About a week later at work, Peter accidentally sneaked up on Cruz and scared the crap out of her. He didn't mean to do it; he just had natural stealth capabilities and the carpet muffled his shoes. What had attracted him were her shaking shoulders. Her eyes were glued to her computer screen and she was snickering under her breath. He came up behind her. The volume was very low, but he could clearly see the grainy video that was making her laugh. A man in his forties, all decked out in white Bermuda shorts and a very loud blue Hawaiian shirt, sat at a keyboard. He was banging on it with his face and making tone clusters. The camera work was shaky because its operator was giggling. Then the man began to alternate between facial tone clusters and howling, and Peter's simple curiosity turned into morbid fascination. Was the guy drunk? Was this some bizarre performance art?
He asked at normal volume, almost directly in Cruz's ear, "The hell?"
Cruz let out a little shriek and it sent Peter stumbling backwards. (It was a classic Reverse Scare the Crap.) She turned around to him and mastered herself.
"I'm so sorry," she said.
"It's all right," he said, laughing it off. "I scared you first." He nodded at the screen. "What is that? Some reject from America's Got Talent?"
Cruz raked her mouse around and clicked the pause button. "No, it's from YouTube. Jones sent me the link. Someone uploaded two minutes of their convict playing the piano, and it's gone viral. It's silly, but it's really cute. You want me to forward it to you?"
Peter licked his lips and slowly shook his head back and forth. "Nope, I'm good. Now close that nonsense. The paperwork on this mortgage fraud case isn't gonna do itself. Thanks to that crooked judge, we've got way too much to deal with."
Cruz, chastened, colored a little and shut off the video. "I know. I just needed a little break."
"I understand," Peter said quietly. And he did. It had been a pretty long week for everybody.
Just as he was about to trudge back to his own paper mountain, a small picture on Cruz's desk caught his eye. In the picture Cruz stood on a pier with the ocean behind her, and she had her arm around another woman. No, scratch that, she had her arm around a mermaid. Ivory skin, clear blue eyes, waist-length waterfall of curly blond hair … the only things missing were the fish tail and the sea scallop bra. Cruz was smiling brightly at the camera. The other woman was facing the camera too, but looking expressionlessly off to the left.
"Um, Cruz?" he said.
"Yes?"
He pointed at the picture. "Who's that?"
Cruz's reaction was not what he'd expected, given how happy she looked in the picture. She looked at him with a closed expression and said, "That's Morgan." And she didn't say another word. She just turned back to her paperwork and opened up the top folder.
Peter threw her a concerned look that she didn't see, but Jones, who was one desk over, had watched the whole thing. He just shook his head "no" at Peter, which Peter took to mean that he shouldn't ask any more questions and that Jones would be wandering into his office and explaining this fairly soon.
He left the bullpen and trotted up the stairs into his glass cage.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth was in the middle of an experiment. She'd convinced Peter to let Neal stay home with her today instead of going to the FBI with him, because she wanted to spend some time with Neal and she'd also seen an idea in her favorite home decor magazine that she'd been dying to try out. The dining room table was draped, the dining room floor was draped, Neal was draped (because she wasn't about to clean stains off that cute polo shirt she'd found for him), and the 30 by 20 canvas was laid out on the table. Satchmo knew something messy was about to go down, so he quite sensibly watched the action from his doggy bed in the living room.
"Okay, Neal." Elizabeth rolled the rubber bands over Neal's knuckles, gently fastening the circular sponges to his palms. Then she dipped his hands in the paint tray. "Have fun."
Neal was crouched on a chair near the table, facing the canvas, and he examined these new attachments to his hands. Unless he was climbing something, he hadn't ever quite figured out that his thumbs were truly opposable, or that his other fingers could separate whenever he pleased. Consequently his hands were a little cupped and stiff. But now he had something on them that smelled very strong, and this intrigued him. He bopped his own chest and looked startled at the big red circle he left on the front of his smock.
