Chapter 10: A Moment of Clarity
October 12, 2004. Tuesday evening.
On a typical Tuesday, Neal headed to Columbia after work for art workshops, but this evening's session had been canceled, and he lingered at the Bureau longer than usual. Going back to his apartment had no appeal. Not that he was dreading his meeting with Mozzie. . . .
Jones had also worked late. Persuading him to go for a drink at Foley's Tavern required no arm-twisting. Foley's was a little over a block away from the Federal Building. Comfortable and unpretentious, it was the favorite watering hole for the White Collar team. Over drinks, Jones spent the next hour rhapsodizing on the delights of video gaming. Neal had no idea Jones was such an avid gamer, but he'd long had the feeling that somewhere underneath that cool professional exterior there lurked a wilder side itching to burst out and here was the proof. And although Neal wasn't prepared to embrace it himself, the world of video gaming was intriguing.
It was 7:30 by the time Neal returned home. Mozzie was due to arrive shortly. As Neal walked upstairs, he chided himself for being so reluctant to meet with his friend. Peter had assured him nothing had been leaked out, and he shouldn't have heard anything about Neal's undercover work with Mansfeld. But Mozzie had an uncanny way of finding out what should be impossible to know. Usually that was an asset. It was unsettling for that not to be the case this time. How could Neal possibly explain his actions to Mozzie?
Neal opened a bottle of wine and waited. It wasn't long before Mozzie knocked.
"Hey, Mozz. Trying out a new knock? That's not iambic pentameter."
"Codes change, mon frère," he replied with a knowing smile. "I'd been using the other one for too long. Someone could have heard it."
"I suppose I could get used to anapestic trimeter," Neal said, reflecting on Mozzie's latest eccentricity. "It has more of a lilt. Wine?"
"Of course."
"How was Europe? You're looking more . . . continental." Mozzie was wearing a turtleneck with silk scarf wrapped around his neck, a beret on his head.
"Very lucrative and spiritually rewarding. Paris beckoned. I did a job with Gordon Taylor." He sat down at the table opposite him.
Neal gave a low whistle as he poured a glass for himself. "Gordon Taylor, not bad, not bad at all. You've really gone upscale. I never worked for him, but if half of what I've heard about him is true, it'd be an amazing experience."
"You should consider joining his crew for the occasional job. You're kindred souls. Gordon treats everyone with respect and pays exceedingly handsomely whether or not the job is successful. He never hurts anyone."
Neal looked at him, amused. "Do I sense a budding bromance? Why didn't you stay in Paris?"
Mozzie shrugged. "New York keeps calling me back to her despite my best intentions. Besides, I needed to check you hadn't been brainwashed by the suits. They haven't corrupted your soul yet, have they?"
"Soul still intact, I'm happy to report."
"Glad to hear it. You know I called Peter, I assume?"
"Thanks for the concern, but it was unnecessary. I was fine."
"We're living in dangerous times," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "If it can happen to the Leopard, no one's safe."
"What about the Leopard?" asked Neal uneasily.
"He was killed a couple of weeks ago. Didn't you hear?"
"I hear a rumor but figured it was just smoke and mirrors. You know how he operates. He's probably planning some heist and wants to throw others off the scent."
"My source was certain," Mozzie said, "and he's never been wrong on something like this. I hate to say it, but it has to be true. I haven't been able to discover yet where the hit occurred or which Gestapo agency killed one of the shining lights of our world, but I'm working on it."
Neal walked over to the patio doors. Gazing out at the lights of the city, he rubbed the back of his head. "This is … a shock. Klaus gone…"
After a minute he turned to Mozzie and said, "You better not investigate. It could raise suspicion and increase your own profile. You're much safer living in the shadows."
"You're right. Anonymity is my hallmark. But never fear, I'll be careful." Mozz walked over to stand beside him. "I realize how distressing this must be for you. You two were so close."
"I haven't seen him in two years—we'd drifted apart, but do you mind if we talk about something else?"
"Excellent idea—best not to dwell. I could tell you about the heist I pulled with Gordon. Several instructive concepts may be gleaned from his leadership style. His access to rare vintages of wine for one thing is truly outstanding."
