Fic: "Beyond the Sea" 2/5
Title: Beyond the Sea
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Neal/OFC, past Neal/Kate
Rating: Teen
Contains: Amnesia. Medical trauma.
Word count: 27,000
Summary: Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.
Notes: Written for whitecollar_bb. This fic is an AU taking place around the time of Neal's arrest in "Forging Bonds."
Peter regarded the stack of check and mortgage fraud cases on his desk with some apprehension. He wasn't one to complain about dull cases, and he knew El appreciated it when his caseload allowed him to come home in time for dinner. But he would have rather been working on the James Bonds case.
There'd been nothing new about Caffrey for over a month. He'd thought they were so close to catching him. Almost five months ago, the NYPD interrupted the robbery of some very valuable Byzantine coins, and nearly apprehended a man matching Caffrey's. But both Caffrey and the coins got away, and since then, there'd been nothing. Interpol couldn’t find any trace of Caffrey in Europe or Asia. Peter was thinking about checking South American and African countries. Caffrey was reportedly fluent in Spanish and knew conversational Swahili.
El recently accused him of obsessing over the case. Maybe he was. If he couldn't catch Caffrey, maybe it was for the better that the trail had gone cold. When Caffrey reappeared (and he would. A criminal that bold could never stay away for long), Peter would be fresh and ready to tackle the case with new energy.
He'd just dived into a mortgage fraud case when there was a frantic knock on the doorframe. Looking up, he saw Jones standing in the doorway, out of breath and carrying a rolled-up newspaper in his hand.
"You won't believe what I just found."
"What happened?" Peter asked. "Did you run here?" He looked at his watch. He'd gotten to work early today, before most of his team. Jones wasn't due to arrive for another ten minutes.
"I was looking through the paper while I was in line for coffee, and guess who I saw? Neal Caffrey."
Peter stood up. "What are you saying? Caffrey's in the paper? Are you sure it's him?"
"Almost positive. Here, take a look for yourself." Jones stepped into the office and laid the paper out on the desk. He turned to the society page and pointed at a photograph from a charity ball.
The picture showed a silver-haired, middle-aged man in a tux. To his left was a younger woman in a green evening gown, and standing beside her, at the edge of the picture, was a man who looked remarkably like Neal Caffrey. His hair was shorter, but Peter would recognize the face anywhere. Caffrey's hand was on the woman's arm.
Peter read the photo's caption. Gregory Pryor, CEO of Pryor Industries and co-sponsor of the 2004 Benefit to End Multiple Sclerosis.
Tapping the photo with his finger, Peter said, "This Gregory Pryor. I always see him on those 'Most Successful' lists. You think Neal was attending the event with him?"
"Don't know, but he's definitely with the woman. Look how they're standing."
"I bet she's connected to Pryor. Let's see what we can find out about these people."
"I'm on it." Jones turned and started to leave.
"Oh, and Jones? Good job."
Jones stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled. "Thanks. But it was just luck."
"It was a good eye."
After Jones left, Peter sat back down and leaned back in his chair. He couldn't keep himself from smiling.
The trail was hot again. At the very least, they knew Caffrey was in New York. And with luck, Caffrey had no idea they were onto him.
Peter was going to catch him.
* * *
"How much do you think an apartment in a building like this would cost?"
Diana smirked. "Why? Thinking about moving?"
"No," Peter said, "I think I'm happy with what I've got."
It was hard for him to wrap his mind around an apartment that might be more expensive than his house. But in this building, he wouldn't have been surprised if that was the case. Hell, they'd even had to be buzzed in before they could enter, and now they were walking up to a reception desk. Peter saw now that the man who had buzzed them in was a uniformed security guard. He appeared to be in his thirties, and his curly black hair was closely cropped.
Peter pulled out his badge again, even though he'd flashed it to a security camera a few minutes ago. "We're here to see Annabelle Pryor."
