Chapter 18: Bigfoot and the Bear

Lynx Mountain. February 6, 2005. Sunday evening.

"What are you laughing at?" Peter asked.

"Us," Neal replied. They were huddled underneath Mylar blankets on a mattress of old tarps, sitting side by side to conserve heat. They'd fashioned hoods out of Mylar. The only part of Neal that could be seen was his face swimming in an ocean of silver. "All we need are antennae on our heads to look like Mozzie's space aliens."

"Well, these are called space blankets," Peter reminded him.

"And we're a lot warmer than we'd be if we were floating in outer space." Neal passed him another granola bar. "Here's dessert. I need to speak with the chef about serving the same item for both your main course and dessert. Would you like me to tear it open for you?"

"Nah, I'm good. The wrist's feeling much better already. And don't give the chef grief. I don't suppose we could have seconds?"

Neal shook his head regretfully. "These are the last ones."

Peter estimated they'd have at the most two more hours before the heater gave out on them. Their clothes were slowly drying. The socks were taking the longest. The cloud cover prevented the outside temperature from dropping as much as it otherwise would have. Since Rinaldi had confiscated their watches, it was impossible to know what time it was.

"Do you have any ideas on who blew our cover?" Neal asked.

"That's a puzzle. It must have happened at the last minute, or Rinaldi wouldn't have let us get so close." Peter had started a list in his head. Aside from his team, many at the Bureau were aware of the op. Sara knew about Rinaldi but not that they were going to the resort. As part of her investigation, she likely questioned others at Sterling-Bosch. Then there was the resort manager. She'd been given strict instructions not to reveal anything, but she might have let something slip.

"Rinaldi probably got a phone call," Neal speculated. "The road to the resort was closed so no one could have driven up to alert him." They both fell silent. Two weeks ago, Peter hadn't heard of Ydrus. Now he faced the real possibility that a mole was working for the criminal organization within the Bureau.

Neal nudged him. "So when do you plan to tell me your Bigfoot story?"

"What makes you think I have one?"

"When we went to your cabin over Halloween, you told me about it. You claimed you needed two prerequisites before I could hear it: lots of snow—we can check that one off—and wilderness boot camp. Surely this qualifies. I want my story."

"You're right. I did say that." Peter winced. Trust Neal to remember. Was there any way he could wiggle out of it? "Weren't you going to tell me about that hockey job you pulled?"

Neal handed him another bottle of water. "Don't try to deflect. After all I went through to satisfy your requirements, you're not going to renege on me, are you?"

Peter exhaled, reminding himself to be extra careful of whatever he mentioned to Neal. He was as bad as El for remembering every single remark. "The thing is, it's kind of embarrassing, and if the past is any indication, you'll probably tease me unmercifully about it."

Neal let out a grumble and fell into stony silence.

Peter let it go on for a couple of minutes. "Are you going to sulk all night?"

"Maybe."

"How about a compromise? I'll tell you the Bigfoot story if you admit to something embarrassing about yourself. Then we can mutually swear to never disclose what happened to anyone else."

Neal stroked his chin and pondered for a long minute. "Deal, and it's only because I have complete trust in you. I know you won't let me down."

"You have my word, and you can take that to the bank," Peter promised. "Pinky swear?"

"Yeah, we'll do the pinky swear. Okay, Peter, start talking."

Peter cleared his throat. "It was over the Christmas holiday. I was eight. Joe was a college freshman. Big man on campus."

Neal grinned. "A Christmas tale. I like it already."

"My present that year was a pair of cross-country skis. We spent Christmas at our cabin in the Catskills. Joe was already quite a skier, both cross-country and downhill. I'd done some ice skating but no skiing. Mom and Dad promised to teach me over the holiday. What I didn't realize was that Joe had planned a surprise. One day when I was out skiing with Mom and Dad, he laid his trap. There's a small cave on our property—"

"I didn't know there were caves in the Catskills, Neal said, interrupting. "Do bears live in them? How about wolves? Are they haunted by malevolent spirits?"

"Simmer down, Junior. Don't mix up my stories. This isn't Halloween. And yes, the Catskills are riddled with caves and caverns. The region is a center for mining operations, particularly iron and cement. Anyway, when Joe was a kid, he'd found a small cave in the woods behind the cabin. It wasn't much bigger than this room."

"Definitely meant for bears."

