Word Count: 8,498
Rating:
PG13.
Category:
AU. Angst.
Story Status:
Complete.
Summary: Peter's day is about to become more complicated, thanks to the human popsicle standing on his doorstep...
A/N: This is an AU where Neal does his time in prison (no escaping) and
meets Peter five months after being released. This fic is mainly gen,
but will reference Neal/Kate and there will be some Peter/Elizabeth
interactions – though nothing more than a passing kiss. I have used
several lines from the pilot episode in the last two scenes, in the
hopes of turning the ending into a new beginning. Any inconsistencies
with our own reality (especially of a legal nature) can be put down to
it being an AU to our own reality - and that legal research kills my
desire to write fic. Title borrowed from the book 'The Cat Who Came in
From the Cold' by Deric Longden.
For Kate
fans, I feel the need to warn you that she is portrayed in a bad light
in this fic. This is not because I dislike the character, it's just the
way the plot took me (and provides for more Neal angst).
Beta:
Thank you to Jayne Perry and Sholio for the beta-reading.
The Con Who Came in From the Cold
By Leesa Perrie
cover art by
signe_chan
It was bitterly cold outside, as it had been for several days.
Fortunately they hadn't had any snow yet, but the streets and roads had
been icy, making travel by foot or vehicle difficult.
El was working from home again, something Peter was grateful for, but
he didn't have that luxury - they were in the middle of an important
case, helping Organised Crime with their investigation into Tony
Bartelli, a member of the Italian Mob. Peter and his team were checking
him out from a white collar crime perspective, looking into a rumour on
the streets that Bartelli was behind the theft of a Matisse from the
Met. The forgery that had been left in the original's place had been
discovered two days earlier, and it was suspected the theft had taken
place not long before that. The forgery was good, but not Neal Caffrey
quality.
Peter shook his head at that last thought. He wasn't sure when he'd
started judging forgeries by Neal's standard, but it seemed it was a
habit he couldn't get rid of. The fact they had only been able to prove
Neal had forged some bonds didn't seem to make any difference - but
then, Peter knew beyond doubt that Neal had forged and stolen a lot
more than he had been convicted of. Only fancy lawyers, some luck and a
cool head had gotten Neal out of those charges.
He finished tying the knot in his tie and briefly looked in the bedroom
mirror ensuring his look was that befitting an FBI agent and then
headed downstairs to the living room.
"Hey hon," El greeted, turning to give him a kiss. "You'll be careful on the roads, won't you?" a touch of concern in her voice.
"As always, hon," he replied. "And you be careful taking Satchmo for his walk."
"I will," she replied, looking at him indulgently.
Peter leaned in for another kiss just as the doorbell rang. Sighing, he
walked over to answer it, stopping in surprise when he opened the door.
Standing on his doorstep was the last person he ever expected to be
there, shivering in the cold. Peter gave him a once-over. A sleeveless
t-shirt, pants, shoes - no jacket or coat. Bruises on his arms, a
couple on his face, and very, very cold.
"May I come in?" Neal Caffrey asked, teeth chattering.
Roused from his surprise, Peter narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
"I won't steal anything, promise." There was a flash of a grin accompanying the statement.
As dubious as Peter was about letting this particular individual into
his house, he couldn't really turn him away. Not dressed like that in
this weather. Reassuring himself that at least Neal was non-violent, he
moved to one side to let him through.
"I'll keep you to that promise," Peter said, adding sternly. "And if you do steal something, be sure that I will arrest you."
"Hon?" El's unasked question was clear to Peter.
"El, this is Neal Caffrey."
"Oh," El said in surprise, before grabbing a blanket off the couch and
slipping it around Neal's shoulders. "Should we call an ambulance? He
could be hypothermic."
"No," Neal said sharply, even as El led him to the couch and gently
pushed him down. "No hospital. Please." Neal lifted his eyes to plead
with him. "I just need to get warm. I don't need medical attention."
Peter looked at the man before him, trying to match him to the charming
and well groomed young conman who had deflected his questions with
great flair, never admitting to anything and brazenly smiling his way
through more than one interview. This pale-looking person before him,
with arms wrapped around himself as he shivered and clothes dirtied and
torn, was a world away from that man. This Neal seemed more...
vulnerable, somehow. Desperate even, because Peter was sure turning up
at his house was not the first thing on Neal's 'to do' list. Not by a
long margin.
"Okay, no hospital," Peter agreed reluctantly. "At least, not yet."
Neal nodded his acceptance, breaking eye contact as Satchmo - having
decided that Neal was not a threat - trotted over and sat down in front
of him.
"Huh," Neal smiled, and reached out a shaking hand to stroke Satchmo's head. "Nice dog."
"I'll get you something to drink," El said. "Something lukewarm, to help warm you up slowly."
"Thanks."
"Why are you here, Caffrey?" Peter asked, moving to the chair opposite
the couch and sitting down. He would be late into the office, but he
was sure Hughes would understand.
"Oh, just happened to be in the area, thought I'd drop by," Neal replied glibly.
"Right." Like Peter was going to believe that - or like Neal thought he would.
"I just..." Neal stopped, pulling the blanket more firmly around him,
much to Satchmo's disgust as this meant an end to the petting. "I
needed to get warm or else I'd die, and I didn't have anywhere to go,
and your house was close by..." Neal blinked. "And I wasn't thinking
straight," he added quietly. "This is a really bad idea."
