Chapter One: The Key

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with White Collar, just takin' the characters for a spin.

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"Feet. Desk. Now."

"But my feet are on your desk, Peter." Neal smiled up at Peter, who had just walked into his office, after removing his black fedora that had been covering his face. Peter glared back and Neal widened his smile.

"My problem, exactly." Peter swiped at his feet with the folder he was holding. "Has anyone ever told you that-"

"Told me what?" Neal grinned back at him, as he put his hat back on and got up from the leather chair.

Peter shook his head, "Nevermind."

Neal shrugged, walked around the desk and sat down. "You know…I've been working here awhile now, Pete. When do I get a comfier chair?"

"If you call me Pete again, your comfiest chair will be on the bus ride back to prison. Now, would you focus?" He sat down.

"I am focussed. I'm focussed on why you really don't like the nickname Pete."

Neal received the look again. "Childhood bully?" he suggested.

Angrier still. He could always tell when he'd pushed Peter to that very fine line between lightly amusing and severely pissed off. He was quickly approaching it. Maybe just one more.

"Bad ex-girlfriend story?"

"Neal-"

"Okay, okay" Neal put up his hands. "What have we got?" Please don't be mortgage fraud or any of the other limitless boring things they'd been doing all week.

"Schweres Rot." Peter tossed the file folder across the desk at him.

Neal raised his eyebrows and leaned forward to grab the file. "Kandinsky?"

"The only."

"Actually –"

"His grandson doesn't count." Peter interrupted.

"Great grandson." Neal paused and pressed his lips together.

"Just say it."

Neal raised his shoulders up slightly, "I think he counts. He's an artist. His name's Kandinsky."

"Well it's a good thing my opinion is more important than yours in this office."

Neal felt his face fall for just a moment before he slapped on another smile as Diana walked in to the office with Jones. There was hope.

"You wanted to see us, boss?" Diana asked, touching the surface of Peter's desk as Jones closed the door behind them.

"Diana!" Neal exclaimed. Her eyes narrowed as they looked at him. "Kandinsky. One, or two?"

Diana furrowed her brow for a moment, "I'm going to assume this has something to do with the case?"

"Just ignore him." Peter waved his hand.

"Two." Jones spoke up.

"Jones! My man!" Neal could feel himself grinning.

"Should I even ask?" Diana asked, looking towards Peter.

"Nope. Just Neal being Neal." Peter handed Jones and Diana folders of their own. "Art theft. A Kandinsky. Stolen from –"

"The National Arts Club." Neal smiled widely and sat up a bit straighter. He felt Peter's eyes on him and finally turned.

"How…Why..?"

Neal puffed his cheeks and let the air out slowly. "Full sentences, Pete."

Maybe that was a bit much, Neal thought as he watched Peter's face turn red. The look – the slightly amusing one that reminded Neal of a teacher he'd had in high school who continuously chided him – became more pronounced. Yeah. Too far. Time to surrender. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulder, "I might have heard…once…where it mysteriously disappeared to."

"Any particular reason for that interest?" Peter glowered.

Neal puffed out his cheeks again, raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Nope. No reason. Just heard a rumour. Kept it in mind for..You know. This."

"Uh huh. I might have believed you if it hadn't disappeared from the market over five years ago. Oh, and if I didn't know you."

Neal redirected, "So." He swivelled his chair to face Diana and Jones.

"The National Arts Club – that's down in Gramercy, right?"

Neal felt himself relax – minutely – as Peter shifted his gaze back to Diana.

"Yes. Number fifteen Gramercy Park."

"Right beside the Players' Club." Neal added. Another look from Peter. Neal nodded his head slightly, "I'm just going to shut up now."

"Pleading the fifth again?"

"Don't be silly, Peter. I never pled the fifth. I simply exercised my Miranda Rights."

"I remember it a lot differently."

Neal grinned and shrugged.

Peter shook his head and went back to looking at the file. "Kandinsky's painting Schweres Rot was stolen sometime between yesterday evening after five and this morning before nine from the NAC. Security was tight – good alarm system, no power failures or failed entries. In other words, no forced entry."

"In other words, no clue how it disappeared." Jones remanded.

"Kind of. There is one member, fairly new to the club. Randal Stevens. His name popped up during a screening this morning for an assault ten years ago."

"Not exactly a strong lead, but somewhere to start." Diana smiled.

"Exactly. Neal and I are about to head over there to talk to the President, see if he knows anything about Stevens."

Neal sat up so suddenly he almost fell out of the chair. Three pairs of eyes landed on him and Neal could feel his cheeks turn red. "What?"

"Spit it out."

"It's nothing. Really" Neal blurted out.

"Uh huh. Don't make me leave you here to sort through cold cases."

Neal bit his lip. "Fine. I thought…Maybe, that we might get to see Uma Thurman."

"Let's hope not. We don't need Miss Thurman, delightful as she is, swooning over your baby blues and following you like a lovesick puppy." Peter rolled his eyes.

Neal grinned, "Peter. I'm embarrassed. You really think I could make Uma swoon over me?"

"Not on my watch. You're now officially ordered not to within twenty feet of her."

"Because you think I could-"

"Neal."

"Really? Hmm." Neal nodded his head, pleased.

"I think you've inflated his ego, boss." Diana smirked.

"I think his ego was already inflated. So inflated it's about to pop, and I hope I'm the one to pop it."

Neal raised his eyebrow.

"That sounded dirty, didn't it?"

Neal pressed his lips together and raised both his brows. "Nope. Not at all."

Jones grinned from the corner. "You want us to follow you over to the club, or keep digging?"

"Keep digging for now. Even if it is Stevens we're going to need more proof then a ten year old conviction."

They both nodded and left the office. Neal felt something hit him in the forehead and picked up a crumpled sticky note from his lap, holding it up. He gave Peter a questioning look.

You're still thinking about her, aren't you?"

"Nope."

"Yeah. Right. Seriously Neal. This is a high profile place, lots of big names. Don't go stepping on anyone's toes – they aren't going to be as forgiving as me. Something goes wrong there and they put up a big fuss to Hughes, well.."

"Yeah, yeah. Same old story. Back to prison for me."

Peter nodded solemnly. "Ready?"

"Can we get coffee on the way?"

"Coffee's right over there. I'll give you thirty seconds."

"Aww, Peter. Don't make me drink that stuff."

"Stuff? It's coffee. Normal coffee that normal people drink."

Neal made a face. "The normal coffee that normal people drink tastes like it came from-"

"A civet's butt?"

"No. That would mean that it's good coffee." Neal corrected.

"Why anyone would want coffee made from beans that came from some other mammal's butt is beyond me."

"It's beyond you because you have no taste."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"As a matter of fact, I have."

"Where, In Rome?" Peter asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"A nice little café in Florence, actually. Great little place off a cobblestone walk - about a block from the Ponte Vecchio, actually. Really, Peter. You should take El one day, absolutely – " Neal paused once he saw Peter's face. "Not worth your time. Completely overrated."

"You've been to Florence. Of course you've been to Florence. Why wouldn't you have been to Florence?" He muttered, exasperated.

"We should probably go…Catch some bad guys." Neal nodded his head lightly.

Peter let out a deep breath. "Remember. Twenty feet. Make that fifty."

"Don't you think that's a bit much? What if she is there? Then I couldn't work on this case and I'm pretty sure you want me to work on this case."

"Why are you so sure I want you on the case?"

"No reason." He replied, and after a look added "I'll show you later."

"I don't doubt it."

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PLEASE R&R! It keeps me driven!