Disclaimer: Blood is red bruises are blue, I don't own, you don't sue.
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Collectable
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Chapter two
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Neal takes a deep breath as he peers up at the large two story house from the sidewalk out front. His hot breath hits the cold December air, making it look as if he is smoking. It's only 7pm, as it took him an hour between meeting Roy No-last-name and making his way to the house, but it is already pitch black out.
Yeah, this wasn't going to end well, Neal's gut is telling him that much.
Taking another deep breath to steel himself for the monumental fail ahead, Neal grips his equipment bag tightly until his knuckles whiten, and heads up the paved walkway to the front door.
Neal's eyes are like video cameras, his brain like a computer, eyes recording everything he sees while his brain quickly analyzes his situation. He notes there are no cars in the driveway and no lights in the windows. Maybe they went out to dinner anyway, two sniffling children in tow.
He kneels down by the doorknob, grabs his leather gloves from his pocket and shimmies each hand into one. After flexing his fingers in their new leather skin, he fishes the lock pick kit from his bag, FBI issue, not as good as his own but even these second rate tools are gold in his hands and he makes quick work of the front door's double locks.
"All right there, Caffrey?"
Neal nearly jumps out of his skin when Peter's voice sounds loudly in his head.
"Jesus Christ, Peter," Neal whispers, bringing his arm up to scratch his head so the watch is closer to his mouth. He isn't being watched but it wouldn't do to get sloppy. "Could have done without the coronary, thank you."
Neal can hear Peter chuckling and it makes him long to claw the earwig out and toss it across the room.
"Remember, we're in a van around the block. We'll meet at the drop off if all goes well here, but if things go bad in there we can have you out in no time," Peter assures as soon as he stops laughing.
"Pro here, remember? I won't need FBI rescue on a routine heist. No one is even home. I'll see you at the drop off," Neal says into the watch, injecting enough attitude, into his words that he is sure Peter can hear him rolls his eyes.
Making his way up the ugly red carpeted stairs, Neal steps softly, not a single board creaking under his weight. The owners of the house, the Harrisons, thought they were clever, didn't think anyone would think to look for their safe in their sons' room behind the poster of some cartoon dinosaur. They weren't counting on one Neal Caffrey.
He had been canvassing the house for over two weeks, if he couldn't figure out where their safe was in that time he belonged finding a new profession... Well he had found a new profession, he worked on the other side of the law now but he was still a con artist, artist being the operative word here.
The house is dark, almost unnaturally so, but then again, it is the night of the new moon and the stars don't exactly shine bright in this part of New York. With as many windows facing the street as the house has, Neal doesn't want to risk a flashlight until absolutely necessary. Still, even sans light, Neal is graceful and makes his way to the twins' room making nary a sound.
The door gives a little creak when he goes to open it, but a little finesse and some pressure in just the right spot quiets it right away. Closing it quietly behind him, Neal finally takes out his flashlight; the twins' room is rear facing, no one out and about on the street would see his light shining if he should accidently hit the widow- the next house is set so far back it's inhabitants pose no threat.
Neal makes his way over to the poster in question and carefully removes it from the wall, propping it up next to him for easy return once he is finished.
It isn't hard to break into the safe, especially with the gadget the FBI provided. Neal would have been happy with a stethoscope, but the sound wave listening device, unlike the subpar lock pick kit the feds saddled him with, is definitely handy.
Hearing the final click of the combination slide into place, Neal slowly opens the safe door. Peering inside, his eyes light up like a child in a candy store.
"Remember Caffrey, we're watching you." Peter says into his ear, making him sigh.
"Yeah, yeah," Neal grouses, sorting through the birth certificates, social security cards, gold coins and other miscellaneous, highly interesting valuables until he comes across a small, black velvet jewelry box. He pulls it out from where it was hiding between a book housing an old stamp collection and a dusty piece of parchment with faded ink, maybe an ancient family tree.
