White Collar fic: The Family Business (1/2)

[sholio]

Title: The Family Business
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 16,000
Pairing: Gen
Rating: PG
Spoilers: no major ones; references to events from season two
Summary: To bring down a mobster, Peter and Neal pose as members of a notorious family of international jewel thieves. For noiproksa in the Fall Fandom Free-For-All, who wanted Peter and Neal going undercover as father and son.
Crossposted: On AO3 | One page on Dreamwidth




Saturday morning. Peter looked forward to it all week. El always made sure not to schedule any client meetings or events until afternoon, and they always spent the morning lazing around in bed, talking over their week, before having a leisurely breakfast.

Getting a call from Neal while flipping pancakes was not part of his perfect Saturday. He decided to ignore it and let it go to voice mail. The phone vibrated again almost immediately. Peter struggled with conscience for a moment, and then put it on silent mode. It was Saturday. Neal could just wait a damn hour or two.

El wandered into the kitchen, coffee cup in one hand and her phone in the other. "It looks like I have a text from Neal," she said, and Peter heaved a deep sigh. "He wants to know if you're with me. Says to call him."

"He'll survive," Peter said, but the lousy choice of words instantly brought to mind all the possible worst-case scenarios. There were a lot of them.

"I've got this." El whisked the bowl of pancake batter out of his hand. "Go call Neal."

Peter wondered how much it ought to worry him that his fingers found the preset automatically as he headed off to the living room. "Peter!" Neal said cheerfully.

"You'd better be shot, stabbed or kidnapped."

"Uh ... none of the above?" Neal waited a moment, but when Peter failed to elaborate, he continued, "So, what are you doing?"

"Eating breakfast with El," Peter said tightly.

"Oh. Oh. Right." Neal's voice went instantly contrite, though the suspicious part of Peter's brain wondered if he was being buttered up for something. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt the two of you. I wouldn't have called if it wasn't important --"

"Well, you've got me. Talk."

"Yeah." Neal hesitated briefly. "I've got this friend. He's in trouble."

"Does this friend have a name?"

"Er ... he'd rather not say."

"Ah yes," Peter said, "that kind of friend." Like there was any other kind in Neal's world.

"I've been able to talk him into meeting with you." Neal took a slow, deep breath. Peter could hear traffic behind him; he wasn't in June's loft. The Marshals hadn't called, though, so he must be inside his radius. "It wasn't easy. He doesn't trust the FBI."

"Really? I'm shocked."

"Peter, listen. I think that the two of you might be able to help each other out. Does the name Solari ring any bells?"

Peter stopped in the act of scratching Satchmo's ears. The Bureau had been trying to nail the Solari brothers for years. "Maybe."

"Thought it might."

"Does this friend of yours have something on the Solari family? Is he willing to testify?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Neal said, which probably meant no, at least to the latter question. "I think you ought to hear his story from him, not from me. But -- Peter." His voice, which had been light as usual, dropped and became serious. "This can't be official. Strictly off the record, that's one of the conditions. I promised him he wouldn't be arrested."

Which meant this "friend" had done something he could plausibly be arrested for. Big surprise. "Neal, that's not a promise you have the authority to make."

Elizabeth came into the living room with two plates, each with a short stack of pancakes. She placed them on the table and went back for the syrup, after a fond and amused glance in Peter's direction.

"I know. But Peter -- I owe him a lot. I really do."

Peter sighed and glanced over at the table as El set out two glasses of milk and a bud vase with a single daisy in it. "If you'll excuse me, my wife is about to feed me pancakes."

"Well, I can't interfere with that, can I?" Neal laughed, but there was a strained note in it. "I don't want to cut your day with El short, but this is a little bit time-sensitive. Oh, hey!" He sounded thoughtful. "I was going to ask you to meet us downtown, but could we come over there? We can give you time to finish your pancakes, no problem." There was a hint of teasing, but only a hint.

No hovered on the tip of Peter's tongue, but ... come to think of it, this would mean he didn't have to roust himself out of the house on a day off. "Is this friend of yours dangerous?"

"No!" Neal said, sounding shocked. "He's strictly a nonviolent ... friend."

Peter groaned and rubbed between his eyes, where a headache was starting to form. And it had been such a good day. "See you in an hour? Or so."

"Or so," Neal agreed, and hung up.


***


It was actually more like two hours, which Peter suspected was Neal's tacit apology for interrupting his morning with Elizabeth. It was early afternoon, the dishes were cleared away and he'd settled down with a book while El spread out a bunch of wedding-cake brochures on the coffee table, when there was a somewhat diffident knock at the door.

"We made extra pancakes," Peter said, letting in Neal and his "friend".

The stranger was about Neal's age, trim and handsome and dressed all in black. His hair was a blond so light it was almost white, swept back in a stylish wave. Basically he was a blond Neal, and Peter thought gloomily, Oh great, now there are two of them. Neal introduced him as Philip. Peter decided not to press for a last name, or, for that matter, a first name that wasn't almost certainly an alias.

Peter got the impression that Philip had been braced for a meeting in a seedy bar over bad drinks, not in a sunny kitchen over pancakes. "I'm not really sure where to begin," he said, cutting up his pancake into tidy squares and not meeting Peter's eyes. He had a very faint accent, some sort of cosmopolitan blend of various European countries that was hard to pin down.

"Start at the beginning," Neal prompted. "Tell him what you told me."

Philip balked, so Neal stepped in. "Philip and I met in France."

"On your crime spree in France, you mean?"

Neal ignored him. "We were partners for a while --"

"The last two partners of yours that I met both tried to kill you."

"Are you going to let me tell this story, or just sit there interrupting me?"

"Both," Peter said, hiding a grin behind his coffee cup. "All right, look, I know there are felonies hiding in this story somewhere, but I'm more interested in the part of it that concerns David Solari. Let's skip to that bit."

Philip gave him a sharp look. "I want immunity."

"Yeah, no. I can't offer immunity if I don't know what you want immunity for."

Philip pushed back his chair and rose sharply. "I think coming here was a mistake."

"Hold on, wait." Neal caught his arm. "Just ... trust him, okay? I know he's a fed. And he can be stiff-necked, and a bit of an ass, in his own way--"

"Hey," Peter said. "I'm sitting right here."

"-- but I think he'll help you once he hears your story. Give him a chance."

Philip hesitated, then sat down again. He ate in silence for a moment, then said, "David Solari wants to hire me to do a job for him."