El returned with a mug of soup, passing it to Neal, who took it
gratefully with muttered thanks. She sat in the chair next to Peter and
gave him a look full of concern for their visitor.
"Why are you in the area?" Peter asked, frustrated by Neal's vague answer.
Neal sipped the soup carefully. "This is good," he said.
"I'm sure it is, but you haven't answered my question," Peter
interrupted before El could answer, not willing to let Neal change the
subject.
Neal looked at him, uncertainty and a passing hint of fear in his eyes,
before carefully placing the mug on a coaster on the coffee table and
standing.
"I should go. I shouldn't have come here."
He turned to leave and Peter stood to intercept him, only El was quicker.
"You're hypothermic, or well on your way to it," El said, standing
between Neal and the front door. "You don't seriously think we'll let
you leave in this condition?"
Neal looked at her in surprise, before slipping around her. El stopped
him with a hand on his arm, Neal looking at it in some consternation.
"You leave with that blanket and I'll arrest you for theft," Peter added, ignoring the glare El sent him.
"Then I'll leave it," Neal replied, letting the blanket fall to the ground. "I said I wouldn't steal anything."
"Please stay," El said quietly, her hand still on Neal's arm, gripping
gently. "I don't want to hear on the news about a frozen corpse found
in Brooklyn."
"I can't. Your husband, he won't let things go. I know him. I don't
want to drag anyone else into this. And I really don't want to end up
in jail."
El gave Peter another look, full of meaning. He sighed, knowing what she was asking of him and not liking it one bit.
"You're upsetting my wife," Peter said. "So sit back down and drink your soup."
To Peter's surprise, Neal meekly did as he was told. El picked the
blanket back up and draped it over his shoulders once more. Peter
wasn't sure what to do. There was no way he was leaving El alone with a
convicted felon, non-violent or not, but he didn't want to push Neal
into leaving, which in this weather and those clothes would be
suicidal. Yet he needed to find out what was going on, why Neal was in
Brooklyn, what had happened to him and why he was here, in Peter's home.
"Okay, you can stay here for a while to warm up, but you have to give
me something," Peter told Neal as he sat back down in the chair
opposite him. "Who beat you up?"
"Some guys."
Peter made a sound of frustration.
"Why?"
"They weren't pleased with something I did. I managed to slip away."
"And found yourself in Brooklyn?" Peter said, suspicion bleeding into his voice.
"Yeah."
"And came here for help?"
"Not my best idea."
"Maybe not," Peter agreed. "But you're here now. So let me help you."
"No. You'd have to arrest me."
"Maybe I should anyway. Clearly you're involved in something illegal..."
"Not by choice," Neal said bitterly.
Peter narrowed his eyes at that.
"If you've done something under duress, that will be taken into
account. If you help me catch whoever you've been working for, then
that will also help." Peter knew Neal was listening, but couldn't work
out whether he was getting through or not. "Or you could walk out of
here and see what happens if they find you?"
"They'll kill me," Neal said flatly.
"You think you can outrun them?"
"Bartelli has a long reach," Neal muttered to himself.
"Bartelli?" Peter sat up, surprised. "You're working with Bartelli?"
"For Bartelli," Neal corrected strenuously. "For him, and not by choice."
Peter sat back, the pieces falling into place.
"You're the one who forged that Matisse - and you didn't do your best
work. On purpose, at a guess. When Bartelli realised your forgery
wasn't up to your normal standard, he set his men on you."
Neal, unsurprisingly, didn't answer.
"Seems to me your best bet is to work with the FBI to catch Bartelli."
"Hypothetically, if your premise was right, could I get immunity?" Neal asked, not sounding too hopeful.
"I'm not authorised to offer that. And with your past conviction, the best you could probably hope for is a reduced sentence."
"You wouldn't have to worry about Bartelli finding you. Wouldn't have
to live constantly looking over your shoulder. Wouldn't end up dead,"
El said earnestly.
"And wouldn't have to live with your conscience when you hear about
Bartelli killing someone, knowing you had a chance to try and stop
him," Peter added.
"Well played," Neal said, resigned, his hand running through his hair
as he leaned back on the sofa, a haunted look crossing his face. "I
don't think I could live with that."
"Then you'll help?"
Neal nodded.
"Good."
"I'll get you one of Peter's sweatshirts," El said, quelling Peter's
protest with a stern look. "You can't possibly go out like that. You'll
need a coat and gloves too."
"It's okay, you don't have to..." Neal protested.
"Yes, I do," El said firmly, going upstairs.
"Best not to argue with her," Peter said, hoping El didn't give Neal his favourite sweatshirt.
----------
Bundled up in a warm sweatshirt, coat and gloves that weren't his own,
Neal wasn't quite sure how he had ended up in Agent Burke's car heading
to the FBI office to confess to forging a Matisse, badly, while under
duress from a mobster. Was this really what his life had come down to?
Looking out the car window, he cursed the moment his mildly hypothermic
brain decided that Peter's house was a good place to get warm.
Stupid, so very stupid. He could hear Mozzie's lecture about The Suits
and The System, and never, ever turning to them for help.
At least he wasn't likely to hear that lecture in person. He'd burned his bridges four months ago with his old friend.
"Is Kate still around?" Peter asked, startling Neal from his thoughts.
"I'm asking because Bartelli is liable to go after her to get to you."
Neal couldn't stop the bitter laugh, carefully keeping his eyes on the view from the window. "Kate's gone."
