RATING: G (general audiences)
LENGTH: about 2300 words
CATEGORIES: Episode tag
SUMMARY: Peter didn't want to ask about the Haustenberg, but he couldn't help himself.
SPOILERS: Episode 1.05, "The Portrait"
WARNINGS: None
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to my betas, Brilliant Husband (dudethemath) and aurora_novarum. All remaining errors, infelicities, and poor judgement are my own.
DISCLAIMER: White Collar belongs to Fox Television Studios, Jeff Eastin, and probably other persons or identities as well, but not to me. No copyright infringement is intended, and indeed the story probably won't make sense unless you've watched. So watch the show, buy the DVDs, etc. I do not profit from fic except insofar as comments make me happy.
"A Penny for Your Thoughts"
by
Aelfgyfu
A week ago, Peter watched an art gallery curator authenticate a very valuable painting. Yet the curator hadn't looked one whit happy. Six days ago, Peter examined Neal's tracking data and found that while they had been in that very meeting, Neal had been at Julianna Laszlo's house.
Now Peter could either wait for the other shoe to drop, or he could ask. He didn't want to ask. He knew he'd regret it if he asked. Yet each day, he regretted not asking. He hated waiting for shoes to drop. Maybe he should at least learn the size of the oncoming one before it hit. Peter also needed to ensure that Neal didn't think he'd fooled Peter. Peter might not have all the details yet, but he knew Neal... well, he knew Neal had done something. He hoped it wasn't something they'd both regret.
Peter wondered how he could ask while suggesting he knew even more than he did. He wrinkled his face against a cold mist too fine to combat with an umbrella. He had time: he and Neal still had a four-block walk to their destination. Caffrey's cheerfulness on such a gloomy day only made Peter feel more sour. Neal rambled on long after Peter had stopped paying even enough attention to make appropriate noises.
Suddenly the flow of words changed. "Penny for your thoughts?" Neal's tone stayed bright, but Peter thought he could detect a hint of concern in his eyes.
Peter glared at Neal. "Should I check my pockets first to see if I'm a penny short?"
Neal laughed. "I suppose you know exactly how many you had when you left the house?"
"Yes," Peter lied. As usual, he'd scooped loose change off his bureau and into his pocket without looking. He had no idea.
Neal didn't challenge him on the point. "Moody today," he said instead.
If he was that obvious, he might as well come out and ask. "Well, I've been trying to work something out in my head."
"Maybe I can help," Neal answered brightly.
Peter turned halfway towards Neal and smiled. "I just bet you can." He was glad to see just a flicker of hesitation cross Neal's face. Good.
Peter began, "I've been trying to figure out—hypothetically, of course—"
"Of course."
"—why the curator of an eminent gallery, nearing the end of a distinguished career, might possibly accept into his collection a work he believed to be fake."
"Hmm." Neal pretended to think for a moment, his eyes flicking over the street instead of Peter. Then he returned Peter's gaze. "That's a tough one, all right. Tell me: would the museum publicize its acquisition, or perhaps re-acquisition, of the piece?"
"No." Peter had been following press releases and checking the Channing's website daily, just waiting for that other shoe. Neal must know about the Channing's silence himself.
"So it's as if they're not actually proud to have this piece in their collection?" Neal said, still not giving away anything more than a faint trace of smugness.
"It would seem so. I'm trying to figure out why that would be," Peter repeated.
"Yes," said Neal. "I see the problem." Then he fell into silence again.
"Well, do you have any ideas, or are you just going to smirk?" Peter didn't feel like playing games this morning, and at this rate the distance they had left to walk wouldn't be enough to get real answers.
Neal's smile didn't dim. "Maybe the curator saw something that reminded him—or her—this is still hypothetical—"
"Of course."
"—that the museum had never honestly owned the piece in the first place."
Peter could only make inarticulate sounds for a moment. He hardly knew where to start! He finally demanded, "Now what could possibly remind the chief curator of a well-known gallery that it had never honestly owned a painting he said it did?" And who was Neal Caffrey to talk about honesty, anyway?
"How about this?" Neal plowed on undaunted. "Say there was an inscription on the back, where very few people ever saw it, giving the art work in question to a special person. Suppose it was written to the subject of a hypothetical portrait? Something along the lines of 'My dearest so-and-so, keep this forever'?"
"But the curator would have seen it the first time," Peter said, confused. "I mean, if it was the same curator, in our scenario. I don't see how the inscription changes anything." In spite of himself, Peter frowned at the idea of the curator keeping a painting that he knew had been given to someone special.
"Oh, but that's the kicker," Neal said, the corners of his mouth twitching. "What if he had read that the first time he authenticated the painting?"
Now Peter felt genuinely baffled. Wasn't that what he had just said? Of course any forger would copy the inscription; that proved nothing. "Wouldn't it just say that the second time too?"
"It might have, I suppose. But wouldn't our story be more interesting if the second inscription read more along the lines of, 'Dear Curator: I know what you saw last time you looked here'? And had the initials of the... new artist?"
Peter stopped in his tracks for a moment. When that shoe hit, it would be with the force of an object dropped off the Empire State Building. "The forger would have to be nuts. Signing his own work like that? Not even a hidden signature?"
Neal grinned. He slowed but didn't stop, forcing Peter to hurry the next few steps. "Yet if, in our story, the curator were to go public about the forgery, he would then have to admit that his gallery knowingly acquired and kept a work that belonged to someone else. He might even have to admit that not only had he made no attempt to locate the rightful owner, but also that when she came to claim the piece herself, he denied it to her. The art world a few decades ago wouldn't have cared about the real owner. Today's art world, however, can be very... judgmental about such an acquisition. It would hurt both the curator and the gallery involved if it became known."
