elrhiarhodan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elrhiarhodan) wrote2014-04-25 08:39 pm
elrhiarhodan) wrote2014-04-25 08:39 pm
Entry tags:
- character: bancroft,
- character: clinton jones,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: lauren cruz,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: vincent adler,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: coming out,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: pre-slash,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- genre: ust,
- pairing: neal/adler,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: nothing will remain,
- white collar,
- written for: wcrbb,
- year: 2014
White Collar Fic - We Rise Where Shadows Fall - Part Three of Five
Title: We Rise Where Shadows Fall – Part Three
Artist: Nioell
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Lauren Cruz, Kyle Bancroft, Original Characters; Peter/Neal, past Neal/Adler, past Peter/Elizabeth (marriage of convenience), Peter-Elizabeth friendship
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~41,000
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, miri_thompson, theatregirl7299
Summary: Neal, a former employee of Vincent Adler – and the only person from Adler’s organization to serve jail time – has agreed to help the FBI find Adler. Peter Burke, the case agent assigned to the Adler case, is worried about Neal’s safety and doesn’t trust the Marshals, so he’s keeping him close at hand. The attraction between the two men grows as they learn about each other and everything comes to a head when Neal finally shares a devastating secret.
A/N: When I first set this up for posting, I apparently lost count of the number of chapters - there are only five, not six.
Title from the Oysterband song, “Rise Above”.
Written for Round One of the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wc_reverse_bb.
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Peter realized his mistake almost as soon as they’d entered the consignment shop, what with the hushed and genteel atmosphere, the sign in elegant script offering help with fittings by the store’s on-premises dressmakers and tailors, and of course, the discreet price tags.
The rail-thin, fashionably dressed clerk – as different from the young man in the art supply store as possible – was polite and a touch disdainful as she took them to a small room in the back where the men’s clothes were on display.
Peter didn’t say a word as he watched Neal flip through the racks of suits and jackets, a carefully neutral expression on his face. But Peter knew that Neal was unhappy and frustrated. That was clear from the set of his shoulders, how the muscles clenched along the strong column of his neck.
“I’m sorry, Peter – there’s nothing here for me.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize how expensive this place was.” Peter randomly picked up the sleeve from a nearby suit jacket and checked the price. His eyes popped.
“It’s okay – you didn’t know.” Neal threaded his way through the racks to stand next to him. “That’s a nice suit, by the way. It’s a Briony and you’d look good in it.”
Peter frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“You really don’t like the idea of pre-owned clothes, do you?”
“It has nothing to do with being new or used; I’m simply not interested in spending more for a single suit than I do on clothes in an entire year.”
Neal checked the tag and laughed. “Two years, maybe?”
Peter was relieved at that sound. “Probably.” He put a hand at the small of Neal’s back and steered him back to the front of the store. “Come on; let’s find a place a little more budget friendly.”
The clerk didn’t even look up when they passed by. She seemed far too consumed by the latest edition of some celebrity periodical to pay attention. Peter reached around Neal to open the front door and they all but collided with a woman just about to enter.
Neal grabbed the woman to keep her from falling and they sort of danced their way out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. What she’d been holding – an old-fashioned men’s garment bag – didn’t survive the impact and slipped to the ground.
Someone came running, Peter reached for his gun and Neal did his best to shield the woman from the imminent danger.
Except there was no danger – the man was in a chauffeur’s uniform and he knew the woman. “Ma’am, ma’am, are you all right?”
“Ah, Frederick – I’m fine. Just enjoying an unexpected game of touch football with these gentlemen.”
Peter re-holstered his gun and reached for the bag on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the zipper didn’t survive the trauma and as he picked it up, clothes fell back to the ground.
“Damn.” He tried to catch them, but only ended up making an even greater mess.
“Here, let me.” Neal got to his hands and knees and carefully gathered up what looked like – to Peter’s admittedly untrained eye – very fine wool suits.
Neal seemed to think so, too. “These are fantastic.”
“They belonged to my late husband, Byron. He really had great taste in clothes.”
Neal’s eyes went wide as he looked at a label. “This is a Devore.”
“Yes, he won it from Sy himself.”
Even though he had no clue who this Sy Devore was, Peter asked, “Won it?”
The woman replied, “He beat him at a back door draw.”
Neal seemed impressed. “Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?”
“Yes, he most certainly did. And so did I.”
Peter stood there, feeling a little like an extra on a movie set, or maybe in one of those strange Off-Off Broadway plays that El liked to go to. He certainly knew what a back door draw was, but why playing poker with Sy Devore was such a big deal escaped him.
Neal, in the meantime, handed off everything to the chauffeur – everything except the apparently very precious jacket. “May I?”
The woman gave him a delighted smile. “Absolutely.”
Peter handed the broken garment bag to the now over-burdened chauffeur and took possession of Neal’s jacket – the one he’d been wearing for the past three days. Now he felt like an escapee from the set of Project Runway.
Neal slipped the suit coat on and Peter had to blink at the transformation. The change in clothes was a big part, but there was something else, too. If Peter was the fanciful type, he’d say that it was a moment akin to Clark Kent revealing his own very special suit.
“Oh, it fits you like a dream.” The woman ran her hands over Neal’s shoulder and chest. Peter carefully and deliberately squelched the twinge of jealousy. She was old enough to be his mother. And there was definitely something a little maternal in how she smiled at Neal.
Neal, for his part, sighed and fiddled with the buttons before taking the jacket off. “I don’t think, however, this is for me.”
“But why not?”
Neal tilted his head towards the consignment shop’s door. “You’re looking to sell these, and I’m afraid a classic like this – or any of those other suits – is far out of my price range.”
“Sell?” The woman seemed confused. “I was planning on donating them.”
Peter handed Neal’s jacket back to him. “I don’t think they take donations here.”
The woman peered up at the sign over the door, ‘Riverside Luxury Consignments – Discriminating Designer Labels Only’. “Ah, oh.” She looked back at Neal and Peter. “Would you like them?” She gestured for Frederick to hand the clothes to Neal.
Before Peter could say anything, Neal answered. “You really should sell them. They’re probably very valuable.”
The woman made a face. “I’d feel funny selling my husband’s clothes. Really, I was just planning on donating them. I came here because it’s local and my granddaughter said she’d shopped here. She likes vintage things. I must have misunderstood what she told me.”
Neal looked at Peter, as if he was seeking his permission or approval. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of the woman’s generosity. She seemed genuine and despite the well-deserved paranoia he had when it came to Neal, there was nothing about her that set his gut churning.
It was an awkward moment, out here on the sidewalk. Neal, at least, remembered his manners and introduced himself. “And this is my friend – ” There was just a very slight pause at that word, “Peter Burke.”
The woman seemed to put a different spin on the word than Neal intended, or maybe he’d intended just that interpretation. She gave them a conspiratorial smile and held out her hand. “June Ellington.”
The chauffeur seemed unsure of what was going on. “Ma’am, shall I take these back to the car?” He hoisted the ungainly pile of clothes.
June gave Neal a challenging look. “If you don’t take them, I’ll just bring them – and the rest of Byron’s clothes – to Goodwill. Or the Salvation Army. Whichever one has parking nearby.”
Peter watched the exchange; still not sure what was really going on, but nothing was sending up alarms.
Neal blinked and smiled, again transformed. “Then I’d be delighted to accept.”
Peter huffed a sigh and started to help the chauffeur sort out the clothes while Neal and the woman – June – moved a little closer to the curb, away from Peter. It didn’t take much to manipulate the chauffeur so that he could keep a close eye on the pair. Neal recognized Peter’s watchful eye and gave him a discreet nod. Or maybe not that discreet, because June turned and nodded at him, too.
Peter gave them a dry smile, once again feeling like an extra in a play. He didn’t let the chauffeur hand him the suits, though. They stood there a little awkwardly until Neal and June deigned to rejoin them.
“Peter, June was just telling me about the most amazing apartment she has!” He was looking at the woman, grinning like a kid in a candy store.
“Yes, it’s just a small studio. It used to be my husband’s … game room for a while, but I’ve been using it as storage since he passed away.” She sighed. “I figured it was time to get it cleaned up.”
Peter had to ask, “Has your husband been gone long?”
“A few years.” She looked over at Neal. “I hadn’t thought about renting it out, but I find myself intrigued by this young man’s story.”
Peter looked over at Neal, wondering just what he’d managed to tell this woman in five minutes.
He got the answer soon enough. June casually tossed out, “Byron was an ex-con, too.”
Peter wanted to tell her that Neal was an innocent man, but this probably wasn’t the time or the place.
“Look, my home is a few blocks from here, we can have lunch and you can tell me the story of how an FBI agent got together with an ex-con. I do love a good romance.”
Peter pulled Neal aside and whispered, “Did you really tell have to her I was an FBI agent?”
Neal just smirked and gave him a look. “I think she figured that out all by herself.”
This was going to be a very long afternoon.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal hadn’t really meant to drive Peter crazy, but he just couldn't help himself. Some little devil on his shoulder made him put that not-so-subtle emphasis on ‘friend’ when he introduced Peter to that lovely woman, June. At first, he was going to call Peter his bodyguard, which would explain the gun, but then he’d probably have to explain why he needed a bodyguard. Those would be outright lies, not deflections or misdirection, and he had a personal code against lying to anyone’s face.
So, letting June think that he and Peter were a couple seemed like the best approach. And so what if he was indulging in a bit of fantasy, just because he’d really like to have Peter Burke as his boyfriend. Neal almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of that description, boyfriend, because Peter Burke was no boy. But yeah, he would, he most definitely would like that.
“More tea, dear.” June lifted the teapot.
“No, but thank you.” Her eyes were sparkling and from the smile on her lips, Neal had the feeling that she knew just what wasn’t going on inside his head.
“Peter?” June held the teapot towards the other man, who also declined. Neal didn’t figure Peter for a tea drinker, regardless of the quality of the brew.
“So, would you like to see the apartment?”
“Ms. Ellington – ” Peter started to cut her off, but she beat him to the punch.
“If you persist in calling me that, I’ll keep calling you Agent Burke, and then Neal darling will be very uncomfortable.”
Peter glared at him and he could see the question in that aggravated expression. Neal darling? But Neal didn’t respond and just let the tiniest smile curve his lips. He hadn’t had quite this much fun in a very long time.
“Okay, June. But Neal’s living arrangements are fine.”
“Really?” The woman raised her eyebrow and invested a lot of meaning in that single word.
Neal could see Peter’s temper rising like a cartoon tea kettle. Peter couldn’t explain to June just why he had to stay in his apartment, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to come across as a bully. Neal finally took pity on him.
“June – I’m sorry, I’ve been playing a game. Peter’s my cousin’s ex-husband and he was kind enough to take me in. There have been a few bizarre things going on and Peter’s been looking into them. I wouldn’t feel right if I did anything that would jeopardize your kindness and well-being.”
June looked from him to Peter for verification.
“That’s the truth. Neal’s my ex-wife’s bookkeeper and she’s been concerned about him.”
