Neal liked what he saw. A school where they seemed to get the best from every student. Manhattan Prep.
"I might have graduated if I had gone somewhere like this," he told Peter.
"I'm not surprised you like it here. Even the kindergartners wear ties."
Neal glanced at Peter, who was dressed up as a wealthy Hong Kong banker. He looked good for the part.
"You know, if my sentence gets commuted, I'd consider going back to school," he said, fishing for a reaction from his handler.
"Mm."
"Maybe get a master's, study abroad, publish…"
"Don't get ahead of yourself there, Hemingway," Peter returned. "I haven't decided if I'm gonna close the Keller case. I told you…"
"Focus on work," Neal finished the sentence.
"Words to live by."
They walked inside a stone building that could have been Medieval if New York had been there at the time. A teacher assistant gave them a quick tour and showed them all the goodies and brag-able stuff.
"And now we are back at the main staircase, Mr. Stone," she said. "Take it down and turn left and you'll find Mr. Slater who will take you to Mr. Woods."
Neal noted that she only addressed Peter, not the amanuensis. Manhattan Prep was also a place for snobs. Pity.
"My school never had a falconry club," Peter said on the way down.
"Guess Peter Jr. will be the falconer in the family," Neal said. "Where are you staying while you're in town, Mr. Stone?"
"The company puts me up at the Four Seasons."
"Mm. Generous."
"Linda loves the spa."
"Ah. Too bad she couldn't make it this trip."
Just in case someone listened to them and checked them out, they turned left, and Neal saw a classic corridor. So, there were those in here as well.
"All right, wait here. Just sit on the bench while I meet with Woods."
Neal sighed and sat down on the bench beside an unhappy-looking boy while Peter knocked on the door beside it.
"Oh. My eleven o'clock" said the man opening.
"Peter Stone."
They shook hands.
"Graham Slater, headmaster here at Manhattan Prep. Want to welcome you before
I introduce you to Andy Woods."
"Oh, you're the warm-up act?"
"Come in."
Peter and Slater disappeared inside the room, but Neal saw the angry glance the boy beside him got.
"You in trouble?" he asked the kid when they were alone.
"A lot. I might get expelled."
"Well, that's no good."
"Me and this other kid—"
Neal held up his hand to stop him.
"Here's what you do. Make eye contact. If they nod, you nod. Do what they do. It makes them think you're listening. Then you look them in the eye and tell them you're sorry. Don't look down, all right? That's a tell that you're lying." Not that it was always so, but that was the impression, and the impression was what counted, not scientific facts.
"Sweet!" the boy grinned. "Thanks."
"You didn't hear that from me."
A woman came rushing down the staircase and saw Neal.
"Oh. Excuse me. Western poetry?"
"'I end not far from my going forth by picking the faded blue'… Frost."
"Excellent! Mr. Cooper, you're in the wrong place." She handed him a few papers. "At least you wore a jacket."
"I think you got me mixed up—" Neal started, but she did not listen.
"If I had a song for every substitute I had to track down in these halls, I'd be Aretha Franklin." She turned on her heels and walked away. Neal glanced at the papers he got. A list of members in the class. Chloe Woods, their suspect's daughter.
"Uh, I need to call my supervisor—" he called out after her, but she swung back to him immediately.
"Bell's about to ring, Mr. Cooper. You'll be late."
"What kind of an example would that set?" he asked the boy beside him. Peter would not be happy to find his amanuensis missing, but nobody else would.
"Don't know how you make teenagers care about reading," the woman said.
Neal rose.
"You just have to be willing to focus on the work. So, where's my class?" he asked her and she gestured for him to follow. "Thanks."
"We have three grandmasters who work with our chess team," the headmaster said as he guided Peter through one of the large halls, all filled with chess tables and players.
"Probably a better life-skill than falconry," Peter said. The headmaster chuckled.