"Oh, jeez. No, Neal, over here! Go splat over here, honey." Elizabeth tapped the canvas and giggled when Neal batted at it tentatively. He left a little red mark in the corner. Then he put his hand down further up and left a complete red circle. And, as Elizabeth suspected would happen, the lights turned on.
Soon Neal was going crazy, smacking his hands all over the place and intrepidly red-circling his way across the canvas. Elizabeth switched out the red sponges for clean ones and dipped him into some purple paint. Neal seemed delighted by the color change, and purple swirls appeared. Then came some green and blue streaks, and finally he made a few explosions of yellow in one corner. By the time the canvas was done, Neal had little globs of paint on his face, in his hair, and on his smock. He was filthy. He was panting. He was glowing. Elizabeth smiled. She set the canvas on the floor to dry, and brought out a fresh one, a 40 by 30. And this time she let him choose the colors.
Jones forgot and Peter forgot, so it wasn't until mid-March that Peter actually got an answer about the strange photograph on Cruz's desk. By this time he was deeply involved in the three handcarts full of boxes that had arrived from the D.C. office back at the end of February. No one in the White Collar division had any clue what he'd requisitioned, and he wanted to keep it that way, so when Jones knocked at the door, Peter hastily closed the file on a heist in Amsterdam attributed to CAFFREY, N., as the boxes all stated in block lettering, scrawled with a black Sharpie. (Peter had carefully turned the boxes so all the Caffreys faced the window, and no one in the office would know what was inside.) His team was between cases at the moment, catching up on paperwork. Peter was looking forward to being home for dinner tonight and maybe taking a few files with him.
"What's up, Jones?"
"Peter, can we talk?"
That didn't sound good. Peter leaned back in his chair and motioned at the chair across his desk. Jones closed the door behind him and plopped himself down.
"Don't do it," was his opener.
Peter blinked at him. "Don't do what?"
"That." Jones pointed at the closed file on Peter's desk. "Don't look into Neal anymore. You should just accept that he is what he is, and…"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's this nonsense about Neal?" Peter had a good game face, but it wasn't enough.
"Peter, please. I know. Cruz knows. Hell, half the office knows. You think it wasn't suspicious when you practically stopped speaking to everybody two weeks ago and started digging through those boxes and tramping back and forth to the copy machine?"
Peter slumped, crossed his arms, and glared even as his cheeks reddened. "How did you know it was about Neal?"
Jones shrugged. "I snooped. My boss is someone who leaves no stone unturned, and that's rubbed off on me."
Peter ignored the compliment. "What's the matter with looking into Neal? I can do what I want where he's concerned."
"I know. But it'll just make you depressed, and it might make you do something terrible. The same thing happened to Cruz." Jones sighed and rubbed a hand over his head. "Look, I need you to keep this under your hat, because it's really personal. Remember when you asked her about that picture of her and Morgan?"
Peter nodded, because there was no forgetting that mermaid, but the pieces weren't quite connecting. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Morgan was Cruz's peet about five years ago. She … you know how Neal's a cat? Well, Morgan was a fish. Cruz had a great time with her. She took her to the pool all the time, spritzed her down with water when she started gasping for air, because that was Morgan's thing, if she wasn't moist enough she would think she couldn't breathe … she fed her right, let her sleep in the bathtub, the whole thing. Cruz kept her happy. But after a few months, Morgan wasn't really 'opening up,' so she got concerned and looked into Morgan's history."
"And discovered Morgan was once really smart?" Peter offered. He only said this because he'd been reading some incredible stuff about Neal these past few weeks, and was projecting.
Thankfully, Jones didn't think too hard about Peter's question and shook his head. "She discovered that the prison did the mind-wipe wrong. Normally what you see with peets is the animal behavior, but with a definite undercurrent of a personality. Well, with Morgan, there was nothing underneath the fish."
Peter was stunned. "You mean they just … they erased her?"
