Chapter Fifty
Agent Littleton expressed his appreciation to his witness one last time before exiting the room. He left the door open and made his way down the hallway, fully committed to ignoring Caffrey and sending someone in to check on him. There were plenty of staff about, but uncertain as to which of them was responsible for Caffrey's care, he elected to simply go to the Nurse's Staton to make his request.
As he approached, he became aware of somewhat of a tense exchange taking place between the duty nurse and a florist delivery person. A rather large arrangement with a metallic, helium-filled balloon reading Get Well Soon waving above it, sat on top of the multi-level counter.
"Most delivery people prefer to leave arrangements here," the nurse seemed to be attempting to smooth over a misunderstanding, "and let a staff member take them to the room." Agent Littleton stepped up to the counter, waiting for them to finish their discussion. "I just assumed-"
"Personalized Service," the man interrupted, pointing impatiently at a patch on his dark blue hat. It read Flowers McBloom. "It's a company tradition, and we take it seriously." He certainly sounded as if he did. "That means that I must personally deliver the arrangements I am entrusted with."
"That is perfectly fine," the nurse assured him. "As I said, it was just an offer; you are more than welcome to deliver them yourself."
"Thank you," the man replied, promptly sweeping the arrangement from the counter. He was a short, rather pasty complexed man wearing glasses. The arrangement nearly obscured his face as he swept past Agent Littleton and headed down the hallway.
"How can I help you?" The nurse asked, her previous problem solved.
"I just left Mr. Caffrey," he began, "and he's getting really uncomfortable. Can you send someone to check on him, please?"
"Certainly," she replied, punching something into the terminal. "Mr. Caffrey is due for medication, and the Med-tech is on her rounds now."
"So someone will check on him?" Agent Littleton pressed. "Soon?"
"Yes," she assured him. "Abby is on her way now with his meds, and the respiratory therapist is scheduled to see him in about twenty minutes."
It sounded as if relief was forthcoming. "Thank you."
He started to turn away but hesitated. Caffrey had been reequipped with his ankle bracelet, and hospital staff should have been made aware. Although he felt sure Burke had taken care of it, he thought it best to make sure. After all, Burke was seriously sleep deprived and it could have slipped his mind.
"Did Agent Burke inform you that Mr. Caffrey's is wearing an ankle bracelet?" He asked, keeping his voice low.
"Yes," she dropped her voice as well. "That information has been added to his file." She didn't seem concerned. He knew Caffrey didn't look like much of a threat, but looks could be deceiving, and most hospitals had strict policies regarding the security of suspects and prisoners. Agent Burke must have informed them that Caffrey, strictly speaking, was neither.
"Good," he said. "So there are no policy issues or...?"
"No," she shook her head. "Agent Burke explained Mr. Caffrey's arrangement with the FBI, and it was cleared with the hospital administrator. The only problem," she continued, "is if the doctor orders any additional x-ray or scans; the ankle device would have to be removed at that time."
"That's not a problem," Agent Littleton assured her. "Just call and we will make the necessary arrangements."
"But in the case of an emergency-" she began.
"Cut the damn thing off," Agent Littleton said without hesitation. "Then call and let us know."
She smiled. "That's exactly what Agent Burke said."
He wasn't surprised. "I'm sure you have Agent Burke's number," he said. "But I'd like to give you mine as well."
"And you are?"
"Agent Littleton," he supplied. He recited his number and she entered it into the system. "If there is a problem of any kind, don't hesitate to call."
"Yes, sir," she replied. She frowned with an afterthought. "Are we to call you or Agent Burke?"
"Just call both of us."
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There was no word for the relief Neal felt when Agent Littleton finally stepped out of the room. Peter had been right; he was a good guy. He hadn't pushed or pressured him. He'd let him go on his own, sometimes stumbling, pace. For a Federal agent, he'd been remarkably patient, but still, Neal was glad to see him and his video camera go. He closed his eyes and concentrated on taking easy, slow breaths hoping it would ease his pain and calm his mind. He needed a few minutes to himself; time to regroup.
But of course, it was not to be; someone entered the room. Neal opened his eyes, expecting to see hospital staff Agent Littleton had sent to check on him, but instead, he saw a large floral arrangement with a Get Well Soon balloon. A familiar face peered around it.
"Moz," he breathed, quite surprised to see him. Mozzie felt about hospitals the same way he did about prisons; one should never enter of their own free will.
Neal knew the slight wince that came and went on Mozzie's face was a reaction to his own battered one. He hadn't seen his face since he'd left the warehouse; he hadn't wanted to. He didn't want to look into a mirror until he was sure it would be Neal Caffrey that peered back at him.