"Maybe, but not this time. Joe snuck away to scatter in the cave a few spearheads he'd made as a Boy Scout. He also added a squirrel carcass he'd found in the woods."

"Eww."

"Yeah, well that's Joe. He's meticulous at whatever job he undertakes. That's something we have in common. Joe took apart a witch's wig we'd used at Halloween and suspended some long, greasy locks from branches near the cave. His crowning touch was to add tracks. Joe had cut thick foam boards into wide, flat-footed replicas. As I recall, they were about eighteen inches long. He strapped them to his shoes and laid a trail of Bigfoot tracks to the cave. After he confessed, Joe showed me his foam footprints." Peter chuckled at the memory. "They were awesome."

Neal smiled with approval. "You couldn't ask for a better brother. What an excellent adventure he made for you."

"That's for sure. I can remember vividly how excited I was when I found those first footprints, and then when I followed them to the cave, I was convinced we'd found Bigfoot. It was the best Christmas present ever! How Joe kept from laughing and spilling the beans, I'll never know, but he did."

"But this doesn't sound like anything to be embarrassed about."

"That comes later. When we got back to the cabin, I was bursting to tell my parents of my discovery, but Mom and Dad were still out skiing. Joe hadn't confessed yet because he wanted Mom and Dad to see how excited I was, and he'd planned an additional surprise." Peter exhaled.

"So ...?" Neal prompted, rotating his hand in circles to keep him talking.

"So, Joe went upstairs to listen to music. He was probably also having difficulty keeping a straight face. I was downstairs, stewing ..."

"That sounds like you."

Neal had him there. "I decided to call 9-1-1 and insisted they send someone. The operator was not amused, to put it mildly. She scolded me for making frivolous use of the emergency response service and demanded to speak with an adult before she'd take me seriously. So I dragged Joe downstairs to talk to her and he was forced to admit he'd tricked me. Poor Joe. I don't know which one of us felt worse. He had to confess he'd staged it and that Bigfoot wasn't actually living in the cave. I was crushed. I found out later I'd wrecked his plan. Once Mom and Dad returned, he intended to sneak out and plant more tracks, showing that Bigfoot had taken off in search of a new cave."

"Aww. No more Bigfoot. It was like finding out about Santa Claus."

"Don't be so quick to judge! Just because he wasn't in that cave doesn't mean he doesn't exist."

Neal broke out in a grin. "That's the spirit. We'll go hunting for him together."

"But not tomorrow. You'll have to wait for another round of survival boot camp before that happens."

Neal considered for a moment before replying. "Maybe in the summer."

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds good. Ever since my Bigfoot fiasco, I've been sensitive to hairy beasts."

"I probably didn't help when you came to campus last fall in disguise and I called you a Wookiee."

He acknowledged the truth of Neal's remark with a shrug.

"I should have said Sasquatch instead," he quipped and then quickly pulled his blanket in front of his face when Peter tried to throttle him. "Hey, don't tear the blanket! We're allowed to tease each other, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are," Peter said firmly. "Okay, your turn now, and this better be good."

Neal took a slow breath. "Last November when Fowler tried to frame me for the theft of the Marie Antoinette diamond earrings—"

"You're going to tell me how you pulled off the anklet con!" He'd been resigned to only learning the truth about that when they were old and gray.

"No interruptions, please. And you already know what happened. It's all in the official report."

"Not all of it," he pointed out.

"Sorry, I'm sticking with the official version for that. What I'm talking about happened that morning." Neal cleared his throat. "You remember André from the Chelsea Fencing Club?"

"Yeah, he knows you as Gary Rydell."

Neal nodded. "I needed to persuade him to help Neal Caffrey—someone he'd never met."

"That's obvious since he thinks you're Gary Rydell."

"This was a big favor I was asking of André. To sell it, I described how I, as Gary, was a good friend of Neal's, and we'd worked together in the past." Neal shrugged. "And so on."

"Yeah?" A little extra prodding was plainly in order. "Go on ..."

With a sigh louder than any Peter had made earlier, Neal said, "Somehow, André latched onto the idea that Neal and Gary were in a relationship. He was so thrilled for Gary that he'd finally found someone that he agreed to help."

Peter snickered. "You're telling me that André believed you were in love with yourself."

"No, he didn't," Neal quickly corrected. "To him, Neal and Gary were two separate people, but yeah, well ..."

"Does André still think you and Gary are, you know?"