David Solari and his brother Frank were a pair of former two-bit gamblers and numbers runners who'd worked their way up to the top of New York's illegal gambling circuit -- from playing in the games to running them. Organized Crime had been after them for ages.

"What does he want you to do?" Peter asked.

Philip glanced at Neal, who nodded encouragingly. "He wants me to steal some jewels. Specifically ... he wants me to steal them from his brother's girlfriend."

Peter whistled. "Solari family politics. Nasty stuff. I can see why you don't want any part of that."

Philip shook his head. "You don't understand. I don't care that it's the Solari family -- well, yes, I know better than to get involved with that sort of thing if I can help it, but the problem is, I'm not in that business anymore. I've gone straight. I have a wife and a baby daughter. I'm not interested in David Solari's money."

"He threatened your family," Peter guessed.

Philip nodded. "My wife, and my parents. But I don't want to be pulled into that world again. I left it behind for a reason. If I do pull this off, I can guarantee it won't be the last time David Solari will want a favor from me. And if I don't ..."

"You'll be wearing concrete overshoes."

Philip winced, but nodded.

"Let me talk to my partner for a minute." Peter took Neal's arm, started to urge him into the living room, then remembered El was there. He went out onto the patio instead.

"I'm sorry to dump this into your lap, Peter," Neal said as soon as the door closed. "He's a friend, and I really do owe him a lot. He helped me out of some tough situations after Alex and I went our separate ways. I didn't know where else to turn."

"Is everything he says true?"

Neal nodded, but there was just enough hesitation to set Peter's alarm bells ringing.

"Okay -- but he's not telling me everything, is he?"

Neal looked over his shoulder into the kitchen, where Philip was inspecting his pancakes as if he suspected them of being poisoned. "Not ... entirely. It doesn't change the basic situation," he said quickly, at Peter's scowl. "David Solari is putting a lot of pressure on him, and threatening his family -- but what he's threatening him with isn't physical violence so much as exposure. Not just for Philip, but also for other members of his family. Philip is protecting them more than himself."

"Wait a minute." Peter took another look. One thing about chasing Neal around Europe ... he'd spent a lot of that time poring over Interpol warrants, and not just for Neal. "Solari wants a jewel thief ... Is he one of the Vestergaards?"

"Ha," Neal murmured. "He owes me fifty bucks. I told him you'd figure it out and we ought to just tell you his real name from the beginning."

The Vestergaards were jewel thieves. Specifically, a husband-and-wife team of jewel thieves who'd been the stuff of law-enforcement legend in the 1960s. Their little criminal empire had later been taken over by their son, Erik, with the original couple going into semi-retirement. Peter had no clue what the Vestergaards had been up to since Neal had reentered the country; he had enough on his plate keeping up with the white-collar criminals of New York without adding all of Europe to the list as well. However, he did recall that the Vestergaards had been more active during the time Neal had been in Europe, or at least, implicated in more thefts ...

"Neal, is Erik Vestergaard sitting in my kitchen eating pancakes?"

"He's retired," Neal said quickly. "Really, he is."

"Do you have any idea how many warrants he has out for him? Do you realize that me standing here talking to you and not arresting him probably constitutes a felony?" Peter realized that his voice was rising and forced it back down before the neighbors overheard.

"I've met his wife," Neal pressed on. "Years ago. She's very nice and has no idea that her husband is anything other than a somewhat well-off playboy with nice, rich parents who own a villa in the Italian countryside."

Peter rubbed his temples. The headache was back with a vengeance. "I can't believe you put me in this position. And on a Saturday."

"Look," Neal said quietly. "You're the one who keeps telling me that you believe people can change. Well, living proof is sitting in your kitchen right now. His parents have been living the lives of honest, upright citizens for over a decade. And Phili -- Erik has worked hard to get where he is. He's trying his damnedest to change, to build a better life for his wife and daughter than the one his parents offered him, but if Solari gets his hooks into him, then it's over for all of them."

Peter stared at him. "You fight dirty, you know that?"

"Is it working?" Neal asked hopefully.

"Shut up. Let me think."


***


Elizabeth had her own work to do, so she was amusedly tolerant of Peter spending most of the weekend closeted with two (alleged) thieves in her living room, plotting strategy.

Though he'd never admit it to Neal, Peter was glad that they'd had all weekend to work on it, because by Monday, they'd gotten a plan worked out that he could present to Hughes. The jewels that David Solari wanted Vestergaard to steal were a collection of family heirlooms that had, until recently, belonged to an elderly heiress named Adela Calabro. Her deceased husband had left her saddled with massive gambling debts to the Solaris, and David Solari had taken the jewelry in payment. Relations between the Solari brothers, already tense, had hit a new low when Frank Solari had taken the jewelry collection in its priceless entirety and made a gift of it to his latest girlfriend, an actress named Lorna Dean.

"It's not about the jewels," Erik said. "It's a power play. Frank's making the point to David that he can dispose of their assets however he likes. David, in turn, wants Frank to know that he's in charge, that Frank can't get away with anything on David's watch. Sure, he could storm in with hired muscle and retrieve the jewelry at gunpoint. But any thug can do that, and it invites open warfare on Frank's part. Having it quietly spirited away and returned to David's coffers lets Frank know that resistance isn't going to work. Any move he makes, David will counter, and usually five steps ahead of him."

"Why you?" Peter asked. "Why not some other thief?"

Erik shrugged. "Because I'm the best."

It turned out that David had sought Erik on reputation alone -- well, actually he'd been after Erik's father Gunnar, one of the best jewel thieves of the past century, but switched his attention to Erik upon the discovery that Gunnar Vestergaard was a) very firmly retired, and b) nearly 70 years old. David Solari had never met Erik Vestergaard face-to-face. All their communication had been over the phone or email. This suggested an obvious plan.

"There's a bit of a resemblance anyway," Peter said, glancing between Erik and Neal. They were a similar height and build; Erik's eyes were even blue. "Hair color's an easy thing to change."

"Pfft," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "Disguises."

"I'm not suggesting you go blond; I'm saying he could've gone brown. Even if David manages to get a picture of Erik, as long as it's not a particularly recent one, it won't blow your cover."

"It won't be the first job where we've played each other," Erik said, and Neal flashed a reminiscent grin. Peter decided to put his selective deafness into effect. Instead, he turned to Neal.

"Can you do his accent?"

