New York City taxi. Tuesday evening. February 17, 2004.

A good con artist doesn't reveal his emotions unless those emotions help sell the con, Neal reminded himself, displeased that he'd let Jones see how upset he'd been after talking to Kate.

Peter would probably argue that "good" and "con artist" were mutually exclusive, and say that as a consultant for the FBI Neal shouldn't think of himself as a con man anymore. But part of the reason the FBI wanted him in their ranks was for that very skill set. Therefore keeping in practice was important.

The challenge tonight had been the sheer number of distractions. Even before Kate's bombshells, there had been Peter's comment that Neal could be in serious trouble, even arrested, for cracking Sinclair's safe on New Year's Eve. Add on to that yesterday's mandate that Neal must seek therapy regarding the abuse he'd suffered as a child, and who wouldn't be flustered? The biggest, longest con of his life had been convincing everyone, including himself, that he was fine during and after that abuse. Reliving those memories was absolutely the last thing Neal wanted to do, even if it would make the flashbacks stop.

The implication that Kate had been Adler's mistress had been too much to handle on top of everything else. It would take time to process exactly what Kate had said tonight compared to what Neal remembered of their romance. The fact is, he'd taught Kate how to run a con and she'd been a natural. That raised the question: why had she been so obviously rattled at the café? Had she really been thrown off her stride to that extent? Or had she been pretending, conning Neal into suspecting something that would make him react emotionally rather than intellectually? And why hadn't she mentioned that the club leasing Adler's estate was Highbury Professional Connections?

The taxi stopped in front of a bar, and Neal paid the driver. Rather than walking into the bar, he entered the music shop next door. They had one of the best selections of reasonably priced instruments in the city, and some creative marketing techniques. For instance, on Tuesday and Thursday evenings they ran a promo with the neighboring bar, featuring live music. Throughout the week, musicians visited the shop and auditioned, and the owner selected a set of artists to perform.

While in St. Louis in December, Neal had met a retired legend of alternate rock, Michael Darling. The keyboardist and composer for the group Local Devastation, Michael had been an idol of rock fans like Neal in the late 1990s. Michael had recently agreed to write songs for Ty Merchant, the lead singer of Local Devastation who was now embarking on a solo career. Michael would be in New York soon to go over some new songs with Ty, and out of appreciation for Neal's help, he had extended an invitation to join them. He'd also insisted that Neal stay in practice.

The Ellingtons' mansion had a music room with a piano, and Neal had a guitar, but practicing boisterous rock songs didn't feel right as Byron's health faded. Seeking other venues, Neal learned about the music store and had struck up a friendship with the owner. Randy Weston had hopes of eventually selling Neal a gorgeous high-end guitar, and Neal had hopes of being able to afford it someday.

It was 8:28 when Neal entered the store, mere minutes before Randy took the night's performers back to his office to finalize the set list. "Had me worried there," Randy said. "Come on back."

As usual, there would be two simultaneous performances from nine to midnight. In the dark, moody bar, patrons would hear louder, more angst-driven rock songs. Meanwhile, waitresses would serve drinks in the bright shop, which would feature a selection of lighter, pop songs. While the bar had a cover charge, the store's doors would be wide open to entice wannabe musicians to believe that they could learn to play like the performers, if only they came inside and purchased the right instruments.

The bar fit Neal's mood tonight, and he volunteered to be part of that group. He selected two songs he wanted to perform covers of, and would back up other members of the group on their selections.

"Didn't bring your beat-up guitar this time, Neal?" Randy asked as the meeting broke up. "Finally going to buy one from me?"

"Not this time, but I'll rent one for the evening, if you'll let me keep it till midnight." Neal knew Randy would let the performers borrow an instrument for a small fee, in return for his shop being acknowledged at the end of each song where the instrument was used.

Randy led the way to the guitar he hoped Neal would buy. "You're performing in the first ninety minutes. Why do you need it till midnight?"

"I'm going to East Meets West later," Neal said casually, and then grinned at Randy's look of dismay.

"That's barely a step up from karaoke!"

"Yeah, but I promised to meet someone. It's just one song. Then your guitar comes safely home again."

Randy looked down at the expensive guitar in his hands. "You come back here when you're done at the bar and swap this out for a different model. This baby isn't meant for karaoke."

Neal took the guitar with the reverence it deserved, and helped set up for the evening's performance in the bar. After everything Neal had been through today, there was something cathartic about throwing himself into dark and edgy music. As he sang and played his guitar, he disappeared into the songs. It was more than playing the right notes and singing the right words. This was performance, loud and aggressive, and an outlet for his inner turmoil. Channeling that into music made him feel better, and made the audience cheer.

###

Agent Clinton Jones had faith in his friend George Knightley. The man was a decorated naval officer, and had proved himself in combat. There was no reason to worry about him following Neal Caffrey through the streets of New York. And for the first couple of hours, Jones wasn't worried. After three hours, he was mildly concerned. After midnight, he felt like a parent whose teenager had broken curfew. Couldn't George have at least called or texted? Should Jones be out looking for him?

