Title: Tango Lessons
Author: Nefret24
Category: Neal/Sara, Neal/Mozzie friendship
Disclaimer: Belongs to USA. Though if someone would like to wrap Matt Bomer in a bow and mail him to me, I'd gladly accept custody.
Summary: Set after the events of s2's "Unfinished Business." Insurance investigator Sara Ellis keeps running into Neal Caffrey. It's unclear who's following whom, but they both agree: they've got to stop meeting like this.
Author's Note: First White Collar fic. Still trying out my Neal Caffrey voice. Also, as a former Art History minor with a slick hand at the DVR pause button, I can attest that the stolen Raphael is properly identified within.
If asked, most dancers will tell you the most authentic form of tango is the Argentine. To spectators, it looks like an elaborate struggle of wills, back and forth, a man and a woman competing with vicious passion against one another.
To the participants, it's more like walking, sometimes in a tight embrace, sometimes only clasping hands, but each in step with one another, forward, and then back again, following in a prescribed line.
Though any dancer will tell you, sometimes passion (be it anger or lust) wins out.
When she looks back on it, objectively, the way she does best, Sara Ellis supposed that almost dying was as good as excuse as anything else. There was no way it would have happened otherwise.
She was still shaking after the FBI had finally left the apartment and looking at the bullet holes in her front door made her queasy. It wasn't like there was anything decent in the fridge anyway – a week long death sentence applied to fresh produce as well as herself.
So she grabbed her purse to make the most of her newfound freedom and went in search of food, wine, and loud background noise, all things the city reliably could provide at any time of day or night.
Somehow she ended up in the tapas bar, a pricey malbec breathing in a glass, perched on a stool at a high top table near the window. Her left pinkie toe was aching from the pinch of her stilettos, and she made the attempt to adjust the shoe, hooking a finger behind her heel within the fine Italian leather and tugging as unobtrusively as possible.
A small distraction, but that was all he needed. She looked up, and then there he was, a wine glass in his hand, suit still impossibly immaculate, eyes dancing with mischief.
"Caffrey."
"Sara. Fancy meeting you here."
"Yes, imagine that. It's almost Dickensian, isn't it?"
She felt almost giddy with rage: in the past three hours she had picked up mail from Sterling Bosch, the company that couldn't muster up money for a dozen roses, for god sakes, with a secretary at the front desk that couldn't offer even so much as a smidge of wide-eyed surprise at a miraculous resurrection of one of its long-standing employees; had had another close brush with death in her own home; and now Neal fucking Caffrey, of all people, free to walk around New York City ruining people's evenings, smiling that conman's smile at her, at the coincidence of it all, looking ready as ever to sell her a bridge on the cheap.
"Mm-hmm. Out of all the gin joints, and all the bars, in all the world…" he quoted, sliding onto the stool opposite.
"I had no idea this was your bar. I must have missed the sign out front: Caffrey's Café."
"I wouldn't categorize myself as a regular, no, but I do drop in every now and again. They import their wines direct from Argentina here, you know."
"So I noticed. So you're telling me that my suspicions of a known conman following me are unfounded because you happen to like this particular hole-in-the-wall's wine list?"
A bachelorette party in the back let out a stream of whoops, causing him to flinch slightly. It was pretty certain that neither of them was there for the atmosphere.
"My personal cellar is rapidly depleting," he said with a martyred sigh and a scratch of his cheek. "Until I can persuade Peter into a recreational jaunt to a trusted vendor, I'm afraid I'm forced to make do at other establishments."
"Like here," she said, gesturing at the walls with her wine glass, paint peeling, old flyers of concerts and rooms to let curling in the close air of the bar.
"Exactly."
Sara took a generous swallow from her glass. Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she crossed her arms in front of her, leaning forward as if she was throwing down a gauntlet. "I know you better than that, Caffrey."
"Mm. Where's your tape recorder?" he asked with a tight voice.
"At home." She bared her teeth in an imitation of a smile.
He grinned at that, eyes glittering as they eyed her purse hanging off of the back of her high stool. "Liar."