Jones nodded. "They screwed up, Peter. There was no mind left. I remember Cruz actually took Morgan for an MRI to confirm." He shook his head. "She was crushed. Decided this was no kind of life. So she took Morgan to the beach and … let her go. Just watched her run off into the ocean and start swimming. Body washed up on Fire Island a week later. The cops called it an accident. Cruz had her cremated and scattered her ashes off the pier, and she's kept fish ever since. You know, in memoriam."
Peter didn't know what to say. Euthanizing a peet was very much a gray area, ethically speaking. Of course, the law didn't call it murder because cons weren't people, they were property, and if their owners felt that ending their half-lives was a mercy, then so be it. But it was frowned upon. It wasn't as heinous as full-on "liberation," because turning convicts out into the street to let the drugs wear off and allowing them to die from the withdrawal was beyond the pale, but it came close. Peter stared out at the bullpen and zeroed in on Cruz. He knew it wasn't right, but he sympathized with her, he really did. It must have been a very painful decision. She was acting in what she knew were Morgan's best interests. Plus, he finally understood the fish thing now. (He hadn't for a long time. He'd thought it was weird.)
"I'll keep quiet," he said finally. "And thank you for your concern about my research. I promise you, everything will be fine."
Jones heard the "dismissed" loud and clear. And he noticed that nowhere in Peter's response were the words, "I'll stop." He hadn't changed his boss's mind one jot. He got up and took his leave, hoping against hope that Peter knew what he was doing.
On a dreary, drizzly Saturday in late March, Elizabeth didn't have to be at a wedding or a cocktail party for once, and she was itching to do something cultural, so she tried to drag Peter to the Met. Peter had zero interest in the latest exhibition of European Post-Impressionists. He wanted to cuddle on the couch with Satchmo, drink a beer and watch ESPN.
"Why don't you take Neal?" he suggested. He was feeling sly and powerful with all the knowledge he'd amassed, and he knew Neal would enjoy the experience. "Just make sure you keep him on the leash, even inside. They have rules about peets."
"That's a great idea!" Elizabeth said. "I'm sure he'd love the paintings. Heck, he's got talent. That abstract in the bedroom is pretty amazing, right?"
Peter stared at her. "You mean that painting across from the bed? I thought you picked that up at a gallery."
It was Elizabeth's turn to feel smug. "I didn't. Neal made it all by himself. I let him choose the colors and he just went for it. I was going to tell you sooner, but there really wasn't a good time. Plus, I didn't think you'd believe me!"
Peter just blinked. The abstract painting, a really elegant, minimalist design utilizing the blank space of the canvas and subtle blues, purples and flashes of gold, was one of his favorite things in the house. Elizabeth had given it to him back in January. And knowing what he knew about Neal…
"Oh, I definitely believe you," he said. "I think Neal's napping on the guest bed upstairs. If you guys get moving now, you can make it to the Met by 1 o'clock."
The second week of April was blessed with perfect weather, so that Sunday afternoon Peter decided to take Neal to the con run in Central Park instead of Peets Fifth Avenue. The air was lovely and fresh, the grass was vibrant green, the flowers were in bloom and the sky was a life-affirming blue. It was always so beautiful after it rained.
On their way to the con run, they passed a stone lamppost. Someone had tacked a poster to it and Peter wandered over to read it, even though Neal was nosing at some nearby camellias and tugging at the leash. Have You Seen Me? the poster said. Below the words was a candid shot of a craggy-faced older man with gray hair, pouches under his eyes, and a rather dour expression. $5000 reward. Missing since September 13, 2009. Answers to "Buster." We miss him terribly. If found, please call… The phone number followed.
Peter shook his head sadly. "Probably dead in a gutter somewhere," he mumbled. "See?" he said to Neal, firmly tugging him away from the flowers. "This is what happens when people don't pay enough attention to their convicts. They wander off, get lost, and die. That's never going to happen to you, though. Don't worry." He slung an arm over Neal's shoulders and ruffled his hair. "Come on, let's hit the park."
