Lack Luster
A/N: I apologize for the long overdue update. Two extensive work gigs back-to-back sadly left little time for writing. Now on my break, after this story is complete, I plan to write another "Animula" chapter and rewrite/expand one or two of my earlier hurt/comfort fics from 2010. Also on the docket is a multi-chapter WC fic featuring a missing Stradivarius.
Chapter 6
"You trust this new information?" asked Agent Hughes.
Prior to redirecting his focus back to his lead agent, the elder SAC, standing with imposing posture in Peter's doorway, threw a questioning glare at Neal. The look on his face demonstrated the confidence (or lack thereof) he personally held in Mozzie's tip-off.
"I'm tired of the office chasing its tail on the Jenkins' investigation," he growled, "we've looked like bumbling fools. Now you're asking me to put stock in the jabber of Caffrey's lunatic friend."
Slouching lower in his seat, Neal seemed to disappear within himself. Discretion…and letting Peter handle Hughes were the better part of valor, he reminded himself. He could be cautious when the need arose.
Peter sat forward, tossing some documents down on the desk. As he looked up, his eyes were serious and weary, mind buzzing with thoughts of an impending arrest. Slowly rubbing his forehead, he paused before replying.
"Reese, you know we've used Mozzie before. He's come through in the past; his presentation is ah… unorthodox but the information often… reliable."
"Do you know that little man once cornered me at your house and told me the Apollo Moon Landing was a hoax, staged by NASA?"
Peter growled, shooting Neal a look of unease.
And," Hughes paused, "he actually believed it."
Neal suddenly discovered Peter's floor an interesting study while the lead agent shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Peter knew it had been a bad idea to invite both Hughes and Haversham to one of El's parties. But she had insisted and he, of course, deferred to her wishes.
What did the wise man once say about tempting fate? he thought. Ah, 'Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat.' Well, it seemed to have the appearance of a short bald rat with black framed eyeglasses.
"Even stranger still," the senior agent continued, "he continued to harangue me for thirty minutes insisting the government manufactured, tampered with and destroyed key evidence of telemetry, moon rocks, photographs and radio and television transmissions. Actually wanted me to initiate a covert investigation."
Keeping his hard, piercing gaze fixed on Burke, Hughes took a few steps further into the room, stopping abruptly next to Neal's chair. As the younger man began to rise from his seat, in feigned deference, Hughes shot out his hand and stopped him.
"Sit down, Caffrey."
Feeling a heavy hand on his shoulder, Neal sat.
"Do you know that during the moon landings, photos and videos clearly show multiple light sources being present suggesting the photographs were taken on a film set?" Hughes asked dryly. "And that astronauts passing through Van Allen's radiation belt would have undoubtedly been cooked by the sheer magnitude of radiation despite the coating of aluminum on the spaceship."
Silence descended upon the room.
"And let's not forget the smoking gun, so to speak. We have the footage of Aldrin planting the waving American flag on the moon, clearly showing the presence of wind, which is, of course, is impossible in the vacuum of space."
As Neal opened his mouth to speak, Hughes turned without a word and strode off down the hallway.
Neal and Peter looked at each other across the desk. Starring eyeball to eyeball, they listened until the heavy footsteps receded.
Leaning back on the rear two legs of his chair, Neal shrugged. Casually placing his hands behind his head, he began to smile.
"That went well."
"Stop."
"He could have rejected Mozzie's scuttlebutt," replied Neal. "Or ordered us to cease and desist."
Peter groaned internally.
"If this goes south, I know who'll be the goat and it won't be a certain half pint fruit loop we all know and love. It will be yours truly. "
Neal's eyes sparkled with mirth. "What happened to your gut telling you this is the best lead yet?"
"It changed to gut-wrenching," Peter replied. "I didn't hear you defending Haversham's information."
"Now Peter. Haven't you always told me to smarten up? Exercise caution around Hughes; let you be the one to do the talking?"
"Yes," Peter admitted dully. "I said that."
"I was just obediently following your advice."
Nodding, Peter suddenly rose from his desk chair and strode around the desk over to Neal.
The conman barely suppressed his surprise when Peter bent down, placing one hand on his arm. Surprise quickly turned to amusement as he caught Peter's word.
