Genre: AU crossover caper!fic. Gen, with some references to Hardison/Parker UST and past Neal/Kate.
Rating / Warnings: PG-13 for mild violence, language and angst.
Spoilers: up to episode 1x05 for White Collar, and episode 2x10 for Leverage. This fic ignores all subsequent plot developments and backstory revelations.
Author's notes: I must admit that I haven't done my usual exhaustive research for this fic, so please don't take any of it – especially the art stuff – too seriously.

Chapter 1

Nate

The team's latest client, a local woman named Iona Franklin, had approached Nate on behalf of her grandfather. A charming art dealer called Tony Michaels had visited Mr. Franklin's home in Queens two months ago, offering to buy several paintings from him. Distressed and bewildered after the recent death of his wife, the elderly man had been pressured into accepting prices far below market value.

When Iona found out what had happened, some weeks later, she checked the dealer's website and got a nasty shock. The artworks had fetched at least a dozen times more than Michaels had paid. One of them, a 19th century view of New York Harbor, had been bought for $500 but resold for $8,000.

She had traveled down from Boston to confront him at his Manhattan gallery, but found him not at all charming. Michaels had laughed in her face, telling her he'd done nothing illegal and that her grandfather was a gullible old fool. She'd come home, fuming, and told the story to a friend whose cousin happened to be a former client of the Leverage team.

The upshot: Iona had shown up at McRory's yesterday, asking Nate for help.

Hardison was now standing in Nate's living room, outlining the situation for the others. He briefly stopped talking to swig some soda, and Nate glanced around to gauge reactions to this new job.

Eliot's scowl was unsurprising. Though he could kill a man with his bare hands, he hated to see vulnerable people being mistreated. Nate relied on Eliot more than ever now, so it was good to know he was on board.

Parker's expression was blank. Maybe she felt sorry for Mr. Franklin; maybe she was just waiting to be told what to steal. Sophie had always been better at reading Parker, and Nate really missed her insight into their thief's quirky brain.

Tara was difficult to read for another reason – they'd only handled a few cases together, and Nate barely knew her yet. But at a guess, he'd say she was impressed by her fellow con artist's scam, and not so concerned about the damage Michaels had done. Tara saw this stint with the team as a paying job, after all. It was probably easier for the others to be compassionate and altruistic, since they were all rich enough to retire already.

Hardison was the most transparent of them all, but Nate noticed that he seemed even more eager and cheerful than usual. Was it the job itself, or the prospect of the team traveling to New York City for the first time?

"So, I did some digging," Hardison continued. "Mr. Franklin definitely wasn't the only one that got ripped off. Michaels targets recently bereaved New Yorkers, mostly older widows. I think he's finding them via obituaries in the paper, which is just cruel, man. He calls or shows up at the door, saying he'll appraise their artworks for free. Then he claims that the paintings really aren't all that valuable, but offers to pay cash on the spot."

"I've seen this kind of con before," Tara said. "He probably convinces his marks that they'd have to waste lots of time going around lots of dealers to get a better offer, and would get stung by steep commission fees. So they sell to him and he resells the works at a far higher price, pocketing a tidy profit."

"You got it," Hardison said. "It looks like Michaels only started doing this in the past six months, when the recession really bit into his margins. But he's been careful: all his victims sign a deed of sale, so he actually is the legal owner. He was lying his ass off about the valuations, sure, but that argument might not hold up in court."

"So we have to work out how to stop Michaels, publicly humiliate him, and get proper compensation for Iona's grandfather and possibly the other victims too – all while bypassing the authorities," Nate said, a plan already taking shape in his mind.

"It also looks like he's got real cred in the art world." Bringing up a glossy magazine article on the screen, Hardison quoted, "'Michaels is considered to have a special talent for identifying previously unknown works by prominent American artists'. And an ego the size of Texas based on it, from what I can tell," he added.

"That's great," Nate said. "We can definitely use that against him." He stood up, and paced across the room as his team watched.

"Yeah...so, what we need is a grieving woman who doesn't know that she owns an extremely valuable painting. We entice Michaels to visit her and buy it for a pittance, and then make it the centerpiece of his next auction. Except it'll be a high-quality forgery, and we'll make sure everyone finds out in some spectacular fashion. His reputation will be ruined, and his dealership will suffer irreparable damage."

