Peter stepped off the elevator, and Neal followed. Peter was immediately accosted by various agents wanting to give their reports to the senior agent in charge. Neal sank into his seat as his friend handled the clamor. Neal sighed, and reached for the blue folder labeled, "AMMON, FRANK H." He picked up a pen and began adding his own personal notes to Diana's haphazardly collected data.
They were seriously uninformed about how dangerous this man really was. He began doodling, and soon a near-perfect image of Ammon emerged on the paper. It was an angry Ammon, brow creased in rage and spittle flying at the corner of his lips. It was Ammon as 13-year-old Neal remembered him.
Jones was the one who caught sight of Neal's drawing. He knew immediately that Peter would want to see it. "Hey, I'm gonna confiscate all your paperclips, Caffrey!" Jones smiled as he greeted Neal.
"You need some defensive tactics, there, Jones." Neal reached for a rubber band, and threatened to shoot it at the senior agent. "Hey! Hey. This isn't an office war! I'm here to ask for your expertise. Can you look over this? It's some mortgage fraud, but the names aren't popping up in any database. Just want some second eyes on it." While Neal was glancing through the new folder, Jones carefully slipped the paper with his artwork free from his desk. Having a known thief around the office had taught Jones a thing or two about slight-of-hand.
"No problem, Jones. Give me a half hour, and I'll get this back to you." Neal was eager to push Ammon out of his mind. So eager that mortgage fraud looked appealing.
After Neal was properly distracted, Jones made a beeline for Peter's office. He hastily shoved the paper across his boss' desk.
"Oh. Whoa." Peter looked up, and saw the worry in Jones' dark eyes. He had no doubt it mirrored the look on his own face.
Any future conversation was cut short as a gleeful Diana frog-marched a furious and non-compliant Frank Ammon through the bullpen and into one of the interrogation rooms. Her two probationary agents followed, looking proud of their boss. Peter and Jones looked down at the scene unfolding. Most of the other agents were crowded around the interrogation audio/video monitoring screens, while others had hovered around the pane of one-way glass. Peter noticed that Neal hadn't moved from his desk. He was paler than usual, and attempting to focus on his work.
"It's your case, Jones, are you going to supervise Diana?" Peter asked as he walked down the stairs.
"She's just as skilled as I am, boss." Jones stopped, though, when he saw Diana storm out of the interrogation room. "Shit. Maybe I should get down there."
Peter laughed as Jones took the stairs two-at-time. He could hear Diana's ranting, though, and he heaved a sigh of irritation.
"That lying sack of shit says he won't talk unless it's to 'little agent Danny!' He won't lawyer up, which would be, frankly, less frustrating than demanding to see agents we don't have! Danny?! Who the fuck is that?!" Diana was gesturing wildly, but ended with her hands on her hips. Jones thought she was about to stomp her foot like a teenage girl. He'd never admit that out loud, though—his sense of self-preservation was excellent.
"I'll take it from here, Diana. Cut the video and audio display and the rest of you go do something productive!" Peter's voice raised into a slight crescendo. The bullpen froze as they processed their senior agent in charge's orders, and then burst into activity as everyone hurried to comply.
"Neal! Get over here! Now!" Peter headed toward the interrogation room door. He didn't bother checking to see if his young CI had begun moving, or not. He knew Neal would obey him in this. His tone of voice commanded an immediate response.
"No, no, no, no." Neal was muttering as he tried to catch up with Peter. He darted the last few steps and put his hand on the door to stop his boss. "No, no, no, Peter, no, please…" Neal's blue eyes were huge as he looked at Peter with worry.
Peter gently grabbed Neal's wrist and slid his hand from the door. "It's gonna be okay, kid. I promise. But we're going to go in there and see what he wants. He meant you, when he called you Danny, right?"
"You don't understand!" Neal was trying desperately to keep the panic out of his voice, but he felt his control slipping.
Peter fished Neal's drawing out of his jacket pocket. "I understand enough."
Neal snatched the drawing and crumpled it in his fist. "No, Agent, he's going to tell you…" Neal's voice trailed off as he tried in vain to regain some sense of self-control. Peter looked shocked at Neal's use of the title "agent."
"You can't believe him. Okay? Please!" Neal ran his shaky fingers through his hair. He hated Ammon. Hated that he made him loose his control, hated the sick feeling he got in his stomach when he saw his face, hated that Peter was going to know about his past, hated that after all these years running this nightmare would finally catch him again.
"Okay. I'll let you tell me what he said that was truth, and what were lies after this." Peter patted Neal's shoulder comfortingly. "Okay?"
Neal nodded. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his mask was firmly in place. He was once again the charming Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire. He ready to face his worst demon.
"I'm Special Agent in Charge Peter Burke, this is—" Peter was cut-off by the man sitting in cuffs across the desk. He looked to be mid-to-late fifties, but looked extremely physically fit and strong despite his salt-and-pepper hair growing uncomfortably thin on top of his head.
"I know who he is. Hello, Little Danny Boy." Ammon lifted his wrists. "Care to get me out of these, Agent Danny? Never thought I'd see you on that side of the law." Ammon smirked.
"No, you will remain cuffed for the time being." Peter attempted to regain control of the interrogation. "We have been in contact with the Saint Louis PD. You have 48 hours left on your parole liberty. We also know you've been casing the Met."
"They have some beautiful artwork." Ammon glanced at Peter and shrugged. "Tell me, Danny, how does Peter treat you?"
"With respect. What's your interest in the Met?" Neal smiled, charmingly, at Ammon.
Ammon turned to Peter and observed, "He strikes me as a belt type of guy."
"No, he's not. The Met, Frank, you're going after the pair of the Young Sailor paintings, right?"
"Oh, he's not? I bet he uses—" Neal interrupted Frank, loudly, to cut off his musings.
"Frank. Please. I'd like to get you out of the cuffs, out of my office, and quite honestly, out of my city. So, what's your interest in the Met?"
Ammon sighed and turned to Peter. "Such impatience and rudeness with this one. I see you haven't had more success than Ellen, in forcing that out of him, either." Ammon turned back to Neal. "I'm allowed to visit the Met. Names expire from their no-access list every three years. I'm enjoying real art, considering Saint Louis doesn't have the variety offered up here. If you think I'm going to steal it, good luck catching me. I learned fifteen years ago the value of a good alibi and eye-witness testimony. I'm sure my entire fucking family will let you know I'm dealing with the funeral and arrangements of my dear grandmother, God rest her soul. I'll be dealing with those arrangements whenever this theft does occur. Now, if that's all, I think I'll be going now. You don't have anything to hold me." Ammon tossed Peter the cuffs that he had expertly picked and stood.
"Come see me, sometime, Dannyboy. I've missed you." Ammon reached out and patted Neal's cheek, and then walked out of the interrogation room.
"Are you going to just let him go!?" Neal looked at Peter with exasperation.
"Yeah, he's right. We don't have anything on him. But Diana planted two, maybe three bugs on him and in his hotel room. If there's something to get, we'll get it, plus we have the wiretap approval. He practically just confessed to having accomplices and plotting to steal the art." Peter opened the door and motioned for Neal. "C'mon. We're having that conversation. You choose the location, but we're having it."