"Maybe." Neal exhaled noisily. "Probably. Mozzie was going to tell him that we'd broken up, but with all the distractions he's had—the yellow-faced bee, Janet—he may have forgotten. Besides, he was having too much fun teasing me about it."

"How about Fiona? Does she know she has a rival for your affection?"

Neal gave him such a soulful look that even in dim light it registered. "Okay, I'll stop."

Neal hesitated for a moment, staring into the glow of the heater. "You know the worst part about what happened with André? It wasn't that he thought I was in love with myself—it was having to deceive him. I first met him in Geneva when I was using the Gary Rydell alias for a job. I didn't realize we'd become such good friends or that he'd wind up being my fencing coach. When he showed up in New York and we started fencing again, I wished I could tell him who I was and invite him to one of my fencing matches at Columbia. But if I told him, I'd burn the alias." He turned to face Peter as he admitted, "Sometimes shapeshifting comes at a cost."

Peter considered for a moment before replying. This was a different, thoughtful side that Neal rarely revealed. Peter was honored by his trust and also anxious not to blow it. "Conning a friend couldn't have been easy."

He shrugged. "Sometimes it's unavoidable."

"You've been shapeshifting, as you call it, ever since WITSEC gave you a big push in that direction. And now we're benefiting from all those aliases. That puts additional pressure on you. We could manage without Gary Rydell if you ever decide you want to burn it."

Neal didn't answer him directly and Peter didn't expect him to. He hoped he'd think it over. "You know when Professor Stockman gave me her midyear critique of my art, she concluded that my identity is a lack of identity."

"That's crazy talk," Peter scoffed.

"She has a point. In her analysis, she said I had no cohesive style. Each painting could have been done by a different artist."

"You want my assessment?"

"Shapeshifting into Peter, the art critic, are you?" Neal said, arching a brow. "Sure, lay it on me."

"Simply because you refuse to be hemmed in by one style doesn't mean you don't have an identity. You just make discovering it more difficult. Me, I've always liked a challenge."

"Even if what you find is a shapeshifter?"

"Yeah, even if Gary and Neal are in love, I can live with it."

"Touché," Neal said, breaking into a grin.

"Have you decided whether to accept Sherkov's offer about the doctorate?"

"I'm getting closer. I discussed it with Michael. He's in his second year of the program. He said the toughest part for him was allocating the time to be a teaching assistant."

"Is it required?"

"That's what I asked Sherkov. He thought that possibly my work for my master's in visual arts could serve as a substitute if I could connect it to my dissertation. If I could swing that, it would be a big help."

"For what it's worth, I think you should go for the doctorate. It's a fantastic opportunity. If necessary, we could lighten up on your work at the Bureau. For instance, you could work a couple of half-days or shorter hours. If you're accepted into the program, you'll get a stipend. That should allow you to cut back on your FBI workload."

"You mean I wouldn't have to handle mortgage frauds? If it weren't so cold, I'd do handsprings."

"Just as well. Go easy on those ribs for a while, will ya?"

Neal chuckled but didn't answer.

"So what's stopping you?"

"It's such a commitment. When I signed up for the master's program, two years seemed like an eternity. I never thought I'd spend so much time on an academic program."

"Why don't you break it into small steps? You'll have your master's in a little over a year and then you can reassess. But by applying for the PhD now, you'll at least preserve your options." Peter paused for Neal to reply, but nothing was forthcoming, so he played his final card. "You'd be one-upping Henry. He only has a master's."

Neal grinned. "When you put it that way ... You should know that Mozzie agrees with you on this."

"I'm not sure if I feel reassured about that, but I suppose on a certain cosmic level—"

"—in a galaxy far, far away."

"Okay, Skywalker. Yes, in this instance, Mozzie may have the wisdom of Yoda."

"Who am I to argue with Han Solo and Yoda? If Sherkov can get me out of being a TA, then I'll know it's written in the stars and I'll go for it."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. "Good."

"But let's hold off on any announcements until I know if I'm accepted. Sherkov's offered to sponsor me, but I have no idea what my chances are."

"Agreed. It stays between us ... and El, of course."

"And Bigfoot."

Their conversation continued off and on into the night, with both of them nodding off at times. The room had grown colder as the night deepened. Peter had just finished a tale about Quantico when he realized he'd lost his audience. Neal had fallen asleep.

