The next day, Peter sat in his office, sipping coffee and reading a report that had been unceremoniously dumped on his desk. The details behind Vincent Adler's Billion Dollar Ponzi Scheme, the title blared. The piece was like a slap in the face, a hideous reminder of one of the Bureau's biggest failures. Peter sighed and slid the report away. He didn't want to revisit all that crap with Adler. He allowed his gaze to slip out the window and dance along the New York Skyline instead. Almost against his will, his thoughts slipped back to Neal Caffrey. Where the hell was the little guy? His case was stale as last week's cold pizza, but it still tugged incessantly at Peter's thoughts. God, he needed to get a life. Obsessing over a criminal's whereabouts could hardly be conceived as healthy, but Peter knew that he wouldn't be able to rest until he tracked down the elusive teen. He leaned back in his chair and started thinking. If he was a fifteen year old forger and art thief, where would he go? Stay with friends? Track down some old family ties? Go to school? Peter almost laughed at the last one. The thought was completely absurd.

Neal jogged down the street, his trainers bouncing on and off against the pavement with a steady throb of life. He loved running. The gentle rhythm of swinging arms, the great gulps of air – everything about the solitary sport seemed to relax him. When he was running he could forget about the stress and the trials of life. He could restart his brain, calm down his overactive mind and experience small bursts of relief when his every step brought him farther away from the FBI headquarters right next to his school. He breathed deeply, loving the kiss of rain against his sweaty face. He certainly needed the distraction of running right now. His head was still reeling from the sheer and utter awkwardness of the maths lesson with Sara and Kate yesterday. Christ, had it been embarrassing. Neal had been caught in the middle of some sort of cat fight, with both girls squabbling over him and demanding his undivided attention. Sara had claimed that she knew Neal the best because they were in the same biology class. Kate had insisted that Neal liked her more because she had shown him around on his first day of school. Whatever one said, the other would immediately dispute – but there were two things that the girls agreed on. One: Neal's shirt was definitely made from "boyfriend material", and two: Sara hated Kate and Kate really, really hated Sara.

The only sounds were the roar of traffic and the soft tread of his running shoes. Neal shoved the memory of Sara and Kate to the back of his mind as he rounded a corner and kept on jogging. He didn't want to think about it. Truth was, he was touched that they cared so much about him. Yes, they didn't know his real name, and granted, they didn't know the first thing about his criminal past, but they still… cared for him. And he didn't want to have to choose between them. Sara was funny and pretty and sharp as shattered glass, but Kate was artistic. She also had a rebel streak a mile wide and her blunt, straight-to-the-point personality was hard to resist.

Neal knew that his life was complex enough without throwing a girlfriend into the mix. And he also knew that it wasn't like he could even have a girlfriend anyway. When you're on the run, the last thing you want to do is form personal ties with people, and building a relationship was out of the question. You never knew when you would have to uproot yourself and leave without saying goodbye. Neal sighed with a touch of melodramatically. He needed to talk to Mozzie. Moz was his one true friend, the only one who knew his secret and who could advise him in the world of romance. For someone who had never been in a relationship, Mozzie was surprisingly knowledgeable about those sorts of things. His photographic memory gave him an edge in life and he was capable of providing answers to most of Neal's problems. Neal couldn't say that he trusted his small friend, but that didn't change the fact that they were mates.

Neal kept up the jogging, feeling the pain of laboured breathing in his chest now. His muscles ached and his head felt all hot, but he knew that he was nearly at the end. The warehouse that he and Mozzie had made into a base was just down the road. Neal forced himself into a sprint finish, but as he pounded down the street, a police car rounded the corner ahead and started driving towards him. Nobody runs on the streets of New York City, so Neal immediately slowed to a brisk walk. But it was too late. The police officers in the car had seen his sudden change in speed and he knew that they would be looking at him curiously as they drove by. Neal had discovered that he could survive if a cop glanced at him in the street. But with his description (plucked from a grainy CCTV camera two years back) splattered all over police stations worldwide, Neal also knew that if he was scrutinized by an officer he would be recognised. And if he was recognised, he would be arrested. The police car glided closer. It would drive right past him in a matter of seconds. The officers would study his face. They would think for a moment, try and place it. Then they would turn the sirens on. Neal thought fast. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, but maybe… The police car was right in front of him. Neal could see the driver and the cop in the front seat staring out towards him. For the briefest of moments, Neal made eye contact with the policemen. Then Neal snapped back his head in a ridiculously over the top, fake sneeze. His hands rose up to catch the explosion of air, covering his face just as the car cruised by. He had timed it perfectly. The officers hadn't seen his insinuating features, and when they drove on past him they didn't stop or look back. Neal breathed out in relief. Then he checked the coast was clear before flexing his muscles and starting to jog again. Mozzie was waiting.

Thud. Neal hit the corrugated iron door of the warehouse and leant against it, panting after the 10k run. Through the door he could hear Mozzie's startled squeak. There was a beat of silence, then Mozzie called,

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Neal. Moz, let me in."

"What's the password?"

"Seriously, Mozzie?" Silence. Then-

"No password, no entry. How do I know you're not a fed?" Neal rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a fed, Moz."

"I don't know that."
"Jesus Christ…"

"I'm waiting." Neal sighed, then rested his head against the cool metal door and muttered,

"Bubble gum ice cream. Happy now?" The door swung open on oiled hinges, revealing a short, bespectacled teenager standing with his arms akimbo. Mozzie.

"Welcome to my lair." Mozzie announced. Neal arched his eyebrows at his friend and entered the warehouse.

Diana sprinted up the steps and burst into Peter's office without knocking. Peter jumped, nearly falling off his chair, and shot his agent an irritated glance. Diana didn't seem to notice.

"Boss." Her voice was urgent. Peter immediately forgot his annoyance and looked up at her.

"Yeah?"

"We found a possible lead on Caffrey. It's a warehouse a few blocks from here – some homeless guy claims he saw a kid who matched the description hanging out there the other day." Peter frowned.

"That's quite a tenuous link, but it's the best we've got. Nice work Diana." She grinned at the praise.

"Any time, boss. What do you want us to do about it?"

"Monitor it. I want to know what that warehouse is and who visits it. And pull the CCTV. Let's see if we can snatch a visual of this Caffrey lookalike." Diana nodded. Peter could tell that she was mentally taking notes.

"I'll send a team down to the warehouse straight away." She said, before promptly turning on her heel and hurrying out the office. Peter smiled. Perhaps Neal Caffrey wasn't quite as clever as he thought.