Institute of Art, Chicago 1995

Shawn clocked out for the last time and waved goodbye to his co-workers before leaving the gift shop. He hurried over to the entrance to the museum proper and held up his ID pass. The guards all knew him on sight and barely looked up. Working here definitely had its perks.

Back home they all thought him silly and rather brainless with no appreciation of culture. Yes, he could quote every John Hughes film and list every song by Depeche Mode either chronologically or alphabetically but that didn’t seem to count. Gus had tried to instill a love for classical music and fine art as they were growing up. Even though he wouldn’t admit it, Shawn found he liked the Renaissance and the Impressionists best because of the vibrant colors.

He hurried up the Grand Staircase, his footsteps echoing in the open space. When he reached the first level, he made his way to the gallery for Indian, Southeast Asian and Himalayan art. His sneakers squeaked in the highly polished floors as he dodged the other patrons. Why are there so many people here? It’s not even the weekend!

He reached the gallery and looked around expecting to see someone. Someone who wasn’t there. His joy collapsed like a popped balloon. He plopped down on the bench. He placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his head in his hands. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be angry or upset. They had been friends for weeks and he didn’t have the nerve to say goodbye? With a sigh, Shawn sat up and pushed his fabulous Judd Nelson locks away from his eyes and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. That’s when he felt thick paper under his hand. He looked down to see a bulging envelope with his name on it in very familiar handwriting.

*****

Weeks Earlier

When Shawn entered the Monet exhibit and gave a cursory pass through the rooms until he found one that was the least crowded. He walked counter-clockwise around the benches that ran down the center of the room. The brown walls really made the paintings “pop” and seem even brighter. He decided to start with the haystacks and got drawn into the atmospheric paintings with the varying light. As he stepped back to get the full effect, he stepped on something soft and lumpy. He looked down and saw a white Nike sneaker. “Sorry,” he apologized to the guy sitting on the bench. He saw a guy around his own age, with black hair and blue eyes, sketching the paintings with a deft hand. He sat down next to him. “Wow, that’s amazing.”

“You think so? I don’t know if I’ve gotten it right.” He held the sketchpad out to Shawn.

Shawn took in the details like it was second nature. It really was an amazing job at capturing such a vibrant painting in a black-and-white sketch. There was something he noticed in the bark of one of the trees and pointed it out. “What’s this?”

The guy smiled and it was blinding. He could go far on looks and charm, let alone his artistic talent. “Good eye. No one’s ever caught them before. My initials. I put them in every piece.” He held out his hand. “I’m Neal.”

“Hey, I’m Shawn.” He pushed back his hair. “Can I look through this?”

“Sure.” Neal stood and stretched. “You work here, hunh? How come I haven’t seen you before?”

“I’ve only been here a little over a month, going between the café and gift shop. I check out a different gallery every day I’m here. When I’m done, I’ll move on.”

“So, you’re not from here?”

“Nope. Took off after graduation to get away from my dad and his plans for me.”

Neal gave a wry laugh. “I ran away from my dad, too. In a way.” He sat back down, legs tucked back under the bench.

“Mine was a cop and wanted me to be one too.”

“My dad was a cop as well. My mom told me he died a hero.”

Shawn didn’t look up from the sketches. “’s better than having your dad treat you like you’re in the academy, training you in observation, deduction and even firearms.”

“I just found out he was dirty,” Neal said softly. “I took off.”

Shawn now felt very small because of his comment. He looked at Neal. “Dude, I thought my reason for leaving was good. That’s just harsh.” He handed Neal his sketchbook. “I found ‘em all,” he said to change the subject. “They’re just like the NINAs.” Neal gave him a blank look. “You know, that guy who did the drawings for the New York Times and hid his daughter’s name in the lines.”

“Right. Hirshfeld. I’m surprised you know that.”

“Dad used it as part of my training when I was a kid.” He looked up at the paintings. “You know a lot about this stuff?”

Neal shrugged. “I guess.”

“See, I just come and look at them, but I really don’t know anything about them. The guides are just so boring.”

“Well, we should start in the first room as they have this arranged chronologically so as to understand Monet’s progression as an artist.” Neal stood and put his sketchbook in a messenger bag he then slipped across his body.

“OK, that, right there? Already started losing me.” Shawn yawned.

“Oh, so you want bits of trivia like Claude is actually his middle name?”

Shawn stood, curious. “What was his first name?”

“Oscar. Doesn’t have the same ring, does it?”

Shawn walked with Neal and also learned that Monet had the same breakfast every morning and lunch was served promptly at 11:30. Or that he had served in the military in Algiers in 1861. When they came to the painting The Stroll – Camille Monet and Her Son Jean (Woman with Parasol), Neal informed him that her health began to fail after the birth of her second child and the family moved in with friends. After Camille died, Claude started an affair with the wife, Alice. She and her husband never divorced and she moved with Monet to Giverny. They only married after her husband died in 1892. Well, that was something that made the man human.

“Hey, you wanna go get a smoothie or something?” Shawn asked about 90 minutes in.

“Sure. I knew we wouldn’t be able to see the whole exhibition in one go. Besides, I’ve got a taste for pineapple.”

Shawn grinned. “A man after my own heart.”

The two teens fell into a ritual over the next few weeks. Neal would sketch while Shawn worked and then Shawn would pick the gallery for the afternoon. Neal would continue to tell him all the tidbits that art teachers never mentioned like stories about the models, how the artists made their own paints and even tales about forgers.

*****

Shawn reached for the envelope with shaking hands. Quit being such a girl, Spencer! It’s only an envelope! He opened the clasp and reached in to pull out a number of sketchbook papers. The top sheet was a note in Neal’s too-neat handwriting.

Shawn,
I’m sorry we couldn’t view that last gallery together. Since we’ll both be travelling for the foreseeable future, we might meet up again somewhere. It’s a big world. Until then, we can use this site to leave messages for Monet and Judd. (easy to remember, eh?) Thanks for being a friend.
Neal

Under his signature was a general message board on Usenet. Shawn chuckled. Judd and Monet. Yeah, they would be easy to remember. Then he saw the P.S. which read “I made a few notes for you on the gallery.”

With a huge grin, Shawn stood and looked at the paintings, hearing Neal’s voice in his head as he read the notes.

FBI White Collar Division, New York 2005

Shawn sat across from the desk from Agent Peter Burke and watched nervously as the man read through a file on the desk. He’d done a lot of “unique” jobs over the years but working for the FBI would top the list. Burke looked up and Shawn had seen that gaze coming from his dad when he was about to start a lecture.

“Mr. Spencer—”

“Shawn.”

