Chapter 9: Say It with Flowers
The Aloha Emporium. January 27, 2005. Thursday afternoon.
"You're positive this won't injure the orchids?" Maggie studied uneasily the array of electronic gear Travis had spread out on her workbench.
Neal's main role since arriving at the Emporium was to maintain harmonious relations between Maggie, Mozzie, and Travis. They'd gathered on the second floor of the Emporium where the green rooms and Maggie's workroom were located. Maggie had the floor plan of the mansion spread out in front of her and was finalizing the flower placement. The countertops were filled with flowers with many of the arrangements already assembled.
Maggie was unique among New York florists in her use of living orchids for arrangements. By incorporating the entire orchid plant in her designs, she could provide rarer orchids without harming them. The customer in effect rented flowers for the occasion. It was a marketing technique that was attracting a growing clientele and also was ideal for White Collar's purposes. For the Rinaldi party, Travis and Mozzie were turning the orchids into floral spies. They were being equipped with tiny bugs which would be removed when the plants were retrieved on Sunday. Once the bugs had been placed in the arrangements, Neal's assignment was to paint them to blend in with the plants.
Neal turned around when he heard footsteps on the stairs. A few seconds later, Peter stepped into the room. Travis and Mozzie only gave him brief nods before resuming their work. Peter approached Neal, asking in a low voice, "Everything going okay?" with a nod to the two of them.
"They've been maintaining a running dialogue about listening devices. If I could understand more of what they were talking about, I'm sure it would be an education. I'm here primarily to act as a facilitator, but they don't need me."
"Not true," Maggie retorted. "I rely upon you and particularly your artistic eye." Wiping her hands on her garden apron, she showed Peter her diagrams for the events.
"There are enough of us that we hope the staff won't notice us sneaking into rooms not being decorated," Neal said. "Mozzie will search the upstairs while Jones, Maggie, and Steve stay in the event rooms. I'll case out the ground floor. We're taking extra bugs to plant. The decision to add more will be made based on how much detecting equipment we find."
"I suspect you won't have much luck," Peer warned. "The orchids in the dining room will be our best bet. Rinaldi's so security-conscious, even those bugs may not be able to be activated."
"Not necessarily, Suit," Mozzie replied without looking up. "With the cell phones everyone carries, attempts to monitor conversations during a party could be fruitless."
"At least, that's our hope," Travis said. "If we find a detector in the dining room, Jones will plant a device that will allow us to activate the bugs once the detector's turned off."
Mozzie's nose wriggled when Travis mentioned the device. "Don't you need me to test it before we go in the field?"
Travis pondered the question. "I've already checked it out. However, I might be willing to exchange tips if you'd let me have a look at your superheterodyned amplitude spectrum analyzer."
"I can't be bought, Space Suit," Mozzie scoffed as he tweaked a bug into position.
Travis raised a brow. "Not even if I indoctrinate you into the inner strategies of SETI?"
Mozzie wavered, tweezers in mid-air. "Including the Air Force confidential reports from Project Blue Book?"
Peter rolled his eyes as he listened to the two of them. "Obviously, two of a kind. I'm going to take off. El knew I was coming and prepared a shopping list."
Mozzie jerked his head around. "That better include honey wine."
"Two cases," Peter assured him. He turned to Neal "Don't forget, I expect to see your Owen Wilson look tomorrow. The bullpen insists on it."
"I'll make sure Jones stays in character too. Richard's meeting me early tomorrow before he heads for work to apply the makeup. Tonight Mozzie will help me prepare." He paused and called over to Mozzie, "Nine o'clock okay?"
"Perfect. June wants to help too."
"What kind of preparation are you talking about?" Peter asked.
Mozzie peered at him over his glasses. "On the path to enlightenment if you wish to be sure of the route, close your eyes and walk in the dark."
Peter pondered that gem and made the safest reply possible under the circumstances. "Right. I'll leave you to it."