Holding the small box up so the camera in his glasses could get a good shot of it and shining the flashlight on it with his other hand, Neal carefully opens the box with a gentle flick of his thumb, revealing a brilliant pink diamond set in a white gold ring, surrounded by smaller pink diamonds that make their way all the way around the main gem and the ring itself. There have to be dozens of smaller pink diamonds in the setting, not to mention the main pink diamond that had to be at least two and a half carrots all on its own. It was a piece mined from Australian that had been lent to the America Museum of Natural History for their diamond exhibit.
Daddy Harrison is the curator of the Museum's Department of Earth and Planetary Sciences, which was the department directly responsible for the diamonds exhibit. A water pipe bursting a little over two week before had made it necessary for Joseph Harrison to bring home the jewels to be stored in his personal safe. Security was compromised, the exhibit closed down, all the other jewels returned to the proper owners save the only one that came from out of the country. It was on loan to the museum until the following month and the people responsible for it back in Australia hadn't wanted it back on their hands any earlier than that. Harrison had to keep hold of it until it could be returned in 4 weeks time.
Neal can hear whistling from several of the agents stationed in the van when he revealed the ring. He would whistle too, if he weren't too suave for that sort of reaction.
When the whistling dies down Neal hears the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps that the whistling previously disguised. He becomes very still, his ears perking up a moment, making sure he's really hearing what he thinks he is.
"Okay Neal, you got the ring, now get out of there." Peter's voice says in his ear.
"Shhh," Neal hushes him, listening again. Most definitely footsteps. Shit!
Snapping the lid on the diamond shut, he shoves it into his pocket, flicks his flashlight off and quickly places the poster back on the wall before grabbing his bag.
"Caffrey?" Peter asks, his voice concerned.
Neal tiptoes to the door and peers out. He sees a black silhouette disappear around the corner halfway down the hall, too fast to catch with the camera, and Neal is very aware that, by peering out with the wrong side of his body, the side without the camera, that he has given Peter a very nice close up of the door jam, but no shot of whomever is in the house with him.
"Caffrey," Peter repeats upon getting no answer, "is everything okay?" The only sound Neal can make in response, is that of air coming in and out of his lungs. He holds the watch close to his mouth so Peter can hear he is still alive. It's all he can provide. "Damn it, Neal! Answer me!" he demands.
But Neal can't. The footsteps are getting closer, even the sound of breathing is too loud and Neal has to hold his breath a moment, while he slinks out of the bedroom. He leaves the door open. He can't afford to make any noise at all and he would rather risk leaving the door open and have it raise questions than close it and get caught.
He heads slowly down the steps, not wanting the wood under the ugly carpet to squeak. Something is wrong and he has to get out, it's a feeling in his gut and he acts on it fast. That wasn't Mr. Harrison. Neal can tell by the man's build, even if he didn't see his face. There was another intruder in the house besides Neal and Neal could only guess to his motive here.
He hastens to the closest egress, only when he gets to the front door, it won't open. His stomach tightens and his breath catches as he looks up and sees what the problem is. The door had been fit with four more locks, on the inside, since he first entered less than 10 minutes earlier.
Reaching up, Neal feels them. They are real and sturdy and- he runs his hands over them- unpickable, at least in the time he has, judging by the sound of approaching footsteps behind him.
"Neal… Okay, I get it. I gave you a scare before, are we even yet?" Peter asks, frantic for an answer from the man on the other end of the microphone.
Neal doesn't dare answer; the footsteps are close, close enough to hear him if he even so much as whispers.
He scans the room quickly for another way out and spots the window. He makes his way over using his catlike grace. The blinds are down, they weren't down before, Neal is sure of it, it was why he had not dared turn on his flashlight when he first entered the house.
Why would the intruder lower them?
Neal pulls them open slowly enough to feel an extra pull that shouldn't be there, but not slow enough to keep from triggering the trap he has unwittingly fallen into.
He jumps to the left just as a knife flies at him. It is suspended by a string and makes a J shaped arch as it flies fast, past Neal's face, the point hitting his glasses right in the corner where the camera lens is located, knocking them off his face before the knife's edge slides against his temple.