"Morning, Peter." Neal seemed all smiles. Peter could not say he felt the same. His pet convict could be released for good behavior because no one but Peter knew that there had been a vast hidden treasure involved. He glanced at the paper tray with two paper mugs. New coffee shop again.
"I see your quest for Manhattan's best brew continues."
"One's for you." Neal gave him one with two paper notes tucked into the paper sleeve.
"Oh. Yankee tickets. Versus the Red Sox," Peter read on them.
"Yeah, I got them from Frankie Whispers. I'm not gonna use them."
Peter saw the seats. He knew that stadium.
"They're behind home plate," he said.
"Oh? I hear that's good."
"Uh-huh," Peter sighed. "You bought coffee, Yankee tickets… This is not your most subtle con."
"Con? Peter, I am hurt that you —"
"You're trying to get back on my good side," Peter cut the chase short.
"Is that a crime?"
"No. But let's review what is. Mozzie steals you a treasure, and do you report it? No. You plot to steal it."
"We don't have to do this."
"Oh, but we do," Peter returned. Neal was not going to think that he would get out of his anklet that easy. Neal was a con man and would remain a con man if he was set free. He sipped his coffee. "This is good coffee," he said, surprised.
"I know. A little too sweet for my taste, but I thought you would like it."
Peter rolled his eyes. They walked into the office.
"We both know we have a file on you that needs boxes," he told Neal.
"I know. My lawyer got me a copy."
"And it hasn't stopped growing."
"But this time with legal federal work," Neal smiled as they stepped into the elevator.
"Oh?"
"It has," Neal insisted.
"It has, but only by legal federal work?" Peter asked and glared at the young man until his smile faded. They had reached the 21st floor. Peter was on territories that were not in the files and things not to be discussed in the office. He turned away from the office door and found an empty corridor. "We discovered Adler's u-boat. And while you were coming in here, looking me right in the eye, you were hiding the art under my nose. But that's not the worst of it."
"Look, Peter, I'm sorry. Okay?"
"You should be," Peter hissed back, not sure if he could trust Neal to be honest about being sorry or if it was something he said to smooth the road.
"I'm sorry Elizabeth was put in danger because of me." Peter looked at the young con man. Yeah, Neal was honest; he was sure of that. "How's she doing?"
"I don't want to talk about it here."
"Okay. All right."
"Do you really want to get back on my good side?"
"Yes."
"Then I suggest we dig into the Mortenson real-estate scam." This was, after all, a professional partnership, and it was what Neal did of the FBI that counted.
"You're right," his pet convict nodded. "Focus on work."
"Focus."
Neal turned the corner with Peter and saw a young man, a kid in a school uniform, sitting in their kitchenette.
"Did Hogwarts book a field trip?" he asked. Peter stared, too.
"Looks like it." Peter walked to Jones' desk. "Jones, who's that?"
"Oh, uh, Evan Leary. The kid was sitting in the lobby since 7:00. Said he wouldn't leave until he spoke with a 'case agent'."
"He had to see a case agent," Peter repeated. Neal glanced at the kid. Very tidy, proper boy, as school uniforms tended to form you into, drinking from a federal mug that somehow looked gigantic in his hands.
"Someone did his homework," he said to Peter. Not that many knew the difference between different agents within the Bureau.
"Ten points for Gryffindor," Peter agreed. "Come on." They approached the boy. "Evan?" The boy bounced up from his chair. "Hi. I'm special agent Peter Burke."
"Agent Burke." Evan shook Peter's hand. "And agent...?" the kid said and turned to him.
"Neal," Caffrey. I work here, but I'm not an agent. Took the road less recommended. Nice tie. Manhattan Prep?" That was a good school, but it was also an expensive one.
"Yeah."
"How can we help you, Evan?" Peter asked.
"Um, could we sit?" Evan asked, holding his school bag under his arm. "I brought visual aids."
"Visual aids," Peter said, and Neal could hear a hint of amusement. "Sure. Let's go to my office."
Neal took a seat on the window sill, while Peter sat down by the visitor's table in his office. Evan pulled out two neat booklets á la schoolwork, from his bag and handed them one each.
