How it all starts

FBI Agent Peter Burke felt his stomach fall as it clicked into place. "Wait!" he demand, his voice cutting sharply against the tension of the room full of agents. Too late; a muffled explosion rolled over them and soon dark smoke billowed into the room.

Concern for the agents cracking open the safety deposit sent him running into the adjacent room only to be met by them rushing out, ruffled but unharmed. Small mercies: their only solid lead had just gone up in smoke. Literally.

Peter ran his hands thru his hair as an excuse to dislodge dust and what ever other particulate had also momentarily suspended in the air.

"How did you know?"

It took a moment for him to lift his eyes to find Clinton Jones watching him. Peter really liked this agent; he swallowed down some of his bitterness but spoke loud enough to be heard by all the agents in the room. "3 2 4. Look at your phones." Free hands fumbled as people complied but Jones was the first one, the only one on the immediate uptake: "FBI". Jones hadn't even bothered to pull out his phone, had just tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up to the right at nothing as he thought it thru.

Burke nodded; "Booby trapped."

Muttered curses echoed thru the crowd; "Knew we were coming" one agent groused but the voice was too soft and low to identify who. Rolling his shoulders Burke regathered his thoughts. The ever elusive Dutchman was quickly climbing the ranks into his toughest cases. This little trick with the safe meant a multitude of things but Peter doubted it was a direct attack, not with all of the damage directed inside the security box. No, it was much more likely the ever-cautious forger was hedging bets. If Caffery had even half of the Dutchman's caution Burke knew he'd still be after that particular con/forger/thief. For a moment the corner of his mouth tipped into a satisfied smirk; yes, he'd caught Caffery and Caffery was cooling his heels in side maximum security prison. He'd get this one too, it was just a matter of time.

The staccato of a determined step crossing into the room had him looking over his shoulder. He smoothed out his expression as his latest probie, Agent Diana Berrigan found his eyes and held them, her expression serious. He'd left her in the office with the remainder of the white collar team, running after leads on this and half a dozen other cases.

"What is it?"

"Neal Caffery. He's escaped."

Speak of the devil the dry rasp of his grandmother's voice echoed up to him out of his memories. He took a deep breath, his eyes flitting over the assembly, meeting Jones'. "Stokes - you're in charge here. Jones, take Berrigan back to the office."

Jones just nodded. "And you?" he asked.

"I'm going to find out what the hell was going on that they let Neal Caffery out."

The Jones and Berrigan fell in at Burke's shoulders as he strode out of the building.

"He couldn't have had much left to his sentence" Jones noted.

Burke did some fast math in his head and nearly stuttered a step. "Less than four months" he provided, his step reviving even stronger; just a few days more than three months really Burke tallied up. The kid was nearly done and nearly to walking out with a clean-as-could-be-slate so the question blaring at Burke was "why now?"

Hours later Peter pulled up at the address he'd been directed to and cased the building with a professional eye. The ascetic was in line with what he could imagine Caffery's girlfriend Kate Moreau living in - it blended in with the NoHo neighborhood, didn't have a doorman, but was no doubt a chic building with chic lofts full of successful young urbanites who wanted loft-style couture whether or not they understood it. Peter knew Kate understood. In some ways he'd gathered more information on Moreau than he had on Caffery but it was by virtue that the woman had never had a rotating plethora of identities. Peter knew on paper her childhood, her parents, her education, her few semesters in Berkley, her year as an exchange student in France and the year she'd remained after that. That was when she'd stopped attending college and he wondered what had happened those two years because she moved back state side to New York City and stopped contacting the few she'd kept up with from home.

He hadn't kept up with her since Caffery had been sentenced but his people had provided this address as her residence fairly quickly. If he'd find Caffery anywhere he'd find him using Moreau. Again. A small number of other cars positioned themselves around the block and Peter knew agents were hustling down blind sight lines and up to roof tops. Scanning the block his eyes caught a black and white and two unmarked sedans. The police were already present. Odd; SWAT, marshals and FBI all were out in force but he didn't remember arranging for the LEO's to be included. He angled between the sedans as he stepped up onto the curb as an excuse to rest his hand on the hood - it was cold - LEO's had been here for a while.