"I can do any accent you like," Neal said, in a flawless rendition of Erik's vaguely Continental, hard-to-pin-down stylings.

On Monday Peter pitched it to Hughes. As he'd expected, the chance to bring down the Solari brothers proved to be an irresistible lure. Peter left Neal in the conference room, happily scribbling a list of everything that they were going to need for the fake heist, and followed his boss back to Hughes' office.

"There are conditions."

Peter nodded. "I figured there would be."

"One -- this is a joint operation with Organized Crime."

Peter winced.

"Don't even start," Hughes said. "This is their turf. I could pull you off it completely and give the whole thing to Ruiz -- is that what you want?"

"Joint operation it is," Peter said.

"Second. We don't have the authority to offer immunity to Vestergaard on anything other than this crime."

Peter found himself tensing. "Are you saying we'll be turning him over to Interpol?" Oh, this would not go over well with Neal. "Hughes, without the information he's providing us, this whole thing stands a good chance of going sideways. And if it goes, Neal's the one who'll get crushed under the, uh ..."

His sentence collapsed under the weight of its own mixed metaphor, but Hughes nodded. "I know. What I'm suggesting, actually, is keeping him out of it as much as possible. We have an informant feeding us inside information on Solari's organization. Officially, that's as far as it goes unless we need his testimony to get the case to stick."

"That's ..."

"Stupid," Hughes said succinctly. "Quite. Vestergaard belongs in prison, Peter, and you know it as well as I do. But we need him for this one, and even though I'm sure Interpol would love to get their hands on him, Solari is a much bigger fish in my pond."

Peter carefully stifled a grin. Hughes was willing to play nice with other agencies as far as he had to, but the mess with Mei Ling had left a permanent black mark. Interpol had burned some bridges with the White Collar division.

And since when is it a GOOD thing to let a known jewel thief get away? Hughes was exactly right: Vestergaard belonged in prison, and Peter knew it. Erik Vestergaard done the crime. He ought to do the time. But ...

But Neal had Peter's number, damn it. Peter looked through the glass front of Hughes' office, down into the bullpen, where Neal was back at his desk and at least making a show of looking busy. Diana passed him and he said something to her; she tossed back a quip, and Peter could see her grin.

You're the one who keeps telling me that you believe people can change...

Neal knew exactly which buttons to push to get Peter on his side. And what made it an effective con was that it was entirely true; Neal had a real talent for finding a person's emotional weakness and turning it back on them, but he rarely used it against Peter for anything that Peter wasn't halfway to doing anyway. Is it still a con if everyone on all sides knows it's a con, and doesn't care?

"I take it from the fact you're still standing here that you have something else to say?" Hughes remarked in a dry tone.

Peter jerked back to attention, floundered briefly, and then diverted Hughes into a discussion of their budget for the Solari operation.


***


"Remember, if things start to go south, if you get even a hint that he's onto you, get out of there."

"Right," Neal said, snugging down the cuffs of his black leather jacket. "Because getting shot in the back is much better than getting shot in the face."

"The point," Peter said tightly, "is not to get shot at all."

They hadn't been able to risk a wire on this one, not even a hidden transmitter. One of the things that made Solari so hard for Organized Crime to catch was his paranoia about wires and entrapment, and it would be just like him to spring a sudden electronics sweep on Neal, or even have some sort of hidden equipment around. Peter had put his foot down and insisted on a single passive tracker hidden in the heel of Neal's shoe, so that at least they could find him if Solari took him off somewhere.

The meet itself was at a small cafe, a nice-looking little family-run operation. Peter had been expecting a deserted dockyard at midnight, but this, at least, made it possible to set up a camera and get a few agents in position on the street, just in case.

"It would help if we had ... our informant in the van," Peter muttered. "At least that way we'd have him to answer questions, if anything came up --"

"How?" Neal said. "Semaphore from the top of the van? Smoke signals maybe?"

"Smartass."

"Look, I've been to plenty of meetings like this -- alleged meetings like this, allegedly, as a freelancer." Neal tucked his hands into his pockets and his body language visibly shifted, taking up Vestergaard's way of standing, a little more closed-off and contained than Neal's own confident swagger. "I know how to handle myself."

"So you claim," said Shackley, their Organized Crime liaison, looking up from the camera view. "He'll be completely out of contact with us, Burke. He could do or say anything."

"Excuse me, what was your department's closure rate last year?" Peter asked sweetly. "Was it an unprecedented 91%? Sorry, you'll have to speak up, I can't hear you."

Neal leaned close to Jones, and murmured, loud enough for Peter to hear, "I'm sensing a little competition."

"Just be glad you'll be out there, and not in here," Jones murmured back.

Peter cleared his throat. "Showtime, boys and girls. Neal ..." There just wasn't any good way to give a pep talk for a situation like this, especially since he knew Neal didn't really need one. "Be careful. And remember, however those other situations went down -- this time, you have backup."

"Never forget it," Neal said, in a way that could have meant just about anything, and slithered out of the van to lose himself in the crowd.

Peter settled in to wait. It still annoyed him that Vestergaard refused to come anywhere near the FBI operation, given that he was the whole reason for it. On the other hand, it was probably a good thing that Vestergaard and Organized Crime were staying far away from each other. Ruiz had been pressuring Hughes for the identity of the Bureau's mysterious informant, and hadn't been pleased to hear that he would only speak to Peter, via Neal.

"There's Solari," Shackley murmured, and Peter turned quickly to the monitors.

Solari looked like exactly what he was: a plumber's son from Brooklyn whose get-rich-quick schemes had landed him more money than he knew what to do with, except flaunt it. Peter might not know much about fashion, but even he could recognize that Solari's suit was flamboyantly expensive and chosen without the slightest regard for taste or suitability for its wearer. Solari himself was a small man with slicked-back hair and a narrow face that gave him a striking resemblance to a ferret. He and his squadron of goons muscled into the cafe. A few minutes later, Neal strolled casually around the block and went in after them.

Then it was just a matter of fidgeting and waiting and being ready to move if Neal came running out of the cafe with a bunch of armed goons in pursuit.

But no goons, no running, no screaming. The meeting broke up and Neal moseyed back around the corner, with a goon rather obviously tailing him -- Peter guessed that the tail would be shaken the instant Neal was out of sight of the restaurant. Solari and his bunch left as well; Peter itched to follow him, and he could see that Shackley felt the same, but all they'd do was tip their hand.