The con run was large and fenced in on all sides. The grass was a torn-up disaster and the whole place was a little careworn, but Neal was in his favorite grubby sweats and eager to get going, so Peter unhooked his leash at the entry gate and let him run off. Then he looked for a bench. The cleanest one had another person on it: a very well dressed, dignified, classy woman with perfectly coiffed brown hair, mocha skin, rounded features and wise brown eyes that sized Peter up for a second after he'd asked if he could sit down.
"Of course." Her voice was mellow and sweet. She gestured with one manicured hand. "Please."
"Thank you," said Peter. "Boy, you gotta love this weather, huh?"
"Oh, isn't it beautiful today? Normally we go to the run in Manhattan, but I thought it would be a nice change."
Peter smiled at her and watched Neal, who was trying to catch a pigeon from a fleeing flock. He privately thanked God that Neal was too slow to actually get his hands on one (those things were totally diseased) and pointed him out proudly. "That one's mine, with the blue eyes."
"Oh, he's very handsome," the woman said. "And look at him go!" Neal was gunning for the very last escaping bird, tongue out in concentration. He leaped, grabbed, missed, and fell over on his side, staining his entire flank with dirt and grass. Unfazed, he shook himself off and began investigating the large tree in the middle of the area.
Peter smiled. "Yeah, he's something of an athlete. Which one's yours?"
The woman looked around. "Hmm, that's odd, I don't see him. He must be behind the tree. Oh well, he'll show himself soon enough. By the way … you are?"
"Agent Peter Burke, FBI." Peter held out his hand for a shake.
The woman accepted his hand and shook firmly. "June Waters. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
"May I ask, how long have you had … what is his name?"
"Neal. We got him back in September. How about you?"
"Oh, I adopted Hav in January. He's a sweetheart. Very devoted to me."
"Yeah, Neal's one of the family, too."
Suddenly they were interrupted by a very noisy fight. They whipped around to stare at the tree, just in time to see Neal streak up the trunk and reach the first branch.
"Rarf! Arf arf arf arf arf!" A man, short, balding, stocky and bespectacled, was barking his head off and pawing at the tree. And he obviously belonged to June. The black horn-rimmed frames of his glasses were designer, his brown track suit was quality velour, and his "fool around in the park" shoes were Asics. As Peter observed these things, Neal was steadily climbing branches, working his way higher and higher, stopping every so often to hiss over his shoulder.
The two owners hurried over to intervene.
"Haversham, no!" June cried, trying to get the man by the collar. "You get away from that poor thing!"
"Neal!" Peter whistled through his teeth. "No! Uh uh! You get down here right now! That's too high!"
"Haversham, heel! For heaven's sake -"
"Get your ass out of that tree this instant!"
"Heel, or no treats!"
"You do not want me to call the fire department, mister! Start climbing!" He turned to June, who was struggling with Haversham. "You need help with him?"
"Please," June said through gritted teeth. Peter held Haversham still even though Haversham growled at him, but June got the leash on him and tugged him back. "Go ahead," she said breathlessly, motioning at the tree. "Get him down."
It took Peter a few minutes to coax Neal back to lower and lower branches, until he was finally on the branch right above Peter's head. Unfortunately, Neal was shaking from having been up so high, and he was afraid to make the final leap to the ground. Peter had to grab his waist and pluck him off the branch. Neal scrambled all over him, pawing at him frantically while he tried to get his bearings, and missed Peter's nose with his knee by an inch. But Peter set him down on the grass, held him still, and petted him until he stopped shaking. Then he hooked the leash on him and went to sit on the bench next to June, where she was cuddling Haversham.
Haversham was rather possessive of his owner. He growled at Peter and barked once. Neal was terrified and crouched beside the bench, only daring to peek out over Peter's knees at his pursuer. Haversham growled and Neal ducked down again. Peter sighed.
"I'm sorry about that," he said. "He's normally a lot more social."
"No, I'm sorry," said June. "Haversham is normally much better behaved, although his bark is worse than his bite. Naughty!" she scolded, and bopped Haversham gently on the nose. "I suppose he just doesn't like cats."
"Is that his real name?" Peter asked.
"No, the records said he was 'Moz,' or something like that, but I thought 'Haversham' fit better. It doesn't matter, really. Soon he'll be able to tell me his preference."
