Back from my little holiday break. I'm not sure if I can make another chapter before New Year's Eve, but I'll try my best. Thanks to canadianscanget and mam711 who helped me out despite the holiday season. And of course thanks to all my readers – I got used to you and I kinda like it. Enjoy!
And just to let you know – if you can't pay for Brunello but want something not quite but almost as good for much less money, try Vino Nobile di Montepulciano. The grape is very similar to Brunello and Montalcino and Montepulciano are in the same region. Give it a try, you won't regret it.
"David Hall? Neal, it's as if you had a have a genetic defect for common sense. That was the worst alias you ever had and now you wanna use it again?"
Mozzie fumbled with the corkscrew and the bottle he held precariously in his hands. Neal tried not to think about the fact that Mozzie was wrestling with the five-hundred dollar bottle of wine Neal had received as a birthday present from June. He also tried not to think about the fact that Mozzie would drink the wine now, even when Neal had tried to spare it for a special occasion. As much as Neal tried never to humiliate his friend, he couldn't watch any longer; he was somewhat nervous because of this case, even though he didn't know why, and Mozzie's grip was far too tenuous. He walked over to Mozzie and reached for the bottle at precisely the moment the cork popped. Mozzie jerked and almost let the bottle slip.
"And this is exactly why I've never been fond of Biondi Santi. You'd have to be Schwarzenegger to get the bottle open without any problem."
"Calm down, Mozz. It's one of the best bottles of Brunello you can get your hands on."
Mozzie smiled and filled a crystal decanter with the wine that had already aged enough to present itself in the deep red of a garnet.
"If Stevenson was right and wine is bottled poetry, this would be a carmina of Catullus. 'Odi et amo', Neal. I've hated and yet I love."
Neal tried to push away the thoughts whenever he heard anything about the Roman poet. The Catullan manuscripts were stored in the Vatican Library – a lot of security and slightly outside his two-mile radius. Besides, he had other manuscripts to steal right now. Allegedly. He took the decanter and two wine glasses and motioned Mozzie to sit down at the table. He stopped when he realized the scent of Alex's perfume was still lingering in the air. Neal expected her to run after she had given him her stolen manuscript, but hoped she trusted him enough to stay.
"Neal?"
He realized he had been staring into mid-air and tried to push Mozzie's questioning look away with a shake of the head. Neal sat down, still surprisingly upset with Alex's unannounced departure. He forced himself to resist the wine; it still needed to breathe. He wet the tip of his finger and rubbed the rim of his wine glass to make it sing. The sound had always calmed him but it had little effect this time. Mozzie shot him a questioning look and Neal finally decided that his knowledge of wine wasn't enough to keep him from filling up his glass right now.
Mozzie was still able to read him like an open book.
"You shouldn't attach too much importance to her getaway; it's not against you. It's just who she is. It's who we all are."
"I wouldn't have run without even leaving a number. It's the least she could've done. She has no idea what's at stake here: for me, for Peter…"
Mozzie sighed and sipped the wine in front of him. Neal could see his friend attempt to keep a straight face, when he realized the wine hadn't breathed long enough to unfold its full taste – there was no hint of berries yet, no vanilla.
"Neal, I'm telling you again – the Bureau might hold you in its embrace but it's still your enemy. They do their best to tame you."
"Peter doesn't tr…"
"I don't doubt the Suit's intentions, but his superiors. You can't blame Alex for laying low."
Neal's anger rose, not because Mozzie was wrong but because he was right. Alex had every right to leave and with good reason. He had to accept that she wasn't willing to sacrifice her freedom for Peter's investigation. That thought brought him back to the topic at hand.
"Will you? Lay low, I mean? Or will you help me?"
Mozzie pursed his lips.
"You haven't thought this through. What happens when the Suit's buddies start asking about the Whitney heist, Neal? How you know certain things? What if they start investigating again? What if the guard from back then can identify you as David Hall?"
Neal had thought about that possibility.
"The guard who saw me back then is dead. Died of a heart attack three years ago."
"No composite?"