“And your apartment building burning down?”
“That’s the truth, too. Or actually, it blew up and then burned down. You heard about the gas leak in Long Island City?”
“Of course. It was on the news all day yesterday. That was your place?”
Neal nodded and hoped that June wouldn’t ask any more questions. Peter was probably ready to kill him for what he’d already said.
June frowned. “Still, you’re going to need your own place eventually. Unless you and Peter really are …” She paused delicately, “Together.”
Neal gave her his best smile. “We’re good friends and Peter’s helping me out of a jam. But you know what they say about fish and houseguests …”
June laughed, “After a week, both begin to smell.” She stood up. “A delay is probably for the best right now. The apartment really isn’t in move-in condition, but let’s just take a look.”
Neal felt like he didn’t have any choice in the matter and got up as well. Peter, obviously not willing to be left behind, trailed them as they climbed up to the fourth story. June opened the door at the top of the landing and gestured for them to go inside. “It’s not big, but I think you’ll find it suitable.”
He really didn’t know what to expect. The Ellington house was a Beaux-Arts beauty, the lower floors exquisitely decorated, but it was very clear that this was a home, not a showplace. In his high-flying days, he’d been in many such overly-done spaces where the public areas were like settings out of a magazine, but the private spaces were dark and cramped.
This room, at the very top of the house, was a surprise. A most delightful surprise.
“I’m sorry for all of the clutter.” June gestured helplessly. There were boxes and piles of books and what looked like, of all things, a roulette wheel and a large poker table. He remembered what June had said, that this was her late husband’s ‘game’ room, and Neal had to wonder at the games that had been played here.
June waved to an area blocked by racks of men’s clothes. “There’s just a small kitchenette in here – suitable for a bachelor. If you really wanted to cook, there are four other kitchens in the house that you could use.”
“Four?” Neal hoped he didn’t sound rude, but that seemed like an extraordinary number of designated cooking facilities.
“Yes. There are two main kitchens, the servant’s kitchen, and the warming kitchen. Frederick has his own kitchen in the garden apartment. So I guess that makes five kitchens in total.” June shrugged at the embarrassment of riches, or at least, of kitchens.
Neal walked around the clutter and tried to envision himself living here. It wasn’t hard. The midday light was muted as it glowed through the old glass skylights, a perfect balm to his artist’s soul.
“You haven’t seen the best part, yet.” June pushed aside more racks of clothing – presumably Byron’s, and Neal had to think that the man was a true clothes horse – and flung open a set of heavy draperies. The dust turned to a river of molten gold as sunlight poured into the room.
He gasped, or maybe Peter did. Or possibly both of them had. Kept hidden by the draperies was a wall of glass, actually French doors leading out onto a vast terrace almost as big as the apartment itself.
“Come.” June beckoned as she opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony.
He followed, like a lamb to the slaughter. And in a way, it was a slaughter, because his senses were devastated. The view of Manhattan stretched out before him, silver and gold and almost impossible to comprehend.
There was a steady warmth at his back. It was Peter and his hand on his shoulder was a welcome anchor. He uttered a single word, “Yes.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The rest of the weekend passed quickly. Before they left the Ellington mansion, June had insisted that Neal look through the racks of clothes and take what he’d need for the next few weeks. Peter had resigned himself to carrying half a wardrobe back to his apartment building, but June just told them not to worry. The ever-loyal Frederick would drop everything off at Peter’s apartment before the end of the day.
Neal was transformed, and Peter thought it had little to do with the clothing and everything to do with June’s kindness. This woman didn’t know Neal, had no reason to give him the time of day, but instead had opened her heart and her home to him.
Yes, Neal had Elizabeth, and he was so obviously grateful to her – but she was family and their relationship was rooted in that benevolent obligation. As for his relationship with Neal, well – that certainly didn’t start out with any benevolent intention. And despite his own burgeoning feelings, he had little clue as to what Neal felt for him, if anything.
June and her generosity came without any strings, and that was something unique for Neal, who’d become far too accustomed to getting kicked in the teeth by life. Such spontaneous kindness was rare in the universe, a gift to be cherished. Neal certainly hadn’t been a broken down wreck of a man – he laughed, he teased, he got angry, he challenged and argued, but Peter could never escape the feeling that just below the surface, Neal was like an abused dog waiting for the next blow to fall.
Looking at him now, dressed in a perfectly fitted gray suit, white shirt and a tie that El would probably say was lilac but Peter thought of as simply purple, he looked like the definition of confidence. Again, it was more than the good clothes; it was as if Neal had recast himself as someone worthy of every good thing in the universe.
Neal was settled in the conference room, sketchbook opened and he was obviously drawing something, completely intent.
Clinton came into his office for their usual Monday morning coffee and catch-up. “I thought you said Caffrey was broke and he lost everything he owned?”
“He is and he did, why?”
The other agent rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, I don’t know too many broke homeless guys who can afford a tie, let alone a suit, like that.”
“Ah,” Peter grinned and explained, “Neal has a fairy godmother whose late husband just happened to be the exact same size as him.”
Jones nodded appreciatively. “Lucky man.”
“He deserves it. Trust me.” That was all Peter was going to say on the matter. “What have you got?”
“A bit, actually. I was able to track down a few of James Caffrey’s old squad mates. I wasn’t all that shocked that most pretended not to remember him, but there’s one guy – he’s still living in the area – who says that for the price of a cup of coffee, he’ll tell me what he knows. He was Caffrey’s trainer when he got out of the police academy and he has, in his words, ‘a few suspicions’ because the Jimmy he knew would never be on the take.”
Peter felt a small glimmer of satisfaction. This might be the lead he was looking for. “Be careful, Clinton. This isn’t an official investigation – at least not yet – and you’re not going in with any backup.”
“I could take Cruz, she says she’s due for a firearms recertification, too. Plus, she’s got some friends at Quantico – at the Marine Base, not the Academy. They might be interested in getting a cup of coffee, too.”
Peter had forgotten that Lauren had started out in the Marines and served two tours in Iraq before applying to the FBI Academy.
“If she doesn’t mind, she’s got my permission to join you. Just get the paperwork done before you go. The travel office is getting pissed off about all the post-trip approvals the office has been submitting.”
“Ah, the pleasures of being an ASAC are never-ending. I wouldn’t want to be in your seat if you gave me this week’s winning lottery ticket.”
Peter laughed. “If I did, you’d collect your winnings and quit.”
“Probably.” Clinton gave him his customary salute and went back to his desk. Peter turned and looked through the glass wall into the conference room. Neal was still sketching, but he must have sensed his stare and looked up. Peter gave him a smile, and felt like he had won the lottery when Neal smiled back.
It had been a good weekend, one of the best he could remember in a long time. As promised, Elizabeth came over a little before noon on Sunday. She burst into his apartment like a brightly colored whirlwind, handing him an enormous bag from Russ & Daughter and pushing a similar sized bag from Bloomingdales on Neal.
Neal, of course, objected and Elizabeth did her best steamroller impression. Peter had received those Big Brown Bags more than a few times. His ex-wife had a thing about men’s underwear and had never hesitated to impose her preferences on him (and Peter suspected, her boyfriend du jour). At least he’d finally gotten her to stop picking them out from the International Male catalogue.
Every Christmas, every birthday, she gave him a package of underpants. Boxer briefs. The tightest of tighty whities. Silk boxers with hand-embroidered and extremely realistic phalluses. Once, even a thong – although that really was a joke on his fortieth and she didn’t expect him to actually wear it.
And although they’d been divorced for nearly six years, Elizabeth maintained the tradition, telling him that just because she couldn’t touch, didn’t mean she couldn’t look and he still had the best ass and package of any man she knew. Lately, she’d been taken with the virtues of highly constructed undergarments, the type designed to showcase his manly attributes.
“Mansilk?” Neal had pulled an all-too-familiar box out of the Bloomingdale’s bag. Peter covered his mouth and tried not to laugh at the other man’s appalled expression.
“Elizabeth – ”
She’d cut him off at the knees. “Don’t you ‘Elizabeth’ me, Neal Caffrey. What if you were hit by a bus and the EMT was hot and sexy and he needed to give you mouth-to-mouth?”
“Well, I’d hope that if he had to give me mouth-to-mouth, he wouldn’t be checking out my underpants.”
“You know what I mean, silly. You’ve got a nice ass, you need to flaunt it.”
Neal had given in and graciously thanked El for her kind and thoughtful gift, irony thick in every word. After that, the three French-cuffed shirts from Thomas Pink and the pair of Cole Haan oxfords didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Brunch had been an uproarious affair, as different as possible from the sedate lunch with Neal’s new friend the day before. El hadn’t trusted him to provide the vodka, and in truth, both he and Neal had forgotten. Amongst the smoked fish, cheese and fresh bagels was a bottle of pepper-flavored Stoli and a large can of spicy V8 juice. And from somewhere Elizabeth had sourced freshly grated horseradish. She’d raided his pantry and found the rest of the necessary spices – probably acquired from their last brunch date six month ago. Peter had watched, caught between horror and amusement as El added half a bottle of Tabasco, a heaping tablespoon of black pepper and vast quantities of that horseradish. The resulting concoction was delicious and hot enough to blow the top of his head off.
By mid-day, brunch had been just a fond and fish-flavored memory.
Neal had finished the dregs in his glass, looked mournfully at the empty pitcher and let out a respectable belch before closing his eyes and dozing off. Elizabeth had beaten him to the Land of Nod. She’d passed out with a girlish hiccough about twenty minutes earlier
Peter hadn’t minded playing designated driver, so to speak. He’d held off after the first glass, switching to beer to cut the heat, then to water while El and Neal went to town.
They were adorable, cuddled together on his couch, and it wasn’t hard to picture them as children, getting into all sorts of trouble. He’d covered the two of them with a blanket and did his best to keep things quiet as he cleaned up from their bacchanal. Three hours later, the sun almost completely below the horizon, El shook herself awake.
“Mmmm, don’t breathe so loud, please.”
Peter had looked up from the case file he was reviewing. “Hung over?”
“Yes. And shhh. Please.”
He’d gotten up and retrieved a bottle of cold water from the kitchen and handed it to her. “This feels all too familiar, you know?”
“Drink it – it’s the best thing for a hangover. That and these…” He’d held out a small bottle of aspirin, which she’d greedily grabbed out of his hands.
Eventually, Neal had smacked his lips and opened his eyes, looking just as wrecked as El. Peter had fetched a bottle of water for him, too. El shared the aspirin.
He’d watched the pair maneuver around the apartment, slowly recovering from their overindulgence. El was a little quicker than Neal, and by six o’clock, she’d put on her shoes, reapplied her lipstick, brushed out her hair, and sailed out the door with a pert, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or wait, maybe that’s exactly what you should do.”
Neal had holed up in his bedroom for another hour or so, re-emerging, sketchbook and pencils in hand and they’d spent the rest of the evening in quiet companionship.