Peter looked over at the now cold heater. They'd run out of kerosene hours ago. He better get to sleep too. They were huddled close together. Neal's head had fallen onto Peter's shoulder. Peter had taken more aspirin, and his headache was better. They were still alive. Tomorrow he'd see El.

#

Dawn finally arrived after an uncomfortable night best forgotten. Sleeping encased in space blankets with only tarps for a mattress was not recommended for anyone who'd just slid down the side of the mountain. Every one of Peter's bruises and sore muscles was complaining to him about his lack of consideration. The station was bitterly cold, although the insulation in the panels must have helped a little.

Neal had slept fitfully during the night. He was favoring one shoulder and Peter could tell his ribs were bothering him though he didn't complain. Peter's head was manageable. The blow had been low enough that his neck took the brunt of it, and the cold packs he'd used the previous evening had been a help.

Peter had awakened earlier at what he guessed was his standard time of five o'clock, but given it was so dark and cold, he'd forced himself to go back to sleep. Now the horizon in the east was starting to lighten. Neal had gone outside to attend to business. Fortunately, the heater had lasted long enough to dry out their socks. It would take longer for their shoes, but no help for that.

They were both grumpy. Water might be a healthier beverage than coffee, but it didn't do much to lift their spirits. Peter checked the box of granola bars once more. Just as he thought. None left. He rummaged through the shelves again to make sure he hadn't missed any.

The door flew open. Neal raced in, slamming it behind him. He pressed his back to the door, wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

"What happened?" Peter demanded.

"A bear was chasing me!"

"Good try, slick, but I'm not in the mood for games."

Despite his caution, Neal continued to try to sell it. "I'm not kidding. There's a bear outside."

Peter sighed. "This is your final warning. I haven't had my coffee and I'm in no mood for practical jokes. We gotta get a move on. The search and rescue teams will be out looking for us. We need to spread these Mylar blankets outside to alert them."

Neal looked pleadingly at him. "This isn't a joke. I heard a noise when I was outside. I turned around and saw a bear lumbering down the slope. I must have picked its favorite tree because it broke into a gallop and charged me." He put an ear to the door. "I think it's still outside."

Peter let out a slow sigh just as a loud growl reverberated outside and something crashed into the door.

"See? I told you."

Peter slid back the window shutter. It was too dark to see much, but he was able to distinguish a large shape against the door. Peter quickly closed the shutter. "It's a bear!"

Neal groaned. "Oh, really? Aren't bears supposed to be hibernating this time of year?"

"Sometimes females leave their dens just before giving birth. They're in pain and can be very dangerous." Peter retrieved the gun he'd taken from the van and headed for the door, but Neal blocked his way.

"You can't go out," Neal insisted.

Peter shoved him aside. "I have to. If we want to be rescued, we have to spread the blankets out, and I don't know about you, but I'm ready to be rescued. No bear's going to stop me from getting back to El."

"But you can't shoot it!"

"I may not have a choice. We can't stay here."

"But Peter, she's pregnant!"

"So, that's what this is about. She's carrying a baby bear. And you don't want me to hurt your sibling."

Neal glared at him. "This is no time for baby bear jokes. You can't scare her. You might send her into premature labor."

"Neal! I promise to be gentle. Think of it this way. If she goes into labor, the medics can help her and us too. We'll all go back in the chopper together." Peter had been listening to the growls as they argued and they appeared to be growing fainter. By now, it was lighter outside. He gingerly opened the door as Neal peered from behind his shoulder. In the distance, the bear could be seen shambling down into the ravine.

Neal beamed. "My first bear."

"She's probably going to make you the cub's godfather. C'mon, Baby Bear, help me with these blankets."

Minutes later they'd formed a large Mylar arrow on the snow. It pointed at the first aid station and was anchored in place with broken-off tree branches. Joking about the bear had given them a much-needed boost in morale, but the feeling quickly evaporated. El had spent all night not knowing if they were alive or dead. They were bruised, cold, and hungry, but what she was having to endure was even worse.

#

"Your coffee's on the table," Diana reminded El quietly.

El nodded in acknowledgment as she continued to gaze out the patio door. The sky had turned a light azure blue with the first faint glow of the rising sun appearing on the horizon. She'd take that as a positive omen. She'd barely slept. Diana gave her a sleeping pill, but it hadn't helped.

Diana's suite was now a command center. Travis and Jones were there for much of the night. Cell phone coverage was still out, so they were making use of the landline to communicate with the Bureau in New York and state police.