“Right. Mr. Spencer is your father.” Burke quirked his lips in a smile. “We checked with NYPD after my wife saw you call in a tip at lunch and then heard of the arrests at dinner. You’ve solved 14 cases in four months.”

“Wow, the FBI really does their homework. Anything else?”

“You got a perfect score on the California Detective Exam when you were 15.”

“Yeah. Dad trained me to follow in his footsteps. It didn’t take.”

Agent Burke leaned back in his chair. “Most of the agents out there have either years of experience in the field or degrees from top-notch universities. They won’t like the fact that you have no official training.”

“Then we don’t tell them.”

When Shawn stepped through the door from Agent Burke’s office into the conference room, all heads turned to face him. It was like a Benetton ad – if Benetton sold dark, boring suits. He was glad that his casual attire of an Oxford shirt and khakis had been deemed acceptable.

“This is Shawn Spencer,” Burke said by way of introduction. “He’s here to help us with the Bonds case. Hughes thought his special talents might be useful.”

“What? The proper use of hair product?” murmured a black female agent under her breath.

“Thanks for noticing.”

“This is not just some fluke or wild last-ditch effort. Shawn has been trained as a policeman since he was a child and has an eidetic memory.” He looked at Shawn for confirmation.

“Right, so what am I here to look at?” Shawn rubbed his hands together.

The female agent who commented on his hair slid a file across the table to Agent Burke. “This guy started out a couple years ago forging bonds for Atlantic Partners, Ltd.. Since then he’s moved on to bigger and better things. He’s suspected of stealing the Faulkner Manuscript, the Antioch Manuscripts and Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon earlier this year.”

“All have to do with art or rare documents.” Shawn flipped through the files quickly. Each theft or con he ‘allegedly’ pulled was challenging, something above and beyond. “They weren’t done for the money,” he stated. “It was for the challenge.”

“That’s what we were thinking, too. We need something different, Shawn. Something new.”

“Do you have any enlargements of the forgeries?”

“Jones.”

The young black agent handed Shawn another file containing the enlargements of the bonds as well as other suspected forgeries. He sat down and scanned the photos looking for some clue to the forger’s identity. That’s when he saw something he wished he hadn’t. Two familiar initials were etched in the border, bringing to mind a smiling face from 10 years ago. Crap! Do I tell them I met their guy when I was 18?

“Shawn, do you see anything?” asked Burke.

“For a second, I thought I did. Sorry.

“I guess it was wrong to expect an immediate result.” Burke checked his watch. “OK, I’ve got to meet El for lunch. Continue following your leads.” Burke headed for the door as the other agents stood and gathered their items. “You coming, Shawn?”

Elizabeth Burke was not at all what Shawn expected. Burke - or Peter, as he insisted Shawn call him - was so different around her. They also both got his sense of humor which was always a good thing. They were, well, sweet was the only word he could think of.

After lunch, they went back to the office where the conference room became Shawn’s office. He spent the rest of the day spreading a world map on the wall and the files out on the table. He was going to find the correlation between the crimes and point the FBI in the right way – but without naming Neal outright.

The days fell into a pattern and agents would bring Shawn new information to add to his timeline. He would break and go to lunch with Peter before returning and immersing himself in Neal’s life.

It was on the fourth day that the reality he was trying to deny stared him quite literally in the face. He was taking a break, eating a pineapple Danish when Peter came in with a new piece of information. He didn’t close the file quickly enough to keep Shawn from seeing the photo inside. He nearly choked on a piece of pineapple.

“Shawn, are you okay? What…what is it?”

“That picture? Is that him?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I met him ten years ago.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“His first name is Neal and his last name begins with a ‘C’, doesn’t it?”

“Caffrey,” Peter stated.

Shawn stood. “I can’t do this knowing he was a good friend. You can use all this,” he motioned to his work, “but I can’t be here when it happens.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Maybe it’s time to go home. Dad’s in Miami so I don’t have that excuse anymore.”

Peter held out his hand. “Good luck, Shawn. And don’t be a stranger.”

Shawn shook the proffered hand. “I know where you live.” With a grin he walked out of the conference room and across the main floor. He stopped at the doors, turned and saluted before walking out.

FBI White Collar Division, New York 2013

Shawn opened the door to the White Collar office. “Gone eight years and everyone is still in the same spot.”

Heads turned and Shawn was happy to see Jones and Diana who came over to welcome him. He was surprised considering how he had left them all that time ago and said so.

“Peter told us why you walked out,” Jones said. “You couldn’t turn on a friend. We understand.”

“We were pissed as hell,” Diana added. “But we understand.”

“What’s going on out here?”

Shawn looked up to see Peter step out of his office, a younger man in a suit with him. No way!

“Shawn?” They declared in unison. Neal and Peter then looked at each other as if to say “You know him too?”

Shawn held out his arms. “’Course it’s me. Does anyone else have hair this good?”

“Not since Judd Nelson.” Neal hurried down the steps and hugged Shawn. “You look great! I can’t believe it’s been almost 20 years!”

Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Shawn. Good to see you again.”

“Yeah. Someone’s got to explain the ‘again’.”

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked, ignoring Neal.

Shawn checked his watch. “Isn’t it time for lunch with El?”

“You always knew how to get yourself a free meal,” Peter said with a laugh. “She’ll love to see you.”

“And you can fill me in on how you two know each other.” Neal pointed at Shawn. “You never said a thing.”

They walked to the restaurant a few blocks away and Elizabeth was sitting at an outside table, basking in the early summer sun. Peter motioned for Shawn to hold back, to prolong the surprise. Shawn grinned in response and waited with Neal as Peter walked over to his wife.

“Hey, hon.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Sorry about being late.”

“What happened? Where’s Neal?”

“We met an old friend of his and they got to talking and he sort of invited himself to lunch.”

Shawn knew that to be his cue and sauntered over to the table. “Hey, El.”

“Shawn, my God!” El stood and wrapped him in a hug. “How wonderful to see you! You have to come by for dinner tonight.” She looked at Peter. “Don’t you agree?”

“Sure. We were just talking about it on the way here.”

“All right, then.” El smiled and regained her seat.

She didn’t see the money from the bet they had made on the way over make its way into Shawn’s pockets.

****

“Shawn, I’m not sure about this.”

“C’mon, Gus. You’ll love the Burkes and Neal.”

“I don’t know these people and before today, you haven’t seen them for eight years!”

“Neal is closer to 20.”

“That’s my point, Shawn.”

“What point? We’re almost there.”

Shawn didn’t know why he was feeling so anxious. He had just seen them at lunch. The again, Gus was now in the mix. It was his California life meeting his New York life and he just wanted both sides to get along.

