Note: I've been away too long from writing White Collar stories.
This story is set mid S4 before the arrival of Sam.
Devil's Trumpet
Chapter 1
"That's a moonflower, Peter!" Neal Caffrey pointed at a large, luminous white trumpet flower.
To Neal's surprise, Special Agent Peter Burke frowned as if he didn't agree. Strolling along a diverse flower exhibition, the two men were enjoying a spirited pettifoggery, as they observed elaborate flower arrangements and ornamental plants.
"It's one of the most romantic garden plants you can grow. Moonflower… of the solanacae or nightshade family. These beautiful blossoms are native to Central and South America and usually open at night to beat out the day competition." Neal paused with a scholarly grin. "It's the daylight flowers that display vibrant colors attracting a variety of pollinators; they're beautiful to our eyes and they exhibit striking patterns in ultra-violet and infra-red ranges that we can't see. But nocturnal blooms… ah, they put out a delectable odor that's like a flaunting neon sign reading smogasbord. Bees and butterflies aren't interested but nocturnal moths are really aroused; they're attracted to the aroma."
The handsome con artist, dressed immaculately in light gray wool, circa 1960's elegant Sy Devore suit, powder-blue Armani dress shirt and matching striped cobalt tie, gestured with heightened excitement, pointing to the towering vines and white trumpet-shaped flowers blooming in the garden aisle. A sweet and heady lemony scent permeated the air. Although the hour was nearing half past eight o'clock, Neal looked as fresh and dapper as he had first appeared early that morning.
His companion, Peter Burke, was not so fortunate. Attired more sedately in last year's Brooks Brothers suit, the dark blue garment was limp and decidedly wrinkled, although fetchingly offset by a brightly striped shirt and Hugo silk red tie.
"Thank you, Jeff Corwin. It may surprise you but I do happen to know a bit about night bloomers and Datura moonflowers. Just because I don't voraciously read elite gardening magazines with apt delight, while sipping Italian Roast on my Manhattan terrace, doesn't mean my horticultural knowledge is limited to the… the …," he paused, apparently searching for the nomenclature of some garden periodical, "annual special addition of Better Homes and Garden."
"Yes, I understand. However, reading Ranger Rick in the dental office or watching the Animal Planet doesn't quite cover the specificity of night bloomers, Peter. Nocturnal insects have an incredible sense of smell. They can detect the slightest aroma from miles away. A few night bloomers have strong stenches, like Florida's James' Waterlily, but the Datura inoxia has a pleasant, sweetly nocturnal, intoxicating fragrance that some people have likened to—"
"In layman's terms, moths have big sniffers and moonflowers don't stink!" baited Burke, with a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I just happened to spend several summers working in a nursery during high school. It involved a great deal of hard, repetitive work … something you're unfamiliar with." He paused. "Naturally, you made no mention of the plant's dark side. All parts of this plant contain very high levels of poison with toxicity to people and animals. I'm sure you know that in some places, it's illegal to sell or cultivate Daktura plants; they're considered an invasive species in a few locations."
"Attending a horticultural exhibit at The New York Palace Hotel with a plebian law enforcement official somehow takes the thrill out of the evening," responded Neal, sighing heavily. "The fact these flowers glow with a noticeably outer worldly charm in the moonlight," he lifted his hands toward the sky, "doesn't seem to penetrate your officious and combative demeanor." Casting a questioning gaze upon both his handler and partner, he paused. "You didn't, per chance, have one of your very infrequent but painful disagreements with Elizabeth, did you?"
Peter wrinkled his brow, shook his head in a negative reply, fixing Neal Caffrey with his patterned menacing glare that usually stopped most felons in their tracks.
"Okay, then," said the younger man, "admit it. You must have received your annual property tax notification. Owing money is another telltale trigger for Burke grumpiness."
"Stop," answered Peter, menacingly waving one hand within inches of Neal's aesthetically handsome nose. "I did not have a disagreement with El and I'm not grumpy." The agent sat down suddenly on one of the marble benches in the courtyard garden exhibit, followed hesitantly, a few moments later by his partner.
Pulling out his notebook and scanning his scribbles, Peter slouched with fatigue.
"Neal, it's late. We've been working fourteen hour days and I want to go home. After a long day in the office, chasing down particulars on one of our longstanding, open and infuriating mortgage cases, we're only now finding time to investigate the jewelry theft ring. I'm not in the mood to be exuberantly tiptoeing through the tulips with you. By the way, where'd you get all your Tiny Tim energy from?"
The look Neal turned on him was feigned disbelief. "We're sitting in the Madison Avenue Courtyard, of the historic Villard Mansion, historic old carriage entrance, adjacent to the hotel's grand lobby, and all you can do is complain about fatigue!"
Hey, look here," Peter said, ignoring his partner's banter and pointing to his pad, alerting Neal to just how tired he was. "We're supposed to meet one of the exhibit's representatives named Brooke Sunterland. She personally requested someone from our office drop by, accusing the NYPD of investigative incompetence."
"Agent Burke!" a shout resonated from a short distance away. The two men glanced up, past a large placard offering free horticultural seminars, to see a short, fiftyish, rotund woman, wearing a brightly colored and garish horticultural badge strode toward them.