Tara raised an eyebrow. "I can play the widow of a rich old man, no problem. We can say it was a May-to-December romance, to explain the age difference. But I see a major stumbling block with this scenario: none of us are good enough to paint a fake masterpiece."

"Hey, what about 'Old Nate'?" Hardison gestured to his portrait of the mythical Harlan Leverage III, hanging on the wall behind her. "That's a real masterpiece, right there!"

"It's weird," Eliot said. "Next time we have to blow up our headquarters, I vote we let the damn thing burn." He smirked at Hardison, who glared back.

"Nobody is blowing up my apartment," Nate declared. Hardison, who owned the building, nodded vigorously. Parker, who was worryingly fond of explosions, looked disappointed.

Rolling her eyes, Tara got back to the issue at hand. "So, we need a great artist with elastic ethics. Anybody got one on speed dial?"

Nobody spoke.

Hardison opened his mouth, shut it again, and looked oddly uncertain for a few seconds. Then he said, "I actually do know a fantastic forger. He's got a lot of aliases, but his real name is Neal Caffrey."

Interestingly, it turned out that Eliot was the only one who hadn't heard of Caffrey. Tara respected his ability to 'talk anyone into or out of anything', and Parker admired him for 'some amazing heists'.

And for Nate, he was one of the fish that got away. "I chased Caffrey for IYS several times, but he was like Houdini. When the FBI finally made the arrest, even they couldn't pin any art thefts on the guy. Isn't he in prison, though?"

"Actually, he was released a few months back," Hardison said. "Now he lives in Manhattan."

"So how do you know Caffrey?" Nate asked, expecting to hear that they'd collaborated on a job or two.

A grin flashed across Hardison's face. "He's my brother."

Neal

Hearing from Alec was always a highlight of his day, but Neal got a pleasant surprise when he got a text message Wednesday morning: Alec was flying down from Boston in two days' time. He wanted to see Neal while he was in New York, both to catch up and to discuss a possible joint endeavor. Neal replied immediately, suggesting they meet at a bar within his radius, and put his phone away with a smile.

"Good news?" June asked, sipping her coffee. She had joined Neal on the mansion's rooftop terrace for breakfast, both of them enjoying the bright sunshine after days of rain.

"My brother Alec is coming to town this weekend," Neal explained.

"Oh, that's nice," June said. "You know, I don't think you've mentioned any siblings before."

"That's because Peter thinks I'm an only child, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Of course, dear," she said with an understanding nod. June was a woman who knew how to keep secrets. "So are you and Alec close?"

"Yeah, very. He's my foster-brother, but it feels like we've always known each other. My foster-mom took him in when I was eight years old and he was just four. We ended up staying with her right through high school." Neal smiled. "Nana was a wonderful woman – you remind me of her, actually."

June smiled back. "I can just imagine you as a boy, charming your way into and out of trouble. How young were you when you decided on this career path?"

Neal spread his hands. "Alec and I got up to some mischief, sure, but I always wanted to paint for a living. The crime came later, when Kate and I got tired of being starving artists."

"I see," June said thoughtfully. "And Alec? If you don't want the FBI to know about him, I'm guessing he's in a similar line of work to you."

"He's a hacker," Neal said, "one of the best in the world. But he's on the side of the angels now."

"As are you, supposedly," she pointed out, and Neal shrugged ruefully. June finished her coffee and stood up from the table. "Your brother's welcome to stay here, if he likes."

"I think that'd be too risky," Neal said, "given the way Peter likes to stop by unannounced. Thanks, though."

June nodded, patting him on the shoulder as she walked towards the stairs. "No need to thank me, Neal. This is your home too, now."

Neal topped up his coffee and looked out across the city. After four years inside, it was still surreal to wake up every day to a view like this. He'd described June's mansion to Alec and emailed some photos, but they didn't do the place justice.

The last time Neal had seen his brother was through thick glass in the SuperMax visiting room, over a year ago. Alec had never been a frequent visitor, not like Kate, but Neal didn't hold it against him. Before he'd joined Nate Ford's team of criminals turned crusaders, Alec's jobs had taken him all around the world. Since then, he'd been kept busy fighting the good fight across America.

But Alec had managed to protect Neal in prison, even from a distance, by digging up dirt on every guard and threatening them with exposure if Neal got hurt. And the secret code they'd developed as kids had proven crucial for getting messages past the censors, including Neal's request for help with his escape and Alec's immediate response. When he was recaptured, Neal claimed to have managed the whole thing alone.