Shawn was out the door before the taxi came to a full stop in front of the Burkes’ house. Gus paid the fare and followed at a more sedate pace, trying to make a good impression.

Shawn rang the doorbell and El welcomed him with a hug. “Shawn, this is unexpected. You’re on time,” she added at his confused look.

“Of course he is,” said Peter as he came up beside his wife. “There’s food involved.”

“That’s only part of it.” He jerked his head to Gus standing at his side. “The rest is all down to my time-keeper. Gus, Elizabeth and Peter Burke.”

“More like full-time keeper. Burton Guster.” He shook their hands.

“Come in.” Elizabeth ushered them into the house, closing the door behind her.

Shawn walked into the living room followed by Gus. Neal was sitting on the couch next to a shorter, balding man with large glasses. He was obviously comfortable with his surroundings which meant he was a long-time friend.

Neal stood when they entered, setting his wine glass on the coffee table. “Hey, Shawn. And you must be Gus.” He shook Gus’ hand. “Shawn’s talked quite a bit about you.”

“Really?” Gus looked at Shawn. “That’s interesting because he never mentioned knowing you.”

“Gus, what can I get you to drink?” asked El.

“I recommend the house red,” said the little guy. “They have a decent cellar.”

“Thank you, Mozzie.” El looked to Gus.

“Red will be fine, thank you,” Gus replied and El left for the kitchen.

Shawn heard the back door open and then scrabbling claws on the floor before he was attacked by a four-legged ball of golden fur. “Satch!” The dog wagged his tail so violently, his whole body moved. Shawn knelt down and scratched him behind the ears. “He’s gotten so big. Haven’t you, boy?”

Peter rejoined them and held out a bottle of beer to Shawn. Shawn stood and took the drink. “I see you’ve met Neal’s friend Mozzie.”

“Not properly,” said Gus.

Shawn and Gus sat in a couple of chairs facing the couch. Satchmo lay down at Shawn’s feet.

“Mozzie, this is Shawn and his friend Gus. Guys, this is Mozzie. We met up when I first came to New York and I out-conned him.”

“We were running Find the Lady and he palmed a queen from another deck.”

“And thus a partnership was born,” intoned Peter.

El returned with wine for Gus. “I’d like to know how Neal and Shawn met.”

“Me, too,” agreed Gus.

“I stepped on his foot,” Shawn said, not wanting to elaborate on the location.

Neal, of course, had no such aversion. “It was the Monet exhibit at the Institute of Art in Chicago.” He looked at Shawn. “August ’95?”

Shawn nodded.

Gus nearly choked on his wine. “You were in a museum looking at art voluntarily?”

“It’s not so bad when it’s not being shoved down your throat,” he defended.

“What next? The opera or symphony?”

“Bite your tongue. The only classical music I need to know I learned from Bugs Bunny.”

Neal continued the story and Shawn threw in little tidbits. Neal glossed over his reason for leaving so abruptly, but Shawn would get him to explain at some point before he left for California.

“What irony,” remarked Mozzie. “The one who wanted to be a cop became a criminal and the one who didn’t now works as a detective.”

“I might have shared a few of your cases with him.”

Peter was smiling. “Neal was the one who told you how to spot forgeries.” He snapped his fingers. “You did see something on the bonds.”

“I told you it was there, Peter.” Neal looked at Shawn. “So you used what I taught you against me?”

“To be fair, I didn’t know it was you. When I found out, I left.”

“So, now we know how you left the FBI, how about telling us how you started,” demanded Gus. “Curious minds want to know.”

“Oh, that was me!” El was excited. I was picking up coffee around noon when I saw a guy call in a tip to the police just from watching a news report. I told Peter at dinner and when we saw the news that night, it was reported that the man Shawn called in had been arrested.”

“The next day I checked with the NYPD and learned that Shawn had solved around a dozen cases. I ran it past Hughes, got his approval, and Shawn joined White Collar as a consultant.”

“An interesting four days.”

“You were only there four days?” Neal was amazed. “How close did you get?”

“Another day or so and we might have had you.”

“You would have made a worthy adversary,” commented Mozzie. “’Friends show their love in times of trouble, not in happiness.’ Euripedes.”

“Hey, Peter, since we don’t have a case right now, do you think I could have the day off?” asked Neal. “I was thinking we could hit the Met or MOMA.”

“I don’t think you should use the word ‘hit’ when you want to visit a museum. I’ll let the Marshal’s office know you have permission to be there. You change your plans, you call me.”

The oven timer beeped and Peter went to the kitchen. Shawn heard the oven door open. “Dinner’s ready, people!” he called.

Shawn and Gus left the hotel at the same time the next morning and Gus didn’t even have to nag Shawn. Gus headed south a few blocks to his convention while Shawn went uptown to the address Neal had given him. He stopped for a smoothie and strolled up Broadway, enjoying the noise and bustle that came with a major metropolis. He passed some street vendors which reminded him to pick up something for Juliet. Something not knock-off.

He cut over towards the Hudson along 81st and did a double-take when he saw the house on the corner. He grinned. Of course Neal got himself a place in a classic brownstone mansion. He jogged across the street and up the front step.

The door was opened by a maid not long after he rang the bell. “May I help you?”

“I’ll get it.” An older black woman dressed elegantly came up behind the maid. She held a little pug in her arms. There was no doubt this was her home. “You must be Shawn. I’m June. Neal told me you were coming. He’s upstairs having breakfast.”

Shawn followed June up to a loft apartment and through to the terrace where Neal was sitting at a little table sipping coffee and nibbling on pastry, acting like he was born to the life.

“You certainly landed on your feet. This is awesome!”

“It was really right place, right time.” He noticed the cup in Shawn’s hand. “Pineapple?”

Shawn made a What-Do-You-Think face and Neal laughed.

“Okay, stupid question. It’s good to know these won’t go to waste.” With a flourish, he pulled a napkin off a plate to reveal pineapple Danishes.

Shawn flashed back to the last time he had eaten the pastry in New York. Not that happy a memory.

“You okay?”

“Hunh? Sorry. Just thinking about the last time I had these here.”

"The day you found out about me.”

“Hey, who’s the psychic here?”

“No one.” Neal stood. “Let me freshen up and we can head to the museum.”

Shawn noticed he was wearing khakis with his blue Polo shirt. “What, no suit today?”

“Not today. You’re getting Neal Caffrey: The Early Years.”

“If I’d known, I’d’ve grown my hair,” Shawn said as he followed Neal back into the apartment.

“I think it best the world doesn’t witness that again.”