Jones was actually pacing when he finally heard a key turning in the lock. He hurried to an arm chair, where he endeavored to look calm. "Find him?" he asked as George stepped inside. At thirty years of age, George was a few years older than Jones. He had straight brown hair, brown eyes, a tan from spending the last year in the South Pacific, and facial structure that hinted at his native American heritage on his mother's side.

George hung up his coat. "I think the term scamp was invented for your friend Neal Caffrey." He took a seat on the sofa. "I certainly got a workout that the experts at the Donwell Institute will be proud of."

"Can I get you anything? Coffee?" Jones asked.

"Maybe some water," George said. While Jones grabbed a bottle of water, George started his story. "I got there in time to see your Neal Caffrey arrive in a taxi. It stopped in front of a bar, but he went into the neighboring music store instead."

"Did you go in?" Jones asked as he handed his friend the bottle and then sat down.

"Yeah, because I'm such a music expert. You ever heard me sing, Clinton?"

Jones thought a moment. "No."

"That's because whenever I start, people cover their ears and moan. I'm not someone who can hang out and make intelligent conversation in a music store. Fortunately there were a lot of people standing out front, and I joined the crowd. I saw signs advertising live music supplied by the store, with pop performances in the store starting at nine, and rock performances in the bar. People were waiting around to see which performers would be participating in each venue. Your friend Neal disappeared into a back room with several other people. When they emerged, someone who looked like a store manager handed him a guitar. Neal and several others walked over to the bar, and didn't have to pay the cover charge."

Jones smiled. "Let me guess. You felt comfortable going into a bar."

"Beer, now there's a language I speak. No bypassing the cover charge for me, but I got inside and grabbed a stool at the bar before the performance began. There were four of them: Neal, two other guys and a Goth girl. They took turns singing. Each of them took the lead on two songs, and they played and sang backup for each other."

"Were they any good?"

"Based on the crowd reaction, I'd say so. Of course I only recognized about half the songs, but the girl sitting next to me was going on about how she plans to try out for American Idol and when I started asking her for the song titles, she made me a list." George stood up and walked back to his coat, pulling a cocktail napkin from a pocket. He handed the napkin to Jones and sat down again.

Jones read through the list. "Fell on Black Days" by Soundgarden. "First Cut is the Deepest" by Sheryl Crow. "Time is Running Out" by Muse. "My Way" by Butch Walker. "You Give Love a Bad Name" by Bon Jovi. "Unwell" by Matchbox Twenty. "Me Against the World" by Simple Plan.

"Goth Girl sang that second song, and I gotta say she really looked like she wanted to stab someone every time she sang the chorus, even though that wasn't what the song meant. If she hangs out with Neal on a regular basis, I might be a little concerned. Your friend played the third and seventh songs. The last guy in the group was starting another song as Neal was leaving. I can't judge the singing, but I thought Neal had the best actual performance. He seemed the most natural in front of an audience, and most believable in conveying the emotions of the songs. Which was anger, mostly. I'm sure you can look the songs up and see if anything in the tone concerns you, but to my thinking a loud performance is a lot better than heavy drinking followed by a bar fight."

Jones had to agree, but as he didn't recognize the songs Caffrey had performed, he planned to download them in the morning to be safe. "What time did he leave the bar?"

"About 10:15, I think. I wasn't prepared for that. I'd expected him to stay through the last song. I wobbled a bit on the prosthetic leg when I hopped off the bar stool without thinking. No big deal, but it slowed me down enough that I worried I'd lose him. I made an educated guess he'd head back to the store to return the guitar, and guessed right. But here's where he surprised me. I saw him hand over one guitar case, and the manager handed him a different one. And he carried that one out with him."

A dozen scenarios ran through Jones' mind. That case could have held stolen goods, contraband, cash for a job. Any of the above would give Agent Burke heartburn. "Where'd he go next?"

"He walked, thankfully, since I'd guess yelling 'Follow that cab' only works in movies. He went about five blocks north to a place called East Meets West. It's sort of karaoke for duets. Bright, garish place. Like a really bad casino with a sense of humor about it. They served Screaming Wings and I Forgot the Words Rings."

"Did you sing?" Jones had to ask.

"I've been told on many occasions that what I do cannot be called singing, and no, I didn't subject anyone to that experience tonight. They pair up singers on the East Coast and West Coast, or sometimes in the U.S. and Asia. Most times people sign up for a specific song and are randomly partnered with someone else who wanted the same song. But sometimes singers would request to be partnered with a friend or with someone whose past performances had impressed them. I saw Neal sign up or register or whatever they do. Then I ordered a beer in the desperate hope of deadening my pain from the songs that followed. Some of those people were almost as hopeless at singing as I am." He paused to drink some water. "A few were good, though. Neal and his partner were among the best."