Neal tapped on the door of the van. Peter and Jones almost collided in their haste to let him in. He was accompanied by Diana, wearing a stylish ensemble and carrying a shopping bag that swung with suspiciously gunlike weight inside; she'd been on outside duty this time.

"Well?" Peter said.

"No bullet holes," Neal said, and when Peter scowled at him, "Okay, there's good news and bad news. Want the good news first?"

Shackley looked deeply irritated, which was a plus in Peter's book. "We could all use some good news," Peter said.

"He wants my services very badly." Neal smiled. "I think there's more tension between the Solari brothers than we knew about. David is teetering on the verge of losing more ground to Frank than he can make up. And a desperate mark is a mark who isn't watching his back for other angles of attack. I think that if we play this out, we can give both brothers enough rope to hang themselves."

"So what's the bad news, then?" Peter asked.

"He wants to meet Gunnar Vestergaard."

Erik's father -- David Solari's original target. "Why?" Peter asked. "He's got you. What, one thief isn't good enough for him?"

"He doesn't trust me," Neal said. "I think it's a sort of multi-pronged test. If I'm not really Erik Vestergaard, then I'm not going to be able to produce his father. If I am Erik Vestergaard but I'm not all I'm cracked up to be as a thief, then he knows that he's still got the old man in the corner to rely on. Plus, it gives him leverage over me."

"Great," Peter sighed. "Where do we get a 65-year-old undercover agent on short notice? I suppose we could talk Hughes into -- what?" He realized that his entire team had turned to look at him. Neal was grinning. "Oh, come on," Peter snapped. "I know I'm older than most of you, but not that much older."

"Just add some gray to your hair," Neal said. "You don't have to be ancient, just put on a credible impression of a retired jewel thief. C'mon, it's like Connery doing Bond."

"Connery doing Bond," Peter muttered. "I don't believe this. When does he want to see Gunnar?"

"Tomorrow," Neal said. "At one of his offices."

Peter shared a glance with the rest of his team, including Shackley. So far, Organized Crime hadn't been able to get near any of the Solari brothers' operation centers. Or even find them.

"So, Connery," Neal said, with a wide grin. "How's your Bond impression these days?"


***


"Oh, nice," was El's reaction when Peter -- reluctantly -- came downstairs from the Burkes' bathroom: hair dyed gray, pencil-thin mustache in place on his upper lip, swing a walking stick from one hand. Erik Vestergaard had supplied the stick, which looked incredibly expensive; Peter hoped those were glass jewels inlaid on the handle, but he wasn't going to place bets. ("Is this stolen?" had been his first question when Erik had handed it to him. The answer from Erik had been "no", accompanied by an exasperated look from Neal, but Peter wasn't inclined to put too much stock in Erik's word.)

Somehow his patio, as usual, had turned into Con Artist Central Station, with Erik Vestergaard dropping by regularly to check on the progress of the investigation and have a glass of wine with Neal. It was the closest to the FBI that Erik was willing to get.

El rose to come and kiss him -- she'd been having a glass of wine with the boys on the patio, and Peter wondered, not for the first time, if he ought to worry about his wife's newly developed friendliness with the criminal element. But then he'd have to worry about himself, too.

"Careful of the glue, honey," Peter said, delicately trying to fend her off without giving offense.

"Is this a small preview of things to come?" El asked, pulling back to look up at him. "I could do worse. Though maybe without the mustache ..."

Erik was unimpressed. "He looks nothing at all like Dad."

"Does it matter?" Neal said. "Solari's never even met your father, and considering how long Gunnar's been out of the public eye, any pictures Solari might have will be ten or twenty years out of date." He grinned and straightened Peter's lapels. "Oh, yeah. We can pull this off."

"I'm glad one of us is confident," Peter said. He eyed El's glass of wine, then decided it would be a bad idea right before a field op.

"Oh come on, Peter," Neal said, looking far too cheerful for Peter's peace of mind. "You've already been coached in this sort of thing. Don't tell me we have to train you twice."

Peter glowered at him. "Pretending to be you is a far cry from playing a debonaire European jewel thief."

"Ouch." Neal placed a hand over his heart. "I'm hurt." The hand dropped away. "Seriously, Peter, you've got the skills. Just apply them."

"You'll be fine, honey." El pecked him on the cheek.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Peter decided that a little wine was called for -- it was part of his persona, after all -- and snagged El's glass. He grinned at Neal over the edge of it. "If the old man goes senile and forgets his lines, I'll have my 'son' around to remind me."

Neal suddenly looked a lot less self-assured.


***


"Mr. Vestergaard."

"Mr. Solari." Peter shook hands. Up close, Solari's resemblance to a ferret was even more noticeable, as well as the bad fit of his expensive suit.

The meet was at a small office in a nondescript building sandwiched between a bookstore and a travel agency. From the outside, the office gave no hint of what sort of business occupied it; discreet lettering, small and low in the smoked glass window, reading BIG APPLE ENTERPRISES ... which could be anything from shipping to investments to, well, God only knew. The interior of the office was equally generic, with new but not particularly expensive furniture, and a secretary wearing a high-tech headset who looked a great deal more busy and harried than the utter lack of customers would imply. The reception area smelled of cheap carpet and fresh paint.

Solari ushered them into the back. His office was nicer than the reception area, but still looked more like the office of a real estate salesman than a wealthy businessman. Peter suspected that the Solari brothers had places like this scattered all around the city.

They were going in unwired once again. Jones was in the van, and a bunch of Organized Crime agents were just down the street, but they might as well be on the moon for all the good it'd do himself and Neal if shooting started.

"Mr. Vestergaard." Solari's smile was vulpine. "So good of you to come."

How would Vestergaard react to this situation? Peter wondered. Anger? Interest? But it didn't really matter what the real Gunnar Vestergaard would do, he reminded himself -- Solari didn't know Vestergaard at all, and for purposes of this meeting, Peter Burke was Gunnar Vestergaard.

He let himself settle into the role -- is this how it feels when Neal does it? -- and returned Solari's sharp-edged smile with an equally unfriendly one of his own. "Not exactly how I'd planned to spend my week," he said. "I'm retired, or hadn't you heard?"

"I also heard you're the best."

This time Peter's smile was directed at least partly at Neal. You got me into this, after all. "Yes," he said. "I am." Neal's expression became somewhat strained.

"Did your son pass along to you the terms we'd discussed?"

"I'd like to hear them from you," Peter said. Except without a recording, a verbal agreement isn't worth a wooden nickel as evidence, dammit.

