The drive home was quiet and tense. Not only did he still have no idea where Neal was or what had befallen him, but Elizabeth's disapproval of his behavior was palpable. It wasn't like he'd planned it that way. It just, well, happened. One minute the desk clerk was citing privacy policies, and the next, he had shoved his badge under the young man's nose. Faced with a badge-wielding Federal Agent, the clerk had paled and summoned the manager.

As he'd said, he hadn't planned it, but with the knot of dread in his stomach and the tension in his frame, it had happened all the same.

June had said Neal hadn't been staying at his apartment, and McBride confirmed Neal, or Mr. Clay, had rented a suite in a trendy hotel nearby. In addition to trying his phone, she'd called the suite, but there had been no answer. Apparently, he'd had the rooms for nearly six months, and a part of Peter was bothered by the fact that he hadn't known anything about them. To make matters worse, when he'd called in a favor and ran Nathan Clay's license plate to see if he'd been involved in an accident, he'd learned the car was involved in an ongoing vandalism investigation. Neal, or rather Nathan Clay, had reported the incident a week earlier on Howard's Beach.

After getting that news, he'd managed another moment with Ms. McBride and asked her about it.

"Yes," she told him, "That's where he was going when he left yesterday to pick up his car." Peter would get the report, but he didn't have it yet, so he pressed for more information. "It happened last Friday, I think. He'd had dinner with a potential client out on Howards Beach, and when he left the restaurant, his car had been vandalized. Unfortunately, it's not his only incident with vandals," she confided. "There have been problems here and at a couple of other galleries over the past several weeks." She frowned. "But that was the first time someone's personal property was targeted."

Peter had talked to Neal several times over the past weeks, and he'd never mentioned problems at the Gallery. But Howard's Beach was a long way from the Gallery and McBride had used the word targeted, which made Peter's unease grow.

"Where was his car?" He asked. "Did he take a cab when he left?"

"The garage is on 57th street, so he could have walked. I'm sorry," she added. "I didn't ask."

It was too late to check there but not too late to check Synergy Suites so he and Elizabeth, after informing and equally concerned June about their plans, left early and headed to the hotel where Neal had his rooms.

Why? he'd wondered it then and wondered it now. Why would Neal keep this from him? He was a federal investigator, for pity's sake, and had much better resources than the NYPD. If Neal had a problem requiring law enforcement, he should have been Neal's first call. Okay, second. Neal was right to call the NYPD about the incident, but he should have also called his friend. Especially when it turned personal. He knew Neal valued his privacy, but where was the line between privacy and secrecy?

He let out a huff. Probably in close proximity to the one between being helpful and controlling, concerned and officious. A line the frown of the manager, the curious glances from the lobby's other occupants, and his wife's flashing eyes told him he'd barreled across without as much as a second thought.

Of course, it had worked; moments later, the manager used his key card to open the door to Neal's suite of rooms. The front desk gentleman had already assured them that Nathan Clay had not checked in and was not on the premises, but Peter had taken the elevator to the top floor where, unsurprisingly, the suite was located. He'd banged on the door, but there had been no answer. Unwilling to leave the place without a peek inside, he'd returned to the front desk and asked to be allowed to enter the suite.

The rooms had revealed nothing out of the ordinary; there was an easel under a cloth and some assorted paint supplies near the large window. There was nothing other than clothes and toiletries to indicate Neal had spent any time there at all. Of course, he'd not been able to rifle through the writing desk with the manager glaring at him, so any information to be found there would have to be left for another day. But all in all, the visit to Synergy Suites had fulfilled its immediate purpose: to verify that Neal was not there.

"That could have been handled better," Elizabeth had muttered as they left the building. "If you'd just taken a minute to explain that Nathan is our friend," she scolded as they reached the car, "and we were worried about him, they may have relented. But no, you had to start that Federal Agent Bluster and bully them." Now instead of the manager, it was his wife shooting daggers at him. "Now, the only thing that will get around is that the FBI demanded to be let into Nathan Clay's rooms."

He felt unease prickle at the memory of the curious onlookers in the lobby. Had they heard him? Did they know whose rooms he was demanding to see? The clerk and manager knew but would those policies on privacy keep their mouths closed? If not, and word got around that the mysterious and reclusive Nathan Clay was of some interest to the FBI...

Damn. He had messed up. When Neal returned-Peter refused even to entertain the word IF-he'd be furious.

"I did tell them I was worried," Peter countered, trying to remember exactly what he'd said. Surely he had said he was worried. "I said-"

"You said," her voice turned gruff as she did what he considered a poor imitation of his FBI voice. "Clay didn't show up at his gallery. Is he here?" Peter winced as the memory returned. He hadn't said he was worried, at least not at first. "And when they said, no, he hadn't stayed there the night before," she reminded, "You stomped off to see for yourself. And when he didn't answer the door, went back and demanded to be let into his room. You shouldn't have even had your badge with you," she muttered, looking back through the windshield at the dark road. "You were at the Gallery tonight as Neal's friend, not an FBI agent."

Peter didn't say that he couldn't just not be an agent. And he could be both a friend to Neal and an agent; they were no longer mutually exclusive.

"I am his friend, and as his friend, I was worried when he didn't show up tonight. Not to mention finding out he's been the target of vandals and neglected even to mention it. June had Janet go into Neal's apartment to make sure he wasn't there," he reminded her, "and I told her I'd check at his rooms at the hotel. And that's what I did."

"Yes, but you shouldn't have barged in with badge and bluster, making demands. Neal spends time there," she pointed out. "It's part of the new life he's trying to build here. Now you've..." She trailed off, letting out a heavy sigh. "I don't know. He's just now beginning to trust us enough to invite us in. I don't want.."

"Me to mess it up?"

"Either of us to mess it up," she insisted. "We've both made mistakes with him in the past, Peter. And the way you acted tonight in that lobby is exactly the kind of thing you'd have done before."

It was his turn to sigh. "I know," he admitted. "I didn't mean to, El, honestly. It's just I'm worried about him. Something is wrong, and it's my job-" He stopped just as her head spun to gape at him. "Dammit," he muttered.