Part Two: The Turn

Peter and Diana were heading towards a rough(er) part of the warehouse district when Diana's cell phone rang. She figured it was Neal and picked up without even looking at it.

"Caffrey?"

"Lady Suit?" came a wobbly, weak, confused voice on the other end. "Damn, I misdialed…"

"Mozzie!" Diana would never admit it out loud, but "the short guy" had grown on her just a little and she was as freaked out as everyone else. "Peter, stop the car. Mozzie, where are you?"

Peter screeched to a halt and did a 180 at Diana's frantic "turn around" gesture. "Uh huh," she said, a few times, grabbing the Jesus handle as Peter spun the wheel. "Okay, we're coming. Stay put." She hung up. "He's in an alley off Fifth, about half a block from the park. He was sitting on a bench and someone shot him point blank, but he was wearing a vest. Trouble breathing, but other than that, he's okay."

Peter was baffled. "How did he –"

"Who knows. But he says we need to pick him up without anyone seeing."

Peter was baffled again. "Why?"

"He was saying something about blowing his cover." (Peter groaned.) "He probably needs medical attention."

"And there's no way he'll go to a hospital," Peter filled in. "Great. All right, Plan B. Maybe Dr. Rosen can make a house call. Get him on the phone and have him meet us at June's."

"No problem," Diana said. Rosen's kid was FBI, and Rosen himself was officially retired, but he did favors for the Bureau all the time. She started scrolling through her contact list.

Mozzie focused on his breathing and tried to keep his blood pumping as slowly as possible between peeks out at the scene. The EMTs and police were packing up and leaving, looking annoyed and discouraged, and a young police officer seemed to be offering to escort the nun somewhere. He watched as the nun took the officer up on it and cheerfully climbed into the back of the patrol car, behind the mesh divider. The young cop's partner, an Asian guy in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair, seemed to find this funny and took shotgun.

Mozzie was having trouble finding anything remotely funny at the moment. As soon as the first responders had dispersed and there was nothing left to look at, he carefully made his way past a very smelly dumpster and sat down next to it on a patch of filthy ground. He was hurting all over and feeling lightheaded, but he was hidden from view, and at least the Suits were on their way, and when had that become a positive thing? He halfheartedly cursed Neal Caffrey for getting him involved in this mess. Of course, his rational mind shouted at him, this "mess" was probably really important and/or lucrative, and he wouldn't want to be anywhere else than in the middle of the action.

But it had really been a crappy day.

When he'd shown up earlier at June's to give Neal the good news about the code and seen that Neal had left his anklet around Bugsy's neck and gone off to do whatever massively Stupid Thing he'd decided on – probably killing Fowler, if he had to guess – Mozzie had dutifully informed the Suit. And as soon as he hung up, he realized that he'd forgotten one of his notebooks at Akihiro Tanaka's antique shop, so he went back to the shop to look for it.

Of course, before he found it, he found Akihiro lying there on the floor, blood-stained, still, and most definitely past tense. If Akihiro was dead, and Akihiro was working on the music box, then he was in danger, too. He didn't even know how closely he'd missed the shooter. It was possible they'd poetically passed each other on the street, the killer leaving, him entering, just in time to find his friend's body crumpled on the floor in the back workroom. It was all he could do to bow his head, quietly clap twice to heaven in prayer, grab what he'd forgotten, and run for his life. He left the music box melody playing on its loop; it was too risky to touch anything or be seen by the video cameras.

His nearest safe house was Wednesday (he was usually there on Thursdays). After stashing the actual results, he meditated on the problem for a few moments and then decided on a solution. Hiding was the prudent thing, but acting was the right thing. So he put his phone on silent, because he didn't want any disturbances, and then he strapped himself into his vest, velcroed on the fifteen blood packs, buttoned his shirt, and pocketed a small notebook full of doodles, ridiculous math that went nowhere, and a few crude limericks. And then he bought himself a coffee, sat down on a bench in public, and dangled himself out in the open like a total goober, in the hopes that whoever shot Akihiro would shoot him.

Obviously, this would not be the go-to plan for most people, but Mozzie had always prided himself on thinking outside the box, and the idea had certain advantages. Being deceased would give him an airtight alibi for … whatever. The code was broken and the answer was safely tucked away in a secure location. And now, the bullet that could help identify the man who killed Akihiro was safely lodged in his vest. Everything he'd done today would help Neal and the Suits solve this mystery. But it couldn't raise the dead.

"I'm so sorry, Akihiro," he whispered to the air, tensing up as a set of tires squeaked near the entrance of the alley. "Gomen nasai. Gomen nasai. We're gonna get the bastard, don't you worry."