"I've been going to Manhattan Prep since 9th grade. My family's not rich like most of the kids, so I can't afford tuition. And I discovered last week that my financial aid is being pulled."
"Excellent presentation," Peter nodded, and Neal agreed.
"Thank you. If you turn to section 1, you'll see why I'm here."
Neal was already on it.
"You think someone's embezzling scholarship money from the school's endowment."
"That's right."
Peter looked at him for aid, not getting it.
"It's his thesis statement," Neal said, pointing at the page.
"Mm." Peter glanced at the page. "Look, Evan, losing your scholarship doesn't mean someone's stealing. Schools cut funding all the time."
"Of course," Evan agreed. "But if you look at the graph, it shows that the endowments
stayed pretty even while the financial aid has been dropping for the past eight years."
"Where did you get these numbers?"
"I work at the Bursar's office, and I dug around." They looked at him. Neal was unsure what he saw, but he knew there was ambition. "Look, this isn't just about me. This is about a lot of kids."
"Evan, endowments cover operating costs, salaries. These numbers aren't enough to prove embezzlement."
"You haven't gotten to my conclusion yet."
"It's the red tab," Neal pointed again, wondering why Peter had to be so fast without reading all the materials first.
"Oh, yes. I can see the red tab." Peter started to browse the pages to get there.
"Says the scholarships started disappearing the year Andy Woods took over the endowment fund," Neal said.
"Andy Woods?" Peter asked.
"Yeah," Evan agreed. "Um, his daughter goes to Manhattan Prep. Chloe. She… she's...very nice. But I think Mr. Woods is a bad guy."
"You got one conclusion right," Peter said, not bothering to find the red tab any longer. "Evan, we will look into this. I can't promise it will lead to anything, but I'm happy you brought this to our attention."
"No problem. What happens now?"
"You go home, go to school as usual," Neal said. "And try not to worry about the funding for next year." If the kid would be without financial aid, Neal was pretty sure he knew a guy who would be willing to pay to annoy the establishment.
Evan pulled three more booklets out of his bag.
"I wasn't sure how many you would be so I prepared five of them. You need them?"
Peter accepted them.
"Thank you. Good work, Evan."
"Thank you."
"Andy Woods," Peter said, putting the man's picture on the screen in the conference room for the team. "American financier we've long suspected of managing money for the Juarez Cartel."
"Those are some brutal guys to be in business with," Diana said.
"Woods may have a corner office," Jones said, "but his methods are definitely from the street."
"D.E.A. believes he launders the cash through investment portfolios. Now, we've never had enough to go after him, but this may be enough to give us an in. Neal?"
"We have visual aids," Neal said, holding up Evan's material. "Now, there are only five, so you'll have to share until Wesley gets back with more copies."
"Tabs," Diana noted. "Nice."
"Couple of years ago," Jones said, "Woods lost a landmark divorce settlement to Mrs. Woods after she found out he had a mistress, but he made sure to retain custody of their daughter."
"Chloe," Peter said, switching pictures. "Seventeen. When she started at Manhattan Prep, Woods was elected to the Board of Trustees and put in charge of the endowment fund."
"You think he's treating the endowment like his own piggy bank," Diana grinned.
"Exactly," Peter nodded. "I'll approach the school as a wealthy parent with a teenage son. I'll need an alias…" It would take some time to get that in place.
"Alistair Stone," Neal said. "A wealthy Hong Kong banker relocating to New York
looking for a school for your son, Alistair Jr. You like catamarans and cognac."
Peter stared at his pet convict.
"It's like you're an alias savant." Neal gave him a little, not very humble shrug. It just popped up in his brain like that? "I do like catamarans, but let's go with Peter instead of Alistair."
"Linda's gonna be upset."
"Linda?"
"Your wife. She affectionately calls you 'Ali.'"
"She'll get over it. I'll schedule a meeting."
"Let me," Neal said. "I'll be your amanuensis. Follow you around, write things down, make you look powerful."
"My menu what? Can't you just say 'assistant'?"
"Not at Manhattan Prep."
"Oh." It was that kind of school, eh? Why did it make him nervous?