"Actually, I'm working on another case and I'd like your help," Neal said hastily, cutting short Mozzie's encomium. "Someone stole the Sword of Tiberius and several Roman coins—gold aurei—from the Brooklyn Museum."
"It wasn't me," Mozzie said wistfully.
"I didn't think so. It was an unusual profile. Only these items were taken and more valuable items left alone. Could you check around? See if anyone's heard anything?"
"Reward?"
"Naturally."
It was late when Mozzie finally left. He was still wound up about Gordon Taylor and insisted on relating several undoubtedly highly embellished stories of his exploits while polishing off the wine. Neal suspected he was also trying to distract him from his revelation about the Leopard.
So much for getting caught up on sleep. Mozzie's words had struck uncomfortably close to home. Had his soul been corrupted by the FBI? Several months ago he never would have betrayed Klaus to the FBI, and now … What did this mean for his friendship with Mozzie?
His report on Gordon Taylor was fascinating. The man was legendary. If Neal had wound up with him rather than Klaus, he might still be in Europe, a member of Gordon's crew. He'd have gone down a totally different path.
But why was he even thinking about that? Why couldn't he be more like Peter? Peter never doubted, never second-guessed. The man was a rock. And Neal? He was a square of origami paper waiting to be folded. After assuming one shape, he'd then unfold and refold himself into another shape.
After tossing around in bed for several minutes more, Neal finally flung the sheets off in frustration. Sleep simply wasn't coming, not with Mozzie, Klaus, and Peter waging war in his head. Neal knew from long experience there was only one solution to shut thoughts like that out.
Getting up, he pulled out his paints. Studying the blank canvas in front of him, Neal loaded his brush with burnt umber and made short jabbing strokes on the canvas. Slowly a form began to emerge.
White Collar Division. October 13, 2004. Wednesday.
Midday on Wednesday, Peter called the team together for an update on the Brooklyn Museum robbery. "We got a match on one of the fingerprints taken at the museum," he announced.
"Where was the fingerprint located?" Neal asked.
"Funny you should ask. On the inside of the fire escape door, which I was reliably told was a likely place. The fingerprint belongs to Thomas Slattery," and Peter projected his photo on the screen. "He served time for bank robbery several years back. Suspected in several art crimes and blackmail schemes, but escaped being convicted. Lives in Boston."
"So far nothing has come to light from the pawn shops," Diana reported.
"I doubt there will be," said Neal. "This was too specialized a job for it to be pulled by someone trying to get quick cash. And the sophistication of how the crime was carried out points to someone highly skilled in this area." He considered a moment. "It has to be a special commission. Someone wanted those items and nothing else. Otherwise, why only take the sword and the coins and leave the other more valuable items behind? But I can't figure out what particular significance a sword and a few coins would have."
"Tricia, were you able to trace any local connection?" asked Peter.
"He has a sister who lives in Queens, name of Mary Slattery," Tricia replied.
"Does the sister have a record?" Diana asked.
Tricia glanced at her notes. "Nothing major. Tried to pass a counterfeit check once."
Peter turned to Jones. "Did you discover anything from an analysis of the security protocol, Jones?"
"There was nothing suspicious with the security guards. The regular guards were on duty, and all have exemplary service with the museum. However, when we tested the security program software for signs of tampering, we found this." Jones pulled up an image on the screen of a glowing tree branch.
Neal exchanged looks with Peter. "We've seen that before."
"That's right," said Jones. "It's the same symbol you found in the decryption program at Mansfeld's house. But this time the hacker was more brazen. The symbol popped up as a standalone image when we ran our testing program. The hacker didn't go to any effort to disguise it. It was as if he were boasting."
"So now we're dealing with two issues: the hacker and the thief," said Peter, wrapping up the briefing. "For now our focus is on the thief. We find him, he may lead us to the hacker. That will also tell us what makes the Sword of Tiberius so special. The arrest warrant came through an hour ago so get ready to move out. Tricia, Jones, Diana, you'll be with me. Neal, you'll monitor communications with Travis in the van."
Not the most exciting assignment he'd ever had, but at least it was away from the office. Being restricted to office duty over the past two weeks had been rough. It reminded Neal of when he first started at White Collar and how awkward he'd felt. It was difficult to feel like a member of the team when everyone else was going out on assignment and he wasn't. Desk jobs and Neal Caffrey were not a match made in heaven, that was clear. Maybe that's why he hated van duty so much—it reminded him of being stuck behind a desk.