"Eight million upon completion of the job," Solari said.

"That's when you were hiring one thief," Peter retorted. "Now you have two. Eight million each."

Neal's quick glance was either impressed or horrified. Maybe a little of both.

Solari's sharp smile sharpened further. "Twelve for both," he said. "As you reminded me, you've been retired for some time."

"Twelve, all right, but half up front."

"After the job," Solari repeated. "Don't double-cross me, and you have nothing to worry about. My word is good."

Peter's incredulity didn't have to be feigned. "Seriously? You want me to trust you?"

"Business is based on trust, and I'm a businessman," Solari said smoothly.

The real Vestergaard might have argued further, for all Peter knew, but it didn't matter; the twelve million dollar payout wasn't going to happen anyway. "What about the details of the job?"

"Ah, yeah, I think you'll have a good opportunity coming up," Solari said. "Normally Lorna keeps the jewelry in her safe deposit box. This weekend, though, my brother is holding a get-together at his beach house in the Hamptons. She ought to have the goods with her. Easy in, easy out."


***


Peter stayed perfectly nonchalant and in character as they strolled down the street away from Solari's office, around the corner, and -- as soon as they had the all-clear signal from one of the undercover agents on the street -- into the van. Then his calm broke and he slammed a fist into the side of the van. "Dammit!"

Neal jumped, and Diana looked up from the screens. "That good, huh, boss?"

"I thought it went pretty well, actually," Neal said.

"He didn't give us anything physical -- no money, nothing in writing. If we can't record anything, it's going to take us forever to get enough solid evidence to put a case together," Peter grumbled. "Diana, now that we know where the office is, I want you to go in tomorrow and drop a bug, and a keystroke logger if you can manage it. I'll have authorization by then."

Neal snorted at the last part; Peter gamely ignored him, even when Neal said, "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission?"

"Good children should be seen and not heard. Son."

Diana attempted to stifle a smile, not very successfully. "Anything specific you want as a cover story, boss?"

"No, just ... ask to use the bathroom, or whatever."

Diana nodded, and Peter heaved a sigh. "In the meantime, we'd better keep playing this out. We haven't got enough for a case, so we'll keep playing our parts and try to get him to dig a hole he can't lawyer his way out of."

"You mean we get to steal the jewels?" Neal asked, then, as Peter turned to look at him, managed to partially wipe the delighted grin off his face. "Have to steal them, I mean. Have to. It's a sacrifice."

"I have a better idea," Peter said. "We get a warrant, go in the front door, and take the jewels the legal way."

"The jewels aren't stolen," Neal pointed out. "Mrs. Calabro gave them to David Solari, and his brother gave them to his girlfriend. What are you going to do, take them from their rightful owner?" His quicksilver grin flashed. "Sounds like a thief's job, Peter."

Peter rubbed his forehead. The familiar Caffrey headache was starting to coalesce once again. "Well, at the very least we've got the address for Frank Solari's 'beach house in the Hamptons'," he mimicked David Solari's smarmy tone. "So, Neal, you feel like a drive?"

"Casing the place?" Neal asked cheerfully.

"Stakeout," Peter said between his teeth. "It's a stakeout."

"If you say so."


***


Like everything else about the Solari brothers, Frank Solari's beach house was ostentatious, extravagant, and expensive-looking. Peter had been worried that his Taurus would stand out among all the Porsches and BMWs he was expecting, but there seemed to be a fair number of lower-end vehicles around the neighborhood -- he guessed they belonged mostly to cooks and gardeners.

They cruised by the house a couple of times and then parked on a little pullout by a small, private boat launch, about a half-mile down the beach from the house. They took turns studying it through Peter's binoculars, until the private security vehicle cruising the neighborhood started taking an inordinate interest in them, and Peter pulled away before he needed to flash a badge.

It was a little early for dinner, but Peter stopped at the first restaurant he saw in Southampton that didn't look like it would drain his entire paycheck. It was obvious to him that Neal was enjoying being out of the city for a change, and why not indulge him a little? Though, if anyone asked, he'd just gotten hungry ...

"So how would you do it?" he asked Neal as they waited for their food.

From Neal's delighted grin, he'd been waiting for that question; he launched into the answer without hesitation. "A place like this? Getting close is probably harder than actually getting in; they don't pay those real estate prices to have the riff-raff bother them, let alone burglars. You park anywhere nearby, or try to go in via boat on the beach, and they'll have security on you before you know what hit you."

"So what's your solution? Have someone drop you off?" He'd almost said us. Peter reminded himself that no actual burglary was happening. It was kind of fun to plan it, though -- as a strictly intellectual exercise.

Neal shook his head. "Nope. Go invisible. What's invisible to rich people?"

A slow grin spread across Peter's face. He remembered how he'd observed that the Taurus wasn't the only similar vehicle around, and the security guard hadn't noticed them until they'd parked in a beachfront spot where service personnel didn't normally go ... "The staff."

Neal nodded. "Ironically, as long as you have the right uniform and act like you know where you're going, it's actually easier to get into someplace like that without being noticed than, say, a middle-class neighborhood. There's always someone in suburbia who's home all day and has nothing better to do than notice a cable truck or exterminator parked outside their neighbor's house. But if you pull up and tell the gate guard that you're the caterer for tonight's party, or the new pool guy, or a private masseuse for Mrs. So&So's cat ..." He cleared his throat. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"Of course," Peter agreed blandly. He frowned and leaned across the table. "Completely off the record, and with no incrimination implied ... did you actually pretend to be a masseuse for some rich lady's cat?"

Neal's smile was coy. "Not for the cat ..."

"Yeah, you know what? Forget I asked."


***


As the weekend approached, none of Diana's bugs in the Solari offices netted anything useful or incriminating.

"Come on, Peter, we know where the jewels are, we know where Frank Solari is ..." Neal wheedled.

"Which helps us how?" Exasperated, Peter looked at his partner across his desk, which was scattered with Organized Crime's ironically disorganized files on their many fruitless investigations into the Solari brothers over the years. "The point isn't to steal the jewels, Neal, it's to gather enough evidence to arrest the Solari brothers and bring down -- oh God," he sighed, and rested his face briefly in his hands. "For you, it is about stealing the jewels, isn't it? Because you want to give them back to the old lady."

He really knew Neal too well by now.

