Sunday afternoon. January 2, 2005.

Neal followed Mozzie into the condo where Adrian Tulane was staying. The client had arranged the use of the space, which was rented out to a large Chinese conglomerate. The client was probably an executive with the firm, but they still hadn't been able to learn his name.

They sat on a massive purple sectional sofa, and Tulane asked, "Change your mind about taking the job, Mozzie?"

Mozz shook his head gravely. "No. I'm here to warn you. Your client made a misstep, and the FBI knows the pearls are being targeted. The museum is upgrading their security as we speak."

"So much for the plans I made when I scoped out the place last week. Thanks for the warning. I'll tell the client to wait for things to cool down and try again later."

"You need to rethink working for this client," Neal said. "He's keeping his identity a secret from the authorities by killing his accomplices."

Tulane didn't believe him at first, but Mozzie laid out the details he'd discovered. This client made all the travel arrangements. On completion of the job, if he had any worries about being connected to the crime, he would decide to stay on the island while his pilot flew his accomplice home. The pilot would ditch the plane over the ocean and parachute to safety. The plane and accomplice were never seen again. Mozzie named two well-known thieves and an assassin who had disappeared on flights from Honolulu that never made it to their final destination.

"The pilot's a wiry little fella," Tulane objected. "He couldn't overpower me. I'd take the parachute from him if he tried to jump. And Jeffers," he said, naming one of the thieves, "knows how to fly. Even if the pilot jumped ship, he'd've made it to land safely and called for help."

"They'll offer you a drink on the plane," Mozzie said. "In fact, to be safe, they'll offer you something on the drive to the airport. By the time the pilot jumps, you'll be asleep or at least too drugged to put up a fight."

"You know this for a fact?" Tulane asked. "Or is this one of your conspiracy theories?"

"We did the research," said Neal. "Found the planes and pilots he's been using, looked up the flight plans and saw the pattern. The planes took off but there's no record of them landing, and each time it followed a crime where the person most likely to have committed the crime has never been seen since. Rumors say they each made a big score and retired. But what are the odds of all of them making enough that they decide to give up the life, and then none of them being spotted again?"

"What's the deal with your friend here?" Tulane asked Mozzie, gesturing toward Neal. "Poster boy for New Year's Eve parties? His face has been plastered on the television the last few days, dancing on the beach and singing in a concert. A little high-profile for your style."

Neal resisted the impulse to glance at the watch he was wearing. They had borrowed it from the local FBI, and it was broadcasting the conversation to Peter, who was listening as he sat in a booth at a restaurant across the street. Peter wasn't going to be happy about this.

The plan Peter had approved was for Neal to play the role of the grieving son of one of the criminals killed by the client. Neal was supposed to be an up-and-coming thief following in his mother's footsteps and out for revenge. He was going to ask for the client's name in order to steal from him. But Tulane was right. A professional thief should try to blend into the shadows.

Time for Plan B: the plan he'd made up just now.

"I'm a con artist," said Neal. "This client of yours may be a scumbag, but he's an obscenely rich scumbag. From everything I've heard, he may have as much money as Vincent Adler, and he's almost as hard to find. I'm looking for my next target, and I think he's it. I specialize in long cons. The one I'm working now may take a year to wrap up, and it took a year to plan. If I'm going to take on your client next, I know I need a lot of time to do my homework and make connections. I'm in the perfect position to start doing that. All I'm lacking is his name. Tell me who he is and how to find him." He smiled greedily. "C'mon. The guy was planning to kill you. You don't owe him any loyalty."

"True, but I don't want him coming after me if he learns I gave up his identity." Tulane's expression made it clear he needed more convincing. "He's smart. If he catches onto you, he may realize you got his name from me. Convince me you're a good enough con artist to pull this off."

"I don't like to share my secrets," Neal said.

"I can vouch for Neal," Mozzie said.

"I need more," Tulane insisted.

Neal had turned down an offer of brandy when they first arrived, but he stood and walked to the bar to pour a glass now. "Want one?" he asked the others. Mozzie declined, but Tulane nodded. Neal carried the glasses back to the sofa. He sat down and put his feet up on an ottoman, the picture of relaxation. "How 'bout a trade? I describe my latest con, and you tell me how you pulled off the Uffizi job."

"It's a deal," said Tulane.

"This is gonna take a while." Neal toed off his shoes. "It's an Anastasia con."

"Posing as a long lost heir?" Tulane asked.