********************

They arrived at the Met after sauntering from Neal’s place through Central Park, exchanging tales they couldn’t share last night in front of Peter. Shawn stopped and looked up at the imposing façade of the museum. If he had to put into words what he was feeling, they would be awe and giddy – though he’d never admit it.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Neal was smiling. “I haven’t been here in years – at least not through the front door.”

“For obvious reasons. C’mon, let’s give Security palpitations.”

They jogged up the steps and stood to the side of the metal detectors to get hand scans due to Neal’s anklet. Neal called Peter and handed the phone to the guard in order to confirm the FBI was aware that a convicted forger was in the building and was being monitored. The guard gave them both a very thorough scan before letting them pass through.

As they headed up the main stairs, Shawn caught the guard’s reflection as he spoke into his radio, no doubt informing everyone else to keep a close eye on the two guys he just let in.

“C’mon, I know just where to start.”

“I thought you hadn’t been here for years.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know the floor plans.”

After seeing the Monet collection (where Shawn passed his pop quiz), they headed to the Fabergé exhibit where Neal was in his element.

“Only 50 were ever made,” he gushed about the eggs on display. “It took a team of artisans over a year to make each one.”

Shawn had to capture Neal in lecture mode, so he pulled out his phone and shot some video, focusing on Neal, not the room or exhibits.

After checking the highlights of the Renaissance collection, it was time for lunch. Afterwards they’d head to the MOMA. Shawn really wasn’t one for modern art, but he was enjoying himself so much and Neal just might give him a new appreciation for paint splatters and blank canvases.

As they were going down the steps of the main staircase, making plans for the rest of the day, an alarm sounded and the security gates closed. Shawn looked at Neal. This was so not good.

**********************

Shawn’s leg jiggled with pent-up energy. He wasn’t sure how long he and Neal had been sitting in the glorified closet once Security had gotten them. Neal was leaning back, appearing calm, but Shawn guessed this experience had him wound up inside.

The door opened and a man and woman walked in, obviously detectives. They almost made Shawn feel at home. The woman was tall and slim with long brown hair. She kind of reminded him of that detective on that TV show with the writer.

“Neal Caffrey,” she said. “This is quite the surprise. I couldn’t believe it when the call came saying you were in custody, didn’t even try to run.”

The other detective just looked smug, as if looking forward to the showdown.

“I didn’t run because I’m not guilty,” Neal stated calmly. “And you have me at a disadvantage, Detective…”

“Malone. You certainly have some big ones, announcing your presence to the guards.”

Shawn tried to hide a smile. She was like a female Lassiter! If not for Marlowe, he’d be trying to set them up.

“You find something funny about this?” She turned on Shawn.

“I find something amusing in just about everything,” he quipped. “In this instance, you remind me of someone I work with.”

“Really? Who might that be? One of your fences or contacts?”

Shawn’s scoff was so large, it was almost a guffaw. It was impossible to think of Lassie as a criminal. “Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department.”

“You’re a cop?” The other detective’s voice dripped with derision.

“He’s a consultant,” put in Neal. “Solved a number of big cases. The Yin and Yang murders? Shawn solved those.”

“She even wrote about me in her autobiography. I am a ‘thick-tufted boy genius who ice skates through life on polished blades of snarky eloquence’."

“Oh, she had you pegged.”

There were muffled voices from outside and the door opened to reveal Peter in his full FBI glory. He held up his badge. “Peter Burke, FBI.”

“Det. Briana Malone, NYPD. This isn’t a case for the Feds. There’s no need for you to be here.”

“Neal Caffrey is my responsibility and Shawn Spencer is a friend. I want to know the reason they are being kept here other than the fact they were in the building when the theft occurred.”

“The guards detained a known forger and notified NYPD. We only just arrived.”

“We were just finishing up the small talk,” Shawn informed him. “Told them of my work with the SBPD for references.”

“Quoting a serial killer is not the best character reference in this case,” Neal commented.

“Do you have security footage of them in the room?” Peter ignored Shawn and Neal.

“The cameras were down at the time of the theft,” the other detective admitted.

“So you have nothing.”

“What was taken?” questioned Neal.

“Like you don’t know,” the male detective muttered.

“Look, I might be able to tell you who might have done it,” Neal said as he made his case.

Malone looked at Neal, Peter and Shawn in turn, debating if telling her main suspect what he had supposedly stolen was a good thing. “The Antioch Chalice,” she answered, checking her notes.

“We weren’t even near that gallery, I swear to you, Peter.” Neal protested. “We weren’t even on that floor.”

“Except for Fabergé,” murmured Shawn.

“OK, fine. Except for the Fabergé. But that was on the other side of the museum.”

“We have a good case for doubt,” Peter stated. “They have nothing putting you in the vicinity at the time of the theft.”

“I have something for a slam-dunk case for innocence.” Shawn took out his phone and pulled up the video he had shot. “We thought we could use it to prove that we were here behaving ourselves. Didn’t think it would help save us from jail time.”

Peter took the phone from Shawn and looked at the video. “This is perfect. We can have the techs analyze it, get the time stamp and location. Send me a copy and I’ll pass it to Jones and Diana.”

Shawn typed in Peter’s email and sent him the video. He then noticed Malone was a little peeved at not being included and was about to turn into Mount St. Briana. He nudged Peter to have him handle the jurisdiction thing.

“Detective, I’ll have our techs put a rush on this and send you the results as soon as I get them.” Peter pulled out his business card.

“This is going against protocol, Agent Burke,” Malone said as she took a card from her jacket pocket.

“This isn’t an ordinary case.” Peter takes Malone’s card and looks over at Neal. The CI seemed to be asking questions strictly by expression. Shawn knew what Neal was asking because he wanted the same thing. Peter looked back at Malone. “There’s one more thing.”

Shawn blinked in the early afternoon sun as he followed Neal and Peter outside. The sounds of traffic were almost deafening after the echoing silence of the museum.

Malone had let them into the gallery where the theft had taken place. They couldn’t touch anything and weren’t allowed to be there for very long. She had thought she was getting the upper hand in the situation, but she didn’t know about Shawn’s “talents”. Peter had made a few token protests but didn’t want to risk the detective’s benevolent mood.

“Even though I’ve sent the video to Jones, I still think it would be for the best if you two came to the office. We can take the evidence straight from Shawn’s phone. Then it’s back home for both of you.” He realized what he said and amended it. “Or your hotel.”

“Peter, you can’t confine Shawn to a hotel room.”

Shawn didn’t hear Peter’s response as his phone chose that moment ring. He barely had it up to his ear when his dad began shouting.