"She left you? Again?"
"That's one way of putting it," Neal muttered darkly. He shouldn't be
talking about this with Peter, but somehow he couldn't seem to keep
quiet. "She changed while I was in prison. Apparently she fell out of
love with me."
"And yet she still visited you."
"She wanted something from me. Once she had that, she left." Neal shook
his head. "I was an idiot. I'm surprised you haven't heard actually.
Turns out I'm a laughing stock amongst the criminal community.
The... alleged conman conned by his girlfriend. Guess you feds will be laughing over that one too now."
"I'm not laughing." Peter sounded almost sympathetic. Which was just
great, a Fed feeling sorry for Neal Caffrey - more proof of how far
he'd fallen.
"She took everything," Neal found himself admitting.
"Hmm. Your stash of stolen goods, for example?"
"What stash of stolen goods?" Neal countered, turning his eyes to Peter's face in time to see a small smile.
"The one you no longer have at a guess. Did she clean out your accounts too?"
"Like I said, she took everything. Well, except my clothes, at least she left me those."
"What about the mysterious third member of your crew?"
"What mysterious third member?" Neal asked, suddenly worried that the FBI knew about Mozzie.
"Short, balding guy with glasses. Never could get a photo of him, not even a sketch, let alone a name."
Damn. Peter knew a lot more than Neal had realised, though at least
Mozzie was safe. No name, no picture, just a vague description. The
invisible man - something Mozzie was good at. He'd certainly become
invisible after Neal had ruined their friendship.
"Well, should such a person have actually existed, then Kate made sure
the friendship between us was broken. After all, she couldn't let said
hypothetical person keep telling me that she was conning me. I might
have believed him eventually." Which was probably a lot more
information than he should be giving - but there was a part of him that
just didn't seem to care any more. Kate had manipulated them both
perfectly. He wasn't kidding when he said she took everything. Not just
his stash and his money, but his only real friend.
Even as he thought that, he knew he was to blame. He was the one who
wouldn't listen to Mozzie's warnings about Kate. The one who had told
Mozzie to stop talking about her like that or their friendship was
over. The one who had ruined everything.
He had tried to contact Mozzie more than once since that day, but
Mozzie had spread the word that Neal Caffrey was a non-person to him.
Suddenly, a lot of people Neal had known were no longer talking to him
either. He'd discovered, to his detriment, that a large part of the New
York underworld had only tolerated him because of Mozzie. He was more
alone now than he'd been for nearly nine years.
Still, he'd started with nothing and no one before, he could do it again. He'd survive, somehow.
He ruthlessly ignored the pang of loneliness those thoughts provoked.
"She did a real number on you."
"Yes."
"And now you have Bartelli after you," Peter stated and Neal couldn't help but feel the guy was rubbing it in.
"Yes, now I have a mobster gunning for my blood. Thank you so much for that reminder," he answered sarcastically.
----------
Peter was surprised by how candid Neal had been. This wasn't like the
Neal he remembered, and a part of him wondered if the conman was
playing an angle. But he'd seen Neal at his most dishonest, and this
seemed genuine. If it was, then Neal was having a run of very bad luck.
Peter knew how much Neal had cared for Kate - enough to walk into a FBI
trap just to see her again. He tried to imagine how he'd feel if El
betrayed him, but couldn't. It was too much, too painful to think
about, and he was so very glad that she would never do that to him - or
him to her.
But that was what Neal was facing, along with the loss of a friend, his
money and his ill-gotten gains. And a mobster making his life misery
too.
Part of him wanted to lecture Neal about his life choices leading to
this, but he couldn't help feeling like he'd be kicking a man when he
was down if he did. That didn't mean he wouldn't lecture him later,
though, because Neal was smart and Peter liked smart, and a Neal
Caffrey working for them would be much better than a Neal Caffrey
running from them and committing any untold number of crimes.
Not that he had much hope that Neal would ever reform, even if he could
see how much good Neal could do if he only turned his mind to better
things.
"You know, I could swing by a hospital. Make sure you're not about to
keel over due to complications from your beating," Peter suggested,
pushing his thoughts to one side.
"That might be good," Neal agreed.
"Changed your mind?"
"Presumably you'll put a protection detail on me if they admit me, just in case Bartelli's men find me."
"Of course."
"Then yes, I've changed my mind."
----------
Arriving at the ER, Peter flashed his badge and then, while the medical staff were busy checking Neal out, he called Hughes.
"Hughes, it's Burke."
"Burke. You're running late."
"And I'm going to be running even later. Neal Caffrey turned up at my
house this morning, beat up and doing a pretty good impression of a
human popsicle."
"Caffrey? How does he know where you live?"
"It's Caffrey. I'd be surprised if he didn't know where I lived."
"True." Peter heard Hughes sigh. "What did he want?"
"Somewhere to warm up."
"And he came to you?" Hughes said sceptically.
"He wasn't thinking straight - and he was running from Bartelli's men."
"Bartelli? What is Caffrey doing getting involved with a mobster like him? I thought you said that wasn't Caffrey's style?"
"It's not. Neal forged the Matisse for Bartelli, under duress from what
I've gathered so far. When Bartelli realised the fake wasn't up to
standard, he set his men on Caffrey. Somehow he gave them the slip and
ended up at my place."
"And confessed to forgery? That doesn't sound like him. Caffrey never confesses."