"Says the thief. What do you want? Because if you'd like to turn yourself in, I'll gladly give up my evening to escort you to the proper authorities."
"Yes, I'd imagine you would. But I would have to be guilty –"
She snorted disbelievingly.
"– of a crime to turn myself in to the authorities. Who I now work side by side with on a daily basis: all for the good of the God-fearing citizens of New York City, including widows, orphans, and puppies. Or kittens, if you prefer. You really shouldn't be so distrustful of everyone…"
"Not everyone, just you."
He sighed and sat back on his stool, running a restless hand through his hair. "Yes, but isn't it all just so tiring and boring, in the long run?"
"You, boring? Never."
There was a pause. Neal took a measured drink, and set his glass down carefully on the tabletop, idly playing with the glass' stem. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
She supposed that was true. She wasn't very nice to him, not even when he was playing by the rules, as he had been lately according to the FBI, at least. It was true that she suspected he had an ulterior motive, this was Caffrey after all, but still, he had been making an effort to not be hostile, which was more than she herself could say.
"I must not have fully recovered from my latest brush with death," she said, this time with a genuine smile.
"It has been a bit of a day," he agreed. "Truce?" He raised his glass hopefully.
"I suppose I could endeavor to not nail your ass to the wall for the remainder of the evening," she shrugged, clinking her glass with his.
A satisfied smile appeared on his lips as they met his glass. "My ass thanks you."
The night passed pleasantly enough. She had known that he was conversant in the arts, and it had been awhile since she could have a real discussion with someone, anyone, without bringing percentages into it.
They had just agreed to disagree over whether or not Jack Vettriano counted as high art (he thought the paintings were romantic; she accused him of old fashioned machismo and being led by the nose by a pair of garters) and then the bill appeared and they were forced to realize that the bachelorette parties and most of the bar had already cleared out.
He paid. She was too tired by then to argue with him. She was too tired to mark the significance of his off-the-cuff comment that she could pay next time. She was too tired to realize that she found herself absently agreeing that it would be nice to do this again, and meaning it.
Three days later, Sara ambushed him at a fancy lunch uptown. He wasn't happy to have her interrupt his meal, which was clearly a cover for something – FBI or criminally related, she's not sure which nor does she particularly care – but she had made her point when she mentioned a little package from the FAA that seemed to be mixed up in her mail.
He agreed to meet her at the bar that evening, 9 o'clock sharp.
She showed up early, her recorder primed and her baton in her purse. She'd been spoiling for the fight since the moment she saw him on the sidewalk with Agent Burke, and part of her hoped he would step out of line so that she could physically take him down.
When he approached the table, his hands were already raised in a gesture of submission. "Wow, you look great, and from this angle, homicidal. How about I apologize for using your name and you apologize for messing with my cover and we call it an early night?"
"You, sorry? Not likely, is it? You used me, you used my name and my contacts to get what you want, and you'd do it again in a heartbeat."
His eyes widened slightly, perhaps at her weary tone, as he sat down. "Well, no. I'm not sorry about the…"
"Fraud?" she filled in, saccharine sweet, with a flutter of eyelashes.
"…misunderstanding that must have occurred between me and the hanger security official. But I am sorry if it caused trouble for you."
"Because you would never cause trouble… at my expense, right?" Her hand curled into a fist in her lap.
"Oh, please. Like you wouldn't create all sorts of trouble in order to get my head on a platter. Don't play the martyr with me, Sara; it doesn't suit you."
"What's so important about this flight recording?" She knew he had taken a risk involving her, not using official channels or shady ones, but hers. She wanted to know what was worth the considerable risk of her own interference.
"That would be a personal matter."
"Really? Do tell. Slowly and distinctly."
"Please … shut off your damn tape recorder."
"Like hell. If the story's really good, I want to be able to replay it at bedtime."
"It's a long story. Boring. You really don't want to know."
"I've got all night. And I told you last time: you're not boring."