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The address in Queens turned out to be an apartment in a row of tenement buildings, a block of identical, dreary red brick boxes, five stories tall. Aging fire escapes zigzagged their way through the upper floors. Small air-conditioning units poked out like accordions from grimy windows.
Getting out of the van with Tricia, Diana, and Jones, Peter rang the doorbell for the sister's apartment. No answer. Peter rang for the superintendent and after several rings, a Hispanic man in coveralls, tools bristling out his pockets, came to the door.
"What's this all about?" the frazzled superintendent demanded impatiently. "I've got a clogged sink in 4B and 5A just flooded their bathroom. This better be important."
"We're here to see Mary Slattery, Apartment 3C," Peter said.
"Well, you're outta luck. Mary's been out of town for several days."
"We have a warrant to search her apartment."
"How about I give you the key? Bring it to me when you're done, unless you've already been washed out onto the street. If I don't get back to 5A, we may need to all take to the lifeboats." The superintendent hauled out a massive key ring from his coveralls and extracted a key. "If you see any standing water, give me a holler," he warned gloomily then lumbered back upstairs.
There was no elevator in the building, and the agents walked upstairs to the third floor. Once outside the apartment, they drew their weapons and prepared to enter. Glancing around to see everyone was ready, Peter gave the command.
"FBI! Freeze!"
No answer. No sounds of running feet, no sounds at all. The front room was clear, and the agents fanned out to search the other rooms. Diana headed for the bedroom. "Boss, in here," she called out.
Lying on his back on the bed was Thomas Slattery, fully dressed, with a bullet hole in the forehead. His eyes were wide open, a look of surprise frozen on his face.
Tricia rushed to his side. "He's still warm. It must have just happened."
"Spread out, everyone. His killer may be close," Peter shouted.
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"How do you do it? Every time we go in the field, it seems like you wind up with van duty. And rather than complain about it, you actually seem to relish it. What's your secret?" Neal looked at Travis with curiosity. He didn't want to insult him, but it was unfathomable to Neal how he could put up with such long hours in the van and not go stir crazy. Or maybe that was the secret. He already was.
"You're not looking at it the right way," Travis replied without taking his eyes off his monitors. "Picture the van as your brain, with all the neural nets spreading out from it. The agents out there—they're my feet . . . my fingers"
"So you're telling me Peter is like your big toe? Does he know that?"
"I may not have used those exact words to him, but it's an apt comparison. Or, if you'd prefer, you could think of me as the captain of a starship residing in my captain's chair on deck, sending out my space probes."
"I can see you on a starship, though you're more of a Scotty than a Kirk."
"Now that's a high compliment. I do feel that my monitors and equipment are like my wee bairns," Travis said with a laugh, adopting a Scottish accent on top of his slight Texas drawl.
"You're not my picture of a Texan, that's for sure. No way can I see you as a bang-em-up, shoot-em-up cowboy."
"You, my friend, have a distorted view of Texans. I'm from Austin. It's more like a college town. Parts of Austin are not so different from the Village in Manhattan."
Their conversation was cut short by Peter calling in with an update from the apartment. When Neal heard the news, he said to Travis, "You keep monitoring. I'll be your right foot."
"Hadn't you better check with—"
Neal had grabbed an earpiece and darted outside before Travis could finish his sentence.
Neal raced to the outside of the tenement and scanned the perimeter. Stepping out on the street to get a view of the roof, he caught a glimpse of someone on the roof's northeast corner. The figure was dressed in black with a ninja-styled hood. As Neal ran to the side of the building, ninja-dude jumped to the roof of the adjacent building.
Neal called in through his watch-communicator, "Suspect on roof immediately east. In pursuit," and took off after him.
Leaping to the fire escape, he then scaled it to the roof, where he found his quarry on the opposite side. Ninja-dude didn't appear to have seen him and Neal ducked behind a water tower. Darting from one hiding place to another, he stealthily made his way closer and was able to snap a photo just before ninja-dude jumped to the next roof. Whispering his progress to the others, Neal leapt after him, arriving in time to see him start to climb down the fire escape. Neal raced to the edge of the building and peered over to see ninja-dude scrambling down the bottom rung of the ladder. A car had stopped at the curb, apparently waiting for him. He couldn't make out the car's license plate from the roof but if he climbed down quickly enough he might have a chance.