Neal didn't even bother denying it. "You keep telling me that I need to learn some things have value beyond money." He leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. "But I do know that, Peter, and this is one of those things. She lost something of great value to her because of her husband's gambling debts. Don't you want to see them returned to her -- and stick it to both Solari brothers in the process?"

"Of course I do!" Peter slapped a hand on the pile of papers on his desk. "But I have nothing to work with. We have two of Solari's addresses, but there's absolutely nothing in the property or business records that's not completely aboveboard. All I have is a bunch of random pieces that don't go together, and a tip about a party this weekend that's no use to us because -- Wait."

He paused and stared off into the middle distance as a few of the pieces began to coalesce.

"Oh, I know that look," Neal said, sounding delighted. "What?"

"Hush."

Neal hushed. After a moment Peter wrenched himself back from his reverie. "I'm an idiot," he said.

Neal's eyes danced. "Not all the time."

"All quiet in the peanut gallery. What I mean is, I've been focused on the jewelry and the Vestergaard problem. But that's not the issue here, is it? We can't legally walk out with the jewels because they're not stolen in the first place -- Get that look off your face right now, Neal."

"Just because she gave them up freely doesn't mean they weren't stolen," Neal said quietly. "There are legal ways to steal something too, Peter."

"Forget the jewels. Just forget 'em. The point is, we know that Frank Solari, his girlfriend and presumably quite a few of the movers and shakers in the organization are going to be up in the Hamptons this weekend, all together. That right there is enough for Organized Crime to authorize a stakeout, even if it's not enough for the White Collar unit to move in."

"We'd be working on Organized Crime's turf?" Neal asked with an expression of mild horror. "Isn't a joint investigation bad enough?"

"We're all one agency, Neal. We're on the same side." Neal made a face. Peter grinned and dropped his voice. "Yeah, I know. Look at it this way, though -- someone needs to get inside that house and plant some bugs."

Neal began to smile. "Sounds like a job for a cat burglar."

"Sounds like a job for a father-and-son team of cat burglars," Peter corrected him.

"What, now you want to break in?"

"It's not breaking in if you have a warrant," Peter said, quite reasonably in his opinion, but Neal rolled his eyes.

"Semantics."

"Look, Neal, we're there to drop bugs, not take anything. Someone has to keep an eye on you and make sure that a certain set of jewels don't go missing."

Neal placed a hand over his heart. "You don't trust me?"

"With that? No."

All signs of playful banter dropped away, and Neal frowned. "Don't forget, Peter, David Solari hired us to get those jewels for him. If we don't --"

"The Vestergaards are on the hook for it," Peter sighed. "I know. Which is why we have to take down David Solari, and his brother along with him, before he can make good on his threats. That's why we're doing this, Neal. Keep on task. Catching the Solari brothers, and yes, helping your friend -- but stealing the jewels for real was never part of it."

From Neal's pointed silence, he appeared to disagree, but at least had the sense not to bring it up. At last he said, "So ... I don't suppose the blueprints for the house are anywhere in your 'random pieces'?"

Peter grinned.


***


Around ten a.m., Saturday morning, the burglars made their move in a Greatest Cake catering truck.

"Kinda thought we'd be doing this at midnight," Peter said. "Not that I'm complaining."

"At night? Really, Peter. You've been watching too many movies." Neal's eyes were sparkling, and every line of his body vibrated with energy. He was clearly in his element and knew it.

In the morning, Neal explained, Solari was very likely to be asleep -- either that, or if he was up, it was almost certainly because he had a meeting with someone. Either way, his gate guard probably wasn't going to call him to deal with a couple of caterers as long as they could bluff convincingly.

"No one expects burglars in the morning," Neal added, and Peter really couldn't argue with that.

He tried to tear his mind's eye away from the picture of El eating her pancakes alone this morning -- another Saturday, stolen by the job. It happened. But he didn't have to like it.

The guard on Solari's gate was a big broad-shouldered block of muscle who turned out to be very easy to bluff their way past. "Solari's probably had people in and out all week," Neal muttered as they pulled into the huge, curving drive. The guard had even helpfully directed them around to the kitchen entrance. "At this point, no one's keeping close track of who's delivered what. If you ever own a mansion, Peter, beware of delivery people."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The gate guard had called ahead to the kitchen, where they were met by a yawning and irritated head chef. "Changes things all the time -- never tells me anything -- how am I supposed to work this into my menu?"

"Not my problem," Peter said. "My boss never tells me nothin', either. Just show us where this oughta go. We can unload it all. Won't take but a few minutes."

Neal, with impeccable timing, leaned out of the back of the truck to call, "Hey, was it sixty tubs of buttercream frosting, or vanilla?"

Peter heaved a theatrical sigh. "Gotta call my boss. Hang on."

The chef's boredom and annoyance visibly increased as he watched Peter having a mock argument with a nonexistent boss over his cell phone. "Hey," Peter appealed, turning from the phone to the chef, "you wanna make an executive decision here, or what? This says buttercream on the sheet here, we got vanilla, and I don't know if you want us to take it back or what?"

The chef backed off, holding up his hands defensively. "Look, I didn't even know you guys were coming."

"Hey, Louie," Peter informed the phone, "he says he doesn't -- what?" He covered the mouthpiece and called to the chef, "Hey, what's your name? Boss says he talked to a --" To the phone: "What'd you say that name was? Oh, Steve took the order? Well, that explains it -- nobody can read his handwriting worth a damn anyway --"

Neal hopped off the back of the truck and approached the chef. Peter, still carrying on his fake argument, watched Neal out of the corner of his eye. He heard Neal say in a not-very-successful sotto voce: "Look, can I start getting this stuff off the truck? Just let's get this unloaded -- he's not gonna make me put it all back on the truck once it's off, and I got a date with my girl this afternoon, I'd really like to get to it ..."

"Bill," Peter barked at Neal, covering the phone with his hand again, "don't unload a damn thing 'til I tell you. You'll just have to put it all back on if it's gotta go back."

"Yeah, whatever," Neal said, and held out a tub of frosting to the chef. "Here, take this, wouldja?"

And the chef finally had enough. "You can put it in the big cooler. Inside, to the left. I have too much to do to stand here all day."

"So do I!" Neal called to his back. They both watched a moment until they were sure they were unobserved. "Thank God. I thought he'd never leave."

Peter nodded at the truck. "Grab something and take it inside. We ought to have fifteen, twenty minutes before anyone gets curious. And hey, if we do get caught wandering around --" he pulled a box out of the truck and hefted it "-- we went looking for someone in charge and couldn't find him, that's all."

