Peter's car. Late 2005.

The return trip to the Federal Building was taking forever, because traffic was crawling. Peter had already summarized the salient elements of the case they'd just wrapped up, with Neal recording it on his phone. All they had to do was transcribe the notes back in the office.

With work out of the way, Neal asked, "How was the party?" Peter's brother Joe had celebrated his fiftieth birthday last week.

"Okay," Peter said.

Neal didn't bother rolling his eyes, as Peter was focused on the road and wouldn't see this mark of annoyance. "You spent a three-day weekend with your brother, your spouses, his kids, and your parents, and you think okay sums that up?"

"It was a semi-surprise party. Joe knew when and where, but not what we'd be doing. It was fun. We all enjoyed ourselves, but I couldn't help remembering that I have a big birthday coming up. I'm worried that I'll end up with a semi-surprise party, too, and that's not what I want. And then the people throwing the party will be disappointed at my reaction."

"So get ahead of it," Neal suggested. "You're married to an event planner. Work with her to plan the kind of celebration you want."

"No lectures on how I should embrace surprises? You like surprise parties."

"Yeah, but I also like having other parts of my life that are predictable, like paychecks. And while I enjoy rolling with things in undercover ops, I still appreciate all of the planning that goes into the op to keep me safe." Neal shrugged. "Your job tosses a lot of surprises at you, so you want control over your birthday."

"You had a hand in the surprises for my last two birthdays," Peter said. "You don't have plans I'm ruining?"

"I didn't have anything specific in mind yet."

Federal Building, Manhattan. January 10, 2006. Tuesday afternoon.

"That's it," Peter said as he wrapped up the briefing with his team. He would take the day off for his birthday tomorrow, and he wanted to be certain they were ready to handle everything in his absence. "We're in good shape on our cases, and you shouldn't miss me. Our goal is no surprises."

"We can't guarantee that. We never know when Robin Hoodie will hit again," Jones objected.

Neal groaned. "I never should have suggested that name. It was a joke."

"It's perfect for a young thief who steals from the rich and gives to charity," Diana said.

"More like extorts," Jones corrected. The thief offered her victims the option of giving a generous amount to one of a list of charities, after which she provided directions for retrieving what she'd stolen.

"Journalists called her the Conspicuous Consumption thief," Neal said. "Couldn't we just stick with that?"

"The alliteration is nice," Diana conceded, "but Robin Hoodie is catchier."

"Call her whatever you want," Peter said. "Just don't let her ruin my birthday plans."

Peter drove home in a terrific mood. He'd convinced his family to let him plan his own fortieth birthday party and had even turned the tables on them. This time he'd be the one surprising his guests.

Early tomorrow, his parents, brother, sister-in-law, and nieces would gather at his home for bagels, with no idea what he had in store for them.

He'd considered a baseball-themed celebration, but El made a case for not trusting the weather for an outdoor sport in January. So far it looked like there wouldn't be snow, but temperatures would be well below freezing in the morning. Just as well they'd agreed on an ice theme instead. In the morning, they'd watch a college hockey team practice, and then the family would take to the ice themselves. Some of them would be content to skate. El was a still a novice, and she would likely stay to the edges of the arena with coaching and support from Peter's parents. Peter and his brother and nieces were likely to engage in a little low-contact hockey. Peter would even get to ride on the Zamboni.

That would be followed by lunch at a local ice bar, where everyone bundled up in faux-fur coats to dine. Next would be a visit to the Museum of Natural History, for an exhibit on polar wildlife.

There was a break planned in the late afternoon. While their guests returned to the hotel, Peter and El would head home. They'd have a couple of hours to relax, do a crossword puzzle, and then they would dress up for the evening's celebration.

For that part of his birthday, Peter had relented a little, giving up some control. He knew what to expect for dinner. It would take place at a favorite Italian restaurant — the same one he'd enjoyed at last year's birthday. Friends, family, and colleagues were invited to partake in a version of the feast of the seven fishes.

Dessert, however, was happening elsewhere, with a smaller group. El wanted to keep the details a secret, simply revealing that it would be upscale while also fitting into the ice theme. Peter was certain he could figure out the venue if he tried, but he'd agreed to let her plan this one element of surprise.

Federal Building, Manhattan. January 11, 2006. Wednesday morning.

Neal, Jones, Diana, and Tricia were in a conference room with representatives from three major insurance companies. On one side of a whiteboard was a list of what Robin Hoodie had stolen, and on the other side was a growing list of outrageously expensive items that were likely targets.

So far the kid hadn't stolen any works of art. Items of beauty and cultural significance weren't her targets, nor were museums. She stole the toys of rich individuals. These were less likely to be protected by elaborate security systems, because the whole point of having toys was for the owners to have easy access to play with them and to show off.

Honestly, looking at the list made Neal a little uncomfortable. He found himself siding more with the thief than with the owners. Maybe it was just as well that Sara was in London, so Sterling-Bosch couldn't send her to the meeting. Sara would have noticed Neal's increasing silence. In fact, he worried that Tricia was starting to notice, and he was glad when she returned to her office in the Behavioral Analysis section after the meeting ended.

