Chapter 13: THE AFTERMATH
The celebration happened at a bar three blocks from Federal Plaza—dark wood, decent whiskey, the kind of place where FBI agents could pretend they weren't federal employees for a few hours.
Peter had commandeered a corner booth. Jones was buying the first round. Diana had already claimed the jukebox, filling the room with something that sounded like Motown.
I sat across from Neal, both of us watching the agents decompress after a successful operation. The Picasso recovery was already being written up as a clean win—three arrests, one recovered masterpiece, zero injuries.
"You're not drinking," Neal observed.
"Neither are you."
His smile was thin. "Can't afford to lose control. Not with this thing on my ankle."
"Can't afford to lose control period."
Our eyes met. Recognition passed between us—two men who understood that letting your guard down was a luxury neither could afford.
Jones arrived with a tray of glasses. Whiskey for everyone, top shelf by FBI standards.
"To the odd couple," he said, raising his glass. "Who apparently can work together when properly motivated."
Diana laughed. Peter's expression softened into something that might have been approval.
I raised my glass. So did Neal.
The whiskey burned going down. Good burn. Clean.
[SOCIAL MILESTONE: TEAM INTEGRATION]
[RELATIONSHIP BONUS: FBI WHITE COLLAR TEAM +5]
"The Simms testimony is airtight," Peter said, settling into the booth beside me. "Beck's lawyer is already negotiating a plea. The nephew—" He shook his head. "Twenty-two years old, trust fund the size of a small country, and he threw it all away for gambling debts."
"People are stupid about money," I said. "It's the one constant in financial crime."
"Speaking from experience?"
The question was light, almost teasing. A month ago, Peter would have meant it as an accusation.
"Observation," I replied. "Twenty years of watching people destroy themselves over numbers on a screen."
Neal leaned forward. "The painting's being returned tomorrow. I heard the collector's planning a press event."
"He would." Diana's eye-roll was legendary. "Man couldn't find his own Picasso for three years, but he'll take credit for its recovery."
"That's the job." Peter finished his whiskey. "We do the work. They take the credit. The system keeps turning."
I thought about the painting itself—lines and shapes on canvas, worth millions of dollars and years of freedom. Art was strange. People killed for it, died for it, built empires around it. And in the end, it was just pigment and canvas and the stories we told ourselves about what it meant.
"You're thinking too hard," Neal said.
"Occupational hazard."
"Mine too." He signaled for another round. "But tonight, we pretend to be normal people celebrating a win."
I let myself relax. Just a little. Just for an hour.
The conversation drifted through the evening—case stories, bureau politics, the thousand small grievances that came with government work. Diana told a story about chasing a diamond smuggler through JFK that had everyone laughing. Jones described his first week in White Collar, when he'd accidentally deleted a week's worth of evidence logs.
Neal was charming, of course. Performing even here, among people who knew what he was. But the performance had edges of truth in it—genuine amusement at Diana's story, real respect in his eyes when Peter described his early cases.
I catalogued everything. Habit. Survival. The patterns of human behavior that told you more than words ever could.
Peter's relationship with Elizabeth—mentioned casually, warmly, the way people talked about someone who was their center of gravity. Diana's ambition, barely hidden beneath professional courtesy. Jones's loyalty, bone-deep and unquestioning.
And Neal. Always performing, always calculating, but underneath it something I hadn't expected: loneliness. The particular isolation of someone who'd spent their life being many people and had forgotten how to be one.
I know that feeling, I thought. Better than he realizes.
"You're quiet." Peter had shifted closer while I was thinking. "Everything okay?"
"Processing."
"The case?"
"Everything."
He nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.
"For what it's worth," Peter said, "you did good work. Both of you. When you stopped competing and started collaborating, you were more effective than either would have been alone."
"Is that an official assessment?"
"It's an observation." He paused. "And maybe a request. The next case—the forgery ring I mentioned—it's going to need both of you. Working together from the start."
"Neal agreed to that?"
"Neal agrees to whatever gets him closer to Kate." Peter's voice dropped. "I'm hoping you're the stabilizing influence."
Stabilizing influence. The irony wasn't lost on me. A transmigrator with a secret system, stabilizing one of the most unpredictable criminals in the city.
"I'll do what I can."
"That's all I ask."
The bar emptied slowly. Diana left first—early morning briefing. Jones followed, making promises about weekend plans he'd probably break for work.
Neal lingered, nursing his final drink with the careful attention of someone who'd learned to make small pleasures last.
"Walk back together?" he asked.
"We live in the same building."
"I noticed." His smile was complex. "June mentioned you were there first. That I'm the interloper."
"June says a lot of things."
"She says you're helping with her husband's records. Some kind of financial archaeology."
I didn't answer. The records were a private matter—Byron's legacy, June's trust, my opportunity to understand networks that might prove useful later.
"I didn't mean to pry." Neal stood, setting cash on the table for his share. "I'm just curious about my competition."
"Competition implies we're after the same prize."
"Aren't we?" His eyes met mine. "Peter's trust. FBI access. The chance to prove we're more than our worst decisions."
I stood too. The bar had emptied around us, leaving only the bartender and the fading echo of Motown.
"Maybe," I said. "But I'm playing a longer game than you realize."
"Aren't we all."
We walked out into the Manhattan night. The city hummed with traffic and possibility. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed—someone else's emergency, someone else's problem.
"The forgery case," Neal said as we reached the subway entrance. "Peter mentioned it connects to the Hartley operation. Your original case."
"It does."
"Then we should share notes. Actually share, not compete."
I considered him. The offer was genuine—or as genuine as Neal Caffrey got. An olive branch wrapped in self-interest.
"Tomorrow," I said. "After the briefing."
"Tomorrow."
We descended into the station together. Two con men, one building, countless secrets.
The partnership was solidifying. Whether that was good or dangerous, I hadn't decided yet.
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