"Not normally, but he's offering to help us take down Bartelli."
"To protect himself," Hughes pointed out cynically.
"Actually, the whole 'we can protect' you route wasn't working. So I
asked him how he'd feel if he didn't help us and Bartelli hurt someone
else."
"And that persuaded him to cooperate?"
"Seems he couldn't live with that on his conscience."
"What little conscience he has," Hughes muttered. "Have you offered him a deal?"
"He wanted immunity for any crimes committed while working for
Bartelli. I said the best I could offer would be a reduced sentence."
"Under duress or not, I can't authorise immunity for someone who's done time."
"That's what I thought. Once I know if they're admitting him or not,
I'll call you. He'll need a protection detail - if Bartelli finds out
where he is..."
"He'll send someone to kill him. I'll get Jones onto that."
"Thanks."
Ending the call, he sat down to wait.
----------
Neal was miserable. Cold and aching, his head was killing him and he
was stuck in hospital, handcuffed to a bed rail. Flight risk, Peter had
said. Right. Like he was going anywhere anytime soon.
He supposed he couldn't really blame him. Peter had chased him for over
three years and had no reason to think Neal would keep his word and try
to help them catch Bartelli.
Still, it would have been nice not to have been cuffed.
He'd lifted a safety pin from an unsuspecting nurse's pocket when he'd
been moved into this room and allowed to snuggle down under several
blankets while the warm saline did its job. Fingering it, he
contemplated picking the cuffs. He'd be much more comfortable without
them and it might prove to Peter that he wasn't about to skip out on
him - at least, not yet.
But it would also prove that he could skip out anytime he wanted to, so maybe he should play nice and not irritate Peter. Despite how much fun that might be.
Sighing, he resigned himself to putting up with the cuffs for the time being.
Once Bartelli was dealt with, he'd see about slipping the FBI. He had
no intention of doing time, reduced or not. It would mean running,
which would mean getting more money, but he'd run before and survived.
He could run again.
----------
Agents Blake and Cruz arrived while Neal was being examined, bringing
recording equipment for Neal's statement. Hughes wanted Peter to get
that as soon as Neal's doctor allowed him.
A couple of hours later, Peter entered Neal's room. The bruises on his
face were even more vivid than earlier, making Peter wince in sympathy.
"Hey," Neal greeted him, tired eyes meeting his.
"I'd say you're looking better, but that'd be a lie," Peter replied,
taking the seat next to Neal's bed. "You up to giving your statement?"
"I guess."
Peter set the equipment up, wishing he could leave this until later.
The doctor had told him that Neal showed signs of being beaten several
hours beforehand. Fortunately, there hadn't been any internal injuries
or concussion to deal with, but the contusions and bruises would be
painful for a while. Combined with the mild hypothermia, he wasn't
surprised Neal looked fit to fall asleep at a moment's notice -
especially with the strong pain killers the doctors had given him.
"Okay, let's start at the beginning. How did you end up working for Bartelli?"
Neal's turned towards Peter, his head still resting on the pillow. "I
heard someone had a job for me, which normally I wouldn't have
investigated as I prefer not to work for strangers. But I needed money,
so I decided to check things out." Neal paused, rubbing his eyes with
his free hand and sighing. "I met a couple of guys at a bar and
something seemed off about them, so I made an excuse and slipped out
the back."
"Bartelli's men?"
"I didn't know it then, but yes. A couple of blocks later, a van pulls
up beside me. I tried running, but took a wrong turn and ended up down
a dead end." Neal looked embarrassed at the admission. "They took me to
see Bartelli."
"When was that?"
"About two weeks ago."
"What did Bartelli want?"
"He wanted me to forge Matisse's Young Sailor II.
I told him I wasn't interested, which was a bad mistake. If I'd played
along I might have been able to get away from them. Instead I was
beaten up and threatened."
"Why didn't you play along?" Peter asked, curious.
"I miscalculated."
Peter could tell by the look Neal gave him that he wouldn't be saying
any more on that subject, so he left it alone for now and returned to
his questioning. "Okay, who threatened you and what with?"
"Bartelli said if I wasn't any use to him, then he'd make sure I wasn't
any use to anyone else. Said his men would cut off my fingers and then
pour acid in my eyes," Neal answered, his voice hitching as a shudder
passed through his body.
"Bartelli wasn't messing around," Peter said calmly, carefully hiding
his reaction. He knew Bartelli was violent and dangerous, but that
didn't stop him from feeling shocked at the level of the threat against
Neal. To kill someone was one thing, to maim someone like that and let
him go... it was beyond cruel.
"No kidding," Neal replied shakily. "I did what he asked."
"Except that the forgery wasn't up to your normal standard."
"Or I'm not as good as you think I am," Neal countered. Peter rolled
his eyes and gave Neal a look that showed just how much he thought
of that particular statement.
"So what happened next?" he asked.
"They kept me locked up until early this morning, when Bartelli told me
he was disappointed in the quality of my work and let his men used me
as a punching bag."
"How did you get away from them?"
"He told them to take me somewhere remote and carry out his threat,"
Neal stopped, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "He left three of
his men to carry out his orders. They were taking me out to the van
when the fire alarm went off. In the confusion, I ran."
"There was a fire?"
"I don't know. I didn't see fire, just a lot of smoke."
"Do you think someone caused that distraction, to give you a chance to escape?"
"I don't know. If someone did, then I've no idea who." Neal shrugged,
adding quietly. "Not like I have any friends left in New York these
days."
