A/N: Ahead of schedule, and decided I couldn't wait to post this tomorrow! So as a weekend treat, here's an early posting! And as always, the reviews... are very much appreciated!
The tension among the three of them hadn't eased with their arrival in Boston. While they waited in the conference room at the FBI's Boston headquarters, Peter watched Neal absently swivel back and forth in his chair as he studied the file in front of him. Detective Marcelo was motionless in her seat, eyes slightly glazed as she stared off into the distance. If Peter hadn't known her any better, he might have thought she was meditating.
He was nervous, too. His fingers only stopped tapping on the table when a middle-aged man in a suit and tie walked in to join them. He stood in greeting.
"Hi. Special Agent Peter Burke. This is Senior Detective Tamara Marcelo of the NYPD and my consultant, Mr. Neal Caffrey." The man smiled pleasantly and there was a round of handshakes. "And you must be?"
"Special Agent Jeremy Alston." The man spoke with a mellow voice steadied by years in the field, but every consonant was clipped. Peter knew he was irritated, although he was hiding it pretty well. Alston pulled out a chair and sat down. "Was the drive over all right?"
"Yes, thank you. Well, let's get down to business. I'm sure you've been informed of the reason for our visit?" Peter watched Alston carefully and there it was: the nostril flare. Telltale threat response. This man would cooperate, but not happily.
"Yes. You've been sent here to discuss old cases." It was a statement, not a question. Alston gave off a no-bull, sturdy, astute vibe. It was no surprise to Peter that he had been promoted to SAC.
Peter could respect that. He got right down to it. "Basically. We're looking into the line of duty shooting of Special Agent Matthew Gregory, who was apparently injured by friendly fire. You were on the case?"
A visible narrowing of the eyes was Alston's initial reaction. He stumbled on the reply. "We, uh … yes. Yes, I was. But, Agent Burke, that was resolved years ago. Why the…"
"Sudden interest?" Peter leaned back in his chair. "Well, a pattern of events has come to light, this event being part of it, and we feel the need to reinvestigate." He saw Neal smirk out of the corner of his eye.
Alston recovered his composure. "All right, but that was many years ago. He's not even alive. What is this, really? Is this about his death?"
"What would make you jump to that conclusion?"
Peter was hoping for a guilty twitch or something, but Alston looked more put-out than anything else. "It is." He sighed in annoyance. "Listen, I already told OPR all I knew about the friendly fire incident. And I know the agents who investigated his car accident. The investigative team and CSI both ruled it as exactly that. An accident. It wasn't as though someone put black ice in the middle of the road for him." Now Alston looked more pained than annoyed. "Agent Gregory wasn't just my colleague; he was my mentor, and my friend. And whatever is happening now, he's dead. Why are you really here, Agent Burke?"
Peter was calm. "Gregory's daughter, Shannon, was just gunned down in an alley in New York for no apparent reason. We started looking into it and found that she had been conducting her own investigation into her father's death. And despite what your team said, and what CSI said, this is looking less and less like and accident and more like a murder. We think Shannon stumbled upon some new information that rattled whoever killed her father, and they decided to silence her."
Alston straightened his already proper posture. "Did she survive?"
Peter couldn't determine the motivation for his interest, so he continued in the same clinical tone. "Barely. She's in ICU in Brooklyn. I've been told she's doing better, though. The doctors are hoping she'll come around later today and maybe shed some light on all this, but I don't want the leads we have to go cold, so we've been investigating anyway."
Alston nodded. "Listen. Agent Gregory was a highly respected, well regarded officer. I was his right-hand man." He looked pensive, as though debating something with himself, but he finally met Peter's eyes. "I knew that the bullet that ended his career wasn't from the enemy side, but we had absolutely no proof. He told me he wanted to retire with what dignity he had left and be there for his family, and I agreed, but I felt a duty to him, so I filed the report, which is why you have it. I do know that a few months after his son Danny left home, he came sniffing around the offices again. Said it was to catch up with some buddies, but I knew better. Matt was tenacious. He was a damn good agent, and he'd been forced into retirement. I think he was looking into his last case. He couldn't just let it go cold. A few months later, his car went into the drink. Coincidences don't exist in our world, Agent Burke." He gave a quiet, stabilizing sigh. "I know about Shannon's investigation, too. I helped her kick-start it. The problem is, it went nowhere. The biggest lead we had was the crunched quarter panel, and there was an estimate done on it earlier that week by an auto body shop in town, confirming the damage was accidental. That ended the case before it even began. I knew Shannon wasn't satisfied with that answer, but I couldn't pursue it."
"You still helped her though, right?"
The older agent narrowed his eyes, "Wouldn't you?"
Peter held up his hands. "We're not here about me, and I'm not here about that anyway. Did you have any clues, or even a hunch, of who was behind the friendly fire all those years ago?"
"If I did, don't you think I would have pursued it?"
"Fair enough. Who did you take down in Gregory's final sting?"