The forensic facial sketch had already been on Peter's desk when Neal had entered the office this morning. Peter had narrowed his eyes and looked between Neal and the sketch several times. Neal knew his handler was once again trying to determine Neal's possible involvement in the heist. Fortunately, the Identi-Kit was just… so bad. Neal had to fight the urge to correct the artist to make David Hall look a little bit more like him.
"Believe me, Mozz; nobody would recognize David Hall as me when they look at that composite."
"And the description? Enough to hold out against a jury?"
Neal smiled and sipped his wine. Yep, he really should have given it more time to breathe.
"The guard said my eyes were green."
Mozzie lifted his eyebrows. "Green? Was he colorblind?"
Neal stood and went over to the sideboard. He pulled out a flashlight – one of those big high intensity halide lamps that could light a whole room in stark bright white light – and sat down across from Mozzie again. He switched on the flashlight and pointed it toward his face.
Mozzie opened his mouth in surprise.
"Huh. Green."
"Yeah. Cold light does that. I love museums with neon lights. It's not as good as an alibi but it's something…"
Mozzie nodded in agreement but he was like a terrier when it came to any weak spots in a plan.
"What about the painting? Could that give you away? What was it?"
"A Prendergast. I sold it to an officer of the Egyptian army. I doubt the painting will turn up with everything that's going on there right now. Come on, Mozz… You just have to spread the word that David Hall is in town. That's all. Let me take care of the rest."
Neal pitched his voice toward a childlike plea. Mozzie couldn't resist.
"Okay, but I'm telling you: If you get yourself in trouble over this I won't help you out. The Suit can take that job. I'll just sit here, enjoy the rest of your wine and ask El and June to join me while you and the FBI go up against a crazy killer client. Maybe I'll even give Sara a hint where you hold th…"
Neal filled up Mozzie's glass again.
"Drink something and calm down!" He tried to make his smile as reassuring as he could. Mozzie was concerned and Neal didn't want him to play the con through again and again in his head with all the possibilities of something going wrong. "You won't tell Sara anything because everything will be fine."
Helene Richter started to get jittery. Her commissars had gone after an anonymous tip three days before: that one of the manuscripts they were looking for could be found at the Historical Society. With a little help from Neal, Peter was able to convince his German colleague to go along with their plan without noticing Neal's integral involvement in its preparation.
Neal had always considered the German policewoman as dangerous but never as a threat to his work at the White Collar division. Her comments, however, had started to become disparaging; she didn't even try to hide her opinion that the FBI's plan was a waste of time. Neal was taken aside by Peter, who told him that Hughes was growing concerned with the increasing tension within the task force; he was considering removing Neal from the case. The con man tried to look unimpressed but Peter's tone told him that the situation was to be taken seriously.
"I can insist for maybe two more days, Neal. Two days. If it takes our Oberon longer to get in contact with David Hall, the manuscript will go back to Karlsruhe. And then what?"
Neal didn't drop his gaze even when he felt like a schoolboy in the principal's office.
"Trust me, Peter. He'll call."
"What if he doesn't?"
Peter was agitated. The agent didn't like keeping information from his team, especially not when they were about the John Doe Alex had worked with and was now presumed dead. Neal had suggested telling Diana and Jones, and having them look into the John Doe, but Peter had turned him down immediately. Richter would notice they were looking into something and Peter wasn't willing to drag his agents into this. Neal understood. And it made him feel miserable because he hadn't hesitated to do just that to the man whose career, whose trust and friendship, was at stake every time he was drawn into Neal's world.
Neal shrugged. "It has to work. And it will."
It did.
A day after Peter had issued his ultimatum, two days after Mozzie had activated his contacts, they received a message on the email account created for David Hall. The message provided for a high fee in return for the delivery of the manuscript, which had to be stolen in less than 36 hours. The client's email address was Columbian, the message written from a server on a train. No chance to catch Oberon with this little information.
Richter agreed to proceed with the whole plan - con. David Hall had emailed his client to bring his fee in cash at the specified delivery point. The supposed heist would take place tomorrow night. The press had been informed about the manuscript the day it was found by the librarians in the New York Historical Society. In two days' time the press would be informed of the latest theft of the priceless piece of history when David Hall supposedly completed the heist. Peter had never stopped to look worried. This was too easy.
The following morning Neal entered the Bureau without his usual warm greeting to everyone. He went straight to Peter's office and slammed the morning paper onto Peter's desk.
