Chapter 6

"I hate working with new guys," Villiers repeated. "Rookies. With this kinda job you gotta stay on point. Gotta follow the damn schedule. Does he think I have all day to wait for him? I can't believe he conned anyone into recommending him. Hell, he's probably late 'cause he's busy selling me out. If I get even a hint of cop or Fed following him, he's gonna regret it for the rest of his very short life."

Peter had already suggested maybe they didn't need this still unnamed rookie, at which point Villiers launched into a rant about clients who tried to micromanage the specialists they hired. "I swear to God," Villiers had said, "if you ask about details of the plan one more time, I'm gonna start thinking you're gathering evidence for the Feds."

Red reminded Villiers that they had vetted everyone involved, and that seemed to satisfy him, but Peter worried Villiers could still decide to turn on either his client or the rookie – or both—before this day was over. So far Villiers wasn't providing the information needed for Peter to jump straight into an arrest. It looked more and more like he'd have to let Villiers go through with the theft to catch him with enough evidence, assuming it didn't turn into a murder investigation, instead.

In the last twenty minutes, seven people had entered the bar. Each time it had been the same. Peter heard the cheers and applause as someone changed shirts, and heard the Rams named as the favorite team. He stopped paying attention because he didn't want to come across as anxious.

This time, though, the cheers were different. Mostly women were cheering, he noticed. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see the newest patron was taking forever to remove his shirt. Come on, how long did it take to undo a row of buttons? The women were almost screaming now, and the newbie threw his tie to the loudest table. Show off.

Finally, the guy pulled on a sweatshirt and answered the question about his favorite team with, "Oh the Rams, of course. But a friend of mine dared me to say the Giants."

That got Villiers' attention. And Peter turned around as well, because he thought he recognized that voice. Caffrey. Could this get any worse?

There was the off-chance Peter could arrest both Villiers and Caffrey in the same day. But his luck didn't seem to be running that way. Villiers had sounded increasingly enraged the longer they waited for the rookie, and Caffrey didn't seem the type to improve Villiers' mental state.

Meanwhile, Caffrey appeared completely absorbed in a debate about whether or not he should be banished to the peanut gallery. Two tables of fans near the door were making their opinions known, loudly. As far as Peter could tell, Caffrey hadn't noticed him yet. "I'm getting another beer," he told Villiers, and walked over to the bar. That bought him a little time, but how on earth was he going to turn this around? This wasn't how he'd envisioned the Caffrey Conversation occurring. No one was going to bring the con artist over to the side of the angels in the roughly sixty seconds Peter estimated they might have before all hell broke loose.

"This is a surprise," Caffrey said, having somehow materialized at Peter's elbow. "And I've heard Roland doesn't care for surprises." He asked the bartender for a glass of wine.

Really? Wine in a sports bar? "Look, I know this is unconventional, but we need to work together now. Villiers is trying to decide between firing you or just killing you. If you'll go along with me here, I'll convince him to let you walk. I'll let you walk."

"Catching him is more important than catching me? I think I'm insulted." But then Caffrey dropped the sarcasm and asked, "Who does Roland believe you are?"

"Philip Townsend. The client. Bored accountant investing his ill-gotten gains in ill-gotten art."

"Nice job if you can get it. Take these." Caffrey passed a set of keys into Peter's hand so smoothly that Peter had to be a little impressed. "Toyota Camry. Beige. It's in the second row, seven spaces from the exit. Roland's about to head over here; tell him I'm a Fed."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Possibly. He's dangerous. He's smart. He's seen us talking and that will make him suspicious because we aren't supposed to know each other. Right now, I'm the one he's mad at. Let's run with that."

"There is no way someone your age would be the sole field agent in an operation like this. Either you're not a Fed, or you're not alone." Who knew the Caffrey Conversation would consist of teaching him FBI protocol that might help him get away with more crimes in the future? "A smart guy like Villiers is going to know that."

"Only if we give him time to think about it." Caffrey flashed a smile at the bartender who slid over the glass of wine, and after tasting it raised his voice slightly. "I'm telling you, you've made a mistake. You don't know me."

Villiers yanked Caffrey toward a less crowded part of the room. By some miracle the wine hadn't spilled, and Caffrey set it down on an empty table while Villiers ranted, "Keep it down! We don't want to draw attention to ourselves." Then he turned to Peter, who had followed them. "What's going on here?"

It went against Peter's instincts to put a civilian into danger, or to put his own safety in the hands of a felon. But everything he knew about Caffrey said this was the right decision. The kid was brilliant, and he'd never been known to hurt anyone. Time to go with the gut. "You were right not to trust this guy. I saw him when the FBI visited my office last month. They were investigating one of my clients."

"Your client?" Villiers repeated. "Not you?"

"Of course not. I've been very careful, and with all due modesty I did graduate in the top four percent of my class. I don't leave trails that can be followed by some random Fed who picks up an accounting case twice a year." Peter smirked, just like Townsend had. He really could channel that jerk.