Peter's hands curled into fists in the pockets of his raincoat. "But at some point, somebody's going to see the back of that painting again."
Neal shrugged. "Perhaps. Or perhaps the work in question would considered one of the artist's lesser works and so continues to evade attention, particularly since the gallery doesn't publicize it. Maybe some would even say that the brush strokes weren't up to his usual standard."
Good God. "And who would say a thing like that?" Peter blurted.
Neal shrugged again. "Not me. I think—"
"No, no, no. We are not having that conversation." It was bad enough he had just learned what Neal had done, even if they had kept it all hypothetical. He didn't have to endure Neal praising his own forgery.
Before Neal could speak again, Peter continued, "But some day, some art history student needing to write a thesis is going to find that there's this Haustenberg that nobody ever worked on, and they're gonna get permission to look at it." Then the Bureau would get involved, and Neal would return to Super Max, and, if Peter was very lucky, he might be allowed to take early retirement. If he wasn't lucky, he'd be out on his ass.
"Any student working on the painting during the current curator's lifetime would not be allowed to take it out of its frame," Neal answered. "Preservation concerns." He winked at Peter. He actually winked.
Peter held back his frustration as best he could. "And after that curator retires? Or dies?"
"Somebody could write a really exciting thesis. Maybe even a dissertation! Do you think that could make a good dissertation, Peter?"
Forget shoes falling from a height. Peter had a sudden urge to push Neal off the Empire State Building. "I sure as hell hope nobody writes that thesis or that dissertation within the next six years."
"I hear dissertations can take a long time," Neal said without missing a beat. He apparently didn't worry that if the forgery were discovered before the statute of limitations expired, he'd land back in prison, no doubt for life.
To think that Peter had been worried Neal wouldn't have time to say anything. Now he was glad to see that they were within a block of their witness's apartment building.
"One last question." Peter felt on firmer ground with this one.
"Hypothetical still?" Neal asked.
"No, real. What gives somebody the right to decide who does and who doesn't get to own a work of art? Who gets the real one and who gets the fake?"
"Ooh, another tough one." Neal adjusted his hat brim by a degree or two. "I think the one person who has an absolute right to make that determination is the artist himself. Or herself. He or she should be able to give a work of art in perpetuity to whomever he or she chooses." He wore his intense, serious look, and Peter couldn't always tell when Neal meant it and when he was faking. This time, however, Peter felt pretty sure he meant it.
Peter couldn't help himself. "So that painting has a rightful owner. Someone who loves and appreciates it more than anyone else ever could."
Neal didn't answer. He must know what Peter would say next.
Peter pressed, "Did you ever think that you might be stealing a painting from someone like that? Someone who might love it as much or more than you?"
"Sorry, that was after your last question." They had come under the awning of the building they wanted, and Neal took off his hat and began brushing water from it with his fingertips.
"Neal!"
"Something like that might have crossed my mind recently," Neal said so quietly that Peter hardly heard him. They walked into the lobby, and Neal pushed the button to summon the elevator. He looked at the wall, not at Peter.
Another man came up to the elevator, and Peter didn't know what more he could possibly say with anyone else present. He tried give Neal a significant look, but Neal only abandoned his study of the wall to look around the lobby. Was there any chance he was actually considering that he'd hurt people with his own thefts? Or was Neal automatically casing the place for alternative entrances and exits, anything worth stealing, ways to break into the neat rows of mailboxes? Neal began bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, making the last option seem most likely. They stood in silence for another minute or two until the elevator came.
The elevator door opened and a few people exited. The man who had been waiting with them got in, and Peter went in after Neal. Neal jumped back past him to hold the door for two women just coming into the lobby; Peter hadn't even noticed them. They both smiled at Neal, who reciprocated. He would no doubt strike up a conversation with them when the doors closed. It was just as well. Peter had said his piece. He should be happy if Neal just gave it some thought.
Yet Neal turned his smile back to Peter. "I saw Julianna last week."
"And how is she?" he asked mechanically.
"She's doing great." Neal beamed this time. "I think she has a bright future ahead of her."
"Glad somebody does," Peter muttered. He hoped Neal would give it up. Peter could end this conversation about as well as he could stop the elevator: he could do it, but it wouldn't be worth the fuss it caused.
The women got off the elevator.
"Cheer up! We did a good thing, Peter."
"We?"
They waited another two floors for the man to get off before Neal answered.
"We helped the museum in a delicate situation, we helped Julianna, and we got Dorsett and Uncle Gary."
Anyone who would send a thug to rob his niece belonged as far away from her as possible, and the man's plea bargain included a restraining order keeping him away from her. Still, they could have done that without breaking any laws.
Peter thought of suggesting that next time this hypothetical forger got any crazy ideas, he should run them past someone with some sense first. Yet what if Neal had told him what he'd planned? Peter would have had to prevent him from doing it. He could see in Neal's face the evening Neal admitted stealing the painting that Neal wanted to tell Peter his reasons. Peter knew what he was doing when he silenced Neal. He couldn't say Julianna didn't deserve the painting back, but he couldn't allow Neal to do anything but return the painting to the Channing. Peter didn't have the right to make choices like that. Neither did Neal.
So why was Peter glad that Julianna had her painting back? For that matter, why did he think of it as "hers"?
Neal's voice broke through Peter's ruminations again. "Oh, and by the way, Peter? You don't have any pennies this morning. Here's one."
Neal slipped a penny into the hand that Peter was already automatically raising. The elevator dinged and Neal exited before Peter could process what he'd said. Peter stepped out of the elevator and dug into his pocket for his own change. He found three quarters, three dimes, and a nickel. No pennies, no dollar coins. Well, one penny now (assuming it really hadn't been there to start).
Peter was not going to ask Neal how he did that. He'd already asked too many questions for one day.
FIN
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