“Shawn! What the hell are you doing? I hear there’s a theft at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then I see you with the FBI?”

“What? Dad, slow down. What do you mean ‘see’?”

“Turn to your left.”

Shawn looked as directed and saw vans from the city’s six major TV stations which meant there was a live feed going out.

“Uh, guys, we’re gonna have trouble with this.”

Peter was livid. “Who called the media? We don’t need this!”

“The thief,” supplied Neal. “He blends in with the crowd. We’re tied up with the press which gives him more time.”

Shawn heard squawking from the phone. He lifted it to his ear. “Dad, putting you on speaker.”

Henry’s tirade ended at the beep.

“Gentlemen, my dad, Henry Spencer.”

“Mr. Spencer, Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI. Can you tell us what the media is saying?”

“They’re not saying what was taken, but that the FBI is on the scene and two men were in custody. One of them was identified as Neal Caffrey, a convicted forger.”

“That would be me,” Neal said with a grin. “I’ve heard so much about you, Mr. Spencer. Glad to hear you’re recovering nicely.”

Shawn could picture his father’s face going red as he spluttered on the other end.

“It’s fine, Pops, he’s a friend.”

“Of course he is.”

Shawn looked apologetically at Neal who shrugged it off.

“Did you call for something other than to yell at me cross-country?”

“I was concerned, Shawn. Seeing you with the FBI…”

“Mr. Spencer, your son is not in trouble. He’s helping us.”

“Shawn, you did not--”

“Dad, they know. I met them after I left home. I’ll call tonight, okay? We’ve got to get going.”

“You’d better or I’m calling Gus!” Henry threatened before ending the call.

“You’re right,” said Peter. “He definitely is Mr. Spencer.”

*******************************

During the drive to the FBI building, Shawn had calls from Gus and Juliet. Yes, he was fine. No, he didn’t have anything to do with the theft. He’d call back as soon as he could.

Upon entering the office, Diana approached with an open evidence bag and held it out in front of Shawn. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and dropped it inside. “You’ll have it back by the end of the day,” she told him.

Peter then took them into the conference room. There was a pile of sketchbooks on the table. “You have at it while I check in with Jones.” He left.

Shawn snagged the top pad along with one of the very pointy pencils provided and sat across from Neal and began to draw a very basic floor-plan. He made sure to mark the entrances, air vents, display cases and all the bits of possible evidence. It made him think of the Nelson Poe case. Maybe I should ask for an air hockey table and some plastic toys. A laugh escaped him. Neal looked up, an eyebrow raised. “Sorry.”

Peter came back with Jones. “What have you got for me?”

“It’s a bit of a rushed job so it’s not great, but…”

Neal laid out his sketches on the table. They were more elaborate than any floor-plan drawn from memory had the right to be. No wonder he was such a great forger.

Shawn set his down, and, going by looks alone, his were stick figures in comparison. “It’s no Monet, but I think I’ve a few more details.”

“How long were you in the room?” asked Jones.

“About five minutes,” answered Neal.

“Not even a challenge,” Shawn commented. “I once recreated a crime scene from seeing a police model for only two minutes.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah.” There was no need for them to know about the toys.

“Okay.” Peter looked over the plans. “Now we only have to figure out how our thief got in and out.”

Neal’s phone rang, indicating a text or email. He raised a finger when Peter gave him a sour look. He took the phone from his pocket. “It might be from Mozzie.”

Shawn saw his face fall. “What?”

Neal slid the phone across the table and Shawn saw a photo of the two of them from earlier in the day at the Met.

“Crap.”

“What?” Peter took the phone from Shawn’s slack grasp. “This is not good.”

“You think so?” Neal ran a hand through his hair.

“This could be the thief. Someone has it out for you.”

“That’s not exactly a short list.”

“Fine. We’ll get it down to the lab and see if they can get a name or location.”

“Probably used a burner,” mused Shawn.

“Probably, but we might be able to find out where it was purchased. In the meantime, Jones is going to drive you home.” He raised a hand to stop their protests. “You have a stalker and someone set you up for a theft. No wandering the streets.”

Shawn snickered.

“You know what I mean.”

“A stalker would already know where Neal lives. A ride home is only going to solve part of the problem.”

“We could arrange a detail,” volunteered Jones.

“Think of it as protection for June,” Peter said at Neal’s hesitance.

“OK.” He gave in. “For June.”

Peter slipped Neal’s phone into an evidence bag and had one of the newer agents take it to the lab. As they stood and prepared to leave, Peter had to give a little lecture. “I want you both to stay put, no sneaking out the back door. Neal, I will be monitoring your movements. Shawn, I can’t do anything to you, but if you stay, Neal will stay. Plus, I really don’t want to talk to your dad if anything goes wrong.”

Shawn knew that Peter really cared for Neal. It probably started in a similar way to how things worked when he was here. Well, except for the fact that he wasn’t a felon. And hey, spending the day stuck in Neal’s apartment was way better than being in a hotel room by himself.

Jones came up to the apartment to wait with them until the detail to watch the house was in place. Of course he wanted to know how they had met and they had to tell the story again.

“Go on and tell Diana,” said Neal. “You’ve probably been trading theories.”

“Yeah, and an art museum was nowhere on the list.”

His phone rang and Jones had a brief conversation before ending the call. “Okay, time for me to go. Diana or Peter will be by later to bring your phones.”

“Thanks, Jones.” Neal escorted him to the door. “If we come up with anything, we’ll let you know.” He closed the door behind the agent.

Shawn was about to say something, but Neal held up a hand to stop him. He then counted down from five before opening the door to reveal Mozzie poised to knock.

“I waited for Junior Suit to leave,” he said as he made a beeline to the wine. “I came over when I heard what happened at the Met. You guys got national coverage.”

“My dad called from California.”

Mozzie nodded that he heard, but didn’t comment as he poured himself some wine. “So, did Suit take you downtown and interrogate you?”

“No, he did not.” Neal eyed Mozzie’s hand and the other man put the bottle down on the counter.

Shawn and Neal then took turns relating what happened, up to and including the photo.

“This is not good. You’ve been stalked, tagged and taunted.”

“I’m not wildlife, Moz.”

“This guy is good,” said Shawn. “He pulled this off spur-of-the-moment. There was no way he could have planned on us going to the museum, unless…”

“He bugged us somehow,” finished Neal. “But even so, the Met was closed at the time last night and had barely opened when we got there.”

“It could be that he’s had the idea to do this for some time and just waited to use it.”

Neal looked at Mozzie and Shawn knew they probably had planned lots of heists that had yet to be carried out. “What’s the deal with this chalice thing, anyway? It’s not like it’s the Holy Grail.”