"Special delivery," Mozzie said, placing the arrangement on the table that most recently held Agent Littleton's video camera. He moved closer, his expression settling into a look of general concern. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. "This," he said, holding it out to Neal, "Not the flowers. Thought you might need it."
The memory of their last, brief conversation flashed through Neal's mind; he'd thought he'd never see Mozzie again. Or Peter. Or June. He felt the familiar tightening of his throat and sting in his eyes. He took the proffered phone hastily and dropped his eyes, but not before seeing a mix of shock and pity on Mozzie's face.
"Thanks, Moz," he mumbled as the small, black standard Mozzie-issue phone swam before his eye. He blinked back tears and swallowed several times. "No data I see."
His voice was hoarse and unsteady. He'd tried to pull himself together, to ease the awkwardness in the room but had failed miserably. Again at the brink of tears, he didn't dare raise his eyes. He wished he could disappear, or at the very least, pull the blanket up over his face and hide. His nose began to drip; he sniffed instinctively.
Damn, this was humiliating.
Peter had handed him a box of kleenex but Mozzie, when faced with tears, was more apt to make a quick excuse and a quicker exit. But he didn't. Instead, after a brief pause, he launched into one of his favorite conspiracy theories.
"I've told you," he began, "if you've getting data, you're giving data. This whole virtual world at your fingertips, it's just a trap, a tactic, a way for secret, government agencies to spy on its citizens, to learn everything about them and find ways to control them." Neal had heard this before, many times. Mozzie rambled on for a full two minutes before coming to his usual ending point. "The only way to stay free of their influence," he concluded, "is to downgrade technology-"
"and upgrade security," Neal finished for him, his voice now steady. His tears had subsided; Mozzie's rant had grounded him. It was the most normal thing that had happened in days. "I know."
"Speaking of security," Mozzie's tone changed, prompting Neal to look up. "I've noticed a strange lack of it. I knew the Suit wasn't here, but I figured he'd have somebody camped out on you. You know, considering your," he nodded towards Neal's legs, "arrangement."
Mozzie wasn't a fan of his arrangement with the Federal Government, but he couldn't argue its benefits. After all, there was no dropping by his prison cell and stealing a bottle of wine.
"No need," Neal replied, wiggling his left foot. "Marshal Service delivered a shiny new tracking device this morning. Peter strapped it on himself. I'm now considered secured. Anyway," he continued, "You just missed Agent Littleton. You probably passed him in the hall. He left just a couple minutes before you walked in."
Mozzie frowned. "I didn't see any Suits as I came in."
Neal knew Mozzie's descriptive term of Suit encompassed more than wardrobe choices; it was about comportment as well. Peter, even wearing his Brighton Baron's sweatshirt, would still be a suit to Mozzie.
"Young guy," Neal began, "light brown hair. He was wearing khaki pants, a green, collared shirt and-"
"brown jacket and carrying a black backpack," Mozzie completed with a nod. "Yeah, I did see him. He was a federal agent?"
"Yeah," Neal confirmed. "Agent Littleton, Chicago Cyber Crimes Division. He's the lead on his case. He was here to get my statement."
"Well that's somewhat alarming," Mozzie commented. "I walked right by him and didn't know he was a Suit. Didn't get a shiver of dread or anything."
"Yeah, he's not your stereotypical federal agent," Neal admitted, thinking back to his meeting with the man, "seems too low key. But Peter says he's smart so he must be good at his job."
"It's probably a ploy to lull people into a false sense of security. That makes him more dangerous if you ask me."
As if on cue, the door, which had been standing ajar, suddenly slammed open. "Get away from him," Agent Littleton thundered, his gaze, and gun were leveled on Mozzie.
Startled, Neal sat bolt upright in the bed, dropping the phone and Mozzie, with a yelp of panic, jumped back, hands immediately going above his head.
The agent's face was flushed; his eyes deadly serious. There was nothing low-key about him.
"Don't shoot!" Mozzie gulped, "I'm a friend! Tell him, Neal!"
"It's true," Neal said breathlessly, the sudden movement causing the pain in his side to increase. "He's a friend; he's okay."
Agent Littleton exhaled a breath and lowered his weapon. "False alarm, fellows," he said to the hospital security guards at the door. He'd brought back up. "Everything's fine here."
"Not a problem, Agent," one of the men responded with a curious glance at Mozzie. He still had his hands extended. Neal could see curious staffers exchanging words in the hall. The incident had brought some excitement to an otherwise boring work day.
Agent Littleton again fixed his eyes on Mozzie. "Why the hell are you posing as a delivery man?" he asked, holstering his weapon.
"Who says I'm posing?" Mozzie replied irritably, lowering his hands.
"I saw that same arrangement in the window of the Gift Shop downstairs," the agent informed him. He nodded at the hat. "And there is no florist called Flowers McBloom; I checked."