Unease tumbled down; he hadn't Moreau's address more than thirty minutes. He'd spent the afternoon at the prison, learning how a tape recorder and the warden's wife am-ex supplied everything needed for a prison break: guard uniform, books on car maintenance, plane tickets to five locations in five different aliases, one alias fresh to the FBI even. Grudging admiration for Caffery was back even if it rode on heels of furry that the kid had been able to get out at all — on a month in a half of prep god damn it. He had been driving home to Brooklyn, mind on lines to follow up as slowly calls came back from his people : finding video of the hot-wired van entering in long term parking at JFK, and much later said van found tucked in next to a pillar hiding it from the monitoring camera. A task force was scouring all airports for any of Caffery's alias' and coordinating with interpol but Peter had insisted on keeping a few agents, namely Jones and Berrigan, following up other things, namely getting this address right here. Berrigan's call had come thru just as he'd neared the bridge to Brooklyn and he'd made the last turn possible onto a side street to turn around and stay on Manhattan. The airport parking pamphlet he'd taken out of Caffery's cell kept floating around the front of his mind, sure it was a clue but not sure why as he read up and down the prices of valet and parking options, like the long term parking where Caffery'd stashed the van.

A fellow agent hustled over to him as he approached to entry way, handing him a radio, muttering 'channel 5' before hustling away and a very shinny, pristinely waxed Benz caught his eye. No one would park a car that nice, that loved, out on the street. The 'valet' portion of the pamphlet raced forward and Peter connected the dots - son of a bitch - and he nearly chuckled. Caffery was definitely here.

Peter adjusted the channel and pressed down the button, "Somebody check out the black Benz with personalized plates."

"Copy" barked back over the radio and Peter winced, turning down the volume. He wondered idly if just maybe Kate had called the cops on Neal as she'd evidently broken up with Neal with prejudice on her last visit six weeks ago. Pushing thru the doors, Peter considered how the pair's somewhat rocky love had garnered him more insight on who Neal actually was than all the evidence Peter had put together.

Like France, Peter wondered what had passed in these six weeks that had turned Kate against Neal after 45 months of faithful visiting. He wondered if she realized she was an agent in gratis apprehending Neal for a second time, wondered if she was that vindictive, wondered if she'd stayed in the game this entire time and they'd missed it. In the lobby he glanced around, spotting a wide bank of stars and an elevator, freight sized with grates belying the former purpose of the building. Peter opted for the stairs. It was only four stories and Moreau was at the top. "Watch the entrance, there's an elevator. I'm taking the stairs" Peter reported as he started the climb, a team of four shadowing him.

Despite the mid evening hour the building was quiet. He nodded to the one other he passed on the stairs. Arriving at the top he glanced up and down the hall. Unease landed harder as he recognized a uniform guarding Moreau's door. Pressing down the button on the radio he requested "Hold. Hold until you hear from me" and waived the agents following him to wait, cautiously walking up to the cop. He reached slowly inside his jacket, his other hand up in a nonthreatening gesture, and pulled out his badge as he watched the cop size them up.

"What's going on here?" he asked, trying to peer beyond the blue uniform into the loft.

"Why's FBI asking?" the cop replied, his tone at least neutral even if his stance became more sentinel.

"I have adequate reason to believe an escaped convict is here or has recently been here."

The cop's eyes remained professionally blank but he met Peter's eyes and then nodded sharply, knocking on the door frame and moving to duck his head thru the door. "Hey detectives, I think there's someone here who wants to speak with you."

"Let him in" a female directed from inside.

The cop nodded at him and held the door in enough for Peter to enter, pulling it closed on Peter's back. Inside Peter found a few uniforms meticulously dusting the open, whitewashed loft. There was no furniture. The loft had been cleared out, only a bicycle leaning against a whitewashed wall and a film of over everything. A number of yellow markers were scattered across the floor. Two plain-closed detectives faced his direction but their attention was on the ME crouched over the body laid out across the floor. The head and torso of the body angled out of sight behind the ME's crouch but flat black guard shoes and black polyester uniform pants were plainly visible from where Peter stood just inside the door.