#
When Neal returned home from Columbia that night, he could smell the popcorn as he jogged upstairs. Mozzie and June had already staked out positions on his couch.
"I hope you didn't start without me," he said as he dumped his backpack next to the dining table.
"I wouldn't let him," June replied. "Mozzie's been educating me on the plight of the yellow-faced bee. I suspect you're already quite well informed."
Neal nodded his confirmation, happy to have missed the lecture.
"Help yourself to wine," Mozzie said. "There's an open bottle in the fridge. I also replenished your stock." Neal couldn't resist a smile. He may not have been paid in cash for his assistance with Mozzie's honey business, but the perks more than made up for it. Not only had Mozzie's consumption of Neal's wine dropped dramatically, but he was also keeping him supplied with honey wine.
"Mozzie told me about your plans to portray a surfer dude," June said. "Do you have your clothes ready?"
Neal hung up his coat. "I knew there was a reason why I needed to buy a Hawaiian shirt in Honolulu last month. My look is well-suited for Maggie's Hawaiian florist theme. The flip flops and board shorts will have to wait for warmer weather, though." Neal went to the fridge to retrieve the wine. He poured himself a glass and topped off June and Mozzie's glasses.
June browsed through the selection of DVDs spread out on the cocktail table. "Mozzie, what do you suggest we start with?"
"For training in Owen Wilsons's voice, I advise a classic—Shanghai Noon."
Neal nodded his approval. "Afterward I should loan it to Peter. It's one of his favorite movies."
"Really?" June asked. "I wouldn't have imagined that Peter was a fan of goofball westerns."
"He's a man of many hidden interests," Neal said. "I'm making a study of them. Anything else? If we cut out the action sequences, the dialogue scenes won't take very long."
"Next up is Bottle Rocket. Highly instructive on many levels. A seventy-five-year heist plan—Neal, you'll want to take notes—and elaborate escapes. It features Owen Wilson and his brother. You may find inspiration for a future caper with Henry."
"Didn't they wind up in prison?"
"Ah, but your plan would be so much better ... and you wouldn't need seventy-five years to carry it out."
#
On Friday morning, Richard accomplished his SFX magic on Neal in much less time than he'd taken on Sunday. All the practicing must have paid off. When Richard headed to his day job as an investment analyst, Neal, aka surfer-dude, took off for the Aloha Emporium, a heavy jacket over his Hawaiian shirt.
Since Maggie's van didn't have space to accommodate all the arrangements and crew, they were also taking one of the Bureau vans. Travis had arranged for a skin of her logo—Aloha Flowers and a spray of orchids—to be applied to a side panel. This was probably the first time orchids had ever been displayed on an FBI van.
When they pulled up in front of the mansion, Jones smoothed his mustache. "Is it askew?" he asked. He was wearing a slouchy knit beanie over his short Afro. Janet's makeup artist had also given him a short stubble beard.
"No, it's perfect. You're rocking the look." The facial hair gave Jones a hard-edged, hip appearance that even the gardener's apron he was wearing did nothing to dispel.
Travis turned off the ignition and swiveled in the driver's chair to study the two of them. "Next time you should go as a Klingon," he advised Jones.
"Which Star Trek look is best for me?" Neal asked.
Travis shook his head slowly. "You're more a Luke Skywalker type. It's hard to picture you in any kind of uniform."
"I might surprise you," Neal countered. "Supposedly, I could portray quite a believable admiral in the Royal Navy." When Jones narrowed his eyes, Neal added quickly, "All pure rumor and speculation, of course. Are we ready to go?" Mustache and surfer-dude makeup aside, they made a professional-looking crew. They were all wearing forest-green gardener's aprons emblazoned with the Aloha Flowers logo. The large apron pockets provided convenient hiding spots for their specialized gear.
Neal had done his due diligence on Old Westbury. Situated on Long Island's Gold Coast, the village was known for its opulent estates and country club living. The Rinaldi mansion was no exception. The English-style stucco manor sat on four acres behind a high brick wall. The vans had been given special permission to park in the front courtyard rather than use the service entrance.