This morning, Peter’s jaw had all but hit the floor when Neal came out of the bedroom wearing one of Byron’s suits. Maybe it was how the tie was still slung, unknotted, around his neck, or how the collar was opened and revealing the strong column of his neck or how the shirt cuffs poked out, still undone, from the suit coat.
He was reminded of a very old-fashioned word, one he’d once read in some paperback romance of Elizabeth’s – dishabille. At the time, he couldn’t figure out why the novel’s hero had been driven to sexual distraction by the sight of a woman’s mussed attire. Seeing Neal so carelessly dressed in such finery, he understood completely. Peter had been grateful that he was seated, with his legs crossed, as Neal made his way into the kitchen for coffee.
Neal sat down next to him, smelling like his own soap and Peter’s mouth went dry. He’d been grateful for the excuse to put some distance between them when Neal asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of cufflinks? Ellie’s generosity didn’t stretch that far.”
“Sure – hold on.” Peter all but ran to his own bedroom and took as much time as he dared; needlessly opening and closing drawers, pretending to search for the inexpensive cufflinks he’d gotten to go with a dress shirt a few years ago. Cufflinks that were still in their box in the top drawer of his dresser, right next to his first pair of handcuffs and a few old yarmulkes that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of. He’d needed the time to get back some vestige of control.
But by the time he’d returned to the kitchen, cufflinks in hand, Neal was completely put together, a package worthy of a glossy magazine cover, and somehow, a lot less threatening to his peace of mind and his sense of self-control. Neal had thanked him with a smile, donned the cufflinks and picked up his sketchbook and a small zip-lock bag of pencils. Peter had made a mental note to go back to that art supply store get Neal a proper pencil case during lunch.
By noon, all thoughts of pencil cases were completely forgotten. Lauren had decided to spare the probies and go for a Starbucks run herself. When she got to the lobby, she spotted Kyle Bancroft, his boss, signing in at the security desk. She’d texted Jones who alerted him and Peter just about managed to get his desk into some semblance of order when the man himself walked into the office.
He liked and respected Section Chief Bancroft, who’d taken the time to come up to New York and personally convince him to step into Reese’s shoes. Their paths had crossed a few times during his stint in D.C., and it had been nice to know that his work on the money laundering task force had been noticed, even if the work had ultimately been a waste of time.
Peter had no idea why the Section Chief would be in New York and he was hoping that his visit to the twenty-first floor was merely a stopover on the way to another meeting. It didn’t bode well for anyone when a higher up made the trip from D.C.
Peter went down to greet the man. Knowing how little patience Bancroft had for small talk, he got right to the point. “What brings you to White Collar?”
“You.”
Shit Peter hoped his face didn’t betray his thought.
“Let’s talk in your office.” Bancroft didn’t wait for an invitation; he started up the stairs, only to pause midway at the sight of Neal Caffrey intently sketching in the conference room.
Peter explained, “He’s a witness in a current case.”
Bancroft finished the short trip and went right to Peter’s office. “I know.”
Peter didn’t know whether he should be relieved or even more worried. He gestured for Bancroft to take a seat and closed the door behind him. “That’s why you’re here. The Adler case.”
Bancroft nodded, not giving anything away.
Peter’s gut began to churn. “Are you shutting it down?”
Bancroft looked through the glass separating his office from the conference room, watching Neal for a few long moments before turning his attention back to him. “Hardly not – I’m here to give you this.” He handed Peter a large sealed envelope. “You need to read it, right now.”
His gut churning in overdrive, Peter opened the envelope. There was a security form on top of the thick file, denominating the contents as ‘Classified – Secret.’ The file itself was well worn, as if it had passed through many hands over quite a few years.
The right side of the file was a log documenting surveillance on the subject, Ballatin, Claude, from as far back as 1992. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Unfortunately, not. He’s been on the radar for a long time. Until recently, he’s been classified as neutral-friendly and a convenient conduit for support in some very gray zones.”
There were times when Peter hated his employer. At least the man sitting across from him seemed equally disgusted. “So, what’s changed?”
“I understand you know about Ballatin’s activities in Syria?”
Peter nodded.
“Add Sudan to the list. Venezuela, the Ukraine. Fomenting turmoil in former Soviet client states and then supplying arms and chemical weapons to the government has recently become a specialty of Ballatin. In essence, he’s creating his own market.”
“So, we were okay with him when he was just stirring the shit. We don’t like it when he starts making the shit splash.”
“A colorful metaphor, but accurate.”
Peter continued to read through the file, taking note of the timelines in the surveillance and the gaps. “Was anyone tracking him when he was in New York?”
“The CIA was only interested in his overseas activities.”
Which wasn’t to say that the NSA didn’t have a similar file on him. “And his disappearance? The Justice Department contends that a bulk of the money that went missing was illusory, that his investment funds were mere Ponzi schemes, like Madoff’s. Do you think that the money was real and he’s been using it to fund his activities?”
Bancroft’s expression gave nothing away. “That would be something. It’s kind of hard to imagine such a byzantine scheme, isn’t it? The U.S. Government just stands by when a private citizen steals – what, nine billion dollars – because he’s using the stolen money to promote the Government’s overseas interests.” His tone was just as bland as his face, he sounded almost disinterested.
“Not that hard to imagine.” Peter kept his tone equally bland. “So, what happens now?”
“You know that Interpol issued a Red Notice for Adler back in ’08.”
“Of course – that’s what’s so frustrating. We’ve identified Ballatin as Adler, we’re about to send over Neal’s affidavit confirming his identity, and they should arrest him immediately. But I have the feeling that’s not going to happen.”
Bancroft confirmed those suspicious. “No, it’s not. Ballatin has paid off a lot of people. Of course, we could spend months negotiating with the French government, go through all the diplomatic channels, pound our chest and make demands, but we won’t get anywhere. And worse, we’ll tip our hand with the people who are getting paid to keep Ballatin informed. He’ll do a flyer and we’ll never get this close to him again.”
“So, how are we going to move the French to arrest him?”
Bancroft smiled and Peter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You’re going to use your powers of persuasion on a bunch of locals. You’re going to go to Paris with that Red Notice in hand and you’re going to ask them to arrest Vincent Adler, noted American fugitive. You’re got to take Neal Caffrey with you, just in case the locals want proof. And as soon as Adler is in custody, I’m going to arrange for the biggest media circus since the NYPD made Dominic Strauss-Kahn do the perp walk at One Centre Street. Alder, Ballatin, whatever the hell the man’s name is, can bleat like a sheep all the way to the slaughter, but he’s going to find himself without any friends when the story goes public.”
Peter wasn’t sure he shared his Section Chief’s optimism. He returned the folder to its envelope and handed it back. “I’m going to need to share this information with Neal. If he’s going to be involved in this any more than he already is, he can’t fly blind.”
Bancroft, thankfully, agreed. “You’ll use your best judgment. Keep the details to a minimum. CIA fought me over letting you see this. Langley would have its panties in a collective wad if they knew that Caffrey was brought into the loop.”
Peter sighed. “I hate this crap. We’re supposed to be the good guys, right?”
“I know.” Bancroft asked, “Your passport’s current, I hope?”
Peter recalled a similar comment from Hughes and nodded.
“Do you know if Caffrey’s is? If he even has one?”
“I’ll find out, but we can get that expedited if we have too.” Peter figured that they’d probably need to do that, considering that Neal’s former apartment and its contents was now a pile of smoldering rubble.
Bancroft leaned back in the chair, his expression intent. “You know, this probably won’t work and it may mean your career before it’s over. Mine, too.”
Peter hid his worry behind a philosophical shrug. “Life’s not without its risks.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal was dying to know who was in Peter’s office. He was someone Peter liked, but also respected and deferred to. That much was apparent from the body language. And the other man had a similar level of respect for Peter but was accustomed to being in charge. He’d always been good at reading people and his four years in prison honed that skill – it became necessary for his survival.
So was lip-reading. But he was out of practice and they weren’t facing him. Besides, he really needed to pretend not to focus on the business in the office and concentrate on what he was sketching.
Peter Burke, his favorite subject – at least since Friday evening.
Here, in the FBI office, in a glass-walled conference room, in full view of the entire office, Neal kept his sketches extremely tame. Facial studies that attempted to capture the humor, the life of the man. Nothing he’d be ashamed to show anyone. Not like the sketches buried in the middle pages – arm porn, shoulder porn, Peter’s perfect ass caressed by an ancient pair of Levis. He hadn’t worked up the courage to tease out a sketch of Peter’s package framed by a pair of those extremely naughty Mansilk briefs, or how he’d imagine the man without his shirt.
Resolving to ignore Peter and the man in his office, Neal focused on the project at hand – Peter Burke, reading. He didn’t know why, but the sight of Peter in his club chair, reading the Sunday Times with a pair of cheaters balanced on his nose, was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. Maybe it was all the fierce intelligence, maybe it was the glasses – just a tiny indicator of human frailty, maybe it was all that masculine beauty in repose. Whatever the reason, Neal was absolutely compelled to capture that image for his own personal posterity.
A knock on the conference room door interrupted his concentration.
“Sorry to disturb you, Neal.” It was Peter.
“Do you need the room?” Neal started to gather up his pencils.
“No, I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Peter stepped aside and the man who’d been in Peter’s office entered the conference room. “This is my boss, Kyle Bancroft, Section Chief for the Financial Crimes division.”
Neal was a little startled by the man’s searching look as he held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Caffrey.”
He was about to chalk those words up to mere politeness, when Bancroft continued. “It’s a very brave thing you’re doing and I’m honored to meet you.” The sincerity in the man’s voice was impossible to discount.
“I’m just doing what’s right.” Neal hoped he didn’t sound like a fatuous prat.
“It’s rarely about ‘just what’s right’, Mr. Caffrey. You know you’re going to be in for a difficult time?”
Neal blinked, not sure what the man was getting at.
Bancroft explained, “After Adler’s arrested – he’s going to fight tooth and nail and it’s going to be a very public and very dirty battle.”
He shrugged. “It’s not like I have a reputation or a livelihood to worry about. Adler can say what he wants.”
Agent Bancroft stared hard, as if he was trying to send a message. Neal almost wished that Peter would leave to room to let the guy speak freely.
“Like I said, my name isn’t important and my family knows just what’s going on. I can live with the consequences and so can my family.”
Bancroft nodded, reluctantly accepting his answer. “Okay. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Caffrey.”
Neal was at a loss, feeling like he’d just missed half of the conversation. “Likewise, sir.”
Bancroft turned to leave, but paused and turned back. “A word of advice: listen to Peter, he knows what he’s doing. Trust him, he’s a good man.”
Neal couldn’t help but notice the flags of high color along Peter’s cheek as he flushed from the praise. The imp in Neal made him answer, “I know he is. And I’ll do my best to listen to everything Agent Burke has to say.”
That brought a small smile to the Section Chief’s lips, as if he understood all of Neal’s subtext.
Neal watched Peter escort his boss to the front door, he watched them shake hands and chat for a brief moment. Then he looked up at him, nodded and left.