Peter hadn't realized he'd cleared his throat until he found himself staring into the dark, measuring eyes of one of the detectives standing over the body, his appraisal reminding Peter a bit of Jones and Peter wondered if the man was also former military. Bile soured and gathered in the corners of his jaw and the burn of stomach acid kept climbing upwards and upwards and he swallowed it back again.

"Do you recognize him?" the woman asked. Peter inched his gaze deeper into the room, to where she stood beside her partner at the head of the body. She was tall and slim, radiating a certain natural authority, clearly the top dog of the room, but, different from her partner, hell — from every other LEO on the premise — her eyes regarded him with a surprising amount of compassion.

Jesus. Peter took another step in, closer to the feet of the corpse, and there it was, all in view, all at once. Above the flat black dress shoes, and ugly polyester pants was a white, v neck undershirt, no doubt prison issue, finally bearing a graceful column of neck, clean shaven chiseled jaw, and blank, hollow blue eyes starring skyward without focus. Tousled brown hair fell back from a relaxed brow and the mouth was slack, sinking under gravity's pull into the beginnings of a corpse's grin.

Jesus Christ God, Holy Mother Mary.

This wasn't supposed to go like this. He was supposed to walk in and gloat about how easy he'd found Caffery yet again. Instead he was standing next to the kid's corpse. There was a divot centered above Caffery's brows shining dark red, the only blemish adonis's face. Spatter had blown blood and etc across the windows of Moreau's loft while the rest of his blood and grey matter had drained out the back and pooled underneath the shoulders and down bare arms in a sticky mess of congealing blood.

Peter swallowed. "How long's he been like this?" he asked helplessly.

The ME twisted too look up over her shoulder and find his eyes, "Best as I can tell between two to four hours." She pointed at the hands, lax against the floor, "He's got some broken fingers and some weak ribs. Any idea's on why that might have happened?"

Peter shook his head, the rush of blood sloshing noisily inside back and forth with the motion. "Caffery didn't do violence. He hated it, thought it was a sign of stupidity, poor planning."

"Caffery?" The lead detective asked again.

"Neal Caffery. Escaped felon."

"Explains the lack of ID" the other detective spoke up.

"How long's he been on the run?" the first detective asked.

"Since 10 a.m."

The second detective whistle softly thru his teeth, a slight look of respect cresting his brows, "You boys in the Bureau sure work fast."

Peter shrugged, "Not fast enough."

"Detective Beckett" the woman introduced herself, reaching forward to shake his hand.

"Agent Peter Burke."

"Detective Esposito" the other detective offered.

The ME rose to her feet, "And I'm Doctor Parish." She looked at Detective Beckett, "I'm good here if you are."

Three sets of eyes landed on Peter and he found his eyes drawn back down to the corpse at his feet. The surreality of it all holding a wicked donkey punch of reality at bay.

Peter shrugged. "This is your case, detectives, but if you want it you're going to have to fight to keep it."

Detective Esposito swore under his breath, muttering "Marshall's".

Peter turned away from the body, walking deeper into the apartment. He'd searched it, once, just after Caffery had been charged. Kate, verbally vicious and high tempered had sniped and flown behind them every moment they searched but had never crossed the line so far as to have herself arrested. She'd walked the line perfectly. In their interrogations of her she'd shut the out, shut them down, a blank wall. She'd shown up to the trial every day and part of Peter had hated Neal for seemingly deigning to enter the legal process as some form of commitment to Kate, not as any sign of remorse or penance, or because he'd finally been legitimately caught. In Peter's mind's eye he remembered how it was, how this corner was a set of low shelves with cushions atop for a faux window/bench seat with a small, vibrant, deeply played Moroccan rug and a set of eames chairs. Now it was naked factory windows surrounding a dusty cement box.

"Agent Burke?" Detective Beckett spoke up.

Peter turned to face her, his back to the corner he'd wandered into. "Yes?"

"I"d like to talk to you more about Neal Caffery."

Peter gathered his bearings, running thru the agencies responses… the agencies… shit. "One moment, Detective" and Peter grabbed is radio, flashing Beckett an apologetic glance. "Stand down. Every one stand down."

A crackle and Berrigan's voice broadcast back, her incredulity carrying, "No Caffery?"