Alec had been instrumental in getting Neal out for the second time, too. He'd researched the forger known as 'The Dutchman', and he'd been the one to suggest the use of a GPS electronic monitoring anklet. Neal glanced down at his left ankle with distaste – so far, Alec seemed to be right about it being tamper-proof.

Neal gave Peter the impression that Mozzie provided all his intel, but Alec was secretly a key source. The two of them had gone home to Tennessee to destroy all their foster care and school records, years ago: Alec deleted the database entries, while Neal stole and burned the paper documents. Now there was no official proof that they were connected, and Neal wanted to keep it that way.

They weren't related by blood, but Alec was family all the same and Neal's trust in him was absolute. Neal had lied to both Moz and Kate about the location of his stash...only Alec knew that all the stolen goods, forged bonds, and stockpiled cash were in a Memphis storage unit.

Neal used to combine trips to his stash with visits to their Nana, but she had died just before the FBI caught him – his grief was one reason why he'd screwed up that final bond job. But while Neal was inside, Alec had kept up the payments on his storage unit and installed a high-tech security system with remote monitoring.

That thought reminded Neal, now, to pull out his phone again and perform his daily check of the unit's cameras. Everything seemed absolutely normal, as usual.

Neal stared longingly at the live feed. God, he so wanted to be reunited with his treasures. He'd always loved running his fingertips along the paintings' ornate frames, and caressing the cool curves of the marble statues. For him, art was a tactile as well as a visual pleasure.

He hoped that Alec was bringing him a present from Boston: a way to unlock or disable the anklet. Neal's first priority once he was free and clear was to find Kate and rescue her from that mystery man with the ring. His second was to go back to Memphis, visit Nana's grave, and then raid his stash.

After that, well, Neal would follow Kate's example. He'd become a ghost that not even the FBI's best agent could catch.

Neal's coffee had gone cold, and Peter would come by soon to pick him up. He headed inside to perform the last of his morning rituals: adjusting his tie, putting on his hat, and mentally donning his latest mask. Neal Caffrey, FBI consultant, was just another con job. But the more time he spent with Peter, the harder it became to remember that.

Hardison

His brother had a few more wrinkles around his eyes, Alec noticed, and he was still too thin and pale from his time in prison. But Neal's smile when he saw Alec waiting at the bar was wide and genuine. The two of them hugged, the first time they'd been allowed to touch in almost five years, and sat down in a back booth.

Neal ordered a glass of wine from their gorgeous waitress, who responded to his casual flirtation in kind. Flirting really was as natural as breathing for Neal, Alec thought. He'd been jealous as a teenager, when his own response to girls had usually involved hopeless babbling; now, it just amused him.

Alec and Neal spent an hour at the bar, talking in low voices as the Friday night crowd came and went around them. They'd covered most of the big stuff in their regular emails and phone calls, but Neal still asked Alec about the Leverage team's recent endeavors. He'd been fascinated by their whole Robin Hood mission since the beginning.

Now, as Alec described their attempt to help Chinese sweatshop workers, he wondered if Neal's own crime-fighting efforts gave him a different perspective on what Alec's crew did.

Meeting in person did reveal something that surprised Alec: the respect and affection on Neal's face when speaking about his handler, Peter Burke. Would the veteran Fed speak so warmly of his pet convict? Alec wouldn't bet against it...few people were entirely immune to Neal's charm.

Once they'd gotten caught up, Neal leaned closer to Alec and said, "So, have you had any luck with that electronics project?"

Alec had been trying to crack the tracking anklet ever since Neal had been released into Burke's custody. It was one of the toughest tasks he'd ever set himself, which was saying a lot – he'd started hacking federal networks in high school.

Despite several months of effort, Alec had no good news to give Neal. "Sorry, man. I'm still working on it."

Neal nodded, apparently resigned to waiting, but Alec knew that patience had never been his brother's strong point. Time for a distraction, he thought.

"Hey, listen," Alec said. "Let me tell you about our new job, and how you could help. Have you heard of Tony Michaels, the art dealer?"

"Sure," Neal said, "he's had a gallery on the Upper East Side for a couple of decades. It's a pretty classy place. I applied for an assistant position there after art school, but Michaels hired some preppy rich kid just because his daddy was a big art collector."