El was grateful to have Satchmo for company. She'd taken him for a walk while it was still dark, so she'd be back for any news once the search resumed. When she returned to the suite, she forced down a little yogurt after being prodded by Diana to keep up her strength.

There was a fire in the fireplace, and El curled up on the couch in front of it. Satchmo put his head in her lap.

The first report came at eight o'clock. Diana took the call. El held her breath waiting to hear what she'd found out. Judging by Diana's expression, it wasn't good news.

When Diana got off the phone, she sat down next to her on the couch. "A chopper located the van. It appears to have crashed into a tree off a service road north of here. Broken tree limbs and scattered debris indicate it skidded quite a distance down the side of the mountain. A rescue team is being lowered down to the wreckage."

El stopped her. "What aren't you telling me? I have to know," she added as forcefully as she could.

Diana hesitated for a moment. "The van is at the bottom of a sheer drop-off. From the aerial view of the extent of damage, anybody who was still in the van at the time of impact ..." She shook her head.

El tightened her grip on Satchmo, refusing to give in to the tears that were stinging her eyes. She didn't attempt to speak.

Diana quickly added, "We don't know enough to make any assumptions. The state police feel that during the initial descent, there could have been opportunities to escape. Additional choppers have been called in to search the surrounding area."

"But if they escaped from the van, they would have spent all night unprotected on the mountain."

"There are a few first aid stations scattered on the trails. Peter studied the maps thoroughly before we left. He knows where they are. They might have been able to reach one of them." She pulled her hair back from her face and twisted it tightly into a knot. "I need to call the Bureau. I'll use the phone in the bedroom." As she got up, she gave El a quick hug.

Diana was making the best-case scenario, but El was consumed with all the other possible outcomes. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting in that same spot when a second call came through. Diana took it in the bedroom while El braced herself to hear the latest.

Diana walked into the room and sat next to her. "Not the best news, but it's looking better. Two bodies were in the van."

"Were they?" El asked, not trusting her voice to say the words.

"Dead? Yes, but they weren't Peter and Neal. The van had caught fire and the bodies were badly burned, but the police could tell that one was Black. The other had a tattoo on one arm, not something either Neal or Peter has."

Diana seemed determined to keep her spirits up. She spent several minutes deluging her with a running commentary. The snow had stopped. Overcast conditions during the night kept the temperature drop from being extreme, and the sun was now out. Peter knew how to survive the cold. Neal wouldn't be much help, but he'd annoy Peter so much with his banter that Peter would chase him all over the mountain and they'd both keep warm.

With that last remark, El couldn't help smiling.

"Hey, I'm trying for me too," Diana said. By the time the call came through that they'd been found in good condition, Diana could tease her. "See, I told you so."

#

"Ah-choo."

Neal nudged Peter, offering him the box of tissues.

It was a good thing Jones had stopped to buy an extra supply. Neal had been hitting the box too. The helicopter had spotted their distress display early in the morning and they'd been whisked away from their icebox. They were flown directly to the county hospital to be checked out. On the flight to the hospital, Peter spoke with Jones who was coordinating the FBI and police presence at the resort. Rinaldi had been taken into custody. Diana was driving El to the hospital and would stay with her while the rest of the team finished up the work at the resort.

He and Neal both received satisfactory reports from the hospital. Considering all they'd gone through, their injuries were surprisingly light. Peter's wrist sprain was a minor one and had been rewrapped in a compression bandage. The bump on the head was examined and deemed not serious. The X-ray of Neal's ribs had detected no cracks or breakage so he was sent off with anti-inflammatories and breathing exercises.

By the time El and Diana arrived, they were waiting to be discharged. True, they were technically still in the emergency wing of the hospital, but El was too relieved to tease them about it.

Originally, she wasn't due to leave the resort till the next day and Peter insisted on her not changing her plans. He finally convinced her to stay and, as a practical matter, she was the only one of her group who had permission to drive the SUV they'd rented to travel to the resort. He hoped she'd be able to catch up on her sleep today.

Midday the FBI van left the hospital for the trip back to New York City. Diana drove. Travis and Jones took advantage of the travel time to comb through the files on the USB drive. Neal and Peter were given orders to rest in the back, and all their attempts to help were waved off with bottles of water tossed their way. At least they didn't fling granola bars at them. Instead, Diana stopped for fast food every hour. It was for the best El didn't see all the cheeseburgers and fries. Neal was committing the ultimate sacrifice. His caffeine reserve was at such a low ebb, he accepted the fast-food blend without a whimper.