But an hour later she stood next to Neal's desk. "Have lunch with me," she said. It was an order, not a question. He followed to her team's section, where there was a make-your-own sandwich buffet. "We ordered in from a deli," she said. "There's always too much. Take whatever you want."

Neal choose ham and swiss on a croissant, while Tricia selected turkey and cheddar on ciabatta, and then they went to Tricia's office. He expected her to bring up Robin Hoodie and this morning's meeting, but she surprised him with, "I have a confession to make."

"Am I finally going to hear about your bachelorette party in Las Vegas? Because I've always suspected you had a hidden wild side and your constant unwillingness to talk about that party is a huge red flag."

She smiled. "Nice deflection. No, this time it's all about you."

"My favorite subject. Let's hear it."

Her look told him that she knew the truth. There were many times he preferred not to be the subject of conversations at the FBI.

Tricia said, "As part of my training last year, one of my assignments was to write a before-and-after analysis of a criminal. The before was based on what we knew of a person when they were simply a suspect, and the after was based on what we learned after they were caught."

"And you picked me," Neal guessed.

"You immediately jumped to mind. Part of me knew I shouldn't, but..."

"I'm a fascinating case."

"If it helps, we didn't give the names of the individuals we were profiling. Nothing I did for my assignment was ever associated with either your criminal or personnel records. I even purged my report from the server and from my computer after the class, but I still remember my findings... I can't help noticing the similarities to the profile I'm building for Robin Hoodie. And based on your reaction this morning, I think you're seeing it, too."

Neal put down the sandwich. He wasn't hungry anymore. "Early in my career, my victims were people who could afford to lose things. When I was a little less desperate, I focused on people I thought deserved it, and I didn't think of them as victims. They were... they were people who victimized others. I told myself I was balancing the scale."

"Because you had been a victim," Tricia said softly.

"That's how it felt. The system, the laws... sometimes it feels like they exist to punish you for struggling, rather than to help you. There were so many barriers to getting help for my mom, or for me. The system felt rigged to the point that the only way to get by was to lie, cheat, and steal, so I couldn't feel guilty about it."

"Is that how you justified stealing from institutions, like museums?"

Neal shook his head. "That started out as being invited to join crews. They picked the targets, and I was there to learn. And what I learned was that I was good at it, and museums have insurance, so it felt like a victimless crime."

"If we're right about this, and our suspect has a lot in common with you at the start of your path, how do we stop her?"

Neal paused to consider. "You're not asking how to catch her."

"We have plenty of experts in that area. I'm thinking of the next step. Once we catch her, can we convince her to give up a life of crime? Is there anything that would have convinced you?"

Neal promised to think about it, and then he returned to his desk. He scribbled notes and doodled over the page as he tried to think of answers to Tricia's questions. Mid-afternoon he was interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing. Not his phone, but the sound came from his desk. He opened drawers to find a purple flip phone — most likely a burner hidden there by Mozzie.

Sure enough, when Neal answered, it was Mozzie calling. "The Conspicuous Consumption thief is on the move," Mozz announced. "She reached out to a fence of my acquaintance about a set of classic cars. She wants to meet tonight."

So much for Peter's insistence on no surprises.

Neal checked in with the rest of the team, who had their own updates on the case, and then they brainstormed. They even called Henry Winslow at Win-Win to consult on their plan.

###

Peter enjoyed his birthday dinner. The abbreviated feast — featuring four fishes instead of seven — gave him an opportunity to move from one table to the next between courses. That way he spent time with all of the guests.

The final course was a birthday cake. Peter slipped into his seat at the last table. These were the people who would accompany him to the final stage of the celebration, which would feature more desserts, so they each received a tiny piece of cake here. The point was for the other guests to have an opportunity to sing the birthday song. After Peter stood and thanked everyone, he sat down again to enjoy his slice of birthday cake.

There were a couple of empty seats. That had been the case at several tables, due to uneven numbers of guests and one last-minute cancellation. But he remembered that this table was supposed to be full.

"Where are Tricia and Diana?" Peter asked.

The FBI contingent at the table — Neal, Jones, and Hughes — fell silent. That did not bode well.

"They're at our next destination," Neal said smoothly. "It's part of the surprise." His tone indicated that it was no big deal, and that the surprise element precluded answering any further questions.

Peter wasn't convinced. "What's the Bureau's involvement?"

Hughes answered, after a significant glance around the table, pausing at Peter's wife, brother, and parents. "Obviously we can't go into details here, but we received a credible tip that a person of interest in a White Collar investigation could have plans in the neighborhood."

Peter had a sinking feeling. A little over a year ago, the bachelor party he hosted for his brother was interrupted by a case. Family members had trailed along, eager to watch Peter doing his job. That had been in Hawaii, and Peter had been able to downplay the level of family involvement in his official report once he got home. Was this going to turn into another take-your-family-to-work day?