Neal and Mozzie shared a look.

“No way! What? Did Dr. Jones donate it to the Met when he came back?”

“It’s not the real Grail…”

“It’s only a model,” Shawn couldn’t resist.

“When it was discovered in the early 1900s, that’s what the inner cup was called. It’s been dated to the first half of the 6th century so it can’t be the Grail.”

“So who would want this? Did he take it for himself or is he going to sell it?” questioned Mozzie.

“What are the odds that he’s had a buyer lined up and it coincides with framing Neal?” Shawn wanted to know.

“What I don’t understand is why me?” Neal complained. “OK, I get why it could be me, but what grudge could this guy have?”

Mozzie’s phone pinged and he pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. “Oh, no. He’s found me! How did he find me? No one should be able to find me!”

“Breathe, Moz.” Neal took the phone from his hand and looked to see what could have caused such panic. It was a photo of a much younger Neal and Shawn from Chicago. He mutely passed the phone to Shawn.

“C’mon, it can’t be that--” He saw the photo. “Crap.” He studied the picture to place where it had been taken. “It’s that restaurant by the museum, the one we’d stop at every once and awhile.”

“Yeah. Narrows down who stole the chalice.”

“I’m gonna guess this has something to do with why you left so suddenly.”

“I was hired to recreate some documents.”

“You can say ‘forge’. You are among friends.”

“That was the word they used. And since that was the term, I didn’t make an exact copy. When I learned what it was for – who it was for – I took off. I think he’s done a couple of stints in prison since then, I’m aware of at least one while I was…making a name for myself.”

“That could have pissed him off, easily,” commented Shawn. “Now you’re both out and both on the same continent so he came for you. I think we need to call Peter.”

“No, we should wait until we have more proof.” He looked to Mozzie.

“I’m with Shawn on this. All three of us are involved now. The guy’s waited 20 years, he won’t care who gets in his way.

“What’s the name?” Shawn asked.

“Mark Ridley.”

Shawn knew that name. The guy had been on Lassiter’s Wall of Crime. “Seriously? You crossed the guy all that time ago and literally lived to talk about it?”

“It was all circumstances and fate. Believe me, those first months were lived in fear, constantly looking over my shoulder. I didn’t relax until I heard he was in prison. At that point, we were into the con with Adler. I was comfortable, secure.”

“You conned that Ponzi guy?”

“We were doing a long con and he caught on.” Neal was short, effectively road-blocking that avenue of conversation.

“Give me your phone.” Shawn held out his hand to Mozzie.

“It’s bad enough the Psycho from Chicago has my number, you want the Suit to know?”

“Like you were going to hold onto the phone after this,” Neal stated.

“Point taken.” Mozzie handed his phone to Shawn. “I don’t like how well you know me.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Shawn dialed Peter’s cell. “Shawn, what’s going on?” he answered.

“We were brainstorming when he sent another photo on Mozzie’s cell,”

“Mozzie’s?”

“Yeah. He must know that you have our phones and knew that Mozzie would come by.”

“Oh, that must’ve put him into a panic,” Peter chuckled.

“Yep. He wanted to go deeper than the Marianas. You’d better get over here before he decides to deep-six the phone.” Way to carry a metaphor!

“Okay. I’ll stop by the lab and get your phones before heading over. And, Shawn?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I don’t think Neal would have called.”

“Right. See you soon.”

Thirty minutes later Peter arrived, a worried look on his face. Neal pressed a cold beer into his free hand. “Relax, Peter, we’re fine.”

Peter set the bottle down without taking a sip and opened the folder he had brought with him. “The techs got a location where the phone was purchased and, from a time-stamp, we got surveillance video.” He pointed at the grainy photo. “Were you ever going to tell me you knew Ridley?”

“I don’t know him, per se. I never met him.” Neal told his story again.

Peter had calmed a little as Neal spoke. He took a long swallow of beer. “So, Ridley is after you for something you did when you were 18? I’ve heard stories about him, but nothing like this.”

“I think it might be because Neal went on to international fame.” Shawn couldn’t resist. “Somebody he could have controlled went on to be bigger than he was.”

“’You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies’.”

They looked at Mozzie, not recognizing the quote. “Doctor Who? Okay, that’s the last time I use TV quotes on you.” He took a defiant sip of wine.

“Now that we know he’s after you, we just have to figure out what he wants to do.”

At that moment, Donna Summer’s “Bad Boys” echoed through the room. Embarrassed, Peter realized it was coming from his pocket. He reached in and pulled out Shawn’s phone with its bright green case. “Still with the novelty ringtones?” He handed Shawn the phone.

“I get bored. You know that. Besides, Gus hates this song.” He motioned to the terrace. “I’m gonna step outside and make a few calls. Talk amongst yourselves.” Shawn walked out onto the terrace and answered Gus.

“Shawn, what the hell is going on? I’ve been fielding calls from your dad all afternoon.”

“I told him, I told Jules and I told you that I wouldn’t have my phone. Good news is they cleared Neal with the video I shot.”

“Do I want to know the bad news?”

“We found out who the guy is and apparently Neal pissed him off years ago so he’s looking for payback.”

“And what does this mean for you, Shawn? What if the guy comes for you?”

“Dude, this is like some major Hollywood thriller. All we need is a chase scene!”

“You just want to use Lassiter’s music again.”

“It really does work.” He checked his watch. “I gotta call Jules and my dad. I’ll let you know when I find out about tonight.”

“If I don’t hear from you in a couple of hours, I’m calling you.”

“You got it.” He ended the call and dialed Jules.

“Shawn, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. The FBI tested the video clearing me and Neal.”

“About that. Lassiter had some choice words about Mr. Caffrey.”

Shawn could hear Lassiter in the background. “Just put me on speaker, Jules.”

“…idiot boyfriend.”

“Hey, Lassie. I think one of the guys from your wall is in New York.”

“Really?” The senior detective’s tone changed from derisive to hopeful. “You’re not just saying that?”

“We believe he’s after Neal for something that happened years ago.”

“Who?” Now Lassie sounded like a teenage girl asking for gossip.

“Mark Ridley.”

“Sweet Justice! You don’t do anything by halves, do you, Spencer?”

“You know me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Who is this guy?” asked Juliet.

“Mark Ridley is wanted for extortion, money laundering and armed robbery. He was arrested in ’95 when he was caught with forged certificates. His empire started crumbling after that.”

“That was Neal. They told him to make a copy and he did.”

“A crime boss approaches him to make a forgery and he screws it up?”

“Lassiter, he was 18,” Juliet defended. “He most likely needed the money.”