They deposited their burdens and slipped out of the kitchen up a back stairway. "You're enjoying this," Neal said softly. "Admit it."

"Hey, we're here under a legitimate warrant to drop a few bugs. That's all."

Neal made a noncommittal noise.

"Those are the rules," Peter added.

"Yes, yes, so you've said, can we get on with it before someone hears us arguing in the stairwell?"

They slipped through a parlor at the top of the stairs and found themselves on a balcony overlooking a large ballroom. "Perfect," Peter murmured, smiling. "We'll have to hedge our bets -- limited number of bugs -- but here and the dining room are probably the best options."

"There's no way they won't sweep for bugs," Neal pointed out.

Peter smiled. "And that's why we have these." He held one up. "Remote activated. We'll turn them on and off as needed. If some of our bugs start going down, then we know they found at least a few -- so we'll switch off, wait a bit, and then turn 'em back on."

"The FBI has all the cool toys," Neal complained as Peter dropped a bug into a planter.

"I guess Team Criminal just has to step up their game," Peter said blandly. "And yes, I'll be counting these when we pick them up, so don't even think about it."

They bugged the ballroom and the dining room. Once they had to duck into an alcove to avoid a maid, but for the most part, no one was around. As Neal made a move towards the staircase behind the dining room, Peter grabbed his arm. "Don't even think about it. We're done here. Bugs dropped. Let's get back to the truck before anyone sees us."

"But we're here," Neal whispered back. "In his house! The FBI's been trying to nail this guy and his brother for ages -- how can you not want to look around while you're here?"

"Do the words 'inadmissible in court' ring any bells? We could walk into a room with 'I, Frank Solari, confess to the following crimes' written on the wall in letters six feet high, and it wouldn't help, because that's not what our warrant is for."

"And you consider this a good thing," Neal said, very dryly.

"The law is there to protect everyone."

"Yeah, I don't think even you believe that a hundred percent anymore, Peter. The law is stiff, rigid and lets people like Frank and David Solari blackmail whoever they want and shake down elderly widows." A tinge of genuine bitterness had crept into Neal's tone.

"What's your alternative, vigilante justice? Anarchy? A world full of people like the Solari brothers and the Vestergaards, taking advantage of each other in an endless --"

Quick footsteps sounded at the far end of the dining room. Peter and Neal ducked around the corner and then peeked back into the room. Peter recognized the woman immediately from her photos -- Lorna Dean, Frank Solari's actress girlfriend. She was casually dressed in a simple pantsuit that made a startling contrast to the rich collar of rubies, diamonds and emeralds around her throat, glittering to match the bracelets on her wrists. And she appeared to be alone.

She looked around the dining room and began scribbling on a clipboard. Peter glanced at Neal and saw Neal staring at her with the expression of disbelieving horror that he usually wore when he saw someone mistreating art. "She's wearing them around the house?" His whisper rose at the end to a disbelieving squeak.

"So?" Peter whispered back. "Organized Crime's file on her says she's a salesman's daughter from the Midwest. She's probably never owned anything like that. Come to think of it ..." He looked back at Lorna Dean. That jewel-encrusted choker looked like it weighed a ton. Couldn't be comfortable. "Most people have probably never owned anything like that. Although, at least now you know you can't steal the jewels while we're --"

Furtive movement beside him drew his attention back to Neal, who was skimming off his Greatest Cake uniform shirt, revealing a light black sweatshirt underneath.

Goddammit.

"Neal!" Peter whispered fiercely. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't!"

"Here, hold this," Neal whispered back, passing him the shirt. Peter wondered if it would be possible to grapple Neal to the floor without drawing Lorna's attention. Probably not. Before he could even decide, Neal ran a hand through his hair to smooth it down and sauntered out into the dining room, oblivious to Peter's frantically hissed "Neal!"

Even in the midst of his irritation, Peter couldn't help being reluctantly impressed at the transformation. The light blue slacks that had looked unimpressive and mildly dorky -- as intended -- with the uniform shirt went perfectly with Neal's black pullover in a casual-yet-sophisticated ensemble. And of course he'd planned it that way, Peter thought grimly, just in case he had to change personas in mid-con ...

Lorna Dean froze at the sight of him. "I'm sorry," she said, drawing herself up. "I didn't realize anyone was here. Do you work for Frank?"

"No, not me," Neal said, holding out a hand, and oh great, he was using his Vestergaard accent. "I'm Erik Vestergaard." He smiled. "Jewel thief."

I'm gonna strangle him, Peter thought, pressing against the wall and holding his breath as he peeked around the corner. And then I'll let Hughes take a turn, and then I'll strangle him AGAIN ...

Lorna looked from the hand to his face as if he was offering her a pit viper. "Jewel thief?" she repeated, and her free hand, the one not holding the clipboard, went to the choker at her throat.

"Yes," Neal said. "I was hired to retrieve that from you."

... and maybe Diana would like a go at strangling him as well, she's been working really hard on this case, she deserves it ...

"I'll scream," Lorna said, and inhaled.

"Wait!" Neal protested, holding up a hand. He backed away, putting the long mahogany dining room table between himself and the frightened woman. "Retrieve, I said, not steal. That was never Frank's to give away."

"It's mine." Lorna clutched it.

"It belongs to a woman named Adela," Neal said gently. He sat down at the table and folded his hands. "She's eight-two. Her husband died last year, leaving her those jewels you're wearing, the ones she used to put on when he'd take her dancing -- and leaving her, also, ruinous debts to Frank and his brother. You know what Frank does for a living, don't you, Lorna?"

"Frank is a businessman," Lorna said, but her eyes darted around. "I'm not joking, I'm going to scream."

"You haven't yet," Neal pointed out. "How do you think he affords this house, or things like ... that?" He nodded to the choker.

Lorna lowered her hand slowly.

"You've been living a beautiful fairy tale, Lorna," Neal went on in that same gentle voice. "And it's so much fun for a while. But then you start to realize that you're running up terrible debts -- not like Adela's debts, those are just money. Yours are going to be worse."

How did Neal do this? Peter wondered, watching him through the open doorway. He'd make you want to drop-kick him into a swimming pool ... and then, he'd go and do something like this.

Lorna studied Neal. Peter couldn't see his face from this angle, but whatever Lorna saw made her sit down carefully at the table, across from him. "Do you have someone who can vouch for this?" she asked. "Back up what you're saying?"