###

As birthday party venues went, Regnier's jewelry store was a surprise, but a good one, Peter had to admit. This evening was a trial run of the store's upcoming "On Ice" display, which featured live penguins. A miniature ice rink had been built along the edges of the store, and the penguins were on loan, in a joint marketing effort to bring customers to the store and to bring attention to the zoo. So far only one penguin had made a break from the icy path, to wander around like a guest looking for a cocktail. The party guests had wrangled the runaway while the zookeepers made adjustments to secure the penguins' space.

A waiter circulated with a tray of treats, mostly black-and-white chocolate-based desserts inspired by the penguins. Peter selected a penguin-shaped piece of fudge and enjoyed the combination of dark and white chocolate.

While the other guests admired the penguins, Hughes and Tricia pulled Peter aside, giving him an update on the Robin Hoodie case.

###

Neal stepped into the alley behind the jewelry store.

Moments later, Peter joined him. "Casing the joint?" he asked with a slight smile.

"Been there, done that," Neal replied.

"Marie Antionette's jewels. I remember." Peter paused. "Any regrets about giving up the heists?"

Neal shook his head. "I can enjoy the mental exercise of planning heists, without risking jail time."

"If you hadn't confessed when I caught up with you two years ago, that's where you'd be," Peter said. "It gave me heartburn to think of arresting you, and how you'd be wasting all of your creativity and potential in prison. I knew you weren't a bad person. Just someone who made bad choices."

"I enjoyed the thefts," Neal said. "But I chafed at the feeling that I didn't have any other options. What started out as desperation as a kid turned into a series of burned bridges. I honestly thought I'd be a criminal until I was caught or killed."

"You just needed someone to believe in you," Peter said.

"I'm grateful," Neal said. He turned around, bumping into Peter.

"Give it back," Peter demanded.

Neal flipped open Peter's badge and held it up like a prize before handing it over. "Agent Peter Burke, bringing the badge to your own birthday party."

"FBI to the core," Peter agreed.

###

Zlata held her breath as the men stepped into the alley, and she closed her eyes in frustration to hear that an FBI agent was only a couple of yards away. Everything had gone so smoothly these last few weeks, she'd started to think she'd never be caught.

Interesting to hear that the guy talking to the agent had been caught but didn't do time.

"You here?" called out a voice after the two men went back inside. This was an old guy, tall with thinning hair. Even bundled up in a long, black coat, he looked lanky. This had to be Larry, the fence she'd contacted.

"I don't have all day," he said in a voice with a touch of the Bronx in it.

She scrambled out of her hiding spot. "Why'd you want to meet here instead of the parking garage?" she asked. She'd driven the cars to the garage he'd selected. The bottom level was closed for repainting of the parking space lines tomorrow, so it was a good choice. No one would be there until the morning.

"You do things different. So do I."

Zlata almost had to jog to keep up with his long strides. "Not so different this time," she said. She wasn't offering this victim the chance to get his toys back.

"You're the one they call the Conspicuous Consumption thief?"

"Yeah." She'd hoped for something catchier, but the fact that she was in the news at all made her nervous. It sounded like people were rooting for her, but she wasn't going to count on anyone's support. She'd learned better.

"But this time you're selling the goods and keeping all the money?"

"None of your business what I do with the money," she snapped.

"Big temper for such a little thing," he said.

Five foot three wasn't all that little, but she certainly felt petite compared to him.

They stayed out of sight, cutting through a series of alleys, and after ten minutes they were in the parking garage staircase. When they reached the final landing, they heard footsteps above them.

"Shit," muttered Larry. He paused by the door that would open to the parking area, looking out a small window. "You got the keys handy?"

"Yeah."

"Give 'em to me. You hide while I distract these folks." He grabbed them from her and pushed open the door before she could ask why he needed the keys.

Zlata took advantage of his bulky coat to duck out behind him, turning sharply to hide on the other side of the staircase enclosure. She barely made it in time, as the person behind them rounded the last set of stairs at a run.

"Well, this must be my lucky day," Larry announced, striding toward the luxury vehicles. "You fine people in the market for a car?"

They were definitely not in the market for a car. They yelled for him to put his hands up. Then a woman pushed him against one of the cars and cuffed him, reading him his rights.

The man who'd been running down the stairs stood at the doorway now, blocking that route. Zlata wouldn't be able to backtrack.

Could she trust Larry not to tell them where she was? But where else was she supposed to hide? The garage was empty except for the cars she'd brought here.

She looked behind her, in the desperate hope that maybe there'd been some painting equipment she hadn't noticed when she'd been here an hour ago. What she saw was a stretched limo. One of its back doors stood temptingly open, and it was the closest vehicle to her, on the opposite side of the staircase from the stolen cars. With everyone's attention on Larry, she pulled off her shoes to silence her steps, and then she snuck into the back of the limo.