It was Peter and his team that saved his ass from unwanted conversation. Some emergency, he said, jumping up from the table like his life depended on it. They'd have to continue some other time, reschedule, wasn't that a pity, then flashed that no-good-son-of-a-bitch grin that she hated so much and went out the door.
She had the restaurant pack up all the extras and paid the bill, cursing the Federal Bureau of Interference under her breath. She ended up throwing the leftovers away untouched the next day, bitter to have kept them in the first place.
A week went by, and she became thoroughly annoyed at being stone-walled at every turn when she asks questions about the flight that never got off the ground. It's a little matter: she does her best work when she's pissed off.
Neal worked his own angles. On the one hand, he knew where she lived; he could make the attempt to lift the recording under the pretense of making her soup or apologizing or something.
On the other, she probably moved it to a secure location by now and she was at least as tricky as Peter, if not himself in her better moments.
Mozzie reminded him that it was a bad play from the get-go, but he had faith in Neal's charms. Neal didn't: if there was one thing he had learned the hard way about Sara Ellis, his so-called charms didn't scratch that hard, brittle surface.
Pulling the gun on her that one time didn't help.
And yet, issues with Kate notwithstanding, it had been awhile since he'd had a good old-fashioned adversary. Sara was entertaining in her own, completely frightening way; she had balls, a sublimely twisted sense of humor, good taste in clothes and art, impeccable contacts on both sides of the fence, deviousness and strategy unparalleled in the land of the suits, and unfortunately where he was concerned, murderous intent.
"Tell me again why you didn't lift it then? She was distracted - I mean, who wouldn't be with a hitman shooting holes all over her apartment…" Mozzie said, gesturing with one of his last cabernets as he rifled through Neal's cabinets.
"It seemed… wrong." Neal sat on the couch with his head in his hands. "If you're looking for the corkscrew, I've cleverly hidden it."
"Why?"
"Maybe because someone keeps drinking my wine."
"No, why did it seem wrong? I mean, wrong is kind of our stock in trade, Neal," he said, and with a flourish pulled out a corkscrew from a secret panel in the bookcase. "Not clever enough, my friend."
"She kinda saved my life." Mozzie gave him a skeptic look. "You weren't there. Mr. Black had a very big gun."
Mozzie made a pantomime of a sympathetic face.
"A very big gun! Two inches from my face!"
"Your bread and butter."
"You're all heart, Moz," he said with a groan into the pillows of the couch.
"Look, there are only three ways this is going to end: one, you steal it from her, plain and simple. Two, you charm her or scare her into giving it to you. Or three, you give it up and we try to get the data some other way." Mozzie finished pouring himself a glass and walked over to the living room.
Neal looked up. "I'm leaning towards Door No. 3. You don't know her, Moz: she's like a bloodhound. She's got wind of it now: she doesn't have the whole picture yet, but what she lacks in evidence she makes up for in sheer obstinacy."
"You really pissed her off, didn't you? Which Raphael was it again that she made you for?"
"Saint George and the Dragon. Early sixteenth century. Washington galleries."
"With the sweet little lady praying in the background of the bloodbath. That was one of yours?"
"Yeah. It can't even be the money anymore, not that the money isn't great…"
"One of the most popular pieces in the Hermitage before WWII, absolutely. Probably could buy her a summer house in the Hamptons."
"…I think it's just wounded ego. And a really competitive nature."
"Here," Mozzie said, putting a half-filled wine glass in his hand. "Drink this. No problem is unworkable."
"Did I mention she's kinda hot?"
"I'll get more wine. This is going to take awhile."
As an opening salvo, it had an elegance she reluctantly admired. A bouquet of white roses showed up on her desk one morning with a note with no sender's name: "Same time, same place. Tonight?"
She told herself it was the thrill of the chase that set her pulse beating just a smidge faster. Only Neal would pick out a floral arrangement to protest his innocence when he was anything but.
She found herself later that night dressing with care in preparation, and cursed herself all the way out the door. She didn't know what was more humiliating: that she was letting Caffrey set the pace for this latest dance, or that she was beginning to enjoy it.