"Of course I do." From where he was, Peter could just catch the edge of Neal's smile. "My father."

... and now they were right back to the drop-kicking.

"Dad," Neal said, "come on out."

Peter sighed. Would stripping off his uniform shirt, as Neal had, make him look a little more jewel-thiefy, or even less so? All he had under it was a plain white T-shirt. And he wasn't wearing his Gunnar mustache, though his hair still had the gray dye job -- the whole point was not to run into anyone. At least until Neal got involved.

He opted to keep the shirt on, and stepped out into the dining room, clearing his throat. "Hi."

"Hi," Lorna said carefully. Her eyes went from him to Neal and back again, doubtfully.

"He's right, you know." Peter stayed near the doorway, trying not to make her feel crowded. "About some things," he hastily qualified, and saw a smile flicker at the corners of Neal's mouth, quickly suppressed. "This life you're living, Lorna -- it's not the real world, and sooner or later, the real world is going to catch up with you."

Like, say, tonight, he thought. If Frank Solari and his mob buddies really did let something slip that Organized Crime was hoping for, and give the FBI a good reason to raid the place, Lorna would be swept up along with everyone else. The innocent and the guilty alike ... Except she really wasn't that innocent. She'd been hanging around Frank long enough to know what the score was. For all Peter knew, she was as deep into Frank's organization as anybody, with a suitcase full of ill-gotten cash hidden under her bed.

Or, hell, maybe she was just a stupid kid who'd fallen in love with Frank, or just with Frank's money, and gotten in over her head. Peter would have arrested her along with everyone else. It would get sorted out later, he knew -- if she hadn't done anything, she'd probably testify for the prosecution and then they'd cut her loose.

Probably.

As if he'd never seen innocent people go to prison before. Never seen wide-eyed first-time offenders go into lockup and come out hardened ex-cons. Justice was like democracy: not the best thing out there, just better than the alternatives.

But Neal wanted to save her.

And her jewels, of course.

Lorna hesitantly unfastened the clasp on one of the wristlets. She cupped it in her hand; Peter could see its weight by the way she held it. "Does this really belong to a woman named Adela?" she asked, addressing the question to Peter.

Damn it, Neal. But Neal had a point; the jewelry might not be technically stolen, but there was more than one way to steal something. "Yes," Peter said.

"Then you should give it back to her." Lorna unfastened the other as well.

As Neal held out his hand for it, Peter said sharply, "We can't just walk out with them." For all kinds of reasons, oh God, I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Hughes -- he'll strangle ME first, then go for Neal after he's done with me ...

"Sure we can," Neal said. "She's giving them to us, right ... Dad?"

Ergo, not stolen. Except ... they couldn't just walk away with evidence. He couldn't, at least -- it'd mean his career. Although Neal might not realize that. Or maybe you're just rationalizing. If the jewels go missing at this point, who's going to know other than the Solari family? And how is anyone going to prove you were involved?

But Peter would know. And they'd be giving David Solari exactly what he wanted, tightening his chokehold on the city's gambling trade and removing one of the few obstacles in his way. As little sympathy as Peter had for Frank Solari, the idea of playing into David's hands stuck in his throat.

"Lorna," he said as she reached up to unfasten the choker. "My -- er, son here hasn't told you everything. There are a few more things you need to know."

Neal looked up quickly, eyes wide. "I don't think she'd be interested in that part."

"I think she deserves to make an informed decision," Peter said. "Lorna, you've met Frank's brother David, right? Do you like him?"

Neal's somewhat panicked expression went puzzled, and then ah, a little click and an interested look.

"Yes, I've met him, and I can't stand him," Lorna said flatly. "He's always undressing me with those horrid eyes. And Frank hates him."

"Let's say you had a chance to make David's life really difficult. Possibly get him off the street for good. Would you take it?"

"Sure," Lorna said warily, looking back and forth between the two of them. "As long as I don't have to talk to him too much. David's dangerous. He frightens me."

"Excellent." Peter reached into his pocket, ignoring Neal's look of horror, and flipped out his badge.

Lorna's eyes went huge. She hunched in her chair, frozen in place.

"Yeah," Neal sighed, exasperated. "That's the part I was afraid he was going to tell you." He scowled at Peter. "Don't you have any discretion at all?"

"Am I going to prison?" Lorna asked in a tiny voice.

"No," Neal said, reaching across the table to take her hand. "You won't -- we'll make sure of it," he added, directing another dirty look in Peter's direction.

"As long as you cooperate with us," Peter clarified.

Neal's expression now implied that Peter was a monster who stomped on puppies for fun.

"Lorna." Peter took a seat next to her. She shrank away from him. "You're not in any trouble at all ... yet. But as you can see from the fact that we're here, the FBI is closing in on David and Frank. You're lucky -- you're getting a chance to make a choice now, rather than being surprised later."

"Some choice," Lorna said, her voice low and bitter. "I help you take down my boyfriend and his brother, or you arrest me? Is that the deal?"

Neal shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but Peter spoke over the top of him. "Yes. But that's not the only way to look at it." He glanced up at the entrance to the dining room -- they'd really been here much too long already -- then leaned close to Lorna and lowered his voice. Unconsciously, she leaned closer to him. "Sometimes you get a chance to do the right thing. The choice you make determines the kind of person you are. You, Lorna -- a minute ago, you were willing to give up something very valuable for a woman you've never met. You know who Frank and David are. What they are. Lorna ... some people never get to find out who they are. You do."

Neal looked as if he wanted to speak, then subsided. Lorna drew a shuddering breath and stared at her clasped hands on the glossy tabletop. Then her shoulders firmed and she looked up. "Yes," she said. "I'll help you."

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Lorna looked down at her hands again, and turned over the bracelet between her fingers. "Do you, um -- still want my jewelry?"

"Yes!" Neal said, as Peter said, "No." They exchanged a look.

"No," Peter said firmly. "If it goes missing now, it'll tip off Frank that something's going on, and blow the whole thing."

"Peter --"

"No. Not this time. We're saving your friend, helping someone else --" He cut his eyes sideways at Lorna. "We can't do the jewels too. Neal, you have to make choices. Tradeoffs. Some options are mutually exclusive. Sometimes you just can't save them all." Much as you might want to.

Neal backed down, rather thoughtfully. Peter figured he'd better keep a close eye on him later.

Part Two