Peter was sure that someone had caused the distraction, the timing
seemed too fortuitous. It was definitely something to look into when he
got back to the office. Even if they couldn't find proof of an unknown
ally, hopefully the fire alarm would have been reported and they could
find where Neal had been kept.
"So you escaped, what then?"
"I ran until I couldn't run any more. Realised I was in Brooklyn and,
for some insane reason, decided to find your house. The rest you know."
"Do you know where you were held?"
"The smoke made my eyes blurry and I was blocks away when they cleared."
Peter let the matter drop, hoping that the fire alarm angle would bear
fruit. If not, then he would get a map of Brooklyn and see if Neal
could retrace his steps and from there, hopefully, they could narrow
the search area down. Maybe even find a building associated with
Bartelli if they were particularly lucky.
"Okay." Peter turned the recorder off. "I need a description of the men who held you."
"Give me a sketch pad and some pencils and I'll draw them for you."
There were definite advantages to your victim being an art forger, Peter mused to himself.
"I'll get that organised. You should probably rest."
----------
Telling his story had shaken Neal more than he thought it would. As to
who had apparently helped him escape, he was at a loss. He truly didn't
think he had any friends left - even Alex had burned him, taking
Mozzie's side in their disagreement. He certainly didn't think there
was anyone left willing to go against Bartelli for him.
Neal sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. He'd left a part of the
story out, trying not to incriminate himself further, but as Peter got
up to leave he realised he needed to tell him. It might make the
difference in catching Bartelli's men.
"Peter."
"What?"
"During those two weeks of imprisonment, I... may have provided some fake IDs for a few of Bartelli's people."
"You wouldn't happen to remember the names on those fake IDs that you may have made?"
"Yeah."
Peter sat back down and pulled out a notebook and Neal gave him the names and as much detail as he could remember.
"Is that everything?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, that's everything."
"Okay. Your doctor says they'll probably release you later today."
"An FBI safe house?"
"Yes." Peter stood again, then stopped as a thought obviously came to
him. "If you tell me where you've been living I can send some agents
around to collect some clothes for you."
"Bartelli may have sent people there."
"My agents can handle themselves. Unless there's something incriminating lying around you'd rather we didn't find?"
Neal did a quick mental map of how he'd left his apartment before all
of this had started, and decided that he hadn't left anything lying
around or hidden away that he should worry about.
"Why would there be anything incriminating at my place?" he asked,
smiling as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, before giving Peter
his address.
"There's two agents outside the door. No one goes in or out without their permission - and that includes you, Caffrey."
"I'm not going anywhere," Neal said with another smile, pulling on the handcuffs to make a point.
"Like I don't know you could pick those if you wanted to. I'm sure you've already grabbed a makeshift lock pick from somewhere."
Neal gave Peter his best innocent look.
Peter shook his head, looking amused but trying not to show it. Neal
merely grinned more widely. The thing - well one of the things, if he
was honest with himself - that he had liked most about Agent Burke was
the way the older man seemed amused by Neal's antics, even when also
annoyed by them. Neal had taken a certain pleasure in frustrating Peter
during those seemingly endless interviews when he'd first been caught,
all the while watching out for those not-quite-hidden smiles. It had
all part of the cat and mouse game they'd played.
He was the cat in that scenario, of course.
"Just remember you're better off with us than out there with Bartelli after you," Peter said seriously, before leaving.
Like Neal needed reminding of that. Resigned to his fate and the fact
he wasn't going anywhere for a while, Neal closed his eyes but sleep
eluded him, replaced instead by memories of all that he had lost. He
refused to break down and cry, despite a suspicious wetness in his
eyes. Conmen never cried, they just smiled and carried on.
----------
Back at the office, Peter asked Lauren to run the names Neal had given
him and asked Jones to check on fire alarms in the Brooklyn area that
went off in the early hours of the morning, while another agent grabbed
maps of Brooklyn. Peter spread the maps over the conference room table
and started looking for likely places that Neal may have been held.
An hour later, his cell phone rang, the number not one recognised.
"Burke here."
"I have information for you," a distorted voice answered without preamble.
"Who is this?"
"The whole point of using a voice changer is to remain anonymous," the
voice pointed out testily. "Word on the street is that a Matisse is
being delivered to a fence named Greg Tresler this evening, 8pm at The
Palace. You know The Palace, right? Or do I have to give directions as
well?"
"I know where The Palace is," Peter replied. It was an abandoned
building well known to the FBI as a meeting place for criminals. "What
I don't know if this is a misdirect."
"It's not, and if you want the Matisse, then I strongly suggest you stakeout the address, Suit."
"Why are you offering this information?"
"Bartelli messed with a friend of mine."
"Caffrey."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone else."
The call ended as abruptly as it had started, leaving Peter deep in
thought. A mysterious fire alarm that gave Neal a chance to escape,
followed by an anonymous tip-off about the Matisse. Looked like Neal
had at least one friend left in New York after all. Maybe the short,
balding guy with glasses that had tried to warn Neal about Kate.
Shaking his thoughts off, he went to Hughes to see if he would
authorise a stakeout. The source might be highly dubious, but it was
the only lead they had on the whereabouts of the Matisse as yet. It was
worth checking out.
----------
Neal was released from the hospital and transferred to a FBI safe
house, which turned out to be a room in a FBI sponsored hotel. He was
less than impressed with the décor - and the dead mouse he found
in the bathroom.