Peter frowned. "How?"
June smirked then, because she knew she was about to say something absolutely delicious and shocking. "Well, I'm going to set him free tomorrow."
Peter stared. "Are you joking?"
"Not at all."
"But…" Peter was reeling. "But won't that kill him?"
"Oh, please! That old misinformed argument? My dear, I have been fostering, rehabilitating, and freeing convicts for almost fifty years, and not a single one has died on my watch."
"How's that possible?"
June just smiled again and dug out a business card from her purse. "Love, patience, and lots of help. This is my man in the city. Excellent physician; he's been working with me for the last five years. I think he's based in the Hamptons now, but he's in town often enough to handle things like this regularly."
Peter accepted the business card and was stunned at the familiar name on it. He struggled to find his footing again. "Fifty years, you've been at this?"
June nodded. "The first convict I freed was really the impetus to keep going. His name was Byron. He changed my life forever."
"Oh, yeah? You two become pen pals?" Peter joked.
June's smile turned a little pained. "No. I married him. He died two years ago." She cocked her head and looked at Neal, who had come out of hiding just a little bit. "As a matter of fact, Neal looks to be just his size, and I have a whole collection of Byron's suits at home. They're just sitting there. They'd probably look wonderful on him." Haversham seemed to have calmed down and she scratched him gently behind the ears. "Anyway, Haversham here was arrested for something minor, but he was suspected in all sorts of shady dealings, so they wiped his mind, the vultures. Why was Neal arrested?"
Peter snorted; it really was silly. "Well, technically, he was arrested because NYPD mistook him for another suspect and chased him into a lamppost. They ran his prints at the station and the Bureau swooped in. See, he was being pursued by the D.C. office of the FBI, even though the police actually did the work for us. We finally got him on bond forgery. He was suspected in all sorts of other things too, though. Art theft, counterfeiting, securities fraud, racketeering … pretty astonishing resumé. Brilliant con artist. Heck, he was a great visual artist. He was listed as a person of interest in art forgeries all over the place. They probably wiped his mind on Day 2."
"Well, I think that's criminal, depriving someone of their reasoning power and locking them in a cage," June said. "I don't care if it's been happening for a hundred years; that doesn't make it right."
Peter sighed. He'd been hearing this pro-convict argument more and more, recently. "Yes, but Mrs. Waters, it keeps the rest of society that much safer, and we've really made a lot of progress. I mean, back in the 1910's and 20's, they used to lobotomize them and put them to work in factories! You have to admit, this is far more humane."
June paused to fix her wise gaze on Peter. And she responded with two words that shook him to the core.
"Is it?"
Something about the way June said her piece gnawed at Peter for the rest of the afternoon, especially since they were coming up on their deadline to see "Dr. Hank," as Elizabeth called him. And that evening, Peter decided that he'd researched Neal enough and wanted to tell Elizabeth everything he knew. As soon as his lovely wife was perched on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand, awaiting his announcement, he began.
"Well, honey, someone at the office sounded impressed by Neal, so I got curious. I've read a lot of stuff: field reports, interview transcripts, case files, all kinds of information. And Neal, as it turns out ... there's no getting around this. Neal is one of the smartest criminals on the planet."
It was a profound statement. Unfortunately, right as Peter made it, Neal was spinning around in a circle and trying to catch his own ass with his teeth. Peter sighed, Elizabeth snickered, and Neal fell over in a dizzy heap. Peter slapped his pen down on the file in his lap. He knew it was totally irrational, but he was really annoyed with Neal anyway. Here he had all these great stories and tons of accurate, impressive information, and he might as well have just told his wife that Satchmo had been nominated for the Presidency because of his legendary tenure as Secretary of State.
"Peter, sweetheart, that's nuts." Elizabeth started to laugh again. "I mean, look at him!" Neal pawed at the ceiling with slightly crossed eyes and meowed.
"Neal, zip it. And Elle, I swear, I'm not making this up. I've done a lot of research."
