," Peter agreed. "But how can I keep asking him to go out there like today, maybe facing a gun, without telling him it might all be for nothing?"

Hughes leaned forward, leaning his arms on the desk. "A few more days," he recommended. "Something has to break. Someone will break."

Peter just nodded and then stood up slowly. "A few days," he agreed. "I'm going to go sit in on the interrogation, see where this art thief leads us."

He walked out, heading down the stairs and through the bullpen without stopping. It was easier that way, because the more time he spent around Neal, the more chances there were that the other man would see that something was wrong.

If he hadn't guessed already…

"You have stepped in some deep doo doo, my friend."

Neal stepped into his apartment, closing the door behind him. "Hello to you too, Moz."

"Yeah, while we spend time on societal norms of greeting, you are sinking further and further."

"Into doo."

"Doo."

Neal hung his jacket over the back of a chair and picked up the bottle of wine Mozzie had opened. "Nice choice."

"For all my help, the least you can do is keep a good selection of the grape on hand."

Neal nodded in agreement and retrieved a second glass. "I'll do my best." He took a sip of the wine and sat down at the table, gesturing toward the documents Mozzie had spread out there. "So, tell me."

Mozzie sat down, straightening the various piles. "Do you want the long version or the short version?"

"Let's start with the short and fill in details later."

"Well, the short version is that you have made someone's ultra top secret hit list."

Neal raised an eyebrow and reached for the document Mozzie was holding out. "Meaning?"

"There is a flag on your name in the FBI system. Any mention of you and a top secret, classified, eyes only message goes to someone very high up. The user of the computer making the inquiry receives a quick and decisive message to cease and desist any further inquiries. Unless the inquiry comes from the New York office, in which case there is simply silence."

"So if Peter and Hughes are really trying to get information…"

"The people they are contacting are told not to make any follow up."

Neal hesitated before asking the big question. "Do we know who's getting notified at the top?"

Mozzie shook his head, frustration evident on his face. "Thus far, the mastermind has evaded my attempts at discovery."

"I'm… shocked," Neal said, genuinely at a loss. It was a rare day when the solution to a puzzle had eluded Mozzie.

"I didn't say I was giving up."

"Of course not."

"But more and more, I would say that your previous theory that this is connected to Larrsen may be correct," Mozzie added softly, rubbing his chest over the scar the gunman had put there.

Neal nodded, sipping his wine, thinking. It was looking more likely… but what, if anything, could he do about it?

Peter sat in the dark, beer in hand, the TV flickering on ESPN's Sports Center. Normally, he'd have been paying rapt attention, what with the start of the college football and NFL seasons just around the corner.

Tonight, he could have been watching the ballet for all he was paying attention.

He'd been in a crappy mood all night, and he knew it. Fortunately, El hadn't pushed him. She knew it was still about Neal – and that he still hadn't found a way to save his partner.

His friend.

He smiled, a bittersweet smile, as he took a pull on the beer bottle. It seemed like so very long ago when he had come downstairs that first morning to find the newly released con man sitting on his couch, talking to his wife, playing with his dog. So very long ago that something like that had bothered him.

Now, it surprised him when more than a few days went by without Neal showing up unannounced. And as much as he might grumble about it, he didn't really mind sharing his breakfast cereal.

And what would he do if the other man showed up in the morning, not knowing anything was wrong? Peter knew his limits. He could go undercover – to a point. Oh, he'd never be as smooth as Neal at playing a role. But Peter had the law on his side, and he believed in that, strongly. It gave him the ability to lie to marks – an ability he'd never been successful at with people he cared about, like El…

Neal might be reaching that category too.

Peter finished his beer and stood up, reaching for the remote. He pressed the power button, turning the television off and headed for the kitchen to drop off the empty bottle.

Neal hadn't stopped by for a few days, which might mean he was due. And Peter had no illusion that he could maintain his façade of 'nothing in the world wrong here' in front of both his wife and Neal.

Not to mention that El was quite unhappy with his decision to wait on telling Neal the news, even though she understood his reasons.

So, maybe he needed to bite the bullet and pick Neal up in the morning. There was a new case to talk about, and Peter could get quite involved with that.

Yeah, that was the plan. Pick Neal up, and keep busy talking about the case.

And try not to feel guilty about sending the man into harm's way – again – while keeping a huge secret…