"Mmm. Leading them to believe I'm a long lost heir, while never making any claims. The Caffreys are a wealthy family with lots of connections. He's a retired ambassador, and she's a famous actress. More than twenty years ago, one of their daughters and her three-year-old son disappeared after her husband was discovered to have connections to the mob. Maybe they were killed by the mob, maybe they were whisked away to a witness protection program. No one knows for sure. The ambassador comes from a massive extended family whose life he usually describes as hardscrabble. Doesn't keep in touch with most of them anymore since he clawed his way out of their itinerant lifestyle. And in addition to family in the States, there's another branch of artists and musicians back in Ireland." Neal took on the Irish brogue he'd learned from his grandfather.

"Easy enough to convince them you're a distant cousin," Tulane said. "Dark hair, blue eyes. Classic Irish coloring."

"That was part of the inspiration," Neal said. "I told them my parents died in a horrific car crash in Ireland when I was about nine years old. I was in the car myself. Between the concussion and emotional trauma, I don't remember the crash or any of my life before then."

"Handy."

"Indeed. A fictional aunt in the States took me in and raised me. She wasn't a Caffrey, so I'm unfortunately ignorant of the family's history. But like many Caffreys I had a talent for art and music, and a year ago I arranged to run into the ambassador's grandson, Henry, who wanted to start a band. When I studied the Caffreys, he seemed like my best bet for getting inside." Neal scoffed. "Thinks of himself as a rebel."

Tulane pulled out a cigarette. "Do you mind?"

Neal shrugged. He didn't care for smoke but wasn't going to object when he was closing in on his goal. "Henry had plenty to drink when I met him, and it was easy enough to get details about his privileged past when I kept buying beers for him. Told him my name was Neal, and let him notice my last name was Caffrey when I pulled out a credit card with that name. Henry had an axe to grind with a music company and I had time on my hands, so we created a band and went on tour. With a little con artist magic, we became such a big deal that Masterson Music offered us a contract." Neal was abbreviating the timeline. A fan of Urban Legend would know Neal and Henry had been performing together for years, but he took the chance that Tulane wasn't a pop music fan. He wore cowboy boots and had been playing a Keith Urban CD when they arrived. "That's how I met Mozzie."

"I took the role of their agent," Mozz added.

"Now here's where the first challenge comes in. Henry Winslow isn't just any mark. He's an investigator at a firm called Winston-Winslow. They've got a lot of resources. With Mozzie's help, we planted a background for Henry to unravel as he got curious about me. He was looking into my past, not because he distrusted me, but to help me find my roots. However, my origins remain frustratingly shrouded in mystery. The aunt who raised me passed away, so she can't provide answers, and she told me very little about my parents. It's almost as if she were afraid to talk about them, like they were in danger or hiding from someone. We can't say for sure, but there seems to be evidence pointing to my parents being American Caffreys who fled to Ireland when I was about three. I can't confirm any of that, but every so often I have a flashback to my lost memories."

Tulane nodded in appreciation.

Neal continued, "A lot of my preparation went into that part. Both Henry and his mother have degrees in psychology. Of course she wanted to help me work through my issues, and took me on as a client. Probably thought she'd get a research paper out of it she could publish in an academic journal, but I used our 'sessions' to win her over. Imagine her excitement as she gradually brought some of my memories to the surface. Of course she can't publish her findings due to the risk I might really be that kid who's supposed to be in WITSEC. So no one will ever read it and question her results or objectivity."

"Ballsy," said Tulane. "You really convinced a professional you were traumatized?"

Neal finished his brandy and set the glass down nonchalantly. "I told you: I'm good. They're more than half-convinced I'm the long-lost grandson, even though I've never suggested it. They arranged to get me into Columbia University to study art, and I haven't had to pay a dime. The master's degree will get me access to a lot of high-profile institutions and art collectors in the future. And more than that, I'm not supposed to know it, but Edmund Caffrey updated his will to name me as a beneficiary. I can travel the world pursuing my art – at least that's what they'll think – and in the meantime I can keep running cons until he dies and I hit the jackpot."

"You're a good enough artist to pull off the master's degree?"

"I've had a sideline in 'reproductions' for years – ever since I was a teen – creating them and taking the originals. I'm good enough at both that I was a suspect when a Raphael was stolen from the National Gallery over the summer. I'd been in the museum the day before, and that made an FBI agent suspicious. Naturally I had the perfect alibi. My supposed grandmother's memory is a bit sketchy, but she doesn't want to admit it. When I reminded her how we'd spent the evening in question at her home watching her old movies, she said, 'Yes, of course, we had such fun,' and that's it. The ambassador's wife is above reproach. And the whole family's so invested in wanting me to be that kid they lost all those years ago that I don't have to do anything at this point. They're busy conning themselves into what they want to believe. Letting them fill in the blanks and fool themselves is much more effective than simply lying to them." He stretched and sat up straight. "Of course I couldn't pull it off alone. Mozzie's resources... Well, the less said about that, the better, right? Those aren't my secrets to tell. But we've made a great team."