"Andy!" They had reached a table where a man - Andy Woods - was supervising a game. "Meet Peter Stone. Mr. Stone, meet Andy Woods."
"Pleased to meet you," Peter said, shaking the man's hand. Woods took Peter's hand in both of his and somehow Peter got a feeling he was shaking hands with a piraya.
"Prescott's shaping up to be the next Fischer," Woods said. "That's what I love about this school! They push the kids."
"Well, I will leave you two," the headmaster said. "Mr. Stone, I hope to see Peter Jr. at Manhattan Prep."
"Thank you." The headmaster left, and Peter joined Woods to watch another game. "Well, you know what they say, play the man, not the board."
"Never played chess," Woods confessed. "Grew up in a rough neighborhood, public schools, worked for everything I have."
"So did I," Peter said. "Nothing wrong with that." That was the situation for most people.
"No. But, nothing's better than a school with connections. It'll set you up for life. That's this place."
"You have a son here?" Peter asked, already knowing the answer.
"A daughter. Chloe. A junior. Keeps me on my toes."
"Yeah, always wondering what they're up to next," Peter mused, thinking of Neal, naturally. He had to work as a mental stand-in.
"Oh, your son's a handful, too, huh?"
"He's very intelligent but impulsive. His moves tend to land him in trouble."
"The bright ones always try to break the rules," Woods nodded.
"Well, I want to give him the best shot at life. I know it's gonna cost me."
Woods naturally thought he talked about money, as intended.
"Come on." A friendly hand from Woods landed on his shoulder. "Adams," he told a man, his amanuensis maybe, "bring the car around while I give Peter a tour. Send your son here," he told Peter in his next breath. "He'll fall in line. He won't be able to pull
anything at Manhattan Prep."
Yeah, right! Peter thought. They had not met Neal Caffrey.
Neal studied the class through the small windows in the door, wondering what would happen if he were to take on the role of their teacher. Peter would not be happy about it. And he did not want to risk anything at the moment.
"Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it!" he heard someone mumble under his breath, and down the stairs came a sweaty, unkempt man.
"Is this Mr. Brooks' English class? I slept through my damn alarm."
"You must be Mr. Cooper."
"And the trains were delayed." He pulled his sweaty hair back into a ponytail. "Do you have anything for a headache?"
"No. You got a little something on your shirt there." That 'little something' was a rather large stain of God knows what on a white shirt.
"Yeah. They're gonna be watching this baby, not me," he said, pulling a book out of his pocket. "That'll kill an hour."
That settled it. This man would not ruin what good poetry could be for these kids.
"Actually, you could have slept in 'cause there's been a mix-up. I'm Mr. Brooks. My vacation is not until next week. I'm sorry you came all this way for nothing."
Mr. Cooper sure did not mind.
"It ain't no thing. They call me; they have to pay me, right?"
"I'll make sure of it."
"This day turned out all right," Mr Cooper said as he jogged back up the stairs.
Neal pushed the door open and walked into the class. He made eye contact with Evan, who, besides a dropped jaw, did not blow his cover. Neal hoped it would continue that way.
Neal wrote 'Mr Cooper' on the blackboard.
"Hi. I'm Mr. Cooper. I'll be filling in for Mr. Brooks. Let's see…" He read the notes on the desk. "All right. According to the lesson plan, today we'll be continuing with romantic poetry." They moaned. "No poets in the class?"
"Scansion's like math," Chloe said. "Marking the lines, it kills the romance."
Here was a chance to do some good in life, something some of these kids could bring with them forever.
"Close your books," he urged them as he walked around the front of the desk. "Forget about structure for a minute. Just listen." He saw he had their attention. "She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes, thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies, one shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace that waves in every raven tress or softly lightens o'er her face."
He got them spellbound. Wow. It was a fantastic feeling. And Chloe was now in love with him, Neal realized. Harmless, but Evan would not stand a chance now, and that was not how he wanted this story to go.