"Do they know we're watching them?"

Peter considered the single lit window in the second story of the warehouse; two silhouettes crossed back and forth and then it cleared again. He shook his head. "If Caffrey knew we were out here, we'd be eating pizza by now."

"Pizza? Really?" Jones smiled, but warily. He'd been on the job less than six weeks, but he was more than aware how easy a mark he was for the deadpan humor of the older agents.

"Really." Peter's mouth twisted crookedly as he tried to hide a smile behind disapproval and didn't quite manage. "Or coffee. Croissants. Depends on the time of day. He sent a salad once, but we think he was a little put out – he'd had to leave in kind of a hurry," he added with irony-laced sympathy.

Jones still wasn't sure whether he was glad or strangely disappointed to be in a department chasing criminals who were more likely retaliate with Ranch Light than shootouts.

"I don't get why we can't just take him in," he grumbled. "Shake the tree and see what falls out. We did it with that other guy, the one with the stamps. Renfro?"

"It's been tried, trust me. Renfro is small time; he'll always be small time. Caffrey's smart. He doesn't panic and he doesn't let anything slip, not unless he wants to." Peter frowned up at the warehouse. "And he knows how long it takes us to get a warrant, right down to the second. I don't know why he's still here."

He hadn't thought the faint prick of unease – worry, even – had shown, but Jones looked at him like a question had just been answered. Maybe the wrong answer, almost certainly the wrong question.

"He isn't following the script," Peter explained. "Not a good sign."

"You're worried about him -- Caffrey," Jones said, as if that was perfectly normal.

Peter made a non-committal sound, and then raised his hands an inch off the wheel before he dropped them heavily. "Caffrey. Moreau too. They're like kids playing ball on the freeway. It's just a matter of time, especially if they're working for the damn Mafia."

Jones had to concede that one; white-collar criminals didn't tend to be violent, but some of the people they worked for really did. "So, we're going to follow him?"

"Whatever they're doing, they're doing inside that building. We're going to let them know we're watching and see what happens next."

Jones tried to follow the logic and failed, so he asked, "But if we follow him we get the buyer, right?"

"We get nothing. Trust me." Peter's mouth twisted again, this time with three years worth of frustration. "Everything is couriered through third parties, fourth parties. Even if we could get a warrant to look at the packages in time, there are dummy runs." He shook his head emphatically. "No, I want to see what he does when he can't get the goods out at all, and if that means sitting on the building for a week, we sit on the building for a week."

Jones took a moment to picture what a week's worth of stake out in the sedan would look like and tried not to shudder. Well, Peter had brought him along because he'd actually made a suggestion, rather than nodding along with the rest of the probationary agents, so maybe it was worth making another one. "How about getting the address blacklisted with the courier companies?"

He shifted uncomfortably as Peter just stared at him. "Okay, never mind."

Peter grinned widely and clapped him on the shoulder. "Beautiful. Get on it – city, state, national, international. Bad credit will get it done. Beautiful," he repeated, like Jones had come up with a masterpiece.

Which, Jones guessed, explained kind of a lot. He couldn't help grinning as he reached inside his jacket for his cell. "Think Caffrey'll send us salad for that?"

"Without dressing," Peter nodded, not quite sadly. "Probably diet soda too."

Jones stopped dialing back to the department when the door of the warehouse opened and a short figure wrapped in a heavy coat, scarf and hat stepped out.

Peter reached for the camera and then drew his hand back; there was no shot there, unless the facial recognition software had developed the ability to recognise a particular knitting pattern.

"You're sure they don't know we're here?"

Wordlessly, Peter reached behind him and pulled a file from the pile in the back seat. He flipped through the papers and then passed it over.

Jones scanned through a series of surveillance photos that showed a short man who seemed to have the uncanny ability to be facing wherever the camera wasn't. There were even old stills from street cameras, but a high scarf and a hat pulled low had given nothing away.

"We're pretty sure his own mother couldn't ID him in his high school photo," Peter said as he took the file back.

"Yeah, I'm getting that. Neat trick. But we could -"

"We pull him in and Caffrey's gone. I want Caffrey. Moreau too, if we can get her."

"I thought she was just the girlfriend? You think she's actually involved?"

Peter snorted. "Trust me, Kate is no groupie."

The light on the second floor flicked off and sank the building into darkness, but in the streetlight Peter could just make out a figure in the window, framed by shadows. He resisted the urge to wave, but he couldn't swear Caffrey did the same.

Peter settled back in his seat as Jones resumed dialing the office. "Hope you like anchovies."