The macabre image of his friend's remains was still fresh in his mind, and the realization that he'd never hear that cheerful "Moshi moshi!" again hit him like a ton of bricks. He'd never actually been sure if Akihiro was saying hello in Japanese or just trying to say "Mozzie, Mozzie," but either way, he would really miss the guy.

He heard car doors slam, then some footsteps a ways off.

"Moz?" came Peter Burke's voice.

"Suit," Mozzie managed.

The footsteps sped up and soon Mozzie found himself face to face with Neal's captor, a guy who he constantly needled, partly because he was a tool of the Man and partly because it entertaining; a guy he was now trusting to save his life. Peter didn't disappoint. With Diana's help and no comments, he righted Mozzie and supported him for a quick stagger to the car. Once Mozzie was safely in the back of the Taurus, Diana ran around to take shotgun and Peter floored it.

"Where we goin'?" Mozzie asked. He could feel himself giving out; now that he knew he was in good hands, he was shaking and his vision was blurring badly.

"June's house," Diana threw over her shoulder. "We've got an FBI doctor coming to meet us. Just hang in there, all right?"

Mozzie waved her off weakly and tried not to pass out as Peter made a hard left.

Jones was standing by at the door when the Taurus pulled up and squeaked to a halt. He and Diana safely whisked a rather nauseous Mozzie into the house while Peter parked and ran in to join them. They were working in one of the downstairs guest bedrooms, where Dr. Rosen and the housekeeper were getting the bed ready.

Mozzie got things rolling by hoarsely demanding a bucket. Between his initial nausea and Peter's driving, his chi couldn't hold up anymore. The vomiting that his body had been telling him it needed to do for the past hour finally happened, and it was noisy and spectacular. He let out a weak cry from jarring his ribs, and a few tears escaped.

"I'll start an IV and give you some compazine," Rosen said. "We can't have any more of this."

"Nah, don't bother," Mozzie said. "I'm feeling better."

"Shut up," said Diana. She'd literally jumped out of the way when he'd started vomiting into the bucket, lest he miss. "Should we lay him out on the bed?"

"Get his jacket and shirt off first," Rosen replied.

After some painful poking and prodding, an IV insertion and three FBI agents making faces at the really ugly purple spot spreading just northeast of Mozzie's sternum, the doctor gave everybody the lowdown. One rib was broken and the ribs north and south of it were badly bruised, but according to the portable X ray, the fracture was very clean and there wasn't any major internal damage. Mozzie would not be up to any kind of serious activity for a little while, and he would be a guest at June's place for at least two weeks while he recovered, but all around, he was damn lucky.

"You hear that?" Peter asked Mozzie, who had just gotten his first blast of painkillers and was starting to bliss out. "You're going to be all right. Don't worry about the vest and the bullet. It's going with me as evidence. And we know about Akihiro. We'll fix this, Moz, okay?"

"Kay," Mozzie murmured, and closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, Dr. Rosen was ready to write scrips for pain meds and other things that the patient would need.

"What's the name?" he asked, pen at the ready.

Peter and his agents looked at each other. Normally, Mozzie's paranoia was a source of amusement, but considering everything that had happened today, and Mozzie's no longer quite so unreasonable fear of being in the system, they weren't about to put any of his aliases on prescriptions. So Clinton Jones was prescribed Vicodin, which he solemnly promised not to abuse, and he put on his coat and headed out to pick it up. Diana and Peter ro-sham-boed for the therapeutic breathing device, and Diana won the prize. But as Rosen wrote out the prescription for Diana's brand new incentive spirometer, Peter looked pensive.

"Peter, you look like you forgot something," Diana said.

"I think I did," Peter replied. "Where's Neal?"

Jones was almost at the door of the bedroom, and he answered. "He, uh … well, I went upstairs a while ago, and I heard things, and … I didn't want to go in there."

Peter crossed his arms. "What things?"

Jones looked embarrassed. "He was crying, man. I didn't want to barge in. He was really upset about the little guy."

And then Peter had a wordless moment. He said everything he needed to say with his face, moving from shock to despair to humiliation, and then hung his head. "Jesus."

"What?" Diana asked.

"I never called Neal to tell him that we found Mozzie. Damn it, I knew I forgot to do something."

"You mean he thinks Mozzie's…"

"Dead, Jones. Yeah. You guys get out of here. I'll go make this right. Head out the back, okay?"

His agents nodded and left. Peter looked back over at Mozzie, limp as a rag doll, now dressed in clean night clothes and resting flat on his back in the bed. Dr. Rosen was repacking his bag and putting in an order of tea with Annie, one of the maids; he'd offered to stick around for a few hours to monitor things. Helga, June's housekeeper, laid a warm towel over Mozzie's chest and brought the blankets up to his chin to hold in the heat. She smiled at Peter.