"Gavino Bellucci. Mob boss right here in Boston. He's doing a hard thirty in the state pen."
Peter nodded. "All right, thank you for your time. We'll be in touch. And if you can think of anything else, please call me." Peter slid his business card over.
Alston read it, and he frowned. "White Collar?" The incredulous stare almost made Peter cringe.
"Yeah. Organized Crime was overwhelmed, so we got the case. Again, thank you." He smiled, and everyone stood to leave. As they filed their way out of the room, Alston stopped Peter with a touch to the elbow.
"Matt's motto was to follow your gut. I didn't and…" The pause hung there.
"I'll find who shot Shannon," Peter reassured the older agent. No matter how many cases they worked, no matter how many bad guys they caught, Peter knew that mistakes like this haunted agents till their dying breath. He turned and caught up to Neal and Marcelo, who were waiting at the elevator.
"What now?" Marcelo asked.
"Now? Now, we go talk to Gavino Bellucci." He stated as he fixed his tie and straightened his coat.
Neal slowly shook his head and grinned. "Was that supposed to be an Italian accent?"
"Shush."
Marcelo chuckled under her breath, but quickly regained her composure and pursed her lips. "I have to say, I don't like where this case is going. Crooked feds?"
Peter straightened in defense. "The FBI has a long, proud history of good work. We're not all part of some shady cabal."
Neal chipped in, "Besides, corruption is everywhere these days, especially when money is tight."
Marcelo glared at him. "Yeah. Especially when so many people get scammed out of their life savings by crooks, who then turn around and live off the taxpayers' dime."
Peter watched Neal's eyes widen with innocence as they stepped onto the elevator. "Hey, I'm reformed, and the taxpayers spend the same amount as if I were behind bars."
She glanced over at Peter, who nodded his agreement.
"Then how the hell do you dress like Calvin Klein?"
"Actually, it's a Devore. Classic…" He cut himself off as Peter motioned for him to shut up.
"Rat Pack?" Marcelo finished, in a shocked voice.
"Yeah. Found it in a thrift store." He was flat, wary, gauging her reaction.
"Really? Did the former owners even know what they had?"
Peter saw the gleam re-enter Neal's face as he grinned.
"Actually, she did. A very nice widow was donating her husband's old clothes. She said she'd rather someone use it and appreciate it then keeping it hung up in an attic closet. We hit it off and she happened to have an apartment for rent inside my price range."
"Unbelievable. I pull long hours and do all this hard work just to put guys like you behind bars, and then you get to live like a king because of a chance meeting on the street?"
"Whoa, take it easy." He glanced at Peter for help, who shook his head. He was going to let Neal backpedal his own way out of this one. "It was a chance meeting. You could've had it too if you had been shopping, since you know Devore. Big fan of the Rat Pack?"
"My father had every album Sinatra released, and my mother loved Dean Martin. You can't help but be influenced by that. I have some great memories of us sitting around listening to them on old 45's." The crowfeet eased as she smiled at the fond memories, and Peter sighed as they exited the elevator car. Neal would always befuddle him.
Xxxx
Peter led the way to the car, Neal followed, and Tamara Marcelo brought up the rear, lost in her own thoughts. She'd always considered herself a strong woman, and she had done enough living to know when she was being charmed, especially by a conman that she instinctively distrusted. But between that casual, graceful stroll happening front of her, that smile and those damn blue eyes, Tamara felt herself melt just a little bit. Neal was a con artist, and she'd always be on her guard, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the view or the conversation. Besides, she had a feeling that Neal had been on the straight and narrow for a while now.
As for Peter, the Fed had earned her respect, and not just the grudging kind. He was a good guy, polite and courteous, an honest agent who upheld the law, and he had obviously seen potential in Caffrey, who had also impressed her. Since he had been cleared as a suspect, Neal had turned around and been extremely useful. It was starting to make her rethink her position. The fact that he had gone back to save a woman that he didn't even know was something that she almost didn't even know what to do with. She was cynical, and the first to admit that. But the easy interaction between the two men was a nice breath of fresh air, especially compared to the relationships she usually saw on the job.
They reached the car and she saw that Neal was standing at the front passenger side, holding her door open for her. With a very civil nod and smile, she lowered herself into the seat and let him swing it shut.
Xxxx
Peter nearly took off the paint of a neighboring car as they pulled into a reserved space in the prison's parking lot. Neal was the last to get out. As he squeezed through the narrow gap between door and car, he noticed a man in a cheap black suit walking towards them with a get-out-of-my-way swagger. A Fed of some persuasion, obviously. But Neal could tell from fifty paces that he wasn't FBI, and if the look on Peter's face was anything to go by, Peter had picked up on this, too. The man's face was shadowed at awkward angles by the parking lot's orange lighting. They'd left New York a little after two in the afternoon and pulled into Boston at seven o'clock on the dot. Now that the conversation with Agent Alston and the short drive to the prison were behind them, it was 8:15, and the parking lot was lit up like a beacon against the dark and freezing night.
