It was nine when Peter and Neal entered a small bookstore in SoHo. It was listed under Brooke's name, and under normal circumstances Neal would have taken time to appreciate the shop: the room was softly lit, adding a sort of glow to the books that were a mix of collectibles and limited editions; the room had a rich, aged smell, and the décor was authentic in its tribute to the Renaissance, with various pieces displayed around the room, including a real Romano.
"Look for anything that might give us a lead," Peter told him, and Neal started making his way through the shelves, searching through the covers of Poe, Thomas, and Nabokov as the FBI agent made his way behind the front desk, flitting through the register and payment books.
Their search came up empty, and Neal met up with Peter by the counter.
"Anything?"
Neal shook his head, running his hand through his hair as he thought. "Did you see an office? It seems odd if she was a fence that she wouldn't keep a place separate from the normal day-to-day." He began wandering among the shelves behind the counter.
"Maybe she has another place—" Peter started to say, only to stop as he saw the con staring intently at a book cover. "What is it?"
Neal pointed. "Dante's The Divine Comedy." He peered closer at the weather worn book.
"That's not English Literature."
Neal sniffed the spine from its position. "It's not authentic either." He looked up and smiled at the lawman. "It's been purposely misshelved."
Peter returned the expression. "How careless," and watched as Neal tipped the book backward, causing the bookshelf to jump out of place an inch.
The two grinned and pushed the door all the way open, leading to a small office stacked with what Neal could easily identify as priceless first editions and Peter noticed were various copies of forged traveling documents.
"Busy girl," the Fed observed, thumbing through the pieces. He stopped when he saw a familiar face. "Very busy."
Neal looked up to see a passport photo of none other than Keller in Peter's hands and his eyes went wide. "That explains how he found her."
"Keller went to the daughter of a Russian mob leuitenant for travel papers."
"He had to have known; Keller doesn't do anything half-cocked." He took a closer look at the papers, his blue eyes flitting from those on the desk to the ones in Peter's hand in comparison. "There's some major discrepancies here—obvious flags at certain security stations that's not on the samples."
"You think she knew who he was?"
Neal went back to the bookshelves, tapping his fingers along the spines. "I think she might have," he replied, pulling out a copy of Richard III. "A new hardcover in a pile of first editions," he murmured, opening the book and smiling.
Peter looked up to see Neal holding a flash drive and papers taken from the hollowed-out book. "A paranoid thief—at least something's working in our favor. I'm really starting to like this girl." He slid the drive into the nearby computer and clicked the link.
"This is the day she was taken," Peter murmured, checking the label on the soundless video.
"And that's Keller," Neal pointed at a man following behind Brooke into the secret office on the footage. He winced as he watched the bastard shove her toward the desk, where she quickly handed him the papers they'd just found. The two men watched as the two on tape began yelling. Suddenly Keller pulled out a gun and fired a shot that blast the vase behind her apart. He shouted again, throwing the papers onto the desk and walking out the door, and a few minutes later the men watched Brooke slide a chair just underneath the camera and turn off the recording.
Peter ran to the place the chair still remained. He reached around the top shelf and pulled out a small camera, along with another flash drive, then climbed down and turned for the door. "We need to get this back to the team—"
At that moment, a phone rang: the burn phone Keller had slipped into Peter's car just last night. Peter and Neal locked eyes for a moment before the agent put the cell on speaker.
"Keller."
"Agent Burke," came the smug reply. "I heard your lovely wife has gone missing. That's got to be difficult—how are you holding up guy?"
"You bastard," Peter was burning up, he wanted to destroy the man attached to the voice so badly. "You touch one hair on her head and I will hunt you down and tear you apart, you son of a—"
"No violence necessary, Agent Burke," the voice calmly replied. "You know what I want. Just hand over the treasure, and Elizabeth comes back to you no worse for wear."
"I want to speak to her," he growled. "I want proof she's okay."
"Well, jeez, Peter, you just missed her," Keller told him. "Check your messages over at the Bureau. She's fine for now, but in five hours? Who can say? And all you need to do to get that is have a little heart-to-heart with your criminal consultant, assuming he's still in your custody and not back in prison. Or the morgue, considering your heightened emotional state." The agent could almost hear the psychotic's delight over the idea.
"I'm here Keller," Neal spoke up, ice blue eyes matching Peter's brown ones in intensity.
"Neal," the con's rival responded in surprise. "Glad to know you're still among the free-range population. For now at least. After all, if it weren't for you, the lovely wife of a federal agent wouldn't be missing right now." He paused to let that statement simmer. "So, just as soon as you'd like Elizabeth to join you, I suggest you scrounge up the loot. You two take care now; I'll be in touch."
The phone disconnected, the two men standing in silence staring down at it. And for the first time, Peter didn't flinch away when Neal placed his hand on his shoulder and told him, "We'll get her back Peter. I promise."
A/N: I know; Keller waited a long time to contact Peter again, and he didn't even put in a meet. It's a bit of a stretch (and trust me, it becomes more so later), but I wanted to establish some other things first, so stretchy my story becomes.
A/A/N: Extra points for those who caught that Giulio Romano is the only artist referred to in Shakespeare's work (although he is misrepresented as a sculptor in A Winter's Tale)