"Not bad," said Tulane.

Neal raised a brow.

"Bordering on brilliant," Tulane acknowledged. "I might be able to use your skills on a future job. Care for a refill?" He put out his cigarette and poured more brandy for both of them. "Now, about Uffizi..." He told them how he'd pulled off that job, with enough detail that the FBI was likely to get a conviction. They wouldn't arrest him today. Neal knew that although Peter would complain, he'd let Tulane get away to keep the criminal community from learning that Neal worked on the other side these days. It would be worth it to get the client's name. And Tulane gave it to them: a name and where he was staying.

###

When Neal walked into the restaurant where Peter was waiting, he'd already removed the watch that had broadcast and recorded his conversation. He slipped it into Peter's hands so smoothly that anyone watching them wouldn't have noticed.

Mozzie slid into the booth with them. Peter had already turned off the monitoring equipment disguised as an iPod and held it tightly in case the little guy decided he'd like to take it. As Peter gestured for the check, Mozzie was nearly bubbling with excitement. "Neal, I have to apologize. I worried that you'd lose your touch, but instead you're sharper than ever. If I hadn't run that DNA test to see if you were Henry's clone, I would have believed you up there, claiming you weren't related to him at all. Genius, absolute genius."

Peter put down enough cash to cover the bill and a tip and stood up. "We need to change into our suits, Mozzie."

Not wanting to go to the FBI offices with them, Mozzie made a hasty departure. Peter thanked the agent who was waiting for them when they turned in the equipment. He filled out the appropriate forms in record time as he briefed the agent on what they'd learned. A local team would take over apprehending the client, and they agreed that they needed to let Tulane go for now.

Neal answered when asked a direct question, but he avoided talking. At the condo, telling Tulane how he'd fooled the Caffreys, he'd sounded cold and cruel – pretty much the opposite of how open and warm he usually was around his family. Now, an hour later, he still seemed frozen. His expression was closed, and his body language made it clear he wanted to be left alone. He didn't say a word in the cab, or in the elevator on the way to their floor. Peter followed when Neal unlocked the door to his suite. The kid probably expected it to be empty. Everyone was supposed to be outside, attending hula lessons, but Peter had texted Henry from the Bureau's offices.

In the suite Neal acknowledged Henry with a nod, but all he said was, "Tulane's a smoker. I gotta get the smoke off of me. I feel like my throat's swelling shut." He walked into the bedroom to pick up fresh clothes and a minute later they heard the water running in the shower.

"How bad was it?" Henry asked, keeping an eye on the bathroom door.

Peter sat heavily on a chair in the suite, more tired than he'd been since going on vacation. "On his last case, back in New York, he was hurt. A suspect stabbed him with a skewer." Peter was about to apologize for not telling him about it, but Henry beat him to the punch.

"I know. I called Neal when he was recovering. The pain meds probably made him more chatty than he would have been otherwise." Another glance toward the door. "He didn't seem to be injured this time."

"Not physically, but this almost seems worse." Peter rubbed his temples. This case had given him a headache. "To get Tulane to talk, Neal had to... He had to claim he's using you and your family. And... he's a brilliant con artist. It was totally convincing. He... he became that person he pretended to be, the guy who only sees you as a mark. I mean, I've seen him undercover and I knew he was good but today... today he was so cold I'm surprised he doesn't have frostbite. If there's an emotional equivalent of frostbite, that's what he's got. I hope you know how to thaw him out."

The sound of running water stopped. When the bathroom door opened steam rolled out, as if to underscore that Neal had felt the need for warmth. "Dinner plans?" Neal asked.

Peter looked at the time. It was later than he realized. "El sent me a text that we're going to a Japanese restaurant tonight, a couple blocks' walk from here."

Neal made an unconvincing attempt to smile. "Sounds good."

"You aren't hungry," Henry said.

"No, but I can fake it. Won't take much to convince everyone I'm all right."

"You still don't get it." Henry pushed Neal toward the sofa, and they both sat down. "You don't have to fake it, not for your family. Peter will tell them you need time to decompress after the op. They'll understand." He grabbed a booklet from the side table. "Here's the room service menu. Order a cheeseburger for me, and anything you want."

Peter considered staying, but Neal insisted that everyone would worry if they thought he needed two babysitters. "Go," Neal said, and Peter went, but not before telling Henry to call or text if they needed anything.