"Thank you for coming," he said, gallantly pulling a chair out for her when she arrives.
"How could I pass up such an invitation? The roses were a nice touch, by the way."
"I knew you would appreciate them."
"Right. Another present. I feel so special. You must really want this voice recording."
"Can't a single gentleman ask a single lady of his acquaintance out for an evening of food, wine and pleasant conversation?"
"Don't bat your eyelashes at me, Caffrey. You know the game as well as I do. You want the recording, fine. But I need a bigger present."
"If this is about the Raphael…"
"- that you stole from the National Gallery on the night of –"
"See, this is not what I meant when I said pleasant conversation."
"I don't know, I'm having a wonderful time so far," she said breezily, picking up a menu. He was looking so at a loss she had to laugh. It wasn't often that a girl could make Neal Caffrey speechless.
She put the menu down after a cursory glance. "All right. I'll play. Who's Kate?"
"Is that what it's going to take to get you to give me a copy of the flight recorder?" he asked, eyes suddenly serious.
"Maybe." She didn't want to say that she couldn't get information out of anyone, that she was using tooth and claw at this point to savage perspective into Neal's latest endeavor.
They locked eyes and assessed one another. They're so similar, though they sit on opposite sides of the chessboard, and the thought seemed to strike them simultaneously that this fight was destined to happen, and that the playing field was suspiciously level.
"Are we going to have a staring match all night or what?" she huffed impatiently.
"If we talk, and I'm not saying I will, but if I do, will you shut off your precious recorder?"
"Oh for god sakes," she said, rummaging in her purse. She pulled out the device and shut it off with a flourish, slamming it onto the table. "There. Does it matter, on or off? You know you can't trust me either way."
"This is true." His eyes never left hers.
"But you know something I want to know, and I know something you want to know, so …"
"Truce?"
"Again, really? Fine. I'll need a drink if I am to restrain from my violent impulses."
"Make it two."
He considered telling her a story. He could have. He's very, very good at telling stories. But then, she's very, very good at unraveling them, and he really needed her to cooperate and give him the damn recording.
Everyone likes a tragic love story. When told by a soulful young man with blue eyes and artfully fluffed hair, a story like that can be mesmerizing.
Even to women who claim to be tough as nails.
"God, Caffrey," she exhaled into her third glass when he finished telling her about Kate. "You should give up your life of crime and write soap operas for a living."
Mellowed by wine and a full stomach, he laughed shortly. "It's… mostly true."
"I bet. So you're doing all of this, this sneaking around your handler's back, for a woman? A dead woman. I knew you were a romantic, but this, this is a bit much."
He sat up straighter in his chair, good mood instantly gone. "And just who are you to judge, Sara? Have you ever loved anyone… scratch that, do you even have the capability in that black-tarred, poor ass excuse for a heart of yours to care about anyone, ever?"
Her eyes widened with shock, and he was screwing the deal, but he kept going, couldn't stop, the pain of seeing the plane wreckage so fresh, so close to the surface. "How could you possibly know to what lengths someone would go to for someone they care about? Hell, I mean, you died, and no one came looking for you."
"That's … a real asshole thing to say," she countered shakily, hands balled into fists.
"You crossed the line first," he said, scrubbing his napkin across his mouth, eyes dark with rage.
"Perhaps. But tell me truthfully, Neal: while you were spinning me this tragic tale of love and loss, edited carefully, I'm sure: who do you have tossing my place looking for your precious flight tapes?"
Neal went ashen. Mozzie hadn't texted him yet; he was still there, still vulnerable to being caught.
"If I dialed the cops right now, reporting a break-in, which one of your little criminal friends would end up in jail? Just how stupid do you think I am?" she asked fiercely, her voice edged with steel, casually lifting her phone and dialing 9.
She seethed, her jaw clenched tight as she stared him down. He thought he could dupe her again, that she was just another incompetent to flirt with and pull the wool over her eyes, and she was so much better than that and he would know it, goddamnit.
She dialed 1.
