"Our suspect's name is Scott Rivers, and he's been on a criminal road trip," Peter told the assembled in the conference room.

"So far, we've been able to link seven of the items in the photos to recent crimes," Diana said. Neal took a look at the board Diana put together. It was photos from the collage in the apartment, and on each photo, the guy posed with an expensive-looking item, all in disguises, including a hoodie and sunglasses. Making him look like a crook.

"We have a warrant for his arrest," Peter continued, "but our guy is always in disguises. He won't be easy to track down." Neal disagreed with that but kept his mouth shut.

"Hey, how come you never used disguises?" Diana asked him. Neal put the board back on the table.

"The right smile works just as well," Neal told her, "and you don't have to worry that your mustache is on straight."

Peter gave him an odd look. Did he think he was lying? It was the truth. The trick was to avoid getting your photo taken.

"Oh, this kid did the Hartford Mansion job?" Jones asked.

Neal whistled in admiration, full of irony. That job was… just boring. Clever, a little, maybe, but boring.

"He steals items of incredible excess from the wealthy," Peter continued. "Half-a-million-dollar sunglasses, a solid-gold toilet-brush holder, you get the idea. And every crime he commits, he leaves this signature behind." He held up a card in an evidence bag. It said 'A Donation has been made in your name. The Organ Donor Group.'

"Does he actually leave a donation?" Jones asked.

"In the victims' names," Diana nodded, "to a different charity each time."

"So, Robin Hoodie here robs from the rich and gives some to the poor," Neal said. It was just too comical.

"Robin Hoodie?" Peter repeated.

"I like it," Jones said.

"No, you don't. Don't call him that, please."

"Well, you called him that," Diana smiled.

"It was a bad joke."

"What can you tell us about him?" Peter asked him.

What was there to tell that was not obvious to a bunch of federal agents who did this for a living?

"He's a kid. I mean, he likes shiny things, and he steals them." He leaned back in his chair, but Peter obviously wanted more. "He never had much money, but he was around people who did, and he resents them. He's got morals. These donation cards are a way to justify his thefts. He's telling them how they should spend their money. And he's cocky.

Almost getting caught won't stop him."

"Will he get bolder?" Peter wanted to know.

"That's what I did." Maybe he should take the treasure with Mozzie and run, to let Peter have a real challenge for once. Though he knew he would end up in prison for the rest of his life.

"Okay," Peter said. "Neal and I will dig into the donations and the evidence from the safe house. Jones, Diana, find out where the rest of those stolen items came from. Let's try and figure out where this guy's gonna hit next."

What annoyed Neal was that Peter was having so much fun. This guy was just too predictable to be fun. And pushing his morals on others… No, this Scott Rivers would be caught before the end of the week.

Peter had taken Neal with him to work from home.

"Hi, honey!" El called when she entered.

"Hey!" Peter answered.

"I saw you got a high score on 'Angry Birds' today."

He got a look and a raised eyebrow from Neal.

"She knows you're here," Peter explained.

"Oh, I'm not judging. Somebody has to stand up to those green pigs."

"I'm glad you're working from home tonight," El said, unpacking the food she had bought. "So, what's the case?"

"Young con man stealing from New York's wealthy."

"Oh, a young Neal?" She must have seen the kid's back stiffen. "Touchy subject?"

"Apparently."

"It's not," the kid assured them.

"This is it," Peter grinned and pointed with a pen. "This is the bank account Robin Hoodie used to make the donations."

"Robin Hoodie?" his wife asked. "I like it."

Neal made a face and sighed. Why? It was a perfect name.

"He made a donation yesterday, but it doesn't link up to a robbery. Maybe something that he hasn't stolen yet?"

"No, he needs to make the donation to get the card," the kid said, gesturing with a bunch of Robin Hoodie's cards. "The theft has to come after that."

"Which means it could be happening any minute," Peter sighed.

"Well, his donations definitely have a sense of humor," the kid said. "He stole a half-million-dollar bottle of scotch, then donated to the Betty Ford clinic."

Peter looked at the post on the bank account.

"This one's to an organ-donation charity."