"Mozzie, meet Agent Littleton, Cyber Crimes," Neal said, pressing a hand against his ribs. "I told you he was smart."
Mozzie snatched the hat from his head, clearly flustered that his ruse had been discovered. "And I told you he was dangerous," he said, glaring at the agent.
"So you're the infamous Mozzie," the agent replied, studying Mozzie with interest. "I hear I have you to thank for breaking my case."
Mozzie looked both horrified and pleased by the agent's words, but before he could decide how to respond to the statement, there was another interruption.
At least this time there were no weapons involved, but the nurse's tone suggested that she, too, was not to be taken lightly.
"I'm sorry," she said firmly, "But I'm going to have to ask you both to step out. Mr. Caffrey needs his medications checked, and the respiratory therapist is waiting to see him."
"I was just leaving," Mozzie replied hastily, more than ready to put distance between himself and Agent Littleton. "My work here is done." He moved towards the door but stopped part way. Turning back, he took care to block Agent Littleton's view. "Give me a call," he said aloud, then mouthed the word speed dial and held up four fingers. "You know when you get home."
"I will," Neal replied. "Thanks for dropping by, Moz."
Mozzie swept past the Agent without making eye contact or saying a word.
"Well, he lives up to everything I heard about him," Agent Littleton remarked, watching Mozzie hurry down the hallway.
"And what was that?"
"That he's a strange man with strange ways."
"That he is," Neal replied. "But he's a good friend."
The agent, keenly aware of the nurse's growing impatience with his presence, made ready to exit.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Caffrey," he said instead of goodbye, "either here or back in the city so that you can sign that statement for me."
Neal nodded, and the agent moved towards the door but he, like Mozzie before him, turned back. "You have a lot of those, you know."
At Neal's look of alarm, the agent smiled. "Friends, Neal," he clarified. "People who care about you." Neal didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. The last thing he needed was to tear up yet again. "After everything you've been through," Agent Littleton concluded, "I thought you might need reminding."
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Peter felt more optimistic than he expected to about the following morning's meeting with OPR. He, Jones and Hughes had gone through the developments of the case. They had gone over the timeline, when each piece of information had come to light and had a valid explanation for each decision that had been made. The only gray area, truly, had been those first hours when Peter had elected to investigate on his own rather than enlighten others, including his own section chief and the Federal Marshals.
Peter described his thought process, just the way he'd rehearsed it. He knew Agent Hughes didn't appreciate having been left out and had his own suspicions of the real motivation behind his actions, but in the end, it behooved him to back his agent. And that was what he had chosen to do. Agent Hughes knew the real reason OPR had it in for White Collar was the mess with their Agent Fowler. They had been embarrassed by the incident and was looking to return the favor. However, Fowlers documented misconduct, and his suspected manipulation of Neal Caffrey gave credence to the claim that things were not always what they appeared to be. The fact that the tracking device had been tampered with at the source and June Ellington's had seen what appeared to be Federal Agents take Neal, justified Peter's handling unorthodox handling of the situation.
They had prepared as well as they could, but Agent Hughes warned him OPR would try to rattle him. They'd accuse and insinuate; question his judgment and his handling of Neal. He had to keep his cool, stick to the facts and not become reactionary or defensive. Agent Hughes also warned him that he'd have to listen to their assessment of Neal, whether it was fair or not, and not jump to his defense. That was the crux of their claim; that Peter had lost his objectivity where Neal was concerned. The way to combat that was not to engage; not to fall into that trap. Their opinion of Neal Caffrey didn't matter. In the end, Hughes claimed, they'd stand on the numbers. No one could argue that the White Collar Team, with Caffrey as their CI and Peter as his handler, was the most successful unit in the Bureau.
Peter knew the outcome of the inquiry heavily depended upon his ability to keep his temper under control. It would be difficult after the last few days; impossible if he didn't get some rest. Agent Hughes knew it too; he'd all but ordered Peter to go home, see his wife, have dinner and go to bed.
"Do what I say," Agent Hughes reiterated as they parted company. "Go home and get some sleep; I'll see you at nine."
"I will, sir," he replied wearily. It was almost five, and he was seriously dragging. "I just need to check in on Neal-"
"You told me he's doing fine," Hughes reminded him, "May even be out of there tomorrow. Trust me, Peter, you'll do him more good by getting some rest. You need to bring your A game tomorrow; where he spends the next two and a half years depends on it."
Agent Hughes was right; the real thing at stake tomorrow was the FBI's arrangement with Neal. If things went badly, the worse thing that would happen to Hughes was a reprimand from the higher ups; Peter would get a slap on the wrist and a black mark on his service record.
Neal, on the other hand, had a lot more to lose.