"I'm betting that's Brooke," said Peter quietly, as the two men rose to their feet.
"Is that a neon orange sunflower badge, surrounded by glowing purple daisies and stars?" replied Neal, in a pained whisper.
"I'm not sure. The outer worldly shine is blinding my vision."
"You must be Agent Burke," Ms. Sunterland exclaimed loudly. "Your office told me you were coming by." She bared her teeth in a sort of bulldog grin and vigorously pumped both men's hands with a force that caused a half smile from Peter and quiet grunt from Neal, as he hastily took one step behind his cohort.
Peter glanced back at Neal before meeting the representative's gaze. "Yes Ma'am. I'm Special Agent Peter Burke and this is my consultant, Neal Caffrey. We're here to talk to you about the Bateman Robbery on May 22nd. It seems your horticultural event had space next to the jewelry exhibit last Sunday." He paused, intent on Brooke's reaction to his next question. "Isn't it a bit odd that your flower festival was aesthetically merged with an exhibit of fine gems?"
"Yes, Agent Burke," she replied. "Some board member's brilliant idea of attracting a larger crowd to our quarterly garden display. It's the first time we offered some of our rental space in the lobby to gemstone distributers. We were supposed to reap the rewards of greater public exposure for horticultural events." Brooke paused, fixing a piercing gaze at Peter. "Our committee will most certainly be changing this policy in the future. We didn't realize the jewels would draw the baser element of criminal offenders. High-end gardening usually caters to the more genteel and intellectual population."
"As Agent Burke's consultant, I most certainly agree with you, Ms. Sunterland," Neal was quick to interject. "One of my friends, Mr. Haversham and I, part of the horticultural cognoscenti of Manhattan, enjoy the refined atmosphere of home cultivation."
Studiously avoiding Peter's dismissive reaction, Neal reached over, gently placing his hand on the administrator's right arm. "We're particularly enthralled with datura inoixia. In fact, I was just pointing out to Peter, the fascinating attributes of moonflowers. Your organization's display is particularly impressive. Perfect for a night garden."
Brooke, caught in the process of bending down to stroke one of the large white blossoms, paused halfway, beaming with delight. "Oh thank you, Mr. Caffrey," she said standing up, casting her attention entirely on Neal. "You have no idea how pleasant that is to hear. We're certainly a group of dedicated professionals striving to enhance New York's beautification of home and garden, hoping to see the expansion of greening efforts. I'm sure you're aware of how detrimental this recent dry spell has been to gardening." Neal nodded solemnly as Brooke smiled flirtatiously at him. "You must be a great asset, Mr. Caffrey, to the FBI agency."
As Peter sighed in dismay, Neal smiled modestly, casting an angelic look upon the agent.
"You've no idea," Peter muttered. "Ms. Sunterland, I know you're aware that shortly after the festival closed last Sunday, one of the gem owners, David Bateman, was assaulted and robbed of his merchandise as he returned to his vehicle. NYPD informed our office you happened to observe some suspicious activity that evening."
"I certainly did. Although Sunday is often a very busy day for us and last weekend was no exception, I assure you, I happened to notice three men at the jewelry display who stood out from the rest of the spectators. This all happened during my coffee break in the lobby."
"Go on, please," said Peter when Brooke paused her speech, glancing over at Neal, as if for validation and approval from a fellow gardening enthusiast. Neal nodded, smiling with encouragement.
"My eye caught three Hispanic men, in their thirties or forties, milling around just outside the exhibit. I noticed them because they had briefly stopped off at our exhibit earlier in the day." She paused again, seeming to gather herself before she continuted. "I'm very observant, Agent Burke. They seemed very uneasy and indifferent to our botanical displays. I wondered to myself why they strolled through the aisles but didn't stop to inspect any of our beautiful specimens. Certainly suspicious, I'd say. Wouldn't you agree, gentlemen?" she nodded, certain of an affirmative response.
"Have you ever seen them at previous flower shows?" asked Neal.
"Not at all! These men looked very out of place. I'm sure they were using our exhibit to plan their nefarious deed. And poor Mr. Bateman; he's such a fine man. They must have followed him and stole all his gems. The police told me he was threatened at knife-point! I hope you catch these criminals. Our entire garden club won't feel safe until you do."
"I don't believe these men are interested in moonflowers, Ms. Sunterland. Their interest lies primarily in jewelry and gem theft," Peter attempted to reassure her, failing to hide a hint of his impatience. "We'll do all we can to apprehend the thieves."
After asking a few more questions, Neal and Peter took their leave, meandering through the short aisles with myriad displays of such things as moon flowers, lavish container gardens, and assorted asian lilies. The courtyard floor they walked on was designed with flooring motifs from 15th-centry Italian cathedrals. The modern fifty-five story hotel tower, with its design of dark bronze reflective glass and anodized aluminum, loomed above them.
"Brooke Sunterland seemed quite certain she spotted our thieves," said Neal.
"Certainty doesn't always equal accuracy," replied Peter. "Although this time I believe our witness is correct. This has all the earmarks of the Virginia theft ring. Looks like they've moved north."