"In that case, you'll be pleased to hear that we're planning to take Michaels down." Alec laid out what the guy had been up to, and Neal shook his head.

"It's an effective scam, I guess, but going after grieving old people is just cruel," he said. "At least my marks were wealthy and well-insured. I never took anything they couldn't afford to lose."

Alec nodded; he'd been sure that Neal would understand. "Thing is, Nate's plan only works if we get a painting done to very exact specifications in a short time period. That's where we could use your skills."

Neal looked puzzled. "There are plenty of local forgers who could handle this – why would your team want me? You did tell them that I'm a consultant for the Bureau now, right?"

"Yeah, we had some debate about that. I explained that you're just killing time here 'til you can find Kate and escape. In the end, it came down to me trusting you and them trusting me." Alec shrugged. "So, you want in?"

"Copyright law pertaining to art is very interesting," Neal said. "It's technically not forgery to create a painting in the style of another artist, as long as you don't claim it's by that person. In fact, it's perfectly legal to sell exact reproductions, so long as the artist's been dead for a certain number of years. I did it for a while after graduating, to pay the rent, before I moved on to the less legal kind of copying."

"I know," Alec reminded him, "I've got your version of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' hanging in my apartment back in Boston."

"That was one of my best efforts," Neal said. "God, do you remember Moz's face when he saw it? You'd only just introduced the two of us, and he declared me his new go-to forger on the spot."

"Start of a beautiful friendship," Alec said nostalgically. "I'm looking forward to catching up with Mozzie while I'm here. But you haven't answered my question, Neal."

"Well, my point was: if, hypothetically, I painted something reminiscent of a famous artist's work, and gave it to someone telling them it was a Neal Caffrey original –"

"– then you wouldn't be liable for whatever that person did with it afterwards," Alec concluded. "Would those legal niceties keep the FBI off your back, though? It'd be great to work with you again, but this job isn't worth going back to prison for."

"I really do want to help," Neal said, frowning. "But I'm on thin ice with Peter after I stole that Haustenberg, and he can trace my every move thanks to the damn anklet."

"All you'd have to do is paint," Alec pointed out. "We can buy all the supplies you need, and you wouldn't have to go near the gallery or do anything suspicious. And the tracker would provide the perfect alibi on the day we bring Michaels down."

Neal looked thoughtful for a long moment, and then spread his hands wide. "All right, let's do it. I've missed working with you, too."

Alec grinned at him. "Awesome. So we're staying at a hotel a couple of blocks from here. Wanna come get acquainted with my crew?"

"Definitely," Neal said with a smile. "I'm looking forward to meeting them all, after everything you've told me, and I really want to talk shop with Parker. I've admired her work for years."

"She's keen to meet you, too." Alec tried to hide his uneasiness, but Neal could still read him like a book.

"My interest in Parker is purely professional," Neal promised. "Anyway, Kate is the only one for me."

Alec highly doubted that she would say the same about Neal, but he kept his mouth shut: he had no desire to start yet another argument about Kate and her trustworthiness. So he paid for their drinks and left a generous tip, then led the way out of the bar.

They soon reached the hotel suite the team was using as their New York base, and Alec made the introductions. Though Parker seemed eager to fire questions at Neal, straight off, Nate insisted on running through the gallery con first.

Neal listened closely to the plan, nodding his approval, but interrupted when Nate got to the part about Tara playing the bereaved mark.

"I actually board with a real widow," he said. "Her name's June Duvall, and she owns a townhouse on the Upper West Side that's crammed with beautiful works of art – it'd be like a magnet to Michaels."

Nate frowned at him. "Why would your rich landlady want to help us out?"

"June hasn't exactly been on the straight and narrow her whole life," Neal explained. "She'd probably consider it fun to pull this job. And she only lost her husband a few months ago, so I think she'd really feel for Michaels' victims."

Nate paused, obviously considering all the possible outcomes. His brain was like a computer, Alec thought: it had some buggy software, even when he was sober, but a super-fast processor.

"I'm reluctant to bring in another outside person," Nate eventually said. "It would give the con a certain authenticity, though. Sound Mrs. Duvall out, see if she's interested."

"Sure," Neal replied. "You just decide which artist I'm going to be mimicking, and I'll start work. I'm best at the Old Masters, but I could probably do a decent job on most of the great American artists. Just no Abstractionists or Surrealists, please...that's no proper test of my skills."