Agent Blake stayed in the room, his fellow agent standing guard
outside. Neal wished for more privacy, but that seemed unlikely. Making
the best of a bad job, he ignored Agent Blake and settled onto the bed,
stretching out, still feeling exhausted. His doctor had warned him it
would be a while before he felt back to normal. The hypothermia had
messed with his glucose levels, which in turn had messed up his energy
levels and his ability to think straight. Hence the going to Peter's
house and, probably, also telling Peter more than he'd intended to
about Kate's betrayal. He really, really hated feeling tired and ill. It left him far too weak and vulnerable.
As was evidenced by the way his battered body decided that sleep was
what he needed, so sleep was what it was getting and he didn't get to
finish his musing on how much he hated being ill.
----------
Hughes okayed the stakeout, so Jones, Lauren and Peter set up the FBI
converted Municipal Utility van outside The Palace. Two teams were
nearby and ready to be called in as soon as they confirmed the Matisse
was there. With no inside man and with no time to go into the building
and place bugs, they were limited on how to confirm that, and so would
have to hope that luck was on their side.
At 7.45, Greg Tresler entered the building with a briefcase. Fifteen
minutes later, a limousine pulled up and Bartelli plus three men got
out. One of the men was carrying a wooden box, just the right size for
a Matisse.
"Why is Bartelli here?" Jones mused.
"Maybe he doesn't trust his men with the Matisse?" Lauren answered.
"Whatever, let's gear up. We've got probably cause," Peter said,
heading for the van door. "Blue Team, move in. Red Team, form a
perimeter." He waited for confirmation that they were all in position
before moving in.
"FBI! Put down your guns!" Peter called out as the FBI agents rushed into the dilapidated old building.
The take down was actually anti-climatic, as the bad guys realised they
were outgunned and immediately surrendered. Lauren opened the wooden
box at Peter's nod, and inside was Matisse's Young Sailor II.
"Bartelli, you're under arrest for the theft of the Matisse."
Smiling in satisfaction, Peter watched as a scowling Bartelli was led from the building in cuffs.
The tip-off had proved to be more than reliable.
----------
It was evening when Neal awoke, feeling amazingly better than he had
for a while. Noting that Agent Blake was still in the room, Neal
decided to try to start up a casual conversation rather than endure an
awkward silence.
It turned out the Agent Blake was quite chatty, even mentioning an
anonymous tip that had come from someone using a voice changer. If
things were different, he would think Mozzie was behind all of this,
but that wasn't likely. Especially as giving the FBI information was
not something he could see Mozzie ever doing. Not even for a friend,
and certainly not for Neal.
But someone was helping him and he didn't know who or why, and that worried him. What did this person want from him in return for all of this?
There was a knock on the door and Peter entered the room, looking rumpled but happy.
"You'll be glad to know we caught Bartelli red-handed with the Matisse and are mopping up his people as we speak."
"The tip was right then?" Neal asked.
Peter gave Agent Blake a hard stare.
"Sorry sir," Blake said, looking uncomfortable.
"You should be."
"Don't be too hard on him," Neal said, not really wanting to get the young agent in trouble and smiling disarmingly at Peter.
"Hmm, fell for the Caffrey charm?" Peter looked at Neal and shook his
head, sighing. "Blake, you're needed back at the office. Jones and
Westley will take over for tonight."
Blake hurriedly left the room.
"So you got him?" Neal asked, relieved.
"Yes, we got him."
"What about me, what happens now?"
"You stay in the safe house for tonight, tomorrow you'll be moved..."
"To prison."
"I'm sure if you employ some fancy lawyers like last time you'll get off with a short sentence. Maybe even less than a year."
"Right. I can't afford any lawyer at the moment."
"Ah, yes." Peter looked thoughtful. "Well, with your help in
identifying some of Bartelli's men and confirming that he was behind
the theft, that should still help to reduce any sentence."
"Maybe," Neal hedged, not entirely convinced, then changing the subject
as he saw an opportunity to find out more about his mysterious helper.
"I'm curious, the person who gave you the tip, Agent Blake said he used
a voice changer?"
"Apparently he took his anonymity seriously."
"What did he say?"
"Something along the lines of 'if you want the Matisse, then I strongly
suggest you stakeout the address, Suit' - why do you ask?"
"Like I said, just curious," Neal replied, ignoring the 'what are you up to now' stare Peter was giving him.
"Hmm. I need to get back to the office, I just wanted to let you know in person that Bartelli is in custody."
"Yeah, thanks."
Peter left and Neal sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a little
stunned. The wording had a strong Mozzie feeling to it - and it would
be like Mozzie to use a voice changer. If it was, and he was beginning
to think that it must be, then the enormity of what Mozzie had done for
him... he couldn't quite comprehend it. Mozzie never, ever turned to the system - and yet, clearly he had. To help Neal, who had pushed Mozzie out of his life.
And if Mozzie had set the fire alarm off, along with a smoke bomb, then
that meant he'd either heard about Neal's situation on the street, or
he'd been watching Neal all these months. Probably the latter, he
thought, wondering why that had never occurred to him before.
Either way, it meant Mozzie still cared about him, as a friend.
He was still trying to process all of this when a fire alarm sounded.