Peter swallowed, his eyes falling to the open black bag and the ME and LEO's shifting the body into it, a muddy reverse silhouette left behind in the lake of tacky, brown blood. "Caffery's dead. Some one else got here first."

Silence dominated the shared frequency.

"What now, Boss?" Berrigan spoke after a multitude of seconds.

"NYPD has the scene processed and they're taking the body. This is their case now" he announced for the benefit of all and sundry.

Beckett raised a brow, clearly having expected some further form of entrenchment despite his earlier, personal renunciation of the murder case. .

Peter shook his head, pointing at himself, clarifying "White collar."

He caught the flash of pity before she very quickly shuttered it away. He gave a slight smirk, "I like puzzles that don't include a body count."

"I take it Neal felt the same?" she ventured.

A slight shock ran thru Peter with her astuteness and he found himself properly evaluating her for, perhaps, the first time. "Yeah. I'm the one who caught him in the first place."

"What for?"

Peter half shrugged, remembering the trial, "We got a charge of forged bonds to stick. Four years, Maximum security."

Beckett shared a slight smile, "What didn't stick?"

Peter smiled back, "He's a con-man, a forger, a thief, ran some books here, there, and Monaco…"

"Quiet the Renaissance Man" Beckett nodded.

"—More Impressionist, Pre-Impressionist—"

"Forgeries" Beckett pinned, nodding along. "So why'd he come here?"

Peter's shoulders fell. "This is listed as his girlfriend's place. It's why I came here. It's how we got him in cuffs last time."

"Well I hate to tell you this but it's been cleaned out for a while" Beckett shared. A clatter of people left with the stretcher and the body, Detective Esposito wandering over as a few techs continued crawling over every inch of space, one taking photos of the place where Neal had lain, white chalk echoing the position of his body save where the spread of blood flowered out, obliterating his shape from his torso to just beneath the crown of his head.

Detective Esposito waived a large evidence bag at Burke encasing an empty green wine bottle. "Any idea's about this? It's got some of prints on it."

Peter took the bag by its edge, lifting it high so it dangled between his face and the windows. He noted the label to ask his wife El about when he finally got home. "No idea" Peter weighed in, handing it back.

Detective Beckett produced a business card and handed it over to him, "I"d really appreciate it if you can make some time for me in the next couple of days, Agent Burke."

He glanced at the card, nodding. "How were you called here?"

"Neighbor downstairs reported gunshots. Said he hadn't heard anything out of this unit for weeks" Beckett shared.

"What's the girlfriend's name?" Detective Esposito asked.

"Katherine Moreau. Goes by Kate."

"She by any chance a Mob Princess?" Esposito asked.

Peter sighed, "Not even close."

"Any idea's why you're escapee went 12 rounds before he got tapped out?" Esposito continued.

"No. He stayed pretty clean inside and he has a reputation outside that negates this kind of violence. All I know is Kate stopped visiting him six weeks ago and this morning he walked out the front doors from prison and ended up here."

The three stood together in silence, each contemplating their own tangent.

"I look forward to hearing from you, Agent Burke" Detective Beckett spoke up, nodding politely and walked out, Detective Esposito at her side.

Peter looked at her business card again then tucked it away behind his shield, slipping his badge back inside his jacket. He looked over the apartment again, this time with the eye of an investigator. Dust motes swirled thru the air from so many bodies disturbing the open, empty space. Peter nodded at the LEO's and walked into the open bathroom, pulling a fresh glove from one of the boxes into this palm. He flicked open the medicine cabinet finding it clean, empty. He swung it shut, the latex glove crumpling in his fist. This had been no wipe and run, the loft had been abandoned. The air stale, no one had opened a window or cooked in here for some time, only the whispers of polyester and rubber and slight taint of iron and gun powder lingering.

Peter wanted the wine bottle. Prints had to mean Neal had handled it. He wanted to know why.

Neal had obviously come for Kate and Kate had left Neal a wine bottle because even though Kate had stopped visiting Neal in prison Kate had counted on Neal to come for her, come for her here, even after she'd abandoned her home. Why?

Peter walked out of Kate Moreau's apartment with a new puzzle teasing the fringes of his mind.