"You're sure it was him?" Villiers shook Caffrey's arm for emphasis. "And he was with the FBI?"

"I'm not –" Caffrey started, but Peter interrupted.

"Without a doubt. RV, I'm aware of the stereotypes. Accountants are into numbers, not people. But I also run a highly successful business in a very competitive industry. The reason for my success is that I get to know people. I remember them. Really, look at him. Would you forget that face? He looks like a freaking choirboy!"

"Choirboy?" Caffrey repeated softly.

"I see what you mean," Villiers said.

"I mean, sure, I was in a choir in elementary school..."

"But he came highly recommended," Villiers continued, "by someone I've known a long time. He's never been tricked by a Fed before."

"In your business," Peter pressed, "like mine, every colleague is one day a friend and another day a competitor. The key is to remember their roles keep changing."

"Damn it."

"I suppose it's better than farm boy. As long as I don't have to break into song every few minutes. Because musicals really aren't my thing." Caffrey looked up. "Oh, are you done? Is it my turn now?"

It took an effort not to laugh. But Peter could see the kid playing up the joke. In a few seconds he'd subtly tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt past his wrists, making the garment look too big for him. By staring down at the floor he'd caused his hair, already disheveled by pulling on the sweatshirt, to tumble forward over his face. Just those few subtle moves made Caffrey look like the quintessential mischievous choirboy. Maybe he could lighten the mood enough that Villiers would...

"Stop wasting my time! I still have half a mind to kill you both and just walk away from this whole mess."

Or maybe not.

"Yeah, it's your turn, rookie. Tell me why Townsend would lie about this. What does he gain by convincing me you're a Fed?"

Caffrey pushed his hair back away from his face, the move returning his sleeves to the correct length. He took a step forward and stood with his hands on his hips. If he carried a weapon it would be easy to reach it in such a stance. His eyes squinted slightly. It was a standard cop pose with a little bit of wild west gunfighter mixed in. It was authoritative, intimidating, and likely to convince Villiers that Caffrey was undercover for one of the law enforcement agencies.

He'd gone from convincingly seventeen to convincingly twenty-seven in seconds. The kid was made for undercover work. He could teach a seminar at Quantico.

"It doesn't matter," Caffrey said. "The fact is, he has good instincts, even if he's pointing the finger in the wrong direction."

"You're saying there's a Fed in this room, but it isn't you." Peter got it ahead of Villiers. If they could stay ahead of Villiers long enough, Caffrey's plan might work.

Caffrey nodded. "When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw four rental vehicles. There should be three: mine, yours and Miles', because Roland and Red came on the motorcycle. This place isn't a tourist trap. They're off the beaten path and they don't advertise at the airport or hotels. An extra rental is suspicious. What's your car, Townsend?"

"Beige Camry."

"Mine's an import, too. The SUV belongs to Miles, of course, because it's needed for transporting the goods. The extra car is domestic, black, economy. It's what the government gets for the standard discount. Find the driver of that car, and we find our Fed."

"How do we do that?" Peter asked.

"I'm going out to the parking lot, as if I'm leaving. Then I'll come back inside to tell the hostess I've seen someone damage the Fed's car. She'll announce it, and he'll go outside to investigate. I'll talk to him. Follow us when that happens, and see for yourselves. Just try not to scare him off too soon. I can convince him to show me his ID, if you give me time."

"Townsend saw you with the FBI," Villiers said. "You think I'm gonna let you walk?"

"Listen, I'll admit I was there that day. The thing is, Townsend's client was tipped off. He asked me to go there, see if I could grab some incriminating evidence. The Feds had already arrived, so I tried to blend in." Caffrey gestured toward Peter. "Ask him if the FBI got what they needed to convict his client." He shook his head when Villiers turned his attention to Peter.

"They didn't end up charging him," Peter said.

Villiers thought it over. "Here's how this is gonna work. Townsend and I leave first, with Miles. You come out to the parking lot, lead us to the rental you claim you saw. If it isn't there, or you try to run, I shoot you. Repeatedly. Got it?"

Caffrey led them to the car, and then convinced them to hang back by Miles' SUV. Then he went back inside and gave the hostess the license plate number of the car parked next to Peter's rental. The car's owner followed him outside and they chatted. After a couple of minutes, Caffrey opened the driver's door to Peter's rental car.

Peter checked his pockets. He still had the keys to the Camry, but the keys to his own rental were gone. He mentally added pickpocket to the list of Caffrey's skills.

"Follow if that car leaves," Villiers ordered Miles, who got into the SUV and cranked the engine. In the same instant, Peter's car pulled out and darted toward the exit.

Villiers was livid, yelling at Miles to move already, while running ahead to shoot at the escaping car. That was some serious rage.

Peter didn't want to think about the paperwork he'd face if his rental car... his stolen rental car... was returned with bullet holes in it. Assuming it was returned at all. Making matters worse, his plane ticket home and real ID were hidden under the rental car's spare tire. "Now what?" he asked the universe at large.

"Now we rob a museum," Villiers said. And Peter had it recorded.