Suddenly smiling broadly, he was ready for Jones and Westley when they
came, following them out of the building and into the hotel's parking
lot. In the confusion as other guests joined them, Neal managed to slip
away from the agents. A car at the other end of the parking lot flashed
its lights twice, and Neal ran to it and got in.
"Been a while," Mozzie said in way of greeting, starting the car up and pulling out into the road.
"Yeah." Neal replied, feeling more alive than he had for months now.
"It won't fool the feds for long though. I told Peter how I escaped
from Bartelli's men."
"You told the suit that?" Mozzie said, sounding suitably outraged.
"I had to tell him something,
Moz - and I didn't know you were behind it then," Neal defended
himself. "Look, Peter had only just left. As soon as he hears about the
fire alarm, which won't be long, then he'll head back. If the agents
spotted the car..."
"Judging by the fact we have a car rapidly catching up with us, I assume that is the case..."
Neal craned round to look out the back. "Damn. That was fast."
"That's the suits for you," Mozzie said, speeding up. "Don't worry, I'll lose them."
"I hate car chases," Neal muttered, wincing as Mozzie nearly clipped a car coming out of a side street.
----------
As soon as Peter heard from Jones about the fire alarm, he'd turned his
car around, ordering Jones to keep a close eye on Neal. But it had
already been too late as Agent Blake spotted Neal getting into a car,
too far away to easily catch up. Fortunately, he had managed to get the
license number, so when Peter saw it ahead of him, he called it in and
followed in pursuit.
"Damn it, Neal!" he growled, frustration boiling over. He'd known that
Neal would run, but had let himself be lulled into thinking that Neal
would wait until all of Bartelli's men had been arrested. He should
have seen this coming.
"Jones," Peter said, having kept the phone line open, "We need to get cars out here, try to box them in."
"On it, boss."
No way was he letting Neal escape on his watch.
----------
Mozzie swerved the car around another corner. "They're trying to box us in."
"And succeeding," Neal replied, seeing the road ahead of them blocked. "Stop the car and go. I'll lead them away from you."
"Neal..." Mozzie protested.
"What choice do we have, Moz?" Neal looked at him intently. "I'm their priority, you know they'll follow me."
"And catch you."
"Maybe, maybe not. But better than us both getting caught."
Mozzie cursed under his breath, pulling the car to an abrupt stop and getting out, as Neal did the same.
"Don't get shot," Mozzie said, anxious eyes meeting Neal's.
"I won't Moz. Thanks, for everything," Neal said, even as Mozzie took
off, darting between the traffic and across the street. Neal watched
him go and waited until he'd disappeared into a shop before turning and
diving into a nearby busy restaurant.
He heard Peter's voice somewhere behind him, telling him to stop, but
he wasn't about to give up that easily. Heading through the restaurant,
deftly avoiding those who got in his way, he shot through the kitchen
and out the rear door. Behind the restaurant were the backs of other
buildings, but between them was a loading area and alley that led back
to the street he'd just left.
A quick look behind him showed that Peter was closing in. Adrenalin
pumping, Neal smiled widely and dived out of the passageway and back
along the street, heading towards Peter's abandoned car.
The chase was on.
----------
Peter watched as Neal ran back into the street, heading towards his
car, and he pushed himself further, gaining speed. If Neal managed to
use his car as a getaway vehicle - well, embarrassing would be
understating it.
But Neal was fast, and although Peter was catching him up, he knew wasn't going to make it in time to stop Neal.
Suddenly there was the sound of a horn and a red sports car that was
travelling far too fast for the streets of Manhattan rounded the
corner, brakes squealing as the driver saw Neal in front of him. Peter
saw Neal's shocked face for a moment, before the conman twisted to one
side, trying to avoid being hit.
There was a loud bang and Neal fell to the ground as the sports car finally screeched to a halt.
Peter didn't care about the driver right now as he rushed towards the
figure lying on the road, pulling out his cellphone and calling 911 as
he did so, calling in the accident and ensuring that paramedics were on
their way.
"Caffrey," Peter called, bending down to check on him, his eyes
searching for signs of serious injury. Neal groaned and attempted to
get up, but aborted the movement with another groan, louder this time.
"Lie still, Caffrey," Peter ordered.
"Sounds... like a... good idea," Neal replied, pain filling his voice.
"That was really stupid," Peter told him in no uncertain terms. "You
realise that any sentence you'll get will be increased because of this
stunt?"
"Didn't plan this."
"But you went along with it." Peter's voice sounded harsher than
he meant - seeing Neal hit by a car had scared him. Annoying though the
younger man could be, he didn't deserve to be killed or seriously hurt.
"Seemed like... a good idea... at the time."
"Where are you hurt?" Peter demanded.
"Right hip, um, leg, arm... head."
"Okay. Lie there until the ambulance gets here."
"Not... going anywhere..."
"Boss?"
Peter looked up to see Jones standing nearby, with the driver of the sports car.
"Let NYPD deal with him," Peter said, nodding to the driver. "Then get
back to the bureau and make your report. I'll stay with Caffrey."
Jones nodded and turned back to the shaken driver to wait for NYPD to arrive on scene.
----------
Four months later
Neal had suffered a concussion, a broken leg, badly bruised hip and a
broken arm, all on the right side of his body where he'd been hit by
the car. The first couple of days had been spent in the hospital and
then he'd been transferred to the prison infirmary at the Supermax that
he was all too familiar with.
To say the last four months had been miserable would be an
understatement. Being in a prison infirmary wasn't fun. Sure, they
looked after you and gave you pain meds, but it felt impersonal. And
there was nothing to do but lie there and be bored.