"Maybe he's stealing a rare church organ," El suggested. "Play on words."

Could be, Peter thought.

"Organ donation. Makes you think of?"

"Driver's license," the kid said. "Organ donor."

"He's gonna rob the DMV?"

"There's no real pattern to the things he steals. It's everything from a diamond-covered cellphone to —"

"What about a motorcycle?" El asked. "Hospitals call them 'donorcycles.'"

Peter glanced and Neal.

"It's worth a shot," his pet convict nodded.

"Let's find out who owns the most expensive motorcycle in New York," Peter said and made a fist bump with his brilliant wife.

Then came the funny part of telling a random rich guy what he should do with his property.

"Mr. Stewart, we suspect you're about to be the target of a theft," Peter said to a guy in Neal's age with a big fancy house. At least these visits had that perk that he got to see a lot of interesting homes.

"That sucks," Chad Stewart answered and walked down the stairs as uninterested as he could be.

"We're serious," Peter said, following him down. "You recently bought a high-end motorcycle?"

"No."

"You didn't?"

"I bought a confederate fighter, okay? Calling it a motorcycle is like calling the Queen of England a rich old lady with a funny accent."

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and he gestured to a motorcycle on display on a dais with spotlights on it.

"But it's still a motorcycle," the kid pointed out.

"Dude, this is so much more." Chad stepped up on the dais and took a seat on the motorcycle. "Have you ever had a hundred grand between your legs?"

"Actually, yes, I have."

"Don't," Peter mumbled to him. "Don't. We'd like to set up a command post here to catch the thief."

"Not gonna happen," Mr. Stewart said. "My confederate party's in four hours. For this confederate."

"You really like saying 'confederate,' don't you?" Neal said.

"Confederate," the owner of the motorcycle said with a sigh.

"Who knows about the party?" Peter asked.

"Everybody."

"It's the perfect opportunity for the theft," Peter told him.

"My security rocks. No one's stealing anything from here."

"You want to make a bet on that?" his pet convict asked. "Hell, yeah. I bet you I can steal something worth... ten grand in the next two minutes. If I do, you let us come to the party."

"Sure. Why not?"

Neal offered his hand, and young Mr. Stewart shook it. Neal hugged the man's hand with two hands. Peter looked away for a moment to keep his pose.

Then Neal just stood there with his hands in his pockets.

"Is this a joke?" Mr. Stewart asked. "You're running out of time. You only have—" Now the young rich man realized that his watch was gone.

"A minute left. I know," the kid said, bringing it out of his pocket with a smile. "How much would you say this is worth?" he asked Peter. "Ten grand?"

"Oh, at least."

"I get it," Chad said and held out his hand.

"You didn't say I have to give it back."

"Give it back," Peter said, and the kid obeyed.

"Fine. You can set up here. I got the FBI at my beck and call. Everybody's gonna love this."

This guy was unbelievable.

"No," Peter shook his head. "The whole point of a covert sting is to not tell people. No one can know we're here."

This made the brat even more amused.

"In that suit?" Peter was not amused and glared back. "Right."

He stepped off the motorcycle and left them.

Peter had an idea the young brat had a point. He would not fit in. Nor did he want to be at the party with all its noise and people.

"I'll be in the surveillance van for this one."

"Can I come with you?" the kid asked.

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

When they got out on the sidewalk and reached the car, Peter looked at him.

"I thought you loved these kinds of parties."

"I do, when I'm allowed to steal from lofty arrogant hosts."

"Maybe it's you who is Robin Hoodie after all. I haven't looked into that." Peter grinned, but Neal was even less amused.

"Peter, I'm getting blamed for things I didn't do as it is. You don't have to push it."

"Sorry."

"And most con men start young. Just because we've got a young guy stealing from reach people doesn't make him a young version of me. Yes, I want to be remembered as the best. I am that vain, I know that. But if this kid showed any finesse, I would be proud of the comparison. Now I only get insulted. Call him Robin Hoodie, fine, I don't care, but don't compare him with me, alright."

Peter nodded.

"Fair enough. I won't."