"Wait- don't." He actually had the grace to let the mask fall and be openly panic-stricken, glancing down at her phone then up to her face. "Please. You're not stupid. I never… You're not stupid, Sara. You never were."
His eyes were wide open and very blue and a lock of hair hovered close to his left eye, and the whole scene he created in front of her was breathtaking in its vulnerability. She swallowed slowly, bile in her throat, and she just stared at this impossible man and his equally impossible request. "I think you're telling me the truth."
"Yes. For once. Shocking, I know. Please."
She put down the phone on the table, face up, numbers still hovering on the lit screen. "I must be losing my mind," she muttered. "You're paying the bill. I suggest you call your friends and tell them I'm on my way home," she said matter-of-factly, and scooping up her phone, swept out of the restaurant.
"Wait – you told her about Kate?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, it wasn't the whole story," Neal said defensively.
"Hm," Mozzie said through a mouthful of leftover chorizo. "Sorry. Tapas isn't my favorite but this really is divine."
"I'm glad you're enjoying it. Did you find anything?"
"Nope. Sorry. I went over that place with a fine tooth comb. Found where she keeps the good jewelry, but no tapes. Nothing out of the ordinary in her financials, or her phone records. If she's checking up on you, she's using pretty banal sources or she's using a pay-as-you-go phone…"
"More likely." Neal put his head down on the dining room table in a gesture of defeat.
"…agreed, which is likely stashed with the tapes or in the fortress known as Sterling Bosch." Mozzie paused in his destruction of a now-cold empanada. "Are you sure that Door No. 2 won't work?"
"She sleeps with a gun under her pillow. If I threaten her, she'll shoot me. I think she would enjoy that, actually."
"I meant, the charm."
Neal looked up, propping his chin on one hand. "I think you really overrate my capability to brainwash people into doing my bidding with the force of my… charisma."
"Not people, women," Mozzie retorted, gesturing at him with a fork.
"You act like it's a superpower, Moz."
"Isn't it? Not mine; I'm too much of a genius to need the society-defined perfect body. But you work with what you've got. And she's kinda hot, as you say. Single, intelligent, workaholic, likely lonely. You're handsome, and dangerous, and—"
"She's un-romanceable."
"She's …challenging."
"Oh God," Neal put his head down again. "Are you trying to get me a girlfriend?"
"You could do worse. It's not like she's a Fed. And then we'd have the tapes. Win-win. Maybe for your next date you could go back to that restaurant – I would love to try their cod croquettes."
Sara found that she couldn't sleep that night. It wasn't fair, she knew, to leave Neal at the restaurant without his half of the deal, even if he had just sold her a bunch of magic beans along with the story of his tragically blown-up ex-girlfriend. She had let her big mouth run away with her, and the misstep in strategy had managed to send the whole evening off course.
On the defensive he had chosen his darts well enough; she returned home to her immaculate apartment (at least his friends were nice, neat house-breakers), and found no messages, no pets, no nothing outside of her case files, closets of pretty clothes, and a cello she didn't play anymore. She couldn't even hate him for it, considering technically she had attacked first.
The words had still stung, though.
She called Peter the next morning. Shocked to hear from her, he agreed to meet her for lunch and not to mention anything to Neal.
Peter took the seat across from her, affable as ever. "I must be in the wrong racket. Nice place," he said, looking around the exclusive mid-town restaurant.
"Still like salmon? They have some of the best in the city," she smiled at him.
"You know what I like," he said with a smile to match hers. "Not that it's not nice to catch up, but what's up? The fancy restaurant, the instructions not to tell Caffrey… You're not going to bust Neal this afternoon or something are you?" he asked with good humor.
"No. I wish. No, it's just that… look, Peter, you know that I respect the hell out of you, right?"
"Oh, dear God, it's that bad?" he said, mock-horrified. "You're lucky this is such a nice restaurant. I have very high standards for when I'm being buttered up."