"Don't worry, sir, we'll make sure Mr. Haversham is comfortable."

Peter gave her a slightly pained smile. In a house this large, with Mozzie on one end of it and Neal at almost the opposite corner, it was a safe bet that his ersatz consultant had no idea what was going on. As he climbed the giant staircase to the second floor, he started to feel guiltier and guiltier about yelling at Neal. Granted, Neal had done something unbearably stupid, again, but Peter was starting to understand his partner a little better; underneath that smooth façade and impressive intelligence and talent, Neal Caffrey was … a guy. He was young and energetic and impulsive, and he felt deeply and loved passionately and got angry and did crazy stuff when he was pushed too hard, like twisting a banner into an impromptu rope and doing his impression of a wrecking ball in order to almost kill somebody. He didn't think straight where women were involved, and he made lots of bad decisions, and if the noises coming from his room were any indication, he lost hope and grieved just like everybody else.

Peter steeled himself and knocked on the door. "Neal?"

He heard a throat clear, an attempt at normalcy. "Yeah? What is it, Peter?"

Peter noticed that there was no attempt by Neal to open the door and face him. "Found Mozzie. He got shot, but he's gonna be okay."

"Shot?" Neal blurted from inside the apartment, and his voice cracked. "How bad? What hospital? No, wait, don't tell me, it's probably out of my radius."

Peter smirked. "Neal, calm down. Somehow, he figured out that whoever killed Akihiro was after him, and he wore a bullet-proof vest. He messed up his ribs, but he didn't need a hospital. We brought him here. He's resting downstairs."

Immediately there were four pounding steps inside the apartment and the door swung open. Neal was a mess: shoeless, beltless, shirt undone, hair all over the place, red-rimmed eyes, pale cheeks, dark lashes stuck together in clumps. June's pug was dancing around his feet, licking his chops at Peter and wagging his tail.

"You're serious?" Neal asked.

Peter just nodded, and put out a hand on Neal's chest to stop him from flinging himself down the stairs. "He's zonked on painkillers right now. He's asleep. There's no hurry. Go wash your face; you look like crap." He gently pushed Neal back into his loft. "Go on. I'll feed little what's-his-name, over here. I think he's hungry."

Neal found the strength for a faint smile. "His name is Bugsy. And thanks, Peter." He turned and headed for the bathroom.

A little later, Peter stopped by the guest room on his way out. Elizabeth and dinner were waiting for him at home, there was nothing they could do about this music box business until Mozzie was well enough to explain what happened, and the ballistics wouldn't be back on the bullet-proof vest for a while, anyway.

For the moment, things were looking good. Mozzie, tucked away safely in the big bed, was snoring in tandem with Dr. Rosen, who apparently had figured out a way to monitor his patient in his sleep, because he'd conked out on the room's sofa. Neal was awake at least, looking a lot more presentable and relaxed than he had earlier, keeping an eye on things from his spot in an overstuffed recliner at Mozzie's bedside. He'd drawn a blanket over his legs, a small hardback book was cracked open over one of his knees, and Bugsy was napping in his lap. The partners regarded each other.

"Neal, I …"

"Peter, go home. Have dinner with your wife. We'll be okay."

"I know that. I have an assignment for you."

"What is it?"

"Stay here and guard Mozzie until he's well enough to be up and about. Someone is very interested in him quitting this nasty breathing habit, and you're not coming in to the office anyway, so you're going to be here."

"Peter, I …"

"No." Neal's crestfallen expression annoyed him. "Hey, you're lucky I don't sequester you in your room and keep you from seeing your friend. House arrest, Neal. I meant what I said. You're benched until this mess with Fowler, and the box, and whoever tried to kill Mozzie, is over. We'll fix this, and I promise, I will keep you updated, but you can't be a part of it."

"Peter, that's insane. I've proven myself."

"No. You've proven that you're a loose cannon." The quiet words brought Neal up short. "And if you put a toe outside your front door before I give permission," Peter went on, "then we're gonna have a problem, and the solution will involve an orange jumpsuit. I guarantee it."

"Are you seri –?"

"Are we understood?"

It was a visible effort for Neal to buck up and swallow his pride. He didn't want to be a bystander to something so important, but one glance at Mozzie made up his mind. Peter had never seen him look so tired. Neal nodded and finally let down his guard for a second.

"… I've lost so many people. I can't lose anybody else. You have to get this guy, Peter."

Peter regarded Mozzie too, and then met Neal's eyes. "I will."