They had till noon to decorate the house. That didn't leave much free time for snooping. Jones was in charge of verifying the location and status of any wireless detection emitters. He was wearing an earpiece, concealed by his beanie, to communicate with Travis.
The inside of the mansion exuded glitz on an opulent scale. The upholstered furniture was covered in velvet and silk brocades. From the pseudo-nineteenth century mahogany furniture to the oriental rugs, it was clear that Max Rinaldi wanted to show he was made of money. Numerous paintings hung in ornate gilt frames on the walls. Neal earmarked them for closer inspection at the first opportunity.
Minimal staff was there to bother them. Lily Rinaldi had already told Maggie she'd be out and the daughter was at school. A caterer's truck had pulled up at the back entrance just after their arrival. Most of the staff appeared to be working in the kitchen on the evening menu.
Neal set a rapid pace through the ground-floor rooms as he searched for Rinaldi's office. He was carrying a large flower arrangement to provide cover. He found the office in the back of the house adjacent to an indoor patio. A printer and some other peripherals were on a side table but, as expected, the computer itself was missing. The locked desk was trivial to pick. Neal found a few bills which he photographed, but otherwise the desk was unusually empty. The drawers contained normal office supplies. No hidden compartments. No papers taped under the drawers. The only files appeared to be household records. Turning his attention to the built-in bookcase, Neal rapidly scanned the leather-bound volumes. Most of them had barely been opened.
More interesting was the collection of photographs in silver frames. Mandy was obviously her father's pride and joy. She appeared in all the photos. Many of them were of her and her dad. Only a few included his wife. Several of the photos showed Mandy in dance attire.
A large Renoir was hanging in the office. Neal studied it at length. It was a copy of the Dance at Bougeval and showed a couple twirling at an open-air café. The faces of the couple were spotlighted by their headgear—a flame-orange bonnet and a yellow straw hat. The original was at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, but this was an excellent reproduction. Neal took out a magnifying glass to examine the brushwork technique. He longed to examine the man's straw hat, but the large painting was hung at a height above his reach. Neal darted to the door and checked the outside. Spotting no one in the hallway, he moved the desk chair over to the painting and jumped on the chair to examine it. Retrieving tweezers and a small storage jar from his apron pocket, he delicately scraped a minute amount of the yellow from the man's hat and then used the macro lens on his camera for several close-ups.
His examination of the Renoir made him eager to take a closer look at the other paintings. Neal put the flowers on a side table in the entry and headed for the living room where Maggie was working. The walls were covered with oil paintings. Most were nondescript landscapes and obvious copies, but there was a Degas in the living room which merited closer inspection. The painting was the well-known Dancers at the Barre. Like the Renoir in the office, it was forgery grade.
He helped Maggie finish decorating the living room. They then joined the others in the dining room where Steve and Jones were on ladders, festooning the crown molding with garlands. Maggie delegated Neal to arrange orchids on the long polished mahogany dining room table. He took a brief time out to photograph Jones hanging flowers.
Stepping close to the ladder, he asked Jones in a low voice, "Detectors?"
"Present but not activated," Jones muttered. "The detectors in the living room are live. We're only going to activate the bugs in the dining room."
The dining room was off the main entry. When the front door opened, the sound of clicking heels was a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the marble floor. Shortly afterward, Lily Rinaldi stepped into the room. She was carrying a Yorkshire Terrier puppy with a pink satin bow holding up its forelock. When she set the puppy down, it promptly scampered over to Steve who was dangling lengths of polymer to tie the garlands.
"No, Gigi! Come to Mama, you naughty girl." Lily Rinaldi was a vivacious brunette firecracker in her forties. Her medium-length hair was swept casually to one side. She was wearing skintight leggings, high heel boots, and a fire-engine red turtleneck that clung to every voluptuous curve.
