Chapter Text
The rain over the Ramapo Valley State Park wasn't a downpour, but a persistent, cold drizzle that seeped into everything. It dripped from the yellow crime scene tape strung between the pine trees and matted the fallen leaves into a slippery carpet.
Special Agent Peter Burke stood under the temporary make-shift shelter his team had set up. He crossed his arms over his damp trench coat and watched the Evidence Response Team pack their kits. The click of the metal equipment cases closing echoed through the clearing with an air of grim finality. The body of Margot Blair, senior auditor for the prestigious Thornton Auction House, was transported to the nearest forensic facility an hour ago.
Blair’s death had been staged to look like a tragic hiking accident — the terrain certainly made that possible. But the woman’s briefcase, found in her two-bedroom condo located in Washington Heights, told a different story. Inside were preliminary audit notes pointing to massive, systematic fraud in Thornton’s private sales division: phantom buyers, inflated valuations, artworks sold to offshore accounts that vanished. It was a money launderer's wet dream. If Blair had blown the whistle, it could have been devastating to the multi-millionaire affected— whoever that is. Her "accident" in this remote location was too convenient by half.
That's why Peter was here. He specialized in tracking high-level con artists, art thieves, and financial criminals. He was the head of the Manhattan White Collar Crime Division. On this particular day, he had a unique resource.
Neal Caffrey.
Former con artist, master forger, and art thief. Currently, a criminal informant on a highly restricted work release from a four-year prison sentence, courtesy of Peter, who caught him for the fourth time.
Their relationship was a tense, perpetual chess match: Peter offered Neal a leash longer than the length of a prison cell — 2 miles to be exact; Neal used his unparalleled criminal genius to help Peter solve cases no braindead-Harvard-graduate agent could. It was a partnership of mutual respect and constant, careful negotiation.
‘And today,’ Peter thought, the familiar knot of frustration tightening in his gut, ‘the kid is pushing his luck right off the board.’
This was the third fucking time. The third. The first time, Neal had blamed a stalled F train—New York traffic, he’d called it, as if the subway had personally conspired against him. The second time, he’d missed a six-hour surveillance shift because he’d "lost track of time" authenticating a Modigliani sketch at a private showing. And now this—a critical evidence retrieval on a ticking clock. Peter had given two stern, unambiguous warnings. He’d spelled out the stakes: Neal’s freedom was a privilege, not a right, and the FBI’s bureaucracy was watching him like a hawk, always looking for a reason to revoke it.
Peter checked his watch again. They were supposed to meet at the trailhead at 0800. It was now 1023. The ERT had done what they could with the physical scene, but he still needed Neal’s expert eye hours ago.
A familiar, heavy irritation settled in Peter’s chest. This wasn’t just about Neal’s absence at the crime scene today. It was the sheer, infuriating pattern of it. He’d drawn a line. The official consequence—writing up the conduct violation—floated in his mind. It was the correct move. The by-the-book move. It was also the move that would likely see a very talented idiot sent back to prison.
As much as Peter hated to admit it, the kid was brilliant. He saw angles in a case that were invisible to anyone who’d actually gone to the Academy. And, against every ounce of Peter's better judgment, Neal had... grown on him. Like a persistent, charming, and highly irritating moss.
But what Peter couldn’t stand—what truly galled him—was the staggering short-sightedness. Neal could plot a multi-million dollar art heist across three countries, or spot a forged brushstroke from twenty feet away, yet he couldn’t grasp the simple cause-and-effect of his own life: Be late three times = go back to prison. It was an infuriating kind of entitlement. He moved through the world like the rules of parole were a minor nuisance. Sooner or later, that attitude would get him sent back. And Peter refused to let it happen to his charge.
The relationship hadn’t started out that way. It had started with a deal, pure and simple. Peter needed the one criminal brilliant enough to catch other brilliant criminals that escape him, and Neal needed four years knocked off his sentence. A simple transaction, nothing more.
But somewhere along the way—between shared takeout at the office and victories on impossible cases—the math had changed. The talented, infuriating con man had become… his. Peter’s responsibility. His problem to solve and his to protect. He’d become a mentor to a man who’d never had one, and a reluctant warden to a ward who constantly tested the waters— much to Peter’s exasperation.
This was why today couldn’t end with a report. A report was impersonal. A report would whisk Neal’s ass back to prison before he can say ‘gotcha’ in that annoying tone of his. It wouldn’t teach Neal a damn thing except that Peter had finally given up on him.
No. If Neal was going to learn, it had to be from Peter. Directly. Unmistakably. The lesson had to be personal because the relationship had become personal. And he intended to make one hell of an impression.