Author's note: Here comes the first real chapter. I still don't have a beta, all mistakes are mine. The French characters are from a TV show called Julie Lescaut. I don't own them any more than the ones from White Collar.

Chapter one

"The suspect's name is Victor Moreau. His papers seem legit. We checked his fingerprints, but without results. Interpol has sent someone to question him."

Detective Vincent Motta summed up the situation in one sentence to his superior, Captain Julie Lescaut. The redhead lady was furious. The international agency would certainly claim her team's success. Having a suspect in custody in a case that embarrassed everyone was a major step in solving the mystery, even if they did not have any proof yet.

"What evidence do we have against him?" she asked.

"Not much. Moreau spent time in every city the thief targeted over the last few months. Each time, he flew out on the days that followed the heist. We found him while checking the aviation companies' database."

"A crime genius who would use the same name each time he travels, it's unlikely."

"It might be his only mistake. But we don't have any direct evidence. We need a confession. He is waiting in an interrogation room if you'd like to see him before anyone from Interpol gets here."

Julie Lescaut did not wait. She entered the room and dropped a file on the table, in front of her suspect. The man did not even flinch. The transparent blue eyes did not show any emotion. The half-smile did not fade in the slightest. Victor Moreau was a rock, at least on the outside.

Inside his head, thoughts were flying all over the place. Why had he been arrested? Since he had left New York, he had been a law-abiding citizen. The money taken right under the Pink Panthers and the FBI's nose allowed him to live without worrying about his finances. Of course, he had not been able to take all of the money, he had to do with only a few millions. He didn't know how the FBI had explained the missing money and he didn't care. Neal Caffrey had died that day and he was a totally different man. A man who had nothing to be ashamed of.

The two detectives who had arrested him at his place had taken his fingerprints, but Neal was not worried. The police only used databases with living people in them. His prints were not there anymore. His file was buried deep in the archives, just like himself, in a way. He had nothing to fear. Same for his DNA. No one would compare it to the one of a deceased criminal.

"You seem to enjoy travelling, Mister Moreau. I see you visited Copenhagen, Amsterdam and Zurich in the last few months."

Neal hesitated a second. He could pretend that he did not understand French. He was an American after all, and Americans had a reputation of not speaking foreign languages. If he had committed a crime, it could help him buy some time, but he was innocent. He chose to answer the questions right away.

"Europeans cities have many wonders to share. Travelling around is not a crime, as far as I know. Why am I here?"

"My colleagues did not tell you? Sorry about that."

The women opened the file in front of her and started showing pictures.

"Portrait of a man, painted by El Greco between 1570 and 1575. Stolen at the Statens Museum for Kunst in Copenhagen on July 12th. Where were you, on July 12th, Mister Moreau?" She did not let him answer and kept on. "The Bedroom, painted by Van Gogh in 1888, stolen at the Van Gogh Gallery in Amsterdam on August 14th. You were in The Nederland in August, I believe? Oh, here comes my favorite, The Chariot, a bronze sculpture created by Alberto Giacometti in 1950. It disappeared from the Kunsthaus Zurich on September 19th. It makes a lot of coincidences, don't you think?"

Neal was speechless. He had heard about those heists, of course. He was quite impressed by the job even. Targeting such high profiles institutions, takes major works of art without leaving a trace and without hurting anyone, it had gotten his attention. But he had nothing to do with those heists. The art thief, he had once been was now retired. There was no reason for the police to talk to Victor Moreau. His money should not raise questions. He had inherited it legally. At least, that's what any research would show. So why was he here?

"I heard about those crimes in the news, Mrs., but I don't see what I have to do with it. I never stole anything."

His smile had not budged.

"You were in Copenhagen on July 12th. You left Denmark on the 15th to go to Amsterdam. You left the Nederlands on August the 19th to travel to Switzerland. A country where you stayed a little longer. You flew out of Zurich on September the 28th. To come to Paris. Paris and its numerous museums of Art. I don't believe in chance."

"Me neither", Neal thought to himself, but he did not take the risk to speak out. His brain was spinning at full speed. What did it all mean? Had someone found out he was alive and well? Had someone decided he should take a fall for crimes he could have committed but was innocent of?

"Silence will lead you nowhere, Mister Moreau. Interpol has sent an agent. Together, we'll discover the bottom line of this story."