Neal swung onto the fire escape and started down in hot pursuit when it all came crashing to a halt.
A wave of dizziness threw his senses into a tailspin. Clutching the top rung of the ladder, his vision blurring, it was as if he'd been flung into a whirlwind of dense smoke. Looking down, he was horrified to see Klaus on the ladder below him. On the ground police were shooting up at him. Bullets whizzed past, their acrid smoke stinging his eyes. Klaus was screaming at Neal for help, but he was paralyzed, unable to utter a sound, unable to stop them. Neal felt himself being dragged downward as Klaus's pleas echoed in his head.
"Neal, what's going on? What's your status? Neal, report, damn it!" Peter's voice in his earpiece pierced through the blackness threatening to engulf him.
Clinging to the ladder, Neal fought to slow down his breathing. Would his words even be coherent? He felt lightheaded and uncoordinated. Peter kept demanding answers, his voice loud and harsh.
"Suspect climbed down the fire escape on the east side," Neal finally muttered. "Got in a waiting car and sped off."
"Where are you now?"
"Starting to come down." At least he hoped so. His heart was still pounding out of his chest, but this time when he ventured a look below, Klaus wasn't on the ladder. Neal could see members of the team racing over to the side of the building. Raking a hand through his hair and taking a ragged breath, he started to slowly descend. By the time he made it to the ground he'd pulled himself together. No one should be aware that there was anything wrong. That he'd nearly screwed up.
Peter was waiting for him at the foot of the fire escape. He was not looking pleased.
Diana came running up to them, "Could you tell the make of the car, Neal?"
"Black Honda Civic," Neal said, keeping his answers short till he was sure he could trust his voice. "Late model, maybe 2003. Couldn't get a license number."
"How about the suspect?" Jones asked.
"Had a ninja-style costume on. Got a photo." Neal pulled out his phone, and the others gathered around to look at it.
"Whoa—that's a mean-looking dude," remarked Jones. "Looks like someone out of a video game. Did you see a gun?"
Shaking his head, Neal said, "No. He could have stashed it in his costume."
"Diana, Jones, you head back," Peter said. "Check in with Travis and have him put out a BOLO. NYPD should be here any minute." As Neal started to head back with them, Peter stopped him. "Neal, a word first," and motioned him to one side.
There were still dark thunderclouds on Peter's face and Neal braced himself for the storm.
Peter spoke slowly and deliberately. "Didn't I give you orders to stay in the van and assist Travis in monitoring communications?"
"That's what I was doing," Neal protested. "But when I heard that the suspect could still be around, I thought you would want me to at least scan the area."
"And did you think I would want you to pursue an armed suspect on your own, unarmed, with no agent accompanying you?"
"I wasn't chasing him to catch him, only to get a photo and pinpoint his location."
"And what would have happened, if the suspect saw you chasing him and decided to shoot you? How would you have handled that?"
"Ducked?"
Peter rubbed the side of his head in exasperation. "You're not an agent. You're a consultant and that makes a big difference in how you handle a situation like this. You're not trained to pursue a suspect, particularly one implicated in a violent crime. Your wits aren't a shield against bullets."
"But I was able to obtain evidence that otherwise we wouldn't have gotten." Neal huffed in frustration. "Wasn't that worth it?"
"Worth what? Risking your life? No, I don't think so."
"If I'd been packing, would that have made a difference?"
Peter stared at him, shocked. "What'd you say?"
"Maybe I should start carrying a gun. After all, that's what I'm supposed to do—take down the bad guys. And yeah, they shoot and sometimes people die. But that's what I signed up for. It's time I admitted it. Otherwise, I'm a liability to the team. What's the point?" Neal took a breath, unable to keep his emotions in check.
Peter started to reply, stopped himself, and exhaled sharply. "This conversation isn't over. We'll discuss this at the office later. But right now you're going to come with me to the apartment. We're going to examine it for evidence. Don't leave until I tell you to. Got it?"