Neal sat down and tried to parse out just what the man had wanted him to understand. The words echoed in his mind, “a very public and very dirty battle”. Did he mean…
Ah. Of course he did, and why did it not surprise Neal that this man knew about his relationship with Vincent. But it seemed that Peter was still in the dark and Neal was happy to keep him that way, if just for a little while longer. He took so much pleasure in Peter’s high regard, he didn’t want to see that turn to disgust a moment before it had to.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
“Lauren, thanks for the heads-up.” Peter stopped by Cruz’s desk and picked up her rubber band ball, tossing it from hand to hand.
She grinned and grabbed the ball from him mid-toss. “My pleasure, boss. May I ask, what did Section Chief Bancroft want?”
“The Adler case.” Clinton joined them. “As if we couldn’t figure that out, with him going to see Caffrey.”
Peter grinned at the pair. “Did you two even bother to try to get any work done?”
“I’ve finished the travel requests for the D.C. trip – for those re-certifications you want us to do down in Quantico,” Lauren noted with a sly wink.
“Well, you’re going to need hold off on those,” Peter told her.
“I thought that was priority?” Clinton puzzled.
“Not anymore – we’ve got an operation to plan.” Peter headed back to the conference room without waiting to see if the two agents followed. This time, he didn’t bother knocking – Neal wasn’t even pretending to be busy. His sketchbook was closed, the pencils neatly piled in their baggie. He asked abruptly, “Your passport – was it destroyed?”
Neal shook his head. “No, I put all of my personal papers in a safety deposit box that was paid up ten years in advance. My lawyer – not Moz, but the one who represented me in the government’s case – has the key.”
“Good. We’ll need to see him sooner than later.” Peter was looking forward to that visit. He’d read through the case files from the DOJ and there were some very interesting communications that needed to be explained.
Cruz and Jones joined them and Peter closed the door. “I’ll be bringing in other agents as this develops, but right now, you two are on point.”
“Whatever you need, Peter.” Clinton was, as always, steady and dependable.
“Okay, this is what’s going on.” Peter gave them a high-level briefing, leaving out the CIA-supplied details on Ballatin’s activities. “Basically, we’re going to go to a local Parisian police department with the Interpol Red Notice and tell them we’ve located Vincent Adler. I’m hoping that the man’s payoffs haven’t gotten down to that level.”
Neal spoke up. “Adler’s not the type to even think about paying off the local police. He’s not only a big picture thinker; he doesn’t actually ‘see’ the little guys.”
“Good – that’s good. So, he’d pay off the precinct captains and figure it would trickle down?” Peter paced back and forth, thinking.
“No – more like he’d pay off the Minister of the Interior and expect that the entire French national police force would fall into line.”
Neal’s comment was surprising, considering his former stance on Adler’s innocence. “You know that he’s paid people off?”
Neal shook his head. “No, not at all, but I know him and if he waspaying anyone off, it would be the people at the top – the ministers, the cabinet secretaries. He’d fully expect those payoffs to trickle down.”
Peter stopped moving. It was like he was hit by a brick. “You know, we’ve been flying blind about Adler. We’ve got the Department of Justice files on his operations, but we know nothing about him.” He looked at Neal.
“And you want me to help?” Neal sounded resigned, but not the least conflicted.
“We would appreciate it. Having you confirm Adler’s identity is key, but if you could help us fill in the blanks, it can only improve the operation’s chances of success.”
“Whatever you need, Peter.”
The sound of his name, spoken with such quiet intensity, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Okay, okay – where to start?” Peter stalked around the room, trying to organize his thoughts. “We know that Adler’s been living in Paris – why?” He looked at Neal for an answer.
“He loved Paris – the art, the culture. But he always said that he felt that it was easier to remain anonymous in Paris.”
“And we know that anonymity was important to him.”
“Yeah, he used to say that when people heard his name, the first thing they wanted from him was money. And then information. And he valued information more than he did money.”
“Okay, good. Good. So – Paris, did he have any permanent residences or did he stay in hotels?” Peter figured the former, but he needed to ask.
Neal laughed. “Vincent had several – a house on the Ile St. Louis, a penthouse apartment near the Eiffel Tower in the seventh arrondissement, and he kept a suite at the Hotel George V. There were other properties, but those were the ones he preferred.”
Cruz asked, “Do we know what happened to them? Were the properties seized when Adler disappeared?”
Neal frown, clearing in the dark about that.
Peter loved moments like this, when he could use his team to the fullest of their abilities. “Lauren, since I know you’re fluent in French, you’ve just volunteered to find that out.”
She nodded and began making notes.
Neal kept the helpful information coming, “They weren’t held in his name and there’s probably no paper trail back to Vincent Adler. I do know that the house in the Marias was bought by a special purpose holding company and sold three or four times before being repurchased by another special purpose entity that a company Vincent controlled. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been bought and sold a few more times.”
Clinton joked, “I guess if you’re a billionaire, you’re really not worried about paying the transfer taxes.”
“No, not really. It was all about anonymity, about keeping his name and his primary company’s name off the radar.” Neal sounded bitter. “I never asked him why that mattered so much. He wasn’t like Howard Hughes – he wasn’t a recluse – he just wanted to stay anonymous.”
Peter was about to tell Neal about Claude Ballatin’s activities but cut himself off. Clinton knew a little bit, but Lauren wasn’t cleared. And telling Neal that his former boss was really an international arms smuggler and probably responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent lives wouldn’t serve any purpose, just yet. “Give Lauren all the addresses you can remember. Maybe we can discreetly run the property records with the tax authorities in Paris. See who’s bought and sold them. If we can link any of those places to anything controlled by Ballatin, maybe we can pin the man down.”
Neal, though, didn’t seem to think that was necessary. “Why not just stake out La Tour d’Argent?”
Even Peter, who wasn’t au courant on haute cuisine, knew that La Tour d’Argent was one of the most famous and exclusive restaurants in Paris. “I don’t think that the Paris police will supply us with a surveillance van and listening devices. Besides, why do you think we’ll find him there?”
“The picture you showed me – Vincent’s seated alone at the best table in the restaurant. They don’t just put anyone there, and if he’s living under the radar, it means that he’s a valued customer, not a famous name. For that type of treatment, I’d have to figure that he eats there once or twice a week.”
“It’s an idea – a good one, but it’s risky.”
The four of them brainstormed for the rest of the afternoon, into the evening, and in the quieter moments, Peter watched Neal interact with Clinton and Lauren. It was like he was a veteran member of the team and Peter couldn’t help but regret the waste of talent. Once Adler was wrapped up, he was going to do his damnedest to find out what the hell happened to James Caffrey and why Neal had lived with a target on his back for half his life.
It was well after eight by time Peter called a halt to their work. The conference table was littered with notepads and files and folders – Lauren had done a good job of keeping up with transcribing the whiteboard. It was actually one of those smart board things that automatically captured the data, but Peter had disabled that function. Something told him that keeping this information off the FBI’s servers was a good precaution.
The room also smelled unpleasantly of stale Chinese food.
Peter took pity on everyone when Clinton yawned for the fourth or fifth time. “I think it’s time to call it a night, folks.” When Lauren started to gather up the notes, he waved her off. “I’ll take care of this – go home, get a good night’s sleep and be ready to start fresh tomorrow.”
His agents gave him a grateful ‘goodnight’ and left. Neal was standing in the back of the room, hands in his pockets. Caught in the shadows, the expression on his face was unreadable. He shifted and moved into the light. Peter was struck by the sadness he saw there. “You okay? We’ve put you through the ringer today. I know this wasn’t what you signed up for.”
“I’m fine. It’s just …”
Peter waited for him to finish the thought.
Neal gave him a sad smile and continued, “This could have been my life. I could have been like Clinton Jones, like you, like everyone in this office. I would have been very happy doing this – working ungodly hours, eating lousy take-out, being part of something good and meaningful and important.”
Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat. “For what it’s worth, watching you today – I have no doubt that you would have been a stellar agent and I would have been proud to have you on my team.”
Neal dropped his head and looked away, blinking rapidly. They finished cleaning up without another word. Peter took all of the notes and papers – even the crumpled up and discarded ones – with him. Those he’d shred at home. He knew he was being paranoid, but he didn’t want to take any chances that someone paid a cleaner to hand over a trash bag. It had been known to happen.
It was close to nine-thirty before they got home. The conversation during the drive was minimal, Neal was lost in his own thoughts and Peter didn’t seem inclined to chat. When Peter closed the apartment door behind them and set the alarm, he figured Neal was going to say goodnight and head off to his bedroom. Instead, he went to the kitchen and fetched two bottles of beer before taking off his jacket and loosening his tie.
Peter did the same, going so far as to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. He took the bottle that Neal held out to him and settled on the couch. It all seemed very domestic and normal, like they done this every night for decades.
Neal seemed like he wanted to say something and Peter was patient. In an impatient sort of way.
Finally, the other man spoke. “You know, you’re making this far too complicated.”
That was the last thing Peter was expecting Neal to say. “What do you mean?”
“The operation – catching Adler in Paris.”
“We don’t really have much of a choice. I can’t just walk into a police station and say, ‘go arrest Claude Ballatin, he’s really the American financial fraudster, Vincent Adler.’ You know that – we can’t bring in his French alter-ego at all. We need to arrest the American citizen, and while you’ll be able to identify Adler for us, that’s only going to happen after he’s in custody.”
“That’s what I mean – that’s too complicated. Let me confront him.”
No. No. He was not letting Neal within a dozen yards of Adler, unless they were separated by steel bars. “That’s too dangerous, Neal. You know what he’s capable of.”
“I’ll wear a wire, you’ll be watching. Remember, he’s not a recluse. He goes out, but he just maintains a very low profile. We’ll watch out for him at La Tour d’Argent. Believe me, if I show up and sit down at his table – he’s not going to make a public spectacle. It’ll be too visible, call too much attention to him.”
“No, Neal. No. It’s too risky.” Peter felt sick at the thought of putting Neal into the line of fire. “You’re not a trained agent.”
“Keep with the plan and you’ll lose him, Peter. Keep making inquiries with the tax offices, the police, the word’s going to trickle up to him and he’ll run.”
“And what if he bodyguards intercept you on the way? What if you never actually get within five feet of him? You have to realize that they’re on the lookout for you.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Neal shrugged, far too sanguine about the danger he would face for Peter’s state of mind. “We’ve got one shot at this, Peter. You’ve said so yourself. Let me do this.”
He hated the pleading note in Neal’s voice, but he understood the need to make things right. “Let me sleep on this. I won’t deny that your idea has merit and that the more we dig through Adler’s life as Claude Ballatin, the more we risk losing him for good. But I don’t like putting civilians in harm’s way.”
Neal nodded but there was reluctance in that simple gesture. “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say right now.”
“But you’ll continue to make your case in the morning, right?”
That earned him a smile. “I can be relentless, you know.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” Peter smiled, but there was a knot of worry in his stomach. Neal’s idea made too much sense to dismiss it out of hand, as much as he wanted to.
“See you in the morning.” Neal stood, picked up his jacket and went into his bedroom, the door closing quietly behind him.