Sara couldn't help it, she laughed. Peter laughed too, and she lost herself for a moment in the restaurant, glasses tinkling, sunlight streaming in and dancing on the tablecloths, and sweet-hearted Peter, who she really did have a mountain of respect for, chuckling softly beside her. She couldn't remember the last time she had genuinely laughed, and that sobered her quickly. Definitely before her fake death.
She licked her lips and tried again. "Peter, explain something to me: why Caffrey?"
"I …don't understand the question."
"Caffrey. You chase down the cocky bastard, hold him to rights – an achievement in and of itself considering none of us managed it – and then what, start this prisoner friendly work placement program?"
He looked at her askance, still not sure where she's going with her line of questioning. "He is on a pretty tight leash, you know."
"He is still a criminal, you know. Why make exceptions for him? Why Caffrey?"
She seemed to have momentarily stumped him. "He's…"
"Your friend?" she filled in. "Really?"
"Yeah, I guess he is. He's saved my life, you know. He's helped us stop some very bad people from doing some very bad things. He's… well, he's not a bad guy: yes, he's a criminal but he's not a… bad guy. He has his own sort of ethics, which albeit are nothing like real ethics, but there are lines he doesn't cross. He doesn't carry a gun…"
Sara snorted. "I beg to differ on that one."
"- that was a special circumstance, Sara. He doesn't go around killing people, doesn't bankrupt orphans or those who can't afford to lose..."
"And he's kind to the puppies, yeah, he fed me that story too. What do you guys do, rehearse in the bathroom mirror together? So he's not a murderer and small animals can feel safe with him. You still haven't answered my question."
"I guess it's because I still don't understand where you're going with this."
"I get that you two have this weird bromance going on…"
"Neal and I do not have a… what the hell?"
"Bromance. Ask Elizabeth. She'll tell you. The way you know each other's tells, anticipate what the other's going to say… so that you can bet on it and take all of a dead girl's cash," she said knowingly with a wink.
"It's okay, I don't think less of you. Well, I would, except that you're Peter Burke," she was rambling now, and goddamn his smirk at that, that was so fucking Neal "…and I think, I think that … oh hell. I should just probably tell you the whole story."
"Please do. If you could start around the part about where I'm Peter Burke…"
She leveled him her best 'don't mess with me' glare.
"Ahem. Proceed."
So Sara proceeded to tell Peter everything: the details about the Raphael she left out of her testimony at Neal's trial, the FAA packet and the things she learned from her various sources about the flight, her meetings with Neal… all except the last.
Peter looked at her over his coffee cup when she had finished. "That's everything?"
"Mostly everything."
"Hm," he said non-committedly, taking another bite of pie.
"Wow, Peter, that's terribly insightful of you," she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes.
"I'm processing. That is … quite a story there. Of course, I can't tell you anything about the circumstances of the flight."
"But you know them," she said, her eyes sharpening.
"Most of the circumstances, yes. I would call it an open investigation."
She took the opportunity to rummage in her purse and pulled out an envelope. She passed it to Peter.
"Is that the recording?"
"Yes."
"And you're giving it to me?"
"Yes."
"A friend of Caffrey's?"
"And an agent of the United States government. If there's no harm in giving it to Caffrey, you'll give it to him. If there is, you won't." She shrugged and sipped at her own espresso, seemingly at peace with the decision.
He tapped the envelope with his fingers. "So you're essentially abstaining yourself from making the judgment call about this intel by pawning it off on me?"
"Gee, you are perceptive. Is that why they put the "eye" in the FBI?"
Peter gave her a long, hard stare. Tucking the envelope into his inner jacket pocket, he sighed and downed the rest of his coffee in one swallow.
"Did he perchance tell you why it matters so much to him?" he asked quietly.
"I take it there was this girl named Kate…"
"Oh my God, he… he told you about Kate."
Sara sat back in her chair, her shocked expression mirroring Peter's. "This is significant?"
"Neal doesn't talk about Kate. Not to me, barely to Elizabeth, I doubt even… well, I'd bet good money that one of his close associates-"
"-Criminal associates, you mean."
"-doesn't even know the full story about Kate."