"Got it." Neal didn't say anything as they walked back to the apartment. He knew he had done the right thing—why didn't Peter understand? What happened on the roof—that was a moment of clarity. It was time to stop conning himself. This is who he was. Accept it. No more straddling the fence. No more—
Wait, what was he doing? He'd barely gotten Peter to agree letting him back in the field and already he was blowing it. Peter was going to zip tie him to his desk. He'd never be allowed back out. He'd—
"You coming up?"
Startled, Neal looked up and realized they had arrived back at the building. Peter was holding the door for him while, like an idiot, he continued to stand outside, staring at nothing. This had to stop. He was ruining everything.
"Sorry, I was thinking about what you said. You're right—I shouldn't have gone off on my own. I just wanted to contribute. I'm sorry . . . sorry I let you down." Trying not to melt under the intense heat of Peter's eyes drilling into him, Neal walked on into the building and up the stairs.
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Peter shook his head in frustration at Neal's back as they climbed the stairs. This was his own fault. He knew Neal wasn't ready for field work, no matter what he was claiming. But damn it, was the kid trying to get himself killed? Flying off to chase the perp like that. What was he thinking? That was the problem—he wasn't thinking. What was going on with him? Neal didn't appear to know either. He looked wasted when he came down. Was that apology a con? If it was, it was a damned good one. His distress certainly appeared genuine. Was he actually serious about wanting to carry a gun? At this rate Peter was going to need a therapy session himself with Noelle.
In the apartment Tricia was supervising the collection of evidence. "Neal, I hear you got a photo of the suspect—good work." She appeared surprised when Neal's only reaction was a slight nod and he hurriedly pulled on latex gloves and began examining a bookcase for evidence.
Peter gave her a warning look and shook his head. "Anything surface about the sister?" he asked.
Diana walked into the apartment. "I talked with a neighbor. The sister's been gone for a couple of weeks, visiting relatives. The neighbor saw Thomas Slattery a few times starting last Friday she believes."
Outside, the wail of police sirens could be heard. The apartment was soon filled with NYPD officers supervising the removal of the body and securing the apartment. One of them was stationed at the apartment entrance to keep out the curious tenement occupants who were gathering in the hallway.
Jones came out of the bedroom, "Found a brochure on the Brooklyn Museum. That's the only item so far that has any connection to the robbery."
As the apartment continued to be scoured for evidence, Neal combed through the books in the bookcase. Examining one of them closer, he pulled out a brochure.
Peter walked over to him. "What'd you find?" he asked.
"Looks to be a brochure about N-Con," Neal said, surprised. "It was concealed within the book jacket." Neal scanned the pages. "I can't find anything written on it. It's hard to fathom why someone would go to the trouble of hiding it."
Peter called Jones over. "You're our N-Con expert. See anything?"
"Doesn't look like the brochure I have," Jones commented as he looked through it. "Hold on, this isn't a brochure for visitors. It's a guide for presenters, for people who are exhibiting at the convention. There are floor layouts and specs that you don't find in the brochure for the general public. But we've gone through the entire apartment and there aren't any gaming consoles. There's no computer. I'll go through the inventory, but I don't remember seeing anything remotely connected to gaming or computers. So what's this doing here?"
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It was late in the day by the time the work at the apartment was completed and the team had returned to the Federal Building.
"We'll make a fresh start on the evidence tomorrow," Peter said. "NYPD will handle the homicide, but we'll continue our investigation into the robbery."
As the agents packed up to leave, Peter considered how to handle the one remaining item on his list. Walking over to Neal's desk, he asked, "Got time to talk?"
"Would you mind waiting till tomorrow?" Neal asked. "I should leave for Columbia. I'm supposed to be meeting with my art professors this evening, going over my paintings. But if you want to go ahead, I understand. I'll call in and reschedule."
Neal looked worn out, and, to be frank, Peter felt the same way. Columbia was a convenient excuse for both of them. This was not a subject he wanted to have to deal with now either. Let emotions cool first. "All right, we'll meet tomorrow. Go . . . and try to get some rest."
Notes: Ninja-dude in all his glory is pinned to The Woman in Blue board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. Thanks to Penna Nomen for her beta wisdom and to you for reading! In the next chapter Neal explores options and Sara gives him a surprise call.
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals: The Woman in Blue board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website