END PART THREE - GO TO PART FOUR
Artist: Nioell
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Lauren Cruz, Kyle Bancroft, Original Characters; Peter/Neal, past Neal/Adler, past Peter/Elizabeth (marriage of convenience), Peter-Elizabeth friendship
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~41,000
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, miri_thompson, theatregirl7299 Summary: Neal, a former employee of Vincent Adler – and the only person from Adler’s organization to serve jail time – has agreed to help the FBI find Adler. Peter Burke, the case agent assigned to the Adler case, is worried about Neal’s safety and doesn’t trust the Marshals, so he’s keeping him close at hand. The attraction between the two men grows as they learn about each other and everything comes to a head when Neal finally shares a devastating secret.
A/N: When I first set this up for posting, I apparently lost count of the number of chapters - there are only five, not six.
Title from the Oysterband song, “Rise Above”.
Written for Round One of the
wc_reverse_bb.Peter realized his mistake almost as soon as they’d entered the consignment shop, what with the hushed and genteel atmosphere, the sign in elegant script offering help with fittings by the store’s on-premises dressmakers and tailors, and of course, the discreet price tags.
The rail-thin, fashionably dressed clerk – as different from the young man in the art supply store as possible – was polite and a touch disdainful as she took them to a small room in the back where the men’s clothes were on display.
Peter didn’t say a word as he watched Neal flip through the racks of suits and jackets, a carefully neutral expression on his face. But Peter knew that Neal was unhappy and frustrated. That was clear from the set of his shoulders, how the muscles clenched along the strong column of his neck.
“I’m sorry, Peter – there’s nothing here for me.”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t realize how expensive this place was.” Peter randomly picked up the sleeve from a nearby suit jacket and checked the price. His eyes popped.
“It’s okay – you didn’t know.” Neal threaded his way through the racks to stand next to him. “That’s a nice suit, by the way. It’s a Briony and you’d look good in it.”
Peter frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“You really don’t like the idea of pre-owned clothes, do you?”
“It has nothing to do with being new or used; I’m simply not interested in spending more for a single suit than I do on clothes in an entire year.”
Neal checked the tag and laughed. “Two years, maybe?”
Peter was relieved at that sound. “Probably.” He put a hand at the small of Neal’s back and steered him back to the front of the store. “Come on; let’s find a place a little more budget friendly.”
The clerk didn’t even look up when they passed by. She seemed far too consumed by the latest edition of some celebrity periodical to pay attention. Peter reached around Neal to open the front door and they all but collided with a woman just about to enter.
Neal grabbed the woman to keep her from falling and they sort of danced their way out of the shop and onto the sidewalk. What she’d been holding – an old-fashioned men’s garment bag – didn’t survive the impact and slipped to the ground.
Someone came running, Peter reached for his gun and Neal did his best to shield the woman from the imminent danger.
Except there was no danger – the man was in a chauffeur’s uniform and he knew the woman. “Ma’am, ma’am, are you all right?”
“Ah, Frederick – I’m fine. Just enjoying an unexpected game of touch football with these gentlemen.”
Peter re-holstered his gun and reached for the bag on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the zipper didn’t survive the trauma and as he picked it up, clothes fell back to the ground.
“Damn.” He tried to catch them, but only ended up making an even greater mess.
“Here, let me.” Neal got to his hands and knees and carefully gathered up what looked like – to Peter’s admittedly untrained eye – very fine wool suits.
Neal seemed to think so, too. “These are fantastic.”
“They belonged to my late husband, Byron. He really had great taste in clothes.”
Neal’s eyes went wide as he looked at a label. “This is a Devore.”
“Yes, he won it from Sy himself.”
Even though he had no clue who this Sy Devore was, Peter asked, “Won it?”
The woman replied, “He beat him at a back door draw.”
Neal seemed impressed. “Your husband played poker with Sy Devore?”
“Yes, he most certainly did. And so did I.”
Peter stood there, feeling a little like an extra on a movie set, or maybe in one of those strange Off-Off Broadway plays that El liked to go to. He certainly knew what a back door draw was, but why playing poker with Sy Devore was such a big deal escaped him.
Neal, in the meantime, handed off everything to the chauffeur – everything except the apparently very precious jacket. “May I?”
The woman gave him a delighted smile. “Absolutely.”
Peter handed the broken garment bag to the now over-burdened chauffeur and took possession of Neal’s jacket – the one he’d been wearing for the past three days. Now he felt like an escapee from the set of Project Runway.
Neal slipped the suit coat on and Peter had to blink at the transformation. The change in clothes was a big part, but there was something else, too. If Peter was the fanciful type, he’d say that it was a moment akin to Clark Kent revealing his own very special suit.
“Oh, it fits you like a dream.” The woman ran her hands over Neal’s shoulder and chest. Peter carefully and deliberately squelched the twinge of jealousy. She was old enough to be his mother. And there was definitely something a little maternal in how she smiled at Neal.
Neal, for his part, sighed and fiddled with the buttons before taking the jacket off. “I don’t think, however, this is for me.”
“But why not?”
Neal tilted his head towards the consignment shop’s door. “You’re looking to sell these, and I’m afraid a classic like this – or any of those other suits – is far out of my price range.”
“Sell?” The woman seemed confused. “I was planning on donating them.”
Peter handed Neal’s jacket back to him. “I don’t think they take donations here.”
The woman peered up at the sign over the door, ‘Riverside Luxury Consignments – Discriminating Designer Labels Only’. “Ah, oh.” She looked back at Neal and Peter. “Would you like them?” She gestured for Frederick to hand the clothes to Neal.
Before Peter could say anything, Neal answered. “You really should sell them. They’re probably very valuable.”
The woman made a face. “I’d feel funny selling my husband’s clothes. Really, I was just planning on donating them. I came here because it’s local and my granddaughter said she’d shopped here. She likes vintage things. I must have misunderstood what she told me.”
Neal looked at Peter, as if he was seeking his permission or approval. Peter wasn’t sure what to make of the woman’s generosity. She seemed genuine and despite the well-deserved paranoia he had when it came to Neal, there was nothing about her that set his gut churning.
It was an awkward moment, out here on the sidewalk. Neal, at least, remembered his manners and introduced himself. “And this is my friend – ” There was just a very slight pause at that word, “Peter Burke.”
The woman seemed to put a different spin on the word than Neal intended, or maybe he’d intended just that interpretation. She gave them a conspiratorial smile and held out her hand. “June Ellington.”
The chauffeur seemed unsure of what was going on. “Ma’am, shall I take these back to the car?” He hoisted the ungainly pile of clothes.
June gave Neal a challenging look. “If you don’t take them, I’ll just bring them – and the rest of Byron’s clothes – to Goodwill. Or the Salvation Army. Whichever one has parking nearby.”
Peter watched the exchange; still not sure what was really going on, but nothing was sending up alarms.
Neal blinked and smiled, again transformed. “Then I’d be delighted to accept.”
Peter huffed a sigh and started to help the chauffeur sort out the clothes while Neal and the woman – June – moved a little closer to the curb, away from Peter. It didn’t take much to manipulate the chauffeur so that he could keep a close eye on the pair. Neal recognized Peter’s watchful eye and gave him a discreet nod. Or maybe not that discreet, because June turned and nodded at him, too.
Peter gave them a dry smile, once again feeling like an extra in a play. He didn’t let the chauffeur hand him the suits, though. They stood there a little awkwardly until Neal and June deigned to rejoin them.
“Peter, June was just telling me about the most amazing apartment she has!” He was looking at the woman, grinning like a kid in a candy store.
“Yes, it’s just a small studio. It used to be my husband’s … game room for a while, but I’ve been using it as storage since he passed away.” She sighed. “I figured it was time to get it cleaned up.”
Peter had to ask, “Has your husband been gone long?”
“A few years.” She looked over at Neal. “I hadn’t thought about renting it out, but I find myself intrigued by this young man’s story.”
Peter looked over at Neal, wondering just what he’d managed to tell this woman in five minutes.
He got the answer soon enough. June casually tossed out, “Byron was an ex-con, too.”
Peter wanted to tell her that Neal was an innocent man, but this probably wasn’t the time or the place.
“Look, my home is a few blocks from here, we can have lunch and you can tell me the story of how an FBI agent got together with an ex-con. I do love a good romance.”
Peter pulled Neal aside and whispered, “Did you really tell have to her I was an FBI agent?”
Neal just smirked and gave him a look. “I think she figured that out all by herself.”
This was going to be a very long afternoon.
Neal hadn’t really meant to drive Peter crazy, but he just couldn't help himself. Some little devil on his shoulder made him put that not-so-subtle emphasis on ‘friend’ when he introduced Peter to that lovely woman, June. At first, he was going to call Peter his bodyguard, which would explain the gun, but then he’d probably have to explain why he needed a bodyguard. Those would be outright lies, not deflections or misdirection, and he had a personal code against lying to anyone’s face.
So, letting June think that he and Peter were a couple seemed like the best approach. And so what if he was indulging in a bit of fantasy, just because he’d really like to have Peter Burke as his boyfriend. Neal almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of that description, boyfriend, because Peter Burke was no boy. But yeah, he would, he most definitely would like that.
“More tea, dear.” June lifted the teapot.
“No, but thank you.” Her eyes were sparkling and from the smile on her lips, Neal had the feeling that she knew just what wasn’t going on inside his head.
“Peter?” June held the teapot towards the other man, who also declined. Neal didn’t figure Peter for a tea drinker, regardless of the quality of the brew.
“So, would you like to see the apartment?”
“Ms. Ellington – ” Peter started to cut her off, but she beat him to the punch.
“If you persist in calling me that, I’ll keep calling you Agent Burke, and then Neal darling will be very uncomfortable.”
Peter glared at him and he could see the question in that aggravated expression. Neal darling? But Neal didn’t respond and just let the tiniest smile curve his lips. He hadn’t had quite this much fun in a very long time.
“Okay, June. But Neal’s living arrangements are fine.”
“Really?” The woman raised her eyebrow and invested a lot of meaning in that single word.
Neal could see Peter’s temper rising like a cartoon tea kettle. Peter couldn’t explain to June just why he had to stay in his apartment, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to come across as a bully. Neal finally took pity on him.
“June – I’m sorry, I’ve been playing a game. Peter’s my cousin’s ex-husband and he was kind enough to take me in. There have been a few bizarre things going on and Peter’s been looking into them. I wouldn’t feel right if I did anything that would jeopardize your kindness and well-being.”
June looked from him to Peter for verification.
“That’s the truth. Neal’s my ex-wife’s bookkeeper and she’s been concerned about him.”
“And your apartment building burning down?”
“That’s the truth, too. Or actually, it blew up and then burned down. You heard about the gas leak in Long Island City?”
“Of course. It was on the news all day yesterday. That was your place?”
Neal nodded and hoped that June wouldn’t ask any more questions. Peter was probably ready to kill him for what he’d already said.
June frowned. “Still, you’re going to need your own place eventually. Unless you and Peter really are …” She paused delicately, “Together.”