"I'm sure you have." Elizabeth's tone made it clear that Peter had an up-hill battle ahead of him. She took a sip of wine, set her glass down, and leaned back. "Okay, let's hear it. What is it that Neal is supposed to have done?"
Peter seized his chance and began to tick things off on his fingers. "He was a professional thief, a con man too smart for his own good, and an expert art forger. High profile heists from here to Tokyo: antiquities, safe deposit boxes, paintings, rare jewels ... you name it, he probably stole it. He boosted The Mona Lisa. Twice. And this kid played by his own rules. Get this: he once joined a crime syndicate, and instead of doing his job, he gathered intelligence on their targets, saved the targets from being kidnapped or killed, ripped off the leader of the gang for half a million dollars, and got away clean with the money. I mean, I can't even figure this guy out. Scammer. Hero. Villain. Genius." At Elizabeth's raised eyebrows he added, "Seriously, he was terrifyingly smart. He started in right out of high school. He was in the game ten years before he was arrested, and his arrest was dumb luck."
Elizabeth was quiet for a bit, mulling all this over. Then she looked at Neal, smiled real big and held out her arms. "Neal? Come here, sweetheart, come to Mommy!" She patted her lap. Neal was still dizzy. He meowed and staggered over. "That's it!" He landed on her gently and she got her arms around him. "Ooooh." She started snuggling him. "Who's my beautiful boy, huh? You are. That's right." She kissed him on the forehead. Neal stared vacantly.
Peter was not pleased. "Is this your way of saying you don't believe me?"
Elizabeth ignored him in favor of kissing Neal on the cheek five times, rapid-fire. He scrunched his eyes shut, but allowed it. "Hey, Neal? Give Mommy a kiss."
Neal blinked at Elizabeth. Then he leaned in and licked her ear. Elizabeth squealed in surprise and Peter started laughing.
"No, you mischievous ... don't lick Mommy, kiss Momm – ee – hee-hee! Augh!" (Neal got her again.) Seeing that her husband was still enjoying himself at her expense, she narrowed her eyes. Revenge was swift. She pointed at Peter. "Neal? Go kiss Daddy. Go on!"
"Wait, what? Nonono–" Peter wasn't fast enough. Neal pounced on him and enthusiastically licked his face. "Oof! Ugh! No! Bad! Neal, off! Now!"
He shooed him away and while Neal fled back to the safety of Elizabeth's arms, he wiped off his wet cheek. "Look, if you're saying you're happy with him being like this, I couldn't agree more. We're really lucky he's controlled and safe with us. I met some batty old lady in the park today who said she's been releasing convicts for fifty years; she's found some safe way of doing it. But I couldn't even imagine the damage Neal could do if we released him."
Elizabeth and Neal looked at each other then. Neal blinked at her, nuzzled her nose with his own and scampered off. Elizabeth suddenly couldn't meet Peter's eyes.
"Funny you should mention release," she said.
Peter frowned at her. Something was up. "Uh oh. Elle, what have you done?"
"I haven't done anything! It's just, well, I've been going to a support group for a few weeks now, you know, for people who own convicts. I've learned a lot, and I've had a lot to think about, and I..." She stopped and started from the beginning. "Neal doesn't have any real filter. He might have been a brilliant con artist once upon a time, but right now he doesn't know how to be anything other than himself. And you have to admit, his personality is adorable. Right?"
Peter sighed, but he couldn't deny it. "Right."
"He's smart, he's kind, he's affectionate, he's loyal … he has so much potential. And yes, I know he's a criminal. But you say he's such a clever guy, such a talented guy."
"Elle," Peter said gently, "He's a cat."
"I know that, but there's an incredible person hiding under there. A sweetheart." She motioned at Peter, recalling his words. "A genius. If Neal is half as accomplished as you say he is, then…" She took a moment and gathered herself together. "Then he deserves an honest second chance. Not as a pet, but as a man."
Peter looked warily at his wife. Elizabeth steeled herself and said it.
"Honey, I think we should liberate him."
