Chapter Text
They were calling it the heist of the century. It was at least the most significant art theft in two years— Neal Caffrey had been dead just as long.
Peter Burke stood alone in his office. The city nor the White Collar Unit had slowed down in the slightest since Neal’s death. If anything, it had sharpened itself, honed its edges, daring anyone to fall behind. Peter supposed that was part of why he’d stayed.
He opened his badge and slid the queen of hearts out from where it lived, tucked neatly behind his identification card. The edges were worn now, softened by a year of handling. He considered it to be his good luck charm. He turned it between his fingers, holding it up to the light like a fortune-teller consulting a crystal ball. The thought came unbidden, followed almost immediately by another. Had Neal heard about the heist? And then, because Peter Burke was nothing if not honest with himself, Was Neal behind it?
A small, privately owned and fully insured collection of impressionist paintings had been scheduled for transport from the National Gallery in London. The tour had been planned for years: a few weeks at the Louvre, then across the Atlantic to the Smithsonian, and finally a long-anticipated run at the Met. The kind of cultural exchange that made diplomats smile and insurers sweat. The tour hadn’t gone exactly according to plan. Instead, the paintings had arrived at all three museums at once.
Each collection appeared to be a convincing medley of authentic pieces and forgeries, curated so carefully that even seasoned curators hadn’t raised alarms until discrepancies began to emerge— canvas weaves that didn’t quite align, pigment compositions that told conflicting stories under spectrographic analysis. It was brilliant. Infuriating. And deeply personal in a way Peter didn’t care to examine too closely.
The case was a jurisdictional nightmare, so naturally, it had landed back where complicated, impossible cases always seemed to end up: the New York City White Collar Unit. Peter was taking point. His close rate wasn’t what it had been two years ago, but he was still the best in the bureau.
Jones rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, pulling Peter’s attention away from the playing card.
“They’re ready for you in the conference room.”
Peter slipped the queen of hearts back into its hiding place and snapped his badge shut.
“Thanks, Jones.”
The bullpen hummed as he crossed it. Phones ringing, agents talking over one another, the familiar chaos grounding in a way he hadn’t appreciated until he’d nearly lost it. Elizabeth used to say routine was underrated. Peter had come to agree.
“Agent Berrigan, Ms. Ellis,” Peter said as he entered the conference room. “It’s wonderful to see you both, though I wish it were under different circumstances.”
Diana Berrigan leaned back in her chair, hands folded behind her head, posture radiating authority. DC had done right by her. After New York, she’d climbed fast—task forces, interagency coordination, counterintelligence. She wore power comfortably now, the way she once wore a badge and a smirk. There were whispers she was being scouted for something even bigger.
“It’s always good to be back, Peter,” Diana said. “Regardless.”
“Could I talk you into leaving DC a second time?” Peter asked, only half kidding.
She snorted. “Don’t push it.”
Sara Ellis sat forward, tablet already in hand, eyes sharp and focused. London had suited her. She’d carved out a formidable reputation climbing rank in the London branch of Sterling Bosch. Though her title as Senior Risk Management Officer didn’t require her too, she still took field work where she could get it— recovering stolen art, advising museums, outmaneuvering criminals who underestimated her at their peril. She was as sure of herself as Peter remembered, but she was harder, too.
“My client wants an evaluation of all three collections done ASAP,” Sara said. “Arrangements to return authenticated originals to London should be made immediately.”
Peter nodded. “We’ve got our best people on it.,” He assured. “The Louvre is sending their head of security, who also happens to be an expert authenticator. He should be here any minute. Some fellow named Victor Moreau.”
“Victor Moreau?” Sara frowned slightly. “I’ve heard that name before…” she puzzled, trying to place it.
The memory to resurfaced like a wave crashing over her. She hadn’t heard the name, she’d read it. She’d read it on a passport tucked behind a painting in a penthouse apartment nearly five years ago. A detail she had filed away and never spoken of again.
Before she could say as much, the elevator doors slid open. A man stepped out, putting a face to a name.