Neal gave her his best smile. “We’re good friends and Peter’s helping me out of a jam. But you know what they say about fish and houseguests …”
June laughed, “After a week, both begin to smell.” She stood up. “A delay is probably for the best right now. The apartment really isn’t in move-in condition, but let’s just take a look.”
Neal felt like he didn’t have any choice in the matter and got up as well. Peter, obviously not willing to be left behind, trailed them as they climbed up to the fourth story. June opened the door at the top of the landing and gestured for them to go inside. “It’s not big, but I think you’ll find it suitable.”
He really didn’t know what to expect. The Ellington house was a Beaux-Arts beauty, the lower floors exquisitely decorated, but it was very clear that this was a home, not a showplace. In his high-flying days, he’d been in many such overly-done spaces where the public areas were like settings out of a magazine, but the private spaces were dark and cramped.
This room, at the very top of the house, was a surprise. A most delightful surprise.
“I’m sorry for all of the clutter.” June gestured helplessly. There were boxes and piles of books and what looked like, of all things, a roulette wheel and a large poker table. He remembered what June had said, that this was her late husband’s ‘game’ room, and Neal had to wonder at the games that had been played here.
June waved to an area blocked by racks of men’s clothes. “There’s just a small kitchenette in here – suitable for a bachelor. If you really wanted to cook, there are four other kitchens in the house that you could use.”
“Four?” Neal hoped he didn’t sound rude, but that seemed like an extraordinary number of designated cooking facilities.
“Yes. There are two main kitchens, the servant’s kitchen, and the warming kitchen. Frederick has his own kitchen in the garden apartment. So I guess that makes five kitchens in total.” June shrugged at the embarrassment of riches, or at least, of kitchens.
Neal walked around the clutter and tried to envision himself living here. It wasn’t hard. The midday light was muted as it glowed through the old glass skylights, a perfect balm to his artist’s soul.
“You haven’t seen the best part, yet.” June pushed aside more racks of clothing – presumably Byron’s, and Neal had to think that the man was a true clothes horse – and flung open a set of heavy draperies. The dust turned to a river of molten gold as sunlight poured into the room.
He gasped, or maybe Peter did. Or possibly both of them had. Kept hidden by the draperies was a wall of glass, actually French doors leading out onto a vast terrace almost as big as the apartment itself.
“Come.” June beckoned as she opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony.
He followed, like a lamb to the slaughter. And in a way, it was a slaughter, because his senses were devastated. The view of Manhattan stretched out before him, silver and gold and almost impossible to comprehend.
There was a steady warmth at his back. It was Peter and his hand on his shoulder was a welcome anchor. He uttered a single word, “Yes.”
The rest of the weekend passed quickly. Before they left the Ellington mansion, June had insisted that Neal look through the racks of clothes and take what he’d need for the next few weeks. Peter had resigned himself to carrying half a wardrobe back to his apartment building, but June just told them not to worry. The ever-loyal Frederick would drop everything off at Peter’s apartment before the end of the day.
Neal was transformed, and Peter thought it had little to do with the clothing and everything to do with June’s kindness. This woman didn’t know Neal, had no reason to give him the time of day, but instead had opened her heart and her home to him.
Yes, Neal had Elizabeth, and he was so obviously grateful to her – but she was family and their relationship was rooted in that benevolent obligation. As for his relationship with Neal, well – that certainly didn’t start out with any benevolent intention. And despite his own burgeoning feelings, he had little clue as to what Neal felt for him, if anything.
June and her generosity came without any strings, and that was something unique for Neal, who’d become far too accustomed to getting kicked in the teeth by life. Such spontaneous kindness was rare in the universe, a gift to be cherished. Neal certainly hadn’t been a broken down wreck of a man – he laughed, he teased, he got angry, he challenged and argued, but Peter could never escape the feeling that just below the surface, Neal was like an abused dog waiting for the next blow to fall.
Looking at him now, dressed in a perfectly fitted gray suit, white shirt and a tie that El would probably say was lilac but Peter thought of as simply purple, he looked like the definition of confidence. Again, it was more than the good clothes; it was as if Neal had recast himself as someone worthy of every good thing in the universe.
Neal was settled in the conference room, sketchbook opened and he was obviously drawing something, completely intent.
Clinton came into his office for their usual Monday morning coffee and catch-up. “I thought you said Caffrey was broke and he lost everything he owned?”
“He is and he did, why?”
The other agent rocked back on his heels and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, I don’t know too many broke homeless guys who can afford a tie, let alone a suit, like that.”
“Ah,” Peter grinned and explained, “Neal has a fairy godmother whose late husband just happened to be the exact same size as him.”
Jones nodded appreciatively. “Lucky man.”
“He deserves it. Trust me.” That was all Peter was going to say on the matter. “What have you got?”
“A bit, actually. I was able to track down a few of James Caffrey’s old squad mates. I wasn’t all that shocked that most pretended not to remember him, but there’s one guy – he’s still living in the area – who says that for the price of a cup of coffee, he’ll tell me what he knows. He was Caffrey’s trainer when he got out of the police academy and he has, in his words, ‘a few suspicions’ because the Jimmy he knew would never be on the take.”
Peter felt a small glimmer of satisfaction. This might be the lead he was looking for. “Be careful, Clinton. This isn’t an official investigation – at least not yet – and you’re not going in with any backup.”
“I could take Cruz, she says she’s due for a firearms recertification, too. Plus, she’s got some friends at Quantico – at the Marine Base, not the Academy. They might be interested in getting a cup of coffee, too.”
Peter had forgotten that Lauren had started out in the Marines and served two tours in Iraq before applying to the FBI Academy.
“If she doesn’t mind, she’s got my permission to join you. Just get the paperwork done before you go. The travel office is getting pissed off about all the post-trip approvals the office has been submitting.”
“Ah, the pleasures of being an ASAC are never-ending. I wouldn’t want to be in your seat if you gave me this week’s winning lottery ticket.”
Peter laughed. “If I did, you’d collect your winnings and quit.”
“Probably.” Clinton gave him his customary salute and went back to his desk. Peter turned and looked through the glass wall into the conference room. Neal was still sketching, but he must have sensed his stare and looked up. Peter gave him a smile, and felt like he had won the lottery when Neal smiled back.
It had been a good weekend, one of the best he could remember in a long time. As promised, Elizabeth came over a little before noon on Sunday. She burst into his apartment like a brightly colored whirlwind, handing him an enormous bag from Russ & Daughter and pushing a similar sized bag from Bloomingdales on Neal.
Neal, of course, objected and Elizabeth did her best steamroller impression. Peter had received those Big Brown Bags more than a few times. His ex-wife had a thing about men’s underwear and had never hesitated to impose her preferences on him (and Peter suspected, her boyfriend du jour). At least he’d finally gotten her to stop picking them out from the International Male catalogue.
Every Christmas, every birthday, she gave him a package of underpants. Boxer briefs. The tightest of tighty whities. Silk boxers with hand-embroidered and extremely realistic phalluses. Once, even a thong – although that really was a joke on his fortieth and she didn’t expect him to actually wear it.
And although they’d been divorced for nearly six years, Elizabeth maintained the tradition, telling him that just because she couldn’t touch, didn’t mean she couldn’t look and he still had the best ass and package of any man she knew. Lately, she’d been taken with the virtues of highly constructed undergarments, the type designed to showcase his manly attributes.
“Mansilk?” Neal had pulled an all-too-familiar box out of the Bloomingdale’s bag. Peter covered his mouth and tried not to laugh at the other man’s appalled expression.
“Elizabeth – ”
She’d cut him off at the knees. “Don’t you ‘Elizabeth’ me, Neal Caffrey. What if you were hit by a bus and the EMT was hot and sexy and he needed to give you mouth-to-mouth?”
“Well, I’d hope that if he had to give me mouth-to-mouth, he wouldn’t be checking out my underpants.”
“You know what I mean, silly. You’ve got a nice ass, you need to flaunt it.”
Neal had given in and graciously thanked El for her kind and thoughtful gift, irony thick in every word. After that, the three French-cuffed shirts from Thomas Pink and the pair of Cole Haan oxfords didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Brunch had been an uproarious affair, as different as possible from the sedate lunch with Neal’s new friend the day before. El hadn’t trusted him to provide the vodka, and in truth, both he and Neal had forgotten. Amongst the smoked fish, cheese and fresh bagels was a bottle of pepper-flavored Stoli and a large can of spicy V8 juice. And from somewhere Elizabeth had sourced freshly grated horseradish. She’d raided his pantry and found the rest of the necessary spices – probably acquired from their last brunch date six month ago. Peter had watched, caught between horror and amusement as El added half a bottle of Tabasco, a heaping tablespoon of black pepper and vast quantities of that horseradish. The resulting concoction was delicious and hot enough to blow the top of his head off.
By mid-day, brunch had been just a fond and fish-flavored memory.
Neal had finished the dregs in his glass, looked mournfully at the empty pitcher and let out a respectable belch before closing his eyes and dozing off. Elizabeth had beaten him to the Land of Nod. She’d passed out with a girlish hiccough about twenty minutes earlier
Peter hadn’t minded playing designated driver, so to speak. He’d held off after the first glass, switching to beer to cut the heat, then to water while El and Neal went to town.
They were adorable, cuddled together on his couch, and it wasn’t hard to picture them as children, getting into all sorts of trouble. He’d covered the two of them with a blanket and did his best to keep things quiet as he cleaned up from their bacchanal. Three hours later, the sun almost completely below the horizon, El shook herself awake.
“Mmmm, don’t breathe so loud, please.”
Peter had looked up from the case file he was reviewing. “Hung over?”
“Yes. And shhh. Please.”
He’d gotten up and retrieved a bottle of cold water from the kitchen and handed it to her. “This feels all too familiar, you know?”
“Drink it – it’s the best thing for a hangover. That and these…” He’d held out a small bottle of aspirin, which she’d greedily grabbed out of his hands.
Eventually, Neal had smacked his lips and opened his eyes, looking just as wrecked as El. Peter had fetched a bottle of water for him, too. El shared the aspirin.
He’d watched the pair maneuver around the apartment, slowly recovering from their overindulgence. El was a little quicker than Neal, and by six o’clock, she’d put on her shoes, reapplied her lipstick, brushed out her hair, and sailed out the door with a pert, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Or wait, maybe that’s exactly what you should do.”
Neal had holed up in his bedroom for another hour or so, re-emerging, sketchbook and pencils in hand and they’d spent the rest of the evening in quiet companionship.
This morning, Peter’s jaw had all but hit the floor when Neal came out of the bedroom wearing one of Byron’s suits. Maybe it was how the tie was still slung, unknotted, around his neck, or how the collar was opened and revealing the strong column of his neck or how the shirt cuffs poked out, still undone, from the suit coat.