The others in the van were being kind. They allowed the heat to be cranked up to near tropical conditions. They'd all stripped to T-shirts and jeans. Neal was still wearing a heavy parka and extra socks. Even Peter had a sweater on.

The topic of how Rinaldi found out about them continued to be debated. "Rinaldi's refusing to answer any questions till he meets with his lawyer," Jones said.

"Rinaldi's a smart guy," Peter said. "It's hard to figure out why he took the risk of selling a forgery."

Neal shrugged. "The lure of a new thrill? The Dutchman's quality is excellent. What I want to know is how Rinaldi found out about the Dutchman."

Travis passed his laptop to Neal. "Here's a list of names I've come across so far. Do you recognize any of them?"

Neal studied the list, his eyes flitting down the screen. Suddenly his expression grew more intense and he pointed out a name to Travis. "Where'd you find this one?"

Travis checked his records. "In an email dated November 18, 2004."

"What's the name?" Peter demanded.

"Curtis Hagen," Neal said. "He's British. Works in Europe as an art restorer. He's also reputed to be a forger. I heard about him in Europe. Supposedly the guy is a master counterfeiter. I never met him. That date corresponds to the period when the Corot forgery was painted.

"The Dutchman?"

Neal grinned. "Is that his ship I see emerging from the fog?"

Travis and Jones had already started searches for any mention of Hagen. While they worked, Peter went over the need for tightened confidentiality.

"You think there may be a mole working for Ydrus within the Bureau?" Diana asked.

"We have to consider the possibility," Peter said. "Someone could have gained access to our request for a delayed search warrant."

Jones looked up from his laptop. "That means we need to expand the scope of our investigation to include the Justice Department. The application for the warrant passed through numerous hands before it was approved."

"We could be dealing with multiple informants in different organizations," Travis pointed out.

"The Fengs knew about our interest in Rinaldi," Diana added, "but we vetted them and no link to Rinaldi was found."

"Plus, if one of the Fengs had been the source, there would have been no reason to wait till the last moment," Peter pointed out. "Rinaldi would have simply canceled the trip."

"What about Sterling-Bosch?" Jones asked. "How familiar was Sara with our operation?"

Neal gave Jones a startled look but didn't say anything.

"I'd discussed Rinaldi with Sara on the Tuesday before our trip," Peter said. "I didn't go into the specifics of our op, but I did ask her to look into whether Rinaldi had any dealings with Sterling-Bosch or Weatherby's. Sara had been apprised of the FBI's code of confidentiality when she asked to liaise with us on the case. She wasn't vetted, but she will be now."

"We don't know what the Sterling-Bosch's security situation is like," Neal said. "Who knows how many people Sara spoke with? And even if she hadn't talked to anyone, someone could have accessed her files."

"She's merely one of many who will need to be investigated," Peter said. "I've met the head of Sterling-Bosch, R.W. Bosch, on a few occasions. I intend to pursue the matter with him."

The van grew quiet as Jones and Travis continued to scour the data files. Neal slouched into his seat. He turned his head into the hood as if to burrow into it. How much heat could one person stand? If it hadn't been for Neal, he would have asked them to turn the heat down. It was so warm it was hard to stay awake ...

Peter woke up with a jerk. Travis and Jones were still working on their laptops. Neal was texting on his phone.

They were now only an hour away from Manhattan. Peter turned to Neal. "You don't have to come in tomorrow."

"You're going in, aren't you?" At Peter's nod, he added, "I may still have my parka on, but I'll be there."

"You won't try to go to class tonight," Peter countered. "That's an order, not a question, by the way."

Neal smiled. "I already informed the professor. I also texted Fiona so she won't worry about why I'm not there."

By the time the FBI van rolled into Manhattan, Travis and Jones had ferreted out several references to Curtis Hagen in Rinaldi's email. He'd commissioned several paintings, including the Degas and the Renoir paintings that Neal had examined in the Rinaldi mansion. The files also contained evidence of payments to the plumber Artie Klossner who had offered the painting to Weatherby's.

Neal looked over at Peter with tired jubilation. "I'd wanted to present the Dutchman to you on a silver platter, but I'll settle for a snow sled."