"Can I help you?" Peter asked with a frown, his greeting more accusation than question.
Neal waited for an answer and considered the newcomer. Somehow, against the laws of physics and logic, this man wasn't any clearer close-up than he was at a distance. Square face, plain and forgettable suit, boring shoes … not even a splash of color from a pocket square. He looked like an extra from Men in Black. Sure enough, a pair of dark sunglasses was perched on his head.
"Are you Agent Burke?"
"Yes. What's going on?"
Neal's cell phone started to wail in his pocket. With an apologetic glance at the two agents, he pulled it out and checked the caller. "It's Diana. I'll be right back." He walked away to give them the illusion of privacy.
The new guy said, "Sir, I'm here to inform you that…"
Neal tuned him out and answered the phone with a smile. "Diana, what a pleasant surpri–"
"Neal, save it. Where's Peter?" Diana sounded frantic and frustrated.
Neal recognized the urgency and snapped into "business" mode. "He's right here with me. Were you trying to reach him? His phone is off; it's charging in the car. What's wrong?"
Peter suddenly shouted, "Drop the investigation? On whose authority?"
"I think he found out." Diana's dejected voice filled his ear.
Neal watched – and winced – as Peter lit into the guy, who attempted to defend himself. Loud, unsavory comments were exchanged in the background as things escalated, and Neal blocked one ear to better hear his colleague. "What the hell is going on, Diana?"
"NSA is taking over. They said it's a matter of national security. They've already confiscated all of the files and evidence we've gathered on Agent Gregory's case."
Neal shook his head in disbelief. "Wow. And they say that crooks are thieves. This is insane. They can really do that? Just swoop down and take everything?"
"Yup. Look, I'm not happy about this, but when it comes to national security, it's the NSA's show. They said that this case of Agent Gregory's is linked to several other cases that they've been working on, and they're not letting the FBI near it. They said they have enough manpower to investigate it themselves. We've been –"
"Stonewalled." Neal completed.
Peter stormed over, snatching for the phone. Neal handed it over and backed away. The NSA agent with the bad news and the sunglasses had turned tail. He was making a beeline back the way he'd come.
"Are they in the right?" Peter said into the phone. There was a pause and then … "Okay. I need to speak to Hughes, Diana. Would you transfer me?"
Neal padded over to Marcelo, who was now also angrily talking on her phone. She hung up as Neal leaned against the car.
He looked at the detective, waiting for her to share some information and idly observing that even though she seemed like a fire-breathing monster sometimes, she couldn't be taller than 5'5". This thought amused him until she sighed through her nose and turned a glare on him that could have blasted rust off a pipe. It sank his smile like the Titanic.
"Okay... So, um, did you learn anyth-"
"God, this government bull!" she exploded. "These feds have the funding and the connections, and they so 'generously' let my men stay on the case because they can't be bothered with the legwork. Soon as the legwork's done," she snapped her fingers, "They cut us out of the loop, no information, no reason, without so much as a thank-you."
Neal wasn't pleased either, but now was the time to plan and act, not shout. "Yeah, I get it, the NSA stinks. The Bureau is completely with you on that. What do we do now?"
"Go home," Peter said flatly as he walked up to them, handing over Neal's phone.
"What? Peter, we can't just…" Neal started.
Peter sliced the air with his hand. "No. We're done. It's over. NSA has the case. Their opinion, according to Hughes, is that it's not connected to Shannon's shooting. Apparently the NSA is very invested in the mobster we were about to interview. Why, I don't know, but we're not getting any further."
"What happens to Shannon?" Neal asked. "Can't we still try to figure out who shot her?"
Peter sighed and shook his head. "No. Without this link to her father, her shooting is getting tossed back to the NYPD. We don't have any jurisdiction. She'll stay in a secure room at Bellevue until she's healthy enough for WitSec … if she agrees to protective custody, that is." He slumped against the car in defeat. Marcelo had already wiggled her way between the cars to take shotgun and was angrily trying to snap her seatbelt buckle into place.
"Let's go home." Peter said, and he motioned for Neal to get in the car.
The whole ride back to New York, Peter and Marcelo exchanged a total of four gloomy sentences with each other and Neal said nothing at all. He spent the ride staring out the window at the snowy night without seeing it. The clicky pen and halfway finished crossword book were hiding somewhere. He didn't bother looking for them. The resignation in Peter's voice had scared him. Peter always got his man; Neal was living proof of that. And Peter had dedicated his life to this system. To be cut off at the knees by the very institution he worked for had to be really frustrating. Neal was nowhere near Peter on the dedication scale. He was still trying to consistently think of the federal system as something other than an instrument of oppression. But justice and the course of a woman's life were now in the palsied hands of the NSA, and even though he was still in the "experimental" phase of being a good guy, as a member of an FBI team, he was offended on his agency's behalf. Besides, this felt like losing, and he hated to lose. He couldn't even imagine how terrible Peter must feel.