"Congratulations, Peter. Was it you or Richter who came up with this? You ever thought about telling me? I mean… You know I don't like making deliveries under circumstances like this… It's messy and viol…"
"Are you behind this?"
Peter tapped his finger at the headline that suddenly looked more like a nightmare than a creative twist to their original plan to Neal.
"Are you behind this?"
"What? I have no idea what you're talking about…"
Peter rose, trying to keep his voice calm.
"No games, Neal. Did you have anything to do with this? A man is dead. I need to know what's going on."
Neal pulled back – the room suddenly seemed smaller, tighter, the air heavy – something deep inside of him told him to run.
"No. No! … I have no idea. I promise, Peter. I thought it was your idea to make it look more dramatic for our bad guy… The guard is…"
"Dead. As in for real."
Neal stared at the bold letters on the front page of the newspaper: 'MANUSCRIPT STOLEN. GUARD SHOT.' Disconnected thoughts fired into his mind: Had Oberon hired another thief? Was someone else involved besides their Oberon? Richter, no, bad idea… Was it random? Coincidence? Or… This whole case was continuing to become more and more complicated, and whatever had happened, Neal was sure he was screwed.
"Michael Bates. His name was Michael Bates. He was the night guard in charge."
Death per se made Neal sick but this time guilt made him feel dizzy. He sat down and forced himself to stay focused.
"Any leads?"
Peter scrutinized Neal: his tense jawline, the slight tremble, the genuine sorrow behind his eyes. He was satisfied Neal had no idea what had been going on. But still, a man was dead.
"No. It appears to have the makings of an inside job. Other than that – nothing. Jones and Diana are questioning the experts that authenticated the manuscript right now. Richter's group is questioning the security personnel and other employees of the Historical Society. But I have doubts we'll get anything there.
A thought crossed Neal's mind and he wasn't sure if he should put himself into more trouble than he already was in right now, but as usual, he couldn't help himself. It had to be genetic.
"Wait, how come I wasn't arrested right away; that's the usual M.O.?"
Peter smirked.
"If I was in charge you would have been brought here the minute we found out. Richter has a different point of view."
"Different?"
"An innocent man was killed on her watch and she think it's your fault."
"Of course. But then-"
"She said your plan and its outcome showed you were too stupid to pull something like that."
"Wow. That hurts…"
The agent nodded."Yeah, I almost felt a little bit offended myself."
"You did? Because of me?"
"Nah, because that made me look like the fool that trusted the fool."
Neal opened his mouth then shut it when he realized it made sense.
"And Richter kept you from calling me?"
Peter handed Neal a file.
"No, this did. Your tracking anklet didn't show any movement and so far it's pretty clear that only someone with inside knowledge and access could have gotten that far. Only the guard in the room with the manuscript was killed. Everyone else was unharmed."
Neal opened the folder and skimmed through the security report.
"Any concrete suspects?"
Peter leaned forward and flipped to the last page of the file.
"This is everyone who worked with the manuscript at the Historical Society. We think it's one of them."
There were a lot of names, a lot more than Neal had expected. But only one name jumped off the page at him. He calmly lowered the file.
"Are all these people here?"
Neal just waited for Peter's nod. He dropped the file to Peter's desk and half-ran to the interrogation rooms. The people in the waiting hall were strangers to Neal. He went from one interrogation room to the other, shooting short glances inside every window. Most of them were occupied by Richter's commissars and it had to be Murphy's Law that the one he was looking for was the last one.
A woman was sitting across from Jones. The curls of her dark brown hair were a sharp contrast to the classic cut of her dark blue pantsuit. Her skin was of a distinguished paleness and she obviously didn't try to hide her freckles with makeup. She looked confident and if she felt uncomfortable because of the interrogation, Neal couldn't see it. He didn't hesitate any longer but stepped into the small room. Jones looked up at him and Neal knew it was one of the few times the agent was really angry with him. But he would take care of that later.
Neal looked over to the suspect, his eyes wide in disbelief. The woman smiled at him, her head cocked just so – just enough to frustrate him, to provoke him. Her voice was soft when she confirmed his fear.
"Hello, Neal. It's been a while."