Lily clapped her hands ecstatically when she saw Maggie's flowers. "You're a magician! I love, love, love your creations! No one in Westbury has ever had any event as beautiful." Her southern twang made it sound like she was singing a country western ballad.
Lily proceeded around the table, inspecting the decorations and workers at the same time. Her gaze swept over Neal and quickly moved on. Surfer dudes must not be her type. She briefly lingered on Steve but honed in on Jones and stayed there. When Jones came down from the ladder, she was there to greet him.
Slipping her arm into his, she led him toward the living room. "I'm hopeless with flowers, but I bet you know the name of every single one of them, sugar. How about giving me a tour?"
#
When they began packing the supplies into Maggie's van to leave, Mozzie appeared as if by magic from behind a doorway to assist. He'd been absent throughout their work downstairs. The last time Neal had seen him was when he darted up the main staircase when they entered the house.
They were able to fit all the supplies into Maggie's van so Maggie and Steve would drive directly to the Emporium while the others would return to the Bureau in the FBI van. Mozzie had wanted to ride back with Maggie, but Jones balked at the idea. He insisted on being the one to question Mozzie about what he'd discovered, and there was no way Mozzie would go to the Bureau during business hours. After several long minutes of tense negotiation in the Rinaldi courtyard, the FBI van was picked as the closest approximation to a demilitarized zone they could come up with.
Neal sat with Jones and Mozzie in the back cargo area for the ride back to town. He felt like the mediator for peace negotiations where neither side was ready to lay down their arms. Mozzie had picked the seat furthest away from Jones and was perched uneasily next to the back door, prepared to bolt at the first sign of enemy fire.
Jones made the initial overture for peace. "If I hadn't seen you enter the house with us, I wouldn't have known you were present. You were the Phantom." Neal nodded at Jones with approval at the gambit. He'd probably consulted with Travis on the best approach.
Mozzie flicked imperceptible dust off his garden apron with a small huff. "I knew surfer-dude over there could manage the downstairs easily on his own. I concentrated my efforts on the upstairs bedrooms."
"So, clue us in," Neal prompted. "Did you find anything interesting?"
"The scavenger hunt was not unproductive," he said smugly. "A sultan's palace of treasures ripe to be plundered."
Did he have any of the sultan's treasures with him? Maggie's reputation was on the line and he knew Mozzie didn't want to harm her. Still, the temptation would have been high. Neal would pursue that sensitive matter when they were alone.
"They're planning a trip," Mozzie said, polishing his glasses. "Lily—I feel we're on a first-name basis since I've become acquainted with her unmentionables, of which she has a dazzling collection"—Mozzie paused to wipe his brow—"Va-va-va-voom, if you catch my drift."
Jones made rumbling noises to keep him on track.
Mozzie glared at Jones. "As I was trying to say, if the wet suit will stop interrupting me, Lily had a travel brochure on her desk for the Lynx Mountain Resort."
Mozzie hadn't used the term before for Jones. He was stuck with it now.
Jones didn't look impressed. "That's hardly anything to—"
Mozzie raised a hand. "Pay careful attention. A simple travel brochure, yes, but what does it tell us? Listen to the travel brochure. I did and it directed me to Lily's closet. You can tell a lot from a closet. First of all, Lily has a very cluttered mind. Second, Lily is no shrinking violet. The number of plunging necklines she has is enough to—and if you include the silk and lace unmentionables to which I previously referred in every color of the rainbow—"
"We get the idea," Jones interrupted, determined to play the adult on the mission. "Continue."
"Very well, Wet Suit," Mozzie said, emphasizing his new term for Jones and making Neal wonder if he was referring to wet blanket rather than the Navy. "She'd grouped some of her clothes into a separate section: cocktail dresses and ski attire. I deduce from this she's planning a trip to a ski resort, and it must be soon since she's already planning her wardrobe."
"Very good, Sherlock," Neal said. "Did you check out Mandy's closet?"