"Coward," was the fierce whisper in his ear.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC
The next day found Peter Burke, with trusty CI by his side, strolling through several city boroughs. Investigating several post offices on Mozzie's hard-won list caused the G-man's mood to darken with each failed location. It was only at the fourth venue, on Canal Street, in lower Manhattan, that the partners hit pay dirt.
Just in time, Neal thought.
He didn't know if Peter was in danger of having a coronary (infinitely difficult to explain to Elizabeth) or whether he would need to warn Mozzie to lie low for… well, several months.
East of West Houston Street had loomed the short squat building housing the United States Postal Office. Widely known for inadequate customer service and over-the-top rude clerks, locals shuddered to enter the lines of twenty or more people deep. Neal felt it was one of those places best to avoid, saving your sanity, unless you were extremely desperate to receive your correspondence.
"Ah… Peter?"
No response.
Customers in line gave both men the stink eye as Peter, with smiling, apologetic Neal in tow, pushed and nudged their way to the front. Neal hoped he wouldn't be attacked by the soon-to-be lynch mob, if the glares from the local customers were any clue.
"I'd like to talk to the supervisor on duty," stated Peter, his brisk federal agent demeanor in full force.
The young, bored postal clerk barely raised an eyebrow.
"You have to get back in line and wait your turn," he growled.
"I don't think so," answered the agent. "This is official business."
"We don't do that sort of thing here. You need to go elsewhere." The clerk, hair tied back in ponytail, yawned and pointed to the door.
We don't do that sort of thing here, thought Neal. Peter will have that coronary.
The consultant noted Peter's facial expression. With one glance he sized the man up, and the warning glint in Peter's eyes and cheekbone twitch made Neal want to take two steps back and observe the show.
Calmly and slowly pulling out his badge, Peter waved it under the man's nose and placed it on the counter.
"I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI."
"Listen. We answer to the Postal Inspection Service, not you."
The small, littered waiting area became remarkably quiet. Even the children, who earlier were screeching or tugging on their parents clothes, recognized the change in room atmosphere. Postal customers, craning their necks to see what would transpire, seemed to have shifted alliance from previous hostility to anticipation. How would this lawman handle being on the infuriating, receiving end of asinine bureaucracy?
"Closed to serve you better," muttered Peter, in a sardonic aside to Neal, his anger radiating off him in waves.
"Look Earl," advised the agent, casting a quick glance at the clerk's nametag, "postal inspectors have developed close working relations with other federal agencies. Our overlapping jurisdiction often requires us to use mutual collaboration."
Opening his suit jacket, Peter pulled out his paperwork, providing a clear view of his shoulder holster and Glock. Placing a document on the table, intentionally upside down and hard to read, he reached toward his back snapping his cuffs free from his belt.
"This is a warrant to search a postal box. Now, I will only ask you, once more, to call your supervisor before I place you spread-eagle on the floor, in front of all these nice people, and happily cuff your hands behind your back."
Neal nodded at Earl. "He'll do it," he said offering a megawatt Caffrey smile.
Earl took a hesitant step back, moving his hands away from Peter. With no offer of assistance coming from his unexpectedly quiet co-workers, his face paled. Leaning toward a small back door marked 'Reginald MacDonald Supervisor,' he knocked and directed both Peter and Neal to enter.
Peter put his handcuffs away, picking up his badge and warrant off the counter.
"Now, that wasn't too difficult, was it?" he asked Earl. "And to all your customers back there," Peter motioned toward the people in line, "make sure you provide courtesy and speed." He paused. "I'll be back out here within 15 minutes."
Before the man could answer, a few customers began to clap. The agent strode through the door without a backward glance, followed closely by an amused Neal.
As they entered MacDonald's office, Neal whispered to Peter.
"I admired your restraint back there, Peter."
"Never argue with a fool, onlookers may not be able to tell the difference."
"Twain?"
"Yes," the agent replied with a grin, as the postal supervisor rose to greet them.
Peter's day was about to get better. MacDonald would provide evidence of a postal box, rented by Bradley Jenkins, under the name of his sister, Eloise Murdock.