He was reminded of a very old-fashioned word, one he’d once read in some paperback romance of Elizabeth’s – dishabille. At the time, he couldn’t figure out why the novel’s hero had been driven to sexual distraction by the sight of a woman’s mussed attire. Seeing Neal so carelessly dressed in such finery, he understood completely. Peter had been grateful that he was seated, with his legs crossed, as Neal made his way into the kitchen for coffee.
Neal sat down next to him, smelling like his own soap and Peter’s mouth went dry. He’d been grateful for the excuse to put some distance between them when Neal asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have a spare pair of cufflinks? Ellie’s generosity didn’t stretch that far.”
“Sure – hold on.” Peter all but ran to his own bedroom and took as much time as he dared; needlessly opening and closing drawers, pretending to search for the inexpensive cufflinks he’d gotten to go with a dress shirt a few years ago. Cufflinks that were still in their box in the top drawer of his dresser, right next to his first pair of handcuffs and a few old yarmulkes that he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of. He’d needed the time to get back some vestige of control.
But by the time he’d returned to the kitchen, cufflinks in hand, Neal was completely put together, a package worthy of a glossy magazine cover, and somehow, a lot less threatening to his peace of mind and his sense of self-control. Neal had thanked him with a smile, donned the cufflinks and picked up his sketchbook and a small zip-lock bag of pencils. Peter had made a mental note to go back to that art supply store get Neal a proper pencil case during lunch.
By noon, all thoughts of pencil cases were completely forgotten. Lauren had decided to spare the probies and go for a Starbucks run herself. When she got to the lobby, she spotted Kyle Bancroft, his boss, signing in at the security desk. She’d texted Jones who alerted him and Peter just about managed to get his desk into some semblance of order when the man himself walked into the office.
He liked and respected Section Chief Bancroft, who’d taken the time to come up to New York and personally convince him to step into Reese’s shoes. Their paths had crossed a few times during his stint in D.C., and it had been nice to know that his work on the money laundering task force had been noticed, even if the work had ultimately been a waste of time.
Peter had no idea why the Section Chief would be in New York and he was hoping that his visit to the twenty-first floor was merely a stopover on the way to another meeting. It didn’t bode well for anyone when a higher up made the trip from D.C.
Peter went down to greet the man. Knowing how little patience Bancroft had for small talk, he got right to the point. “What brings you to White Collar?”
“You.”
Shit Peter hoped his face didn’t betray his thought.
“Let’s talk in your office.” Bancroft didn’t wait for an invitation; he started up the stairs, only to pause midway at the sight of Neal Caffrey intently sketching in the conference room.
Peter explained, “He’s a witness in a current case.”
Bancroft finished the short trip and went right to Peter’s office. “I know.”
Peter didn’t know whether he should be relieved or even more worried. He gestured for Bancroft to take a seat and closed the door behind him. “That’s why you’re here. The Adler case.”
Bancroft nodded, not giving anything away.
Peter’s gut began to churn. “Are you shutting it down?”
Bancroft looked through the glass separating his office from the conference room, watching Neal for a few long moments before turning his attention back to him. “Hardly not – I’m here to give you this.” He handed Peter a large sealed envelope. “You need to read it, right now.”
His gut churning in overdrive, Peter opened the envelope. There was a security form on top of the thick file, denominating the contents as ‘Classified – Secret.’ The file itself was well worn, as if it had passed through many hands over quite a few years.
The right side of the file was a log documenting surveillance on the subject, Ballatin, Claude, from as far back as 1992. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Unfortunately, not. He’s been on the radar for a long time. Until recently, he’s been classified as neutral-friendly and a convenient conduit for support in some very gray zones.”
There were times when Peter hated his employer. At least the man sitting across from him seemed equally disgusted. “So, what’s changed?”
“I understand you know about Ballatin’s activities in Syria?”
Peter nodded.
“Add Sudan to the list. Venezuela, the Ukraine. Fomenting turmoil in former Soviet client states and then supplying arms and chemical weapons to the government has recently become a specialty of Ballatin. In essence, he’s creating his own market.”
“So, we were okay with him when he was just stirring the shit. We don’t like it when he starts making the shit splash.”
“A colorful metaphor, but accurate.”
Peter continued to read through the file, taking note of the timelines in the surveillance and the gaps. “Was anyone tracking him when he was in New York?”
“The CIA was only interested in his overseas activities.”
Which wasn’t to say that the NSA didn’t have a similar file on him. “And his disappearance? The Justice Department contends that a bulk of the money that went missing was illusory, that his investment funds were mere Ponzi schemes, like Madoff’s. Do you think that the money was real and he’s been using it to fund his activities?”
Bancroft’s expression gave nothing away. “That would be something. It’s kind of hard to imagine such a byzantine scheme, isn’t it? The U.S. Government just stands by when a private citizen steals – what, nine billion dollars – because he’s using the stolen money to promote the Government’s overseas interests.” His tone was just as bland as his face, he sounded almost disinterested.
“Not that hard to imagine.” Peter kept his tone equally bland. “So, what happens now?”
“You know that Interpol issued a Red Notice for Adler back in ’08.”
“Of course – that’s what’s so frustrating. We’ve identified Ballatin as Adler, we’re about to send over Neal’s affidavit confirming his identity, and they should arrest him immediately. But I have the feeling that’s not going to happen.”
Bancroft confirmed those suspicious. “No, it’s not. Ballatin has paid off a lot of people. Of course, we could spend months negotiating with the French government, go through all the diplomatic channels, pound our chest and make demands, but we won’t get anywhere. And worse, we’ll tip our hand with the people who are getting paid to keep Ballatin informed. He’ll do a flyer and we’ll never get this close to him again.”
“So, how are we going to move the French to arrest him?”
Bancroft smiled and Peter felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “You’re going to use your powers of persuasion on a bunch of locals. You’re going to go to Paris with that Red Notice in hand and you’re going to ask them to arrest Vincent Adler, noted American fugitive. You’re got to take Neal Caffrey with you, just in case the locals want proof. And as soon as Adler is in custody, I’m going to arrange for the biggest media circus since the NYPD made Dominic Strauss-Kahn do the perp walk at One Centre Street. Alder, Ballatin, whatever the hell the man’s name is, can bleat like a sheep all the way to the slaughter, but he’s going to find himself without any friends when the story goes public.”
Peter wasn’t sure he shared his Section Chief’s optimism. He returned the folder to its envelope and handed it back. “I’m going to need to share this information with Neal. If he’s going to be involved in this any more than he already is, he can’t fly blind.”
Bancroft, thankfully, agreed. “You’ll use your best judgment. Keep the details to a minimum. CIA fought me over letting you see this. Langley would have its panties in a collective wad if they knew that Caffrey was brought into the loop.”
Peter sighed. “I hate this crap. We’re supposed to be the good guys, right?”
“I know.” Bancroft asked, “Your passport’s current, I hope?”
Peter recalled a similar comment from Hughes and nodded.
“Do you know if Caffrey’s is? If he even has one?”
“I’ll find out, but we can get that expedited if we have too.” Peter figured that they’d probably need to do that, considering that Neal’s former apartment and its contents was now a pile of smoldering rubble.
Bancroft leaned back in the chair, his expression intent. “You know, this probably won’t work and it may mean your career before it’s over. Mine, too.”
Peter hid his worry behind a philosophical shrug. “Life’s not without its risks.”
Neal was dying to know who was in Peter’s office. He was someone Peter liked, but also respected and deferred to. That much was apparent from the body language. And the other man had a similar level of respect for Peter but was accustomed to being in charge. He’d always been good at reading people and his four years in prison honed that skill – it became necessary for his survival.
So was lip-reading. But he was out of practice and they weren’t facing him. Besides, he really needed to pretend not to focus on the business in the office and concentrate on what he was sketching.
Peter Burke, his favorite subject – at least since Friday evening.
Here, in the FBI office, in a glass-walled conference room, in full view of the entire office, Neal kept his sketches extremely tame. Facial studies that attempted to capture the humor, the life of the man. Nothing he’d be ashamed to show anyone. Not like the sketches buried in the middle pages – arm porn, shoulder porn, Peter’s perfect ass caressed by an ancient pair of Levis. He hadn’t worked up the courage to tease out a sketch of Peter’s package framed by a pair of those extremely naughty Mansilk briefs, or how he’d imagine the man without his shirt.
Resolving to ignore Peter and the man in his office, Neal focused on the project at hand – Peter Burke, reading. He didn’t know why, but the sight of Peter in his club chair, reading the Sunday Times with a pair of cheaters balanced on his nose, was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. Maybe it was all the fierce intelligence, maybe it was the glasses – just a tiny indicator of human frailty, maybe it was all that masculine beauty in repose. Whatever the reason, Neal was absolutely compelled to capture that image for his own personal posterity.
A knock on the conference room door interrupted his concentration.
“Sorry to disturb you, Neal.” It was Peter.
“Do you need the room?” Neal started to gather up his pencils.
“No, I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Peter stepped aside and the man who’d been in Peter’s office entered the conference room. “This is my boss, Kyle Bancroft, Section Chief for the Financial Crimes division.”
Neal was a little startled by the man’s searching look as he held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Caffrey.”
He was about to chalk those words up to mere politeness, when Bancroft continued. “It’s a very brave thing you’re doing and I’m honored to meet you.” The sincerity in the man’s voice was impossible to discount.
“I’m just doing what’s right.” Neal hoped he didn’t sound like a fatuous prat.
“It’s rarely about ‘just what’s right’, Mr. Caffrey. You know you’re going to be in for a difficult time?”
Neal blinked, not sure what the man was getting at.
Bancroft explained, “After Adler’s arrested – he’s going to fight tooth and nail and it’s going to be a very public and very dirty battle.”
He shrugged. “It’s not like I have a reputation or a livelihood to worry about. Adler can say what he wants.”
Agent Bancroft stared hard, as if he was trying to send a message. Neal almost wished that Peter would leave to room to let the guy speak freely.
“Like I said, my name isn’t important and my family knows just what’s going on. I can live with the consequences and so can my family.”
Bancroft nodded, reluctantly accepting his answer. “Okay. It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Caffrey.”
Neal was at a loss, feeling like he’d just missed half of the conversation. “Likewise, sir.”
Bancroft turned to leave, but paused and turned back. “A word of advice: listen to Peter, he knows what he’s doing. Trust him, he’s a good man.”
Neal couldn’t help but notice the flags of high color along Peter’s cheek as he flushed from the praise. The imp in Neal made him answer, “I know he is. And I’ll do my best to listen to everything Agent Burke has to say.”
That brought a small smile to the Section Chief’s lips, as if he understood all of Neal’s subtext.
Neal watched Peter escort his boss to the front door, he watched them shake hands and chat for a brief moment. Then he looked up at him, nodded and left.
Neal sat down and tried to parse out just what the man had wanted him to understand. The words echoed in his mind, “a very public and very dirty battle”. Did he mean…
Ah. Of course he did, and why did it not surprise Neal that this man knew about his relationship with Vincent. But it seemed that Peter was still in the dark and Neal was happy to keep him that way, if just for a little while longer. He took so much pleasure in Peter’s high regard, he didn’t want to see that turn to disgust a moment before it had to.