Alec rolled his eyes. He'd been hearing variations on this rant ever since Neal started getting art books out of the Memphis public library. For someone whose profession revolved around misrepresenting reality, Neal had an oddly strong preference for figurative painting.

Once the planning session wrapped up, the socializing started. Parker got Neal talking about a daring museum job he'd pulled in Florence. Alec had a lot more self-confidence when it came to women, these days, but Parker and Neal had such similar talents and interests that he couldn't help feeling a little worried. Thankfully, though, she didn't appear to notice the good looks and easy charm that made so many people fall under his brother's spell.

Tara was clearly more appreciative of those external aspects, but also interested in Neal's exploits. Nate, who'd tried and failed to catch Neal a bunch of times, listened to the conversation with what seemed like reluctant admiration. Since Nate looked at his own crew that way whenever they discussed their past crimes, Alec wasn't too concerned.

Only Eliot held back, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a wary expression. Alec figured that he might warm up to Neal once they'd had a game of chess, though. Eliot played regularly with Nate but would welcome a fresh opponent, and Neal was good enough to really challenge him.

Alec relaxed into one of the suite's comfortable armchairs, and watched his two families blend.

Tara

Tara had to hand it to Neal Caffrey – the guy sure could think creatively. And damn, he looked good in a Devore suit.

As Caffrey had predicted, his landlady expressed considerable sympathy for the vulnerable people targeted by Tony Michaels. Mrs. Duvall was eager to help bring him down, but there was a major stumbling block. Her late husband Byron had been well-known in New York, in high and low society alike, and his recent death had been widely reported. So Caffrey had come up with an even better way to get the scammer's attention.

Parker and Tara walked into Michaels' gallery on Saturday morning, dressed as socialites with more cash than class. The man himself was sitting at a grandiose antique desk, scowling at his computer screen. Hardison had made subtle adjustments to the gallery's accounts, so it looked like Michaels was in even worse financial trouble than he actually was. The false data would hopefully make the guy more desperate and less careful.

The two women moved from the smaller front room to the gallery's main space, looking at the paintings. Bored, sulky Parker was obviously being dragged around by Tara, who was commenting on the various works in a pretentious but poorly-informed manner. It was surprisingly hard to do this deliberately, especially when you really did know your Manet from your Monet.

Finally, Tara and Parker reached the target which Nate had identified on an earlier recon visit: a small but stunning Thomas Rosenstern landscape, hanging just a few feet from Michaels' desk. Time to lay the bait...

Tara stopped in front of the painting, and tilted her head to the side as she studied it. Then she remarked to Parker, "Mom's friend June has a very similar landscape in her dining room, except it's about twice the size. I guess it's not a Rosenstern, though – she'd probably like it much more if it was worth a fortune."

"Wait, who?" For someone so bad at acting, Parker did a very convincing impression of a petulant younger sister who'd been tuning out her older sibling. Tara wondered, not for the first time, what Parker's childhood had been like. But by now she knew better than to ask.

"You know," Tara said, feigning irritation, "June Duvall? She has that gorgeous old place on Riverside Drive, and she used to host those great charity benefits." Her expression softened. "I really must invite her over for dinner sometime soon. She's barely left the house since Byron passed a few months ago."

"Oh yeah, I remember her," Parker replied. "Do you think she'll hold onto that mansion, now he's dead?"

"No, she's going to move out of the city to be closer to her grandchildren. But she's got all those beautiful artworks and antiques, and I don't know how much will fit into her new place. At least it'll be an excuse to sell off some of those ugly paintings her husband kept buying."

Tara turned her back on the Rosenstern and approached Michaels, who no doubt had been listening closely. She introduced herself as Christina Rogers, and began talking to him about one of the other paintings she'd pretended to admire.

"I just love that abstract with the really vibrant orange and yellow tones," she gushed. "I think it would really complement the pink rose-patterned wallpaper in my bedroom."

"Yes, indeed," Michaels said. He was a pro, all right...Tara only saw his slight wince of distaste because she was looking for it. "But I should tell you that the abstract will be going into my next auction, in two weeks' time. So make an offer before then, or take your chances on the day."

Parker glanced at her watch, sighed, and said, "Come on, sis. We'll be late for lunch with Mom, and you know how she gets."

Tara smiled apologetically at Michaels, took the business card he offered, and followed Parker out the door.