"Well, don't get your boxers in a twist, because neither do I," she said hastily, polishing off the last of her drink. "Ready to get out of here?"
"Wait," Peter put his hand out to still her movements. "Look, obviously you and Caffrey have a past, and he is a criminal. Neal's under the impression that you see dollar signs every time he walks into a room, so he's not exactly comfortable with what that might entail if your paths continually cross."
"Dollar signs? He thinks this is about the money?"
"Hell of a lot of money, Sara."
"Well, yeah, but God—"
"It's the chase. It's the one that got away. You don't need to tell me. It felt pretty damn good to catch him. Every time," Peter said with a wide grin. "Just… stay local, if you can. I'm pretty sure this," he said gesturing to his inner pocket, "will have fall-out and I'd rather you be around than not."
Peter stood and looked down at the petite woman at the table. "For whatever reason, Neal has a comfort level with you. That's a pretty amazing thing; you want to use that to bust him, fine – that's your job and your prerogative. But if you ask me, you get more bang for your buck when he's on your side."
She rose from her chair, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I make no promises. But I will think about… what we've discussed."
"Thanks for lunch."
"Thanks for the help."
"Anytime."
As a return volley, she thought it had a touch of the self-same elegance that had started the nonsense weeks ago. It should have been slightly shocking that it was the same, but it wasn't.
"What does it say?" Mozzie asked, gesturing at the note in Neal's hands. He had picked it up off of his doorstep, the single yellow flower with a ribbon tying a handwritten note to the stem.
"Honi soit qui mal y pense. I don't renege on my promises. The package is with Peter." He tossed the flower on the dining room table.
"The nonsense at the beginning?"
"Old French."
"Don't get hoity-toity with me, buster. How many coding languages do you know? What does it mean?"
"Evil to him who evil thinks. It's the motto of the chivarlic Order of the Garter. Which is dedicated to…"
"Saint George. Of course. Doesn't he wear that little blue sash... And there it is," he said admiringly as Neal held up the tiny scrap of royal blue ribbon. "Got a sense of humor, that Sara."
"She gave the tapes to Peter."
"This is a good thing. You were really falling down with the charm on this one."
"Peter didn't say anything," he didn't look up, just kept turning the note over and over in his hands.
"You don't know when the drop off happened. Maybe he's looking into it."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Neal said darkly.
"Why? Because we didn't tell him? You think he doesn't suspect that you're pursuing this anyway – he's not stupid."
Neal dropped the paper, memories of the tapas bar replaying in his head.
"What's the worst that can happen? He'll make a fuss, we'll keep doing what we do best, and he'll hand it over to us eventually anyway. Much easier than breaking Sterling Bosch's security protocols."
Neal thought: Peter is going to lecture me until his face turns blue.
He thought: She gave up the recording knowing that Peter would give it to me, and still keep herself on the windy side of the law.
He thought: I won't see her again, and I feel like hell about it when I should be dancing for joy, and oh hell, maybe Mozzie's right, I need a girlfriend who's not dead.
Mozzie interrupted his thoughts. "You want to go visit Peter now? Thursday night is meatloaf night. Elizabeth does a brilliant meatloaf."
"No, not tonight. I think I have plans."
Mozzie smiled and shook his head slightly. "Bring me back some cod croquettes, will ya?"
Sara sat alone at the table in window of the tapas bar, just like the first night she had come. Her wine was in front of her untouched, and her head was swiveled to view out the window, but she really wasn't seeing anything.
She thought: This was the most stupid thing I've ever done. He's not coming.
She thought: Goddammit, I should not be pissed that he is not coming. I should be doing a naked jig up Fifth Avenue thanking my lucky stars that he is not here because that would make life complicated and no man, not even one with eyes that blue, is worth making my life that complicated.
She thought: Peter is so right. I need a life.
"Mind if I join you?" a voice asked over her shoulder.
She turned and there he was, looking just like he had looked that night, eyes bright, warm smile, wine glass in hand.
She said, "Not at all," and really, truly, meant it.
FIN.
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