“Thank you, Jules. Neal didn’t know and, apparently, to an artist, ‘copy’ is different from ‘forge’. Anyway, Lassie, could you send what info you have on him?”

“Can’t you just ‘divine’ it?”

“The FBI likes to see things in print, Lassie. Besides, if your file helps catch the guy…” Shawn smiled as he pictured Lassiter’s face as thoughts of a commendation filtered through his head.

“We’ll stop at my place to get them. This is to put away a criminal, Spencer. I’m not doing it as a favor to you.”

“Of course not, Lassie.”

“Call me tonight?” asked Jules.

“’-Course I will.”

“Love you.”

Shawn heard Lassiter groan.

“Love you too,” he said, adding a smooch for the man’s benefit before ending the call.

He looked up at the skyline of New York before calling his dad. He looked into the apartment and Neal caught his eye, raising a brow in question. Shawn nodded that he was okay. He looked down at the phone in his hand, took a deep breath and hit speed dial.

Henry didn’t let Shawn get a word in, just kept going on about how irresponsible he was. Shawn could actually hear the worry in his dad’s voice, so didn’t argue. When Henry finally stopped, Shawn started assuring him. “Dad, I’m fine. I spent the afternoon under the watchful eye of the FBI. They’ve got a lead on the guy they think responsible.”

“The timing of this can’t be coincidence, Shawn.”

“It wasn’t.” Shawn told the story once again.

“This is what you get associating with criminals, kid.”

Shawn scoffed. He was a detective who worked with the police. Kinda hard not to associate with criminals. No way was he telling his dad that. “He wasn’t a criminal when I met him. Yeah, we kept in touch. Yeah, I knew he was wanted by the FBI, but I never was an accessory or accomplice.”

“Shawn.”

“Who’s to say I would’ve turned out any different without you nagging me?”

“That is not the same thing.”

“I know he won’t appreciate me telling you this, but his dad was a cop too. Neal was raised believing he was a hero. It wasn’t until he was 18 that he learned the truth: his dad was dirty. He ran away.”

“Poor kid,” his dad said before catching himself. “But that is no excuse to become a criminal himself.”

“You’ll change your mind if you meet him.”

“Shawn, I am not going to meet him!”

“Dad, gotta go. They’re waving me over,” he lied. “I’ll call you later, okay?” He ended the call and walked back inside.

“Everything okay?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. Just had to explain everything three times. Oh, I should be getting some file notes on Ridley emailed to me from the SBPD. The head detective follows other criminals as a hobby. It’s how we caught Despereaux.”

Peter made his impressed face. “So this guy’s information is good?”

“Lassiter may not always think outside the box, but he is a good detective and will not give up on a case.” Man, he was glad Gus wasn’t here to catch him praising Lassiter, he’d never let him forget.

“Okay, when you get that file, I want to see it. Your friend might have noticed something we didn’t. I’m going to keep a detail outside and one for Shawn’s hotel as well.”

“That’ll put Gus at ease.”

“There is no way you can watch every exit at the hotel,” protested Neal. “There are so many ways to get in and out besides regular doors.”

“Neal’s right. There are so many ways in and out of a hotel – believe me, I know – you take my number and Gus’ in case you need to turn on the GPS.”

“And if he makes you leave your phone behind?” questioned Peter.

“Or you forget it?”

“I trust you guys to turn over every stone possible until you find me. Plus, if my dad would hound you until you did.”

“Any father would,” agreed Peter.

Peter drove Shawn back to the hotel. “We’ve got agents stationed throughout the hotel and patched into the security feed.”

“And Hughes approved this?”

“We’re working with Organized Crime. Once they heard Ridley had targeted a couple of consultants, they wanted in. It helps give us more manpower.” He parked the car and looked at Shawn. “This guy means business and will probably use you to get to Neal. If he contacts you in any way, you call, got it?”

“Yeah, I do. Thanks.” He paused. “Are you going to walk me to my door? I can’t promise much, my roommate is a real prude.”

“Get the hell out of my car, Shawn.” There was no malice.

Shawn chuckled as he got out of the car. “Night, Peter.” He walked inside with a wave.

He crossed the lobby, his eyes sweeping the room on the way to the elevators. He had learned to look without looking like he was looking. It really paid off when trying not to seem paranoid when a crime boss had you in his sights. The elevator ride was uneventful – he hit the buttons for other floors in case someone was watching from the lobby.

Gus pounced on him the minute he entered the room. “Dude, what’s going on? Why do you have some kingpin after you?”

“I told you it’s Neal he’s after. I’m just guilty by association.” Shawn flopped onto his bed.

“If he casts his net wider, that includes me.”

Shawn took out his phone and showed Gus the photos. “See? You’re not in the pictures at all. He probably doesn’t even know about you.”

“You can’t tell me you’re not freaked out about this? This guy kept this picture for close to twenty years, Shawn.”

Having Gus put it like that did add to the freaky aspect. He suppressed a shudder. Time to make Gus feel more relaxed. “Hey, we got FBI agents watching the place inside and out.”

“And you don’t think you should have started with that?” Gus sat on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know if I can sleep.”

Shawn knew that wasn’t true and was proved correct when Gus fell asleep halfway through Kate & Leopold.

He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was almost 9:00 back home. Still time to call his dad before his self-imposed bedtime. He picked up the cell from the table and called. “Hey, Dad.”

“Shawn, you okay?” Wow. Real concern. Maybe it was a cross-country thing.

“Gus and I are back at the hotel, which is being watched by the FBI. Everybody has everybody else’s phone number so we’re covered. I just wanted to call as promised.” He smiled when his dad didn’t answer right away.

“Thanks, kid.”

“I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“I’ll be expecting it.” Henry ended the call.

Wide awake, Shawn put on the tail-end of Leno to wait for Fallon. If he was still awake after that, there was always Ferguson.

During the commercial break after Fallon’s monologue, Shawn used the bathroom. When he came out, his phone was ringing. He checked the ID and jotted down the unfamiliar number. If this was the guy, he wanted Peter to have it. He knew neither he nor his phone would be around for them to find it the easy way.

He answered the call. “Hello, Mark.”

“You’re as good as they say, Shawn.” The voice was deep but not the evil mastermind kind. The tone almost sounded like an old friend trying to reconnect. That put Shawn more on edge than any mustache twirling would have.

“A New York number I don’t know calling me at this time? Who else would it be?”

“Doesn’t take a psychic, does it? Can you tell me where you think this conversation is going?”

Ridley wanted Shawn to come to him so he wouldn’t have to risk the FBI. He’d use Neal as leverage somehow – or even Gus. If he went willingly, that might change the whole dynamic of things. “Where do you want to meet?”