Neal

Tony Michaels swallowed the bait – he called June the very next day. Apparently it hadn't taken him long to track her down, and verify that she was indeed the recently-widowed owner of a fancy Upper West Side townhouse.

That was the key to a truly excellent con, Neal thought. Sure, Alec could easily have created new identities for June and Byron, and planted a fake death notice in the paper. But Neal preferred cons which married selectively-chosen fact with fiction.

Listening to the conversation on an upstairs extension, Neal had to admit that Michaels was good. The conman began by expressing his sorrow for Mrs. Duvall's tragic loss, and apologizing for his intrusion into her time of mourning. But he had heard through a mutual acquaintance that she hoped to sell some possessions before her upcoming relocation.

"That's the reason I'm calling, ma'am. Would you like an expert opinion on the artworks? I can offer you a fair price, and minimize the rigmarole."

June also played her part expertly. Initially surprised and suspicious, she gradually relaxed her guard as Michaels continued his patter.

"It's true that I would be glad to be rid of some paintings," she said. "There are three in particular: a large landscape, plus two smaller works. As much as I loved Byron, I hated his taste in art. These were done by friends of his who weren't exactly world-class talents, so I doubt they're worth much."

"Still, calling all the art dealers and having a parade of strangers through your house would be such a hassle," Michael said smoothly. "You must have better things to do during this difficult period."

"Oh, certainly," June sighed. "Very well, then. Would this coming Saturday suit you for an appraisal visit – say, 3pm?"

Michaels agreed, and ended the call with obsequious thanks. Neal grinned, and went downstairs to congratulate June on her performance.

Fortunately it was a quiet spell for the White Collar division, so Neal could get home at a decent hour each night to work on the painting. Peter and his underlings were mostly catching up on paperwork, punctuated only by interminable budget meetings. Meanwhile, Neal had been tasked with combing through cold cases down in the file room.

It was just as well that Peter wasn't with Neal as he went through the folders – it was hard to keep from smiling when he came across his own work. But he wouldn't put it past Peter to have planted a hidden camera to catch him out, so Neal made sure to maintain a suitably neutral expression.

It was both weird and hilarious to see his unsolved crimes described from the other side of the law. The reports were a mélange of frustration and ineptitude, peppered with impenetrable legal jargon and served with a garnish of inter-agency squabbling over jurisdiction.

Amazingly, Neal hadn't even been listed as a suspect in most of his cases. Some of them he'd undertaken on commission, meaning he'd strayed far from his usual M.O. On a couple of occasions, he'd managed to divert the FBI's suspicion towards a rival who'd been working in the same place at the same time. As for the rest, well, Neal figured that he was just that good.

Neal could tell which of his jobs had been written up by Peter, even without checking the name of the case agent. There was a certain dry wit involved, and just a hint of grudging admiration. Those also tended to be the ones where Neal's involvement had been suggested, despite a lack of supporting evidence.

Perhaps one day Neal would be able to admit that Peter had been right all along: he'd committed every crime Peter had attributed to him. Neal briefly entertained a vision of them sitting around the Burkes' dining table years in the future, after the statute of limitations had expired. They'd compare notes about the old days ("I knew that Met heist was you!") and bicker amicably ("Oh yeah? Pity you and the Harvard squad couldn't prove it"), while Elizabeth sipped her wine and smiled fondly at them.

But – no. Neal would be long gone by the time it was safe to have that conversation. So he put his files back on the shelf, hopefully to languish unopened for a good while.

Turning his attention to the other folders, Neal was pleased to find a number of crimes that he knew were committed by two old enemies of his. As Tobias Schmidt and Jeff Lane were already serving life sentences for multiple violent felonies, it wouldn't do any harm to point the finger at them.

If the White Collar team could pull together enough evidence, it would lift Peter's already stellar conviction rate and impress Hughes. Neal had quickly learned that keeping Peter's boss happy was very much in his own best interests.

Neal did enjoy reminiscing about his past endeavors in the evenings that week, though, while he painted and Moz and Alec critiqued his brushwork from the peanut gallery.

Those two hadn't seen each other for years, so they were swapping their own stories. Alec had decided not to mention the recent job where he'd played a conspiracy theorist closely modeled on Moz. Neal agreed, figuring that it would just ruin the convivial mood.

June came upstairs after dinner Monday to meet Alec. As Neal had expected, they got along very well. And on Wednesday night, Parker dropped by – as in, she scaled the building and landed cat-like on Neal's balcony. Moz spilled his glass of wine, and Neal nearly squirted a tube of green paint all over himself.