"Of course, and what a bounty that was. How her mother lets her leave the house in those clothes"— Mozzie shook his head disapprovingly—"She has to be either a vixen or a strumpet. Further research will be needed to decide which."
"Be kind, Mozzie," Neal protested. "The girl is just turning eighteen, and with a mother like Lily, it's understandable."
Mozzie acquiesced grudgingly. "I heard footsteps when I was searching her dresser. I grabbed her laptop and moved into her closet where I spent a delicious half-hour looking through her files, her browser history, and her email. I downloaded a copy for you." Mozzie tossed a USB drive over to Jones. "Ah, now the wet suit smiles."
"Did you find a pattern in Mandy's closet?" Neal asked.
"Her clothes were in even worse disarray than her mother's. It makes me think I need to write a book—perhaps Amour pour l'Armoire—on the art of arranging clothes. Nevertheless, I was able to detect a similar pattern, leading me to conclude Mandy's going to the resort too."
"Anything else?" Jones asked.
Mozzie moved closer to Neal and passed him a scrap of crumpled paper. "I found this in a wastebasket in the bathroom," he muttered.
Neal studied the fragment. It was a small two-inch square with the corners worn and ragged. Multiple bite marks were on it. "Gigi must have been playing with it," he said, telling Mozzie about Lily's terrier. The paper had a small logo in black. Only part of it was shown and the rest had been torn off. It looked like the head of a snake.
"Mean anything to you?" Jones asked, peering at it.
Neal shook his head. "Could be the design for a tattoo. Maybe Lily has a kinky side?"
Once the van was within Manhattan, Mozzie availed himself of the first opportunity to jump out. He promptly melted into the lunchtime crowd.
As they approached the Federal Building, Neal asked Jones, "Do you think we'll pass muster with building security?"
Jones was buried in his laptop. "Sure. Why not?" Then he stopped typing and gave Neal the once over. "You, maybe not." He scratched his neck. "On further thought, we may need Travis to vouch for both of us."
#
When Peter heard the commotion in the bullpen, he stepped onto the balcony to take a look. Neal, at least he assumed it was Neal underneath all the makeup, was making his way through the bullpen, signing autographs. He had Owen Wilson's voice nailed. Jones had his own share of admirers. His second-in-command looked so much better with a mustache than Peter had when he tried to grow one.
Peter descended the stairs to join in the fun.
Neal strode over to him. "What d'ya think? Not bad, huh?"
"You want me to call you the Shanghai Kid now?"
Neal grinned. "It has a nice ring to it."
"You haven't been forging Owen Wilson's signature, have you?" Peter walked over to Collins's desk and picked up the piece of paper Neal had signed and chuckled.
Neal shrugged. "I figured Owen Wilson's Twin would keep me from being arrested." He gave one final bow to the bullpen and muttered to Peter, "The nose itches like crazy. Richard provided remover. I'm heading for the men's room."
Jones walked over to join them. "I feel like ants are gnawing at my face," he complained, scratching his neck. "This is the last time I go through this."
Peter was disinclined to be sympathetic. "The next time I hear talk of disguises, I'm going to remind you of this conversation. After you've cleaned up, meet the team upstairs."
#
When Neal and Jones arrived, Travis, Diana, and Peter were in the conference room.
Peter's reaction to the possibility that the Rinaldis might be going to the same resort where El had planned her winter getaway was predictable, even though it was a long shot that they'd be there at the same time. He asked Diana to contact the resort to confirm any reservations the Rinaldis might have made and report back.
As for the fragment of paper Mozzie had retrieved, no one recognized it. The drawing was a stylized rendering of what was most likely either the head of a dragon or snake. Peter directed Travis to spearhead the effort to find a match.
Neal waited till the others had spoken to make his grand reveal. He felt like Poirot explaining how he'd solved the murder. When Peter asked if there was anything else to report, he made his move. "The Rinaldis have filled their walls with paintings. Most of them are mediocre copies, but two of them merited closer inspection—a Degas and a Renoir. They appear to have been painted by the same artist. The brush technique has the hallmark of the Dutchman written all over it, and it's a safe bet that hansa yellow was used. I took photos and got paint samples. I'll know for sure once I test them."