"What did they sing?"

"There was an M.C. based out of L.A. Sounded like a Ryan Seacrest impersonator, if you ask me, and he announced their song as 'Broken' by Seether and Amy Lee. Do you know it?"

Jones shook his head, and jotted the name on the cocktail napkin with the others.

"Me neither. The girl he sang with was in Seattle, and was called Angela. She really attacked that song. Belted it out, my sister would say. She looked young, a college senior, probably. She wore a University of Washington sweatshirt and had dark hair in a ponytail. To look at her, I assumed she was Neal's sister."

Jones frowned. "He doesn't have any siblings. He does have a cousin named Angela, and I think her age was twenty-two."

"The thing I found odd was that they said they'd first met over the holidays. And yet the MC said they sounded like they'd been singing together for years."

"How'd they explain that?"

"Your friend Neal just shrugged and said they'd both had the same teacher."

Jones thought over what George had told him, and asked, "And Neal played the guitar that he'd brought with him?"

"Yeah. It was obviously not the same guitar he'd played before. But other than the color, I couldn't tell you what was different about it. When he was done with the song, he packed it up and headed out. This time I was prepared. I'd already paid for the beer, and I jumped up to follow him."

Something didn't compute. "You're telling me you followed Caffrey to this place and then followed him out again and he didn't notice he was being followed?"

"Now we get to the reason I called him a scamp. I caught up with him at the entrance, even bumped into him."

Jones groaned. He knew where this was headed.

"Then he slipped out with a group of people, and when I got outside, he'd disappeared. I thought chances were good he'd go back to the music store with the guitar, so I turned south. I'd only gone a few yards when he stepped out of an entryway, calling me by name and holding my wallet. Not something I expected of an FBI employee."

"You might say he had a misspent youth."

"Yeah. Give a guy a little warning, next time."

"Did he return the wallet?"

"In exchange for telling him why I was following him. I didn't mention you by name, just said that a friend was worried about him. We walked back together. I admitted that I didn't know the first thing about music and nearly panicked when I saw him head into that store, and he got a good laugh out of that. It did seem like his mood had lightened. He took me into the store with him while he returned the guitar. Then he hailed a cab and asked if I wanted to share a ride. I assumed he could figure out you'd sent me if I gave your address, so I declined, and heard him tell the driver Riverside Drive. I remembered the name from the map. It's where he spends his nights. He was going home, right?"

"That's right." Jones relaxed, satisfied that Caffrey wasn't going out of control. He was about to suggest turning in, but it seemed George wasn't done with his story.

"There I was, congratulating myself on keeping up with a twenty-something on my prosthetic leg, when someone stepped out of the crowd around the bar and asked if I'm a friend of Neal's."

"Give me a description."

"About your height. White. Dark blond hair and light brown eyes. Around thirty. He guessed I was former military and introduced himself as Captain Isaac Dixon, former USAF. Do you know the name?"

"No, but Caffrey's uncle and godfather served in the Air Force. That could be the connection. What did you tell Dixon?"

"I described myself as a friend of a friend. Dixon said his club is looking to book live entertainment, and he wanted to offer Neal a gig. I told him Neal had a day job, but that didn't deter him. He said most musicians he met had another job."

"Did you mention that Neal works for the Bureau?"

"No, you hadn't said exactly what kind of work Neal does for the FBI, or what kind of trouble you thought he might be getting into. I thought it best not to give anything away."

"Good instincts. Did the guy seem legit?"

"Yeah. He didn't ask any more questions, other than making a request that I give his business card to Neal. It's in my wallet. You want it?"

Jones sighed. "I can't give it to him without admitting I'm the one who had him followed. He isn't going to be happy about the tail, but he'll assume it was something the boss arranged. I'd rather he keep thinking that."

"I'll hold on to it. If he guesses it was you who gave the order, or if you think of a way to give him the card without him guessing, let me know."

###

In the guest room, George Knightley felt a sense of pride that he'd been able to do this favor for his friend. It was the first time he had been able to do anything significant for Clinton Jones since he'd started crashing at his place two weeks ago. Being a freeloader didn't suit him, even though Clinton insisted it would be ridiculous for George to pay for his own place when Clinton had plenty of space and lived near the Donwell Institute.

Pride was the reason George hadn't told his friend about the rest of his conversation with Dixon. After giving him the business card, Dixon had asked what a former Navy officer did in civilian life. George mentioned he'd gotten a medical degree while in the service, and expressed his desire to find a job in hospital administration.

Dixon had gone on to say that the club where he worked had a lot of doctors as members, and encouraged George to stop by for lunch the next day. The whole purpose of the club was networking – putting job seekers in the path of professionals whose companies were hiring.

The idea of finding a job quickly and establishing his independence held huge appeal. But he'd wait to tell Clinton about the invitation to visit Highbury Professional Connections until he saw if he got a solid job lead out of it.