When Neal took the initiative to deal with Peter and the FBI, he had not considered in what way it would affect his friendship with Mozzie. First of all, he had not known if Mozzie would be there at all. And secondly, he had looked upon it as a short term arrangement. Four years, sure, that was the deal, but he had only seen opportunities in the near future, like catching the Dutchman and just being out of prison.
The idea that he would have his white whale and prefer to stay with his FBI friend, well, even if he had always liked Peter, he would never have thought he would face such a dilemma.
Neal hated dilemmas. He did not want to mull over problems that were unable to solve in a way that felt satisfactory. He wanted to stay and leave at the same time, and those paradoxes were always pushed aside for problems that had solutions.
Like finding a way to talk to Mozzie. Though his friend had ghosted him for two days, Neal knew what buttons to push. That's why he watched Mozzie approach a marked park bench, sit down, and knock his folded paper to the armrest three times.
The day the law was searching for this man, all they had to do was act secretive and pretend to be part of a conspiracy.
Neal called on the arranged number and Mozzie picked up.
"The sparrow dies at midnight," his friend said.
"Then I'd hate to be the sparrow," Neal answered behind him. Moz turned and put his phone down.
"Seriously? I was about to expose the leader of the North American Union."
"Nope. You just thought you were." Neal sat down on the next park bench. "The N.A.U. doesn't exist."
"Says you. You set this up?"
"I had to talk to you somehow."
"Another piece of fiction. Much like the yarn you spun about not having the FBI's art manifest."
"You have a right to be angry. I lied to you."
"Why?"
"I broke into Peter's safe. I had the list in my hand. I was ready to take the treasure and go."
"Then why didn't you?!"
"Peter call—" he began but stopped. It was a path Moz would never understand. "I have a life here," he said instead. Simple and clear to the point.
"But we had a dream!"
"Well, dreams change. I mean, have you ever thought we might not like whiling away our days on a Mediterranean island?"
"Then we sell our island and come back."
"No, you can come back! I can't!" This was the key point Mozzie never seemed to understand the consequences of. "I run on this, and New York is just a memory for me."
"Come on, Neal. This was the one, the perfect last score. I knew you were dragging your feet."
"You went behind my back and fenced the Degas."
"I did it to… I did it to protect us!"
"By putting a hit on Keller? Doing something that rash is exactly what will get us into trouble."
Mozzie shrugged.
"Most black-market pieces never resurface. You know that."
"Because they're not on a list that Peter is actively looking for. The Degas is. If Peter finds it—"
"Yeah, I know. And it proves that the treasure didn't burn, and the trail leads straight back to us."
"So let's stop the bleeding. Who's the fence?"
There was a silence. Neal waited.
"Rusty."
"Rusty? Seriously?" Neal got an annoyed look back. "All right, talk to him. Find out who he sold the painting to. We'll start there."
"Fine," Mozzie sneered back.
"Talk to Rusty, okay?" Neal rose and walked off.
"But that does leave one question," Moz said behind him. He stop and turned. "Do you want to stay?"
That was not something he would discuss here and now. One day he would have to make that choice but it was not today.
"I'll let you know."
When Neal returned to the office, he found a new face, examining the head of Socrates in false ivory that he had on his desk. It was no young probie either. It was a man ten-fifteen years older than Peter, with an air of authority and know-how.
Neal took a deep breath and walked into the office, feeling he would have a conversation with someone who was skeptical of the idea of a convict and prison inmate on the site.
"The greatest way to live honorably is to be what we pretend to be," the man said, holding Socrates' head in front of him as if it were a puppet talking. Neal could not help smiling at the lack of finesse and humor. "I'm paraphrasing, but I don't think old Socrates here would mind."
"He might. Can I help you?"
"Yeah. You know anything about Renaissance portrait medals?"
"You seem to know that I do."
"I have a cold case on a Fiorentino that was taken from the Smithsonian eight years ago. The one I found turned out to be chocolate, wrapped in foil." Good quality chocolate, too, but that part was somehow never mentioned. "You probably heard that story."
"Sounds vaguely familiar." This also told him who the man in front of him was.
"I thought it might." The look he got said that the man was sure of who did it, and he was looking right at him. "I'm—"
"Agent Kramer, head of the Bureau's D.C. Art Crimes unit," Neal said. They shook hands. The agent seemed friendly on the surface, but he was a little too close for comfort and locked eyes a little too long.
"I'd say this moment was inevitable, Mr. Caffrey, given I am who I am, and you are who you are."
"Oh, good. You two have met." Peter turned up at Kramer's side.
"Oh, Neal and I were, uh... Well, what were we doing here?"
Neal beamed, not letting the man under his skin.
"Shooting the breeze."
"Yeah. Yeah, you could say that."
"Agent Kramer was my mentor at Quantico," Peter said.
"Now I'm just a friend."
"So you're the one who taught Peter everything he knows."
"Well, I taught him a fair amount. Kept a few things for myself."
"Oh, now, you didn't tell me that," Peter chuckled, perfectly at ease with the man.
"What brings D.C. to New York?" Neal asked, relaxed on the surface and in every way anyone could detect.
"You tell him?" Kramer asked Peter.
"Why don't we take this into the conference room?"
"Oh, good. You two have met." Peter joined Agent Kramer and the kid talking. New agents always got Neal to be his most charming self.
"Oh, Neal and I were, uh..." Kramer turned to the kid. "Well, what were we doing here?"
They chuckled, Neal more at ease than Kramer, it seemed.
"Shooting the breeze," the kid said with a smile that Peter thought meant that he did not like Kramer.
"Yeah," Kramer nodded. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Agent Kramer was my mentor at Quantico," Peter told the kid.
"Now I'm just a friend," Kramer said.
"So you're the one who taught Peter everything he knows."
"Well, I taught him a fair amount. Kept a few things for myself."
"Oh, now, you didn't tell me that," Peter chuckled.
"What brings D.C. to New York?" the kid asked.
"You tell him?"
Kramer had his ways, and he could well understand why Neal did not like him. At least not at first sight. It would not be better if Kramer did not stop staring like he expected the kid to confess.
"Why don't we take this into the conference room?" Peter suggested.
"All right." Of course, the kid would not object to that.
Peter alerted the whole team, and soon they were all seated.
"Two days ago, we got a tip that a long-lost masterpiece surfaced in New York," Peter started. "You all know Agent Kramer from D.C."
"One of our C.I.s heard chatter of a black-market painting being sold here," Kramer continued and put a picture on the screen.
"A Degas," Jones said at once.
"Good eye, Jones," Peter smiled proudly. "This one's called 'Entrance of the Masked Dancers'. It was compl—" He halted himself. "Oh, Neal, I'm sure you can take it from here."
"Oh, completed in 1884, it's one of Degas' seminal works. It's more complex than the gauzy ballerinas he's famous for." The kid had not even blinked. If Neal had the treasure and was the one selling the piece, then the kid succeeded in hiding it even from him. The thought made Peter melancholic.
"It's believed to have been taken by the Germans in '41 from the Tsarskoye Selo museum in Saint Petersburg," Kramer said. "Along with a whole lot of other art."
"It hasn't been seen since," Peter finished.
"What do you think, Neal?" Kramer asked.
"Me? I think recovering this masterpiece would be incredible, sir."
"Me too," Peter nodded. "So we're gonna find it." Still, nothing in the kid's face or posture told of any panic or guilt. Just a thoughtful frown, like he always had when they were thinking together.