Peter was satisfyingly impressed. "Do you think the paintings were sold as forgeries?"
"Highly unlikely. Both paintings are in public collections. The briefest search would find them. Rinaldi may have commissioned them from the Dutchman. Later Rinaldi got the idea or perhaps the Dutchman encouraged him to try selling a forgery of a lost masterpiece."
"Or the Dutchman may have painted the Corot for Rinaldi, and Rinaldi later decided to pass it off as the original," Jones added. "We may be able to learn his identity if we can get our hands on Rinaldi's files, but none of these paintings will help us build a case against the Dutchman. As far as we know, he didn't try to pass off any of them as an original."
"Yes, but once we have his identity, we'll be able to track him," said Peter. "Eventually he'll slip up, and he'll be ours."
Diana came back into the room. "The resort has reservations for Max Rinaldi, his wife, and daughter for next weekend. Rinaldi's booked four nights in February, the third through the sixth. There are special events planned for that weekend. They're calling it ..." She paused to look down at her notes.
"Winter Festival," Peter supplied with a groan. "El's scheduled to go there that same weekend."
Although Peter might not feel that way, knowing the Rinaldis would be at the resort was a golden opportunity. A little encouragement was in order. "The Rinaldis' trip is a gift," Neal said. "It provides us with the means to access his computer records. They're the most likely source of incriminating evidence and we know that Rinaldi travels with his computer."
"He should have it with him at the resort," Diana confirmed. "The hotel told me he's booked a small conference room and is meeting several associates there about a real estate development project. The hotel gave me the names of the people he's meeting." Diana checked her notepad. "The Rinaldis are traveling with two bodyguards—Rocko Calloway and Lamar Wilcox. These are the same bodyguards he used in Miami. We've already prepared extensive files on them. Both are ex-football players. No arrests. Calloway was detained briefly for roughing up a pedestrian, but the charges were dropped. The Rinaldis have booked a three-bedroom suite, and the guards will stay in the suite with them."
"With the security measures he has in place at home, we're not likely to have a chance to get to his records there," Neal said. "At the resort, our odds are much better. It will be easier to stage a distraction and sneak in when he's not looking—"
"—and copy his files," Diana added, finishing his thought. "But do we have the legal authority? Even assuming we do, can we copy someone's hard drive quickly without them being aware of it?"
"The latter won't be a problem," Travis assured them. "We could reprogram the BIOS. If the data's encrypted, which given Rinaldi's love of security, it probably is, we could still access it through a cold-boot attack. Or we could remove the hard drive and make a ghost image on another drive. I imagine the legality of any evidence gathered in this way would be highly suspect. I'm not a legal expert, though."
Peter turned to Jones. "You're the lawyer. What do you think?"
"A hotel room is considered the equivalent of one's home as far as legal protection. Rinaldi is a U.S. citizen ..." Jones shook his head. "Unless we can obtain a warrant, we'd be stepping outside the boundaries of the law. It won't fly."
"We've been stymied at gaining access to Rinaldi's computer records," Peter pointed out. "His lawyers have successfully fought all attempts to view them. The Patriot Act gives us more wiggle room. We also may be able to invoke probable cause for a warrant."
Peter fell silent and no one else spoke up, letting him weigh his options. After a few moments, he said, "I'd stated we need to go out of the box on this, and I know where you stand. I'm not convinced that going to the resort is the answer, but here's what I'm willing to do. Come up with a plan on how you'd run it and get back to me at three o'clock. Jones, you take the lead on this. I'll then decide if we should present it to Hughes."
Notes: Mozzie misquoted Saint John of the Cross. The original is "If a man wishes to be sure of the road he's traveling on, then he must close his eyes and travel in the dark."