Once his body had healed, he'd needed intense PT, which was a whole
other misery in itself, along with being put into Ag Seg to protect him
while he continued to recover. The PT was painful, but he had gained a
lot of ground, just a slight limp left. His therapist assured him that,
if he kept active and doing the exercises he'd prescribed, there was a
very good chance of the limp disappearing.
Mozzie had organised him a legal team, but despite their best efforts -
and he knew they had tried every legal trick in the book - he was given
a five year sentence. So now he had a choice to make; serve out his
time or plan an escape. It wouldn't be easy, but he already had a few
ideas forming on how to get out.
"Hey, Caffrey, you got a package," Gibson, one of the prisoners who
acted as mailman, told him, handing it to him through the bars.
"Doesn't look that interesting."
"Mail is mail, Gibson," Neal said with a grin. Any contact with the outside world was precious, and Gibson knew that.
"Yeah."
Neal opened the package, finding legal documents inside and a note. He recognised Mozzie's writing and smiled, reading it.
"Neal. The lawyers are going to appeal your sentence, but it will take
time. One of them suggested a way for you to serve your time outside of
prison. It pains me to offer this option as it will mean working for
the suits and wearing a tracking anklet, but it might be slightly
better than rotting in jail. Your choice."
It was signed Haversham, one of Mozzie's many aliases.
There was a blank sheet of good quality paper under the note and Neal
smiled again. Tapping the paper carefully on the side of the table, he
then slowly peeled the sheet apart. Using a pencil to shade over it,
another message was revealed.
"The so called 'Dutchman' is expecting a consignment. Something to do
with Snow White (very cryptic!). It will be coming from Barcelona into
JFK three days from now. Suggest contacting the suits if you choose the
'not rotting in jail' route."
Committing the information to memory, he tore the note up into small
pieces and flushed them down the toilet, before reading the legal
documents in detail.
Working for Peter could be fun. After all, Peter was smart - he had
caught him, after all - and Neal liked smart. Of course, Peter might be
smart enough to stop Neal from running once he was out - then again,
maybe not.
Neal smiled. He had always liked a challenge.
----------
Peter was just heading into his office when Hughes gave him the double finger point.
"My office," Hughes said, and Peter followed him in, taking a seat. "Neal Caffrey has requested a meeting with you."
"He has?" Peter said in surprise.
"Yes. He claims to have information regarding the Dutchman and that he'll only talk to you."
"How does he know about the Dutchman?"
"Ask him. I want you to check it out, see what he wants and what he has to offer."
"Okay. I'll let you know."
Peter returned to his office and grabbed his coat, before heading out to the prison. What was Neal up to now?
----------
Peter watched as Neal was brought in to the room, noting that, despite
the limp, he looked a lot better than last time he'd seen him, at his
trial, when he'd looked like a gentle breeze could knock him over. Neal
sat at the table and placed some papers on it.
"So, I'm here," Peter said, taking the seat on the other side of the table.
"That you are." Neal smiled.
"How do you know about the Dutchman?"
"You know my life, you think I don't know yours? How's Elizabeth by the way?"
"She's fine."
"That's good." Neal gave Peter a broad grin. "Look, I know you've been
after the Dutchman almost as long as you were after me. I'll give you
the information I have - and then I'll help you catch him."
"The information isn't enough on its own?"
"No. Which is why you need me to help you catch him."
"Really? And how does that work? Just because you've been in my house doesn't mean we can be prison pen pals?"
Neal pushed some papers towards him.
"You can get me out of here. There's case law, precedent. I can be released into your custody..."
"Nice. But you're right, I do know you and the second you're out, you'll run. Again."
"I'm not going to run," Neal said seriously, pointing to another sheet
of paper. "GPS tracking anklet. They're tamper proof and have never
been skipped on."
"There's always a first time," Peter replied sceptically.
"If I give you the information I have, will you promise to at least think about it?"
"Okay, I'll think about it," Peter promised. "What do you have?"
"The Dutchman is expecting a consignment coming from Barcelona into JFK three days from now. Something related to Snow White."
"Snow White?"
"Yeah. Might be a codeword for something, might not. If you get me out
of here, I can help you figure it out," Neal said, looking earnest and
vaguely hopeful.
"Like I said, I'll think about it. Thanks for the information. I think
I know where it came from," Peter said, getting up to leave. "The
little guy who helped you try to escape."
Neal shrugged, a smile playing round the edges of his mouth that pretty much confirmed to Peter that he was right.
----------
Two Days Later
Neal smiled as the prison gates opened and he stepped outside and spotted Peter waiting by his car.
"Let me see it," Peter said, motioning to his left leg.
Neal pulled his pants leg up so Peter could see the tracker.
"You understand how this works," Peter asked.
"Yeah. I'm being released into the custody of the FBI under your supervision, with this thing chafing my leg. Anything missing?"
"Yeah. If you run and I catch you, which you know I will, you're not back here for five years, you're back here for good."
Neal nodded. He'd known that would be the case going into this.
"This is a temporary situation. Help me catch the Dutchman, we can make it permanent."
Neal smiled again, getting into Peter's car.
"Where are we headed?" he asked.
"Your new home."
A/N: Link to photo of Young Sailor II,
which is located at The Met. And yes, the motel from the pilot, the
thrift store, June and June's guest room are what happens next!
