Disclaimer: I do not own Burn Notice nor White Collar.

A/N: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews. Keep 'em coming people; it inspires me to keep working.

Neal jogged next to Lena.

"So, Lena, how did you get into security?"

"I needed a job," she said crisply.

"But you must love art," said Neal. He paused. "Don't you?"

"I find it boring."

"Boring?" Neal yelped. "How could you—"

Lena turned her head away from him and pointed at a blank area of wall. "This is where the Degas hung. It was to be taken down in two weeks, after the exhibition had finished its run."

"Where do you store it?" Peter asked, since Neal was too busy fuming at Lena's answer to talk.

"A secure vault under the museum. Only three people have access to it. Myself, Mr. Eichmann, and Theo Woodbury, who was to restore the painting."

Peter rubbed at his chin. "That vault—it's an electronic key card, right?"

"Yes." Lena placed a hand on one slender hip. "It wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking."

Neal's head snapped up. On the defensive, and they hadn't even started making any insinuations. Maybe there was something to Peter's theory of an inside job. He began to scan the room, taking in each detail with an eye to this idea.

Lena's remark had clearly registered on Peter's radar, because he stepped forward with a distinct frown on his face.

"Why would we think you had anything to do with it?"

Lena huffed a laugh. "Oh, do the math. Three people, each with a 33.3% chance. Eichmann's old enough to be knocked out of the running, and so I start looking pretty guilty."

She winked at Peter, who stared at her, startled.

"Well, when you talk like that…"

"Of course, I wasn't even in state when the theft occurred," she continued. "I started working for the Met on Friday, painting was stolen Thursday."

"Those cameras," Neal said, pointing to the cameras stationed on the ceiling. "How long have they been out of commission?"

"The cameras are fine," Lena said. "Red light's flashing. I would've gotten a call if they weren't."

"They should be rotating," Neal replied, and indeed, the cameras remained stationary, pointing at opposite ends of the gallery. With an unmonitored path leading directly to the painting.

Lena pressed a finger to her radio. "Ian, can you check the cameras in the Impressionist Exhibition room? They seem to have been stopped."

"Camera's lookin' fine up here," came a Southern drawl.

"Are you sure?" Lena said, irritation clear in her voice.

"Have a look for yerself," Ian replied.

Lena raised an eyebrow, and motioned for Peter and Neal to leave. "Let's have a look."

XXXX

Ian was a portly, blond man with a buzzcut. He chewed fretfully on a carrot stick as he pointed to the array of camera screens captured from the Impressionist Exhibition room.

"Someone must'a messed with our system," he said, jabbing a blunt finger at the frozen image of the gallery. "I can't imagine how else that coulda happened."

Peter gave a short nod. "You've been hacked, all right. We'll have our Forensics team take a look. At least we know how the painting was stolen."

"Who has access to this room?" Neal asked.

"All of the security team," answered Lena. "

"We'll need a list," said Peter. He clapped Neal on the shoulder. "Come on, we need to have a chat with Mr. Woodbury."

XXXX

"You didn't get her number," Peter said as they took a seat in the bakery Neal had spotted earlier.

They had been informed that Theo Woodbury had called in sick, and Peter decided that it would be a good time for a lunch break.

Neal huffed a sigh. "I just thought she didn't have anything to do with it."

"She's out of your league," Peter said. He smirked around his turkey sandwich.

"Can we focus on the case?" Neal replied, opening his cup of soup. "I think you were right earlier; it has to be an inside job. One of these guys has to be connected to Morosov."

"Forensics will be able to see which security officer was on duty when the painting was stolen. That'll give us a starting point. What I want to know is: why is she trying to do our jobs for us?"

"Maybe she's just being helpful."

"There's a reason for everything. She has some sort of agenda; you could tell that she could care less about this job."

Neal cocked his head. "Do you think she's involved?"

"I think she's hiding something. And I'm going to find out what that could be."

XXXX

Lena Anders, better known as Fiona Glennane to her friends, slipped out of the Met after her shift was finished. She said good-bye to Ian, declined his offer of drinks, and walked to a car in a parking garage a few blocks away.

"I hate New York," groused Sam Axe, who was sitting in the driver's seat. "When are we going back to Miami?"

"When the job is done," Fiona said crisply. "I can assure you, I have the worse end of the deal. All you have to do is walk around the museum and pretend to be interested in those stupid paintings. The FBI's involved now, Sam. If they find out who I am—"

"They won't find out," Sam said. "And Mikey and Jesse'll raise holly hell to break you outta prison."

"They're occupied with keeping Morozov from killing Theo." Fiona threw her head back against the headrest. "Maybe I should call in sick."

"Until you know you're compromised, we stay the course."

"Easy for you to say. I don't like the look of those agents who came around today. They're smart, Sam. Smarter than usual."

"I'll give Mike a call tomorrow. See what he says." Sam clipped Fiona on the shoulder. "I know this great bar in Brooklyn…"

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Oh fine. But you're picking up the tab."