******************

Shawn took a deep breath before stepping out of the taxi. He couldn’t believe that this was the location for a meet-and-greet with a possible abduction to follow. There were cameras everywhere. When he stepped inside, he left the cacophony of Times Square behind to be welcomed by The Police’s Murder by Numbers, the irony of which was not lost on him.

He spotted Neal in a booth facing him dressed casually as he had been in the afternoon. There was another man in the booth and Shawn took his time to study him as he walked over. He was mid-fifties to sixty, his greying brown hair cut short – barber, not stylist. Sitting, he was a little taller than Neal so maybe 6’3” or so, around Peter’s height, but he was way more muscular. There were no tattoos showing, but Shawn just knew this guy had to have at least a couple, going by his reputation.

Shawn scooted into the booth next to Neal who greeted him like a buddy meeting up for a drink. “Hey, Shawn. Glad you could make it. This is Mark Ridley, the guy I was telling you about.”

Shawn got his first good look at Mr. Ridley. He had what some might call a handsome face, like some older Hollywood character actor. There were no signs of ever having been in a brawl – no broken nose or cheekbone – that would just ruin this front of geniality he had going.

“Shawn, how nice to finally meet you.” He reached his hand across the table.

Shawn put on his best happy-go-lucky face and played along. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he replied as he shook the man’s hand.

A waitress came over with three bottled beers and set them on the tables. “Is that all for you, gentlemen?”

“Yes, thank you, Jenny,” Ridley replied with a charming smile. “We’ll be leaving after the beers.”

“I’ll bring the check over in a few minutes.” Jenny walked away after a generous smile for the three handsome men in the booth.

Shawn stared at the condensation on the bottle. This would be the ideal time to slip some drugs into them. Ridley could have easily paid off Jenny to do something like that. She was a waitress in New York, after all. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Neal hesitate as well.

“There’s no drug in the beer,” stated Ridley as he poured his own.

Shawn glanced at the glass.

“There’s nothing in the glass, either. I wouldn’t be able to handle getting the both of you to the car if you’re barely conscious.”

That comment meant that Ridley was alone in this. If he had minions, there would be no sense in drugging them both. Shawn filed that away as he poured.

“I know why you wanted to frame me,” said Neal, “but why involve Shawn?”

“Leverage. I was actually gonna use the little guy, but then Shawn came to town. It took me awhile to recognize him without the stupid hair.”

“Hey! Don’t knock the Nelson!”

Ridley continued as if Shawn hadn’t interrupted. “I chose Shawn because you’ve known him the longest. Then the game changed. You are leverage for each other.”

Neal swallowed audibly and Shawn was thankful he was between sips “Why would he need leverage?”

Ridley smiled like a Bond villain. “While checking up on Shawn here, I learned that he was responsible for one of my jobs here in New York going south in 2005. Two good men were arrested and imprisoned.”

Shawn replayed his time in New York and the tips he had called in. “Huh. I had no idea.” There was no need to tell that he was the last tip he called in, the one El witnessed.

“You both ruined major paydays, so now you’re going to contribute towards one.”

“You want us to be your scapegoats,” said Neal.

“You leave with the money and leave us holding the bag.” Ooh, that came out quite good. Neal looked at him and all he could do was shrug.

“Is this an example of the ‘snarky eloquence’ I’ve read about?”

“Do all criminals read each other’s autobiographies?” Shawn didn’t know whether to be nervous or pleased.

“I’ve done my research and that’s why I know you’ll both cooperate. Now finish your beers. We have places to go.”

Shawn finished his beer though it was bitter on his tongue. Neal drank with even less enthusiasm, but then he preferred wine. Once they were done, Ridley put a fifty on the table, wedging it under the condiment holder.

“After you, gentlemen.” He directed then through the hallways and out to the loading docks. To keep them “tame”, he held a gun to Shawn and had Neal walk ahead.

They came out onto West 43rd next to the Spanish-American Institute. Even though it was just off Times Square, it wasn’t that busy. A black sedan was parked right at the curb waiting for them. Ridley pulled the remote from his pocket and unlocked the doors. “Before we get in, Neal, slowly take out your phone and put it on the ground.”

Neal did as requested, lifting the phone from his pocket with his first two fingers. He then squatted down, set the phone on the sidewalk and then straightened up. Ridley stomped on the phone, smashing it beyond use. He looked at Shawn. “Your turn.”

“Seriously, you know how many phones I’ve lost?”

“Your phone.”

Shawn pulled his phone from his pocket and began to pull off the green cover.

“Leave it.”

“This is custom,” he whined as he set the phone on the ground. He winced when Ridley stepped on it.

“Neal, get in the car, all the way over, and put on that bracelet I got you.”

Neal got into the back seat of the car and slid all the way over. In the middle of the seat, looped through the seatbelt guide, was a chain with a cuff on each end. Once Neal had the cuff locked on his wrist, Ridley aimed the gun at him and it was Shawn’s turn to get in the car and put on the other cuff. “What? They didn’t have any more pink fuzzy ones?”

Ridley simply ignored him as he slammed the door closed and walked around to the driver’s seat.

“Can you pick the lock?” Shawn whispered to Neal.

“With what?” Neal hissed back. “He patted me down and confiscated anything that could possibly open a lock. Didn’t your dad teach you?”

“It was too illegal.”

Neal sighed.

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t cave after I begged him for weeks.” Shawn kept an eye on Ridley as he carefully worked his free hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a paper clip. He gripped it in his hand as Ridley got into the car. He tugged on the chain in a show of defiance. “Damn it.”

“Shawn, you’re not gonna get it. We have to wait for a better chance,” Neal said, joining the act.

“What about Peter? You’re way outside your two miles.”

“Peter believes Neal is at home,” came Ridley’s muffled voice. “It will buy us time until the morning.” He started the car and drove.

It was only then that Shawn noticed the divider between the front and back seats like the kind in fancy limos. Knowing privacy wasn’t an issue, he looked around frantically. “Crap, crap, crap.” He hurriedly worked on the lock, not even trying to hide what he was doing. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears. Probably didn’t have much time. The paper clip fell from his fingers.

“Let me try.” Neal’s voice sounded unsteady and muffled as he picked up the clip and tried to work the lock.

Shawn realized too late about the gas. His dad would call it shoddy work, not taking in his surroundings. He could no longer tell if Neal was still working on the lock. He should have it done by now. His limbs were beginning to feel leaden and his head fell back against the seat, tilted so he was looking out the window. The last thing he remembered seeing was a sign for John F. Kennedy International Airport.