Alec just shrugged casually. "Yeah, she does that," he said, going out to greet her with an admiring smile. Neal watched covertly as Parker grinned back, her body language open and relaxed. Maybe Alec's hopeless crush wasn't so hopeless.

All in all, it was the happiest Neal had felt in years. He had his brother and his best friend in the same room for the first time since his arrest, people around him who understood and appreciated his true nature, and a beautiful painting taking shape on his easel.

If he ignored the constant weight of the anklet, Neal could pretend he was free.

To play up the resemblance to the real Rosenstern hanging in Michaels' gallery, Neal had painted a similar scene. The original was a rural landscape depicted on a cloudy day, brightened by shafts of sunlight; the new work showed a dramatic stormy sky over a broad expanse of farmland. Neal had tried to replicate Rosenstern's technique as closely as possible, including the intricate cloud formations that were the artist's trademark.

He managed to finish the painting with a couple of days to spare. After ageing the pigment in the oven, putting the canvas into an old frame, and adding the crucial finishing touch, Neal invited Alec's crew over for an inspection.

Ford and Tara, who were both impressively well-informed about art and forgery, complimented Neal on his achievement. Parker said she'd steal Neal's painting if she saw it hanging in a museum, which from her seemed like high praise. Eliot raised his eyebrows, nodded once, and then challenged Neal to a game of chess.

The new work was missing from the official catalogue of Rosenstern's works, of course, but the team hoped to pass it off as a long-lost early effort. It was also unsigned, both to explain June's apparent ignorance of its true worth and to cover Neal's ass if they got caught. He walked a fine line with the FBI, and wanted the letter of the law on his side.

Neal had planned to dash off another two smaller paintings for June to offer Michaels, but she saved him the trouble.

"To be honest, there are some artworks here I wouldn't mind selling." In the second floor hallway, June pointed at an oil painting of the Empire State Building and a still life of a fruit bowl in pastels. "Will these do? I don't mind if I only get a pittance for them – they were cheap to start with. I bought them from street artists in the late '50s, so they're the same age as your supposed Rosenstern."

"These are perfect, June," Neal said, kissing her cheek. "Thanks so much." Competently done but nothing special, they would reinforce June's assertion that all three paintings were by people Byron knew.

As a kind of alibi, Neal had also started a portrait of June's granddaughter Cindy. So if Peter smelled the paint fumes and asked what he'd been working on, Neal could freely discuss the gift he planned on giving June as thanks for her generous hospitality. Although honesty wasn't exactly his strong suit, he'd never lied to Peter and wasn't about to start now.

Coincidentally, Cindy was studying at the same art school Neal and Kate had attended. Spending time with her was a forcible reminder of how young and idealistic they'd been back then, confident of surviving on artistic talent alone. At least Cindy had her family's wealth to fall back on, if necessary.

When Michaels visited the mansion that Saturday, Neal and Alec stayed safely out of sight. But they were able to watch the whole thing from upstairs, thanks to the camera that Alec had planted. June ushered Michaels into the dining room and then deliberately turned her back for a few moments, asking the maid to bring them refreshments.

Neal saw Michaels' face light up as he beheld what seemed to be a previously unknown work by a very famous artist. Dollar signs practically appeared in his eyes. The man was a pro, though; when June turned to him again, he was feigning a curious but casual air.

He scrutinized the landscape closely, and Neal held his breath – the whole con depended upon this moment. Michaels kept a straight face, but Neal could read suppressed excitement in the twitching of his eyelids and the trembling of his hands.

Neal sighed with relief and smiled at Alec, who grinned back and high-fived him.

Michaels made a show of examining the two other paintings with similar care. He gave June valuations of $250 each for the still life and oil painting, but assessed the landscape as being worth $1,500.

"Though it was painted by an amateur," Michaels explained, "the large size and attractive subject matter will help the work to sell."

After half an hour spent chatting over coffee and cake, June pretended to be completely taken in by Michaels' charm. She agreed to sell him the three works for $2,000, and he agreed to waive his usual commission in recognition of her sad circumstances. And when she signed away her ownership rights, Michaels paid her in cash and left with the paintings.

June looked up at the hidden camera. "Damn, boys, that was fun," she said with a laugh. "It's good to know I haven't lost my touch, after all these years."