“Lauren, thanks for the heads-up.” Peter stopped by Cruz’s desk and picked up her rubber band ball, tossing it from hand to hand.
She grinned and grabbed the ball from him mid-toss. “My pleasure, boss. May I ask, what did Section Chief Bancroft want?”
“The Adler case.” Clinton joined them. “As if we couldn’t figure that out, with him going to see Caffrey.”
Peter grinned at the pair. “Did you two even bother to try to get any work done?”
“I’ve finished the travel requests for the D.C. trip – for those re-certifications you want us to do down in Quantico,” Lauren noted with a sly wink.
“Well, you’re going to need hold off on those,” Peter told her.
“I thought that was priority?” Clinton puzzled.
“Not anymore – we’ve got an operation to plan.” Peter headed back to the conference room without waiting to see if the two agents followed. This time, he didn’t bother knocking – Neal wasn’t even pretending to be busy. His sketchbook was closed, the pencils neatly piled in their baggie. He asked abruptly, “Your passport – was it destroyed?”
Neal shook his head. “No, I put all of my personal papers in a safety deposit box that was paid up ten years in advance. My lawyer – not Moz, but the one who represented me in the government’s case – has the key.”
“Good. We’ll need to see him sooner than later.” Peter was looking forward to that visit. He’d read through the case files from the DOJ and there were some very interesting communications that needed to be explained.
Cruz and Jones joined them and Peter closed the door. “I’ll be bringing in other agents as this develops, but right now, you two are on point.”
“Whatever you need, Peter.” Clinton was, as always, steady and dependable.
“Okay, this is what’s going on.” Peter gave them a high-level briefing, leaving out the CIA-supplied details on Ballatin’s activities. “Basically, we’re going to go to a local Parisian police department with the Interpol Red Notice and tell them we’ve located Vincent Adler. I’m hoping that the man’s payoffs haven’t gotten down to that level.”
Neal spoke up. “Adler’s not the type to even think about paying off the local police. He’s not only a big picture thinker; he doesn’t actually ‘see’ the little guys.”
“Good – that’s good. So, he’d pay off the precinct captains and figure it would trickle down?” Peter paced back and forth, thinking.
“No – more like he’d pay off the Minister of the Interior and expect that the entire French national police force would fall into line.”
Neal’s comment was surprising, considering his former stance on Adler’s innocence. “You know that he’s paid people off?”
Neal shook his head. “No, not at all, but I know him and if he waspaying anyone off, it would be the people at the top – the ministers, the cabinet secretaries. He’d fully expect those payoffs to trickle down.”
Peter stopped moving. It was like he was hit by a brick. “You know, we’ve been flying blind about Adler. We’ve got the Department of Justice files on his operations, but we know nothing about him.” He looked at Neal.
“And you want me to help?” Neal sounded resigned, but not the least conflicted.
“We would appreciate it. Having you confirm Adler’s identity is key, but if you could help us fill in the blanks, it can only improve the operation’s chances of success.”
“Whatever you need, Peter.”
The sound of his name, spoken with such quiet intensity, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Okay, okay – where to start?” Peter stalked around the room, trying to organize his thoughts. “We know that Adler’s been living in Paris – why?” He looked at Neal for an answer.
“He loved Paris – the art, the culture. But he always said that he felt that it was easier to remain anonymous in Paris.”
“And we know that anonymity was important to him.”
“Yeah, he used to say that when people heard his name, the first thing they wanted from him was money. And then information. And he valued information more than he did money.”
“Okay, good. Good. So – Paris, did he have any permanent residences or did he stay in hotels?” Peter figured the former, but he needed to ask.
Neal laughed. “Vincent had several – a house on the Ile St. Louis, a penthouse apartment near the Eiffel Tower in the seventh arrondissement, and he kept a suite at the Hotel George V. There were other properties, but those were the ones he preferred.”
Cruz asked, “Do we know what happened to them? Were the properties seized when Adler disappeared?”
Neal frown, clearing in the dark about that.
Peter loved moments like this, when he could use his team to the fullest of their abilities. “Lauren, since I know you’re fluent in French, you’ve just volunteered to find that out.”
She nodded and began making notes.
Neal kept the helpful information coming, “They weren’t held in his name and there’s probably no paper trail back to Vincent Adler. I do know that the house in the Marias was bought by a special purpose holding company and sold three or four times before being repurchased by another special purpose entity that a company Vincent controlled. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s been bought and sold a few more times.”
Clinton joked, “I guess if you’re a billionaire, you’re really not worried about paying the transfer taxes.”
“No, not really. It was all about anonymity, about keeping his name and his primary company’s name off the radar.” Neal sounded bitter. “I never asked him why that mattered so much. He wasn’t like Howard Hughes – he wasn’t a recluse – he just wanted to stay anonymous.”
Peter was about to tell Neal about Claude Ballatin’s activities but cut himself off. Clinton knew a little bit, but Lauren wasn’t cleared. And telling Neal that his former boss was really an international arms smuggler and probably responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of innocent lives wouldn’t serve any purpose, just yet. “Give Lauren all the addresses you can remember. Maybe we can discreetly run the property records with the tax authorities in Paris. See who’s bought and sold them. If we can link any of those places to anything controlled by Ballatin, maybe we can pin the man down.”
Neal, though, didn’t seem to think that was necessary. “Why not just stake out La Tour d’Argent?”
Even Peter, who wasn’t au courant on haute cuisine, knew that La Tour d’Argent was one of the most famous and exclusive restaurants in Paris. “I don’t think that the Paris police will supply us with a surveillance van and listening devices. Besides, why do you think we’ll find him there?”
“The picture you showed me – Vincent’s seated alone at the best table in the restaurant. They don’t just put anyone there, and if he’s living under the radar, it means that he’s a valued customer, not a famous name. For that type of treatment, I’d have to figure that he eats there once or twice a week.”
“It’s an idea – a good one, but it’s risky.”
The four of them brainstormed for the rest of the afternoon, into the evening, and in the quieter moments, Peter watched Neal interact with Clinton and Lauren. It was like he was a veteran member of the team and Peter couldn’t help but regret the waste of talent. Once Adler was wrapped up, he was going to do his damnedest to find out what the hell happened to James Caffrey and why Neal had lived with a target on his back for half his life.
It was well after eight by time Peter called a halt to their work. The conference table was littered with notepads and files and folders – Lauren had done a good job of keeping up with transcribing the whiteboard. It was actually one of those smart board things that automatically captured the data, but Peter had disabled that function. Something told him that keeping this information off the FBI’s servers was a good precaution.
The room also smelled unpleasantly of stale Chinese food.
Peter took pity on everyone when Clinton yawned for the fourth or fifth time. “I think it’s time to call it a night, folks.” When Lauren started to gather up the notes, he waved her off. “I’ll take care of this – go home, get a good night’s sleep and be ready to start fresh tomorrow.”
His agents gave him a grateful ‘goodnight’ and left. Neal was standing in the back of the room, hands in his pockets. Caught in the shadows, the expression on his face was unreadable. He shifted and moved into the light. Peter was struck by the sadness he saw there. “You okay? We’ve put you through the ringer today. I know this wasn’t what you signed up for.”
“I’m fine. It’s just …”
Peter waited for him to finish the thought.
Neal gave him a sad smile and continued, “This could have been my life. I could have been like Clinton Jones, like you, like everyone in this office. I would have been very happy doing this – working ungodly hours, eating lousy take-out, being part of something good and meaningful and important.”
Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat. “For what it’s worth, watching you today – I have no doubt that you would have been a stellar agent and I would have been proud to have you on my team.”
Neal dropped his head and looked away, blinking rapidly. They finished cleaning up without another word. Peter took all of the notes and papers – even the crumpled up and discarded ones – with him. Those he’d shred at home. He knew he was being paranoid, but he didn’t want to take any chances that someone paid a cleaner to hand over a trash bag. It had been known to happen.
It was close to nine-thirty before they got home. The conversation during the drive was minimal, Neal was lost in his own thoughts and Peter didn’t seem inclined to chat. When Peter closed the apartment door behind them and set the alarm, he figured Neal was going to say goodnight and head off to his bedroom. Instead, he went to the kitchen and fetched two bottles of beer before taking off his jacket and loosening his tie.
Peter did the same, going so far as to unbutton his cuffs and roll up his sleeves. He took the bottle that Neal held out to him and settled on the couch. It all seemed very domestic and normal, like they done this every night for decades.
Neal seemed like he wanted to say something and Peter was patient. In an impatient sort of way.
Finally, the other man spoke. “You know, you’re making this far too complicated.”
That was the last thing Peter was expecting Neal to say. “What do you mean?”
“The operation – catching Adler in Paris.”
“We don’t really have much of a choice. I can’t just walk into a police station and say, ‘go arrest Claude Ballatin, he’s really the American financial fraudster, Vincent Adler.’ You know that – we can’t bring in his French alter-ego at all. We need to arrest the American citizen, and while you’ll be able to identify Adler for us, that’s only going to happen after he’s in custody.”
“That’s what I mean – that’s too complicated. Let me confront him.”
No. No. He was not letting Neal within a dozen yards of Adler, unless they were separated by steel bars. “That’s too dangerous, Neal. You know what he’s capable of.”
“I’ll wear a wire, you’ll be watching. Remember, he’s not a recluse. He goes out, but he just maintains a very low profile. We’ll watch out for him at La Tour d’Argent. Believe me, if I show up and sit down at his table – he’s not going to make a public spectacle. It’ll be too visible, call too much attention to him.”
“No, Neal. No. It’s too risky.” Peter felt sick at the thought of putting Neal into the line of fire. “You’re not a trained agent.”
“Keep with the plan and you’ll lose him, Peter. Keep making inquiries with the tax offices, the police, the word’s going to trickle up to him and he’ll run.”
“And what if he bodyguards intercept you on the way? What if you never actually get within five feet of him? You have to realize that they’re on the lookout for you.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Neal shrugged, far too sanguine about the danger he would face for Peter’s state of mind. “We’ve got one shot at this, Peter. You’ve said so yourself. Let me do this.”
He hated the pleading note in Neal’s voice, but he understood the need to make things right. “Let me sleep on this. I won’t deny that your idea has merit and that the more we dig through Adler’s life as Claude Ballatin, the more we risk losing him for good. But I don’t like putting civilians in harm’s way.”
Neal nodded but there was reluctance in that simple gesture. “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say right now.”
“But you’ll continue to make your case in the morning, right?”
That earned him a smile. “I can be relentless, you know.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” Peter smiled, but there was a knot of worry in his stomach. Neal’s idea made too much sense to dismiss it out of hand, as much as he wanted to.
“See you in the morning.” Neal stood, picked up his jacket and went into his bedroom, the door closing quietly behind him.
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There's a very brief shot of Tim in just those glasses in the DVD extra for "Empire City" - it's no more than a frame or two, but GUH!!!!!!!!!!!
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PS what are cheaters?
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Unfortunately my computer doesn't let me do direct screencaps anymore, but maybe
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