"I believe she's out at the moment. But I can ring her apartment, if you'd like."
"If you don't mind."
The guard picked up a clunky white phone and jabbed some buttons. After a minute, he hung up and said, "Sorry, no answer."
"That's all right. Hey, while we wait, maybe you can answer a couple questions for us."
The guard shrugged. "I can certainly try. I hope Ms. Pryor isn't in any trouble. She's a nice woman, and she seems to be a great tenant."
"Actually," Peter said, "we're more interested in a possible friend of hers." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded-up copy of their sketch of Caffrey. He set it on the desk. "Have you seen anyone matching this description?"
The guard raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. That looks like Steve."
"Steve?"
"Yeah, Steve Tabernackle. He's Ms. Pryor's boyfriend. Seems like a nice guy."
"Is he here often?"
"He lives here. Has ever since Ms. Pryor returned from vacation in Cape Cod."
Peter exchanged a look with Diana. To the guard, he said, "Thank you for the information. I think we'll call on Ms. Pryor again in a bit. Listen, would you mind not saying anything about this visit? I don't want to alarm Ms. Pryor before we get a chance to talk to her."
"Right...this Steve guy, he didn't do anything, did he?"
"Nothing you need to worry about." Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his cards. Handing it to the guard, he said, "But if you do see him, it's important you don't say we were looking for him. If you see anything odd, or if there's any sign that Mr. Tabernackle is planning to go out of town, give me a call."
The guard looked down at the card and nodded. "Yeah...will do."
Once they were outside, Diana smiled, shook her head, and said, "I can't believe we have him."
"We don't have him yet. We can't take anything for granted-Caffrey's made some close escapes before. We'll have to act fast."
"When do you want to move?"
"As soon as we can get a team together."
* * *
Peter didn't dare take anything for granted. Caffrey was good at having escape routes worked out. Europol had almost caught him once in Spain, and he escaped by zip-lining down a clothesline. Peter still didn't know how he managed that.
So Peter covered his bases. Diana was helping with surveillance from the van, and there were agents stationed at the various fire exits. Peter led a team consisting of Jones and four other agents up to the twentieth floor.
When they reached the apartment, Jones stood beside Peter while the other agents took their positions on either side of the door. Peter knocked and then held his breath, listening carefully for any noise on the other side of the door. He heard soft footsteps, and then the sound of the deadbolt unlocking.
The door opened a crack. Peter recognized Annabelle Pryor.
"Yes?" she asked. She looked confused, probably wondering how they'd gotten up there without buzzing her apartment.
Peter held up his badge. "Agent Burke, FBI. We have a warrant for the arrest of Neal Caffrey."
Annabelle smiled nervously. "I think you have the wrong apartment. I don't know anybody by that name."
"What about Steve Tabernackle? That name sound familiar?"
Her smile disappeared. "Do you have a warrant?"
Peter pulled the paperwork out of his breast pocket. "Yes, we do. In addition, we have probable cause to believe a fugitive is on the premises."
Peter didn't want to push his way into the apartment, but Annabelle appeared to be frozen. He gently pushed on the door, and she stepped back, clearing the way.
But as she saw the agents with their guns drawn, she shook her head, saying, "This is a mistake. I'm going to call my father and our lawyer, and I'm going to file a complaint. You can't come in here."
Peter drew his own gun and made his way down the hall toward a closed door. He moved quietly and carefully. As he started to reach for the doorknob, the door suddenly opened, and Peter raised his gun on Neal Caffrey.
Caffrey stood in the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw the gun, and he slowly raised his hands.
"Neal Caffrey," Peter said, "you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say may be used against you in a court of law...."
His heart was pounding, and he started to smile. He'd spent three years waiting for this moment, and now that it was happening, it felt unreal, like a dream.
Caffrey didn't say a word, but his eyes darted, betraying his surprise. Peter realized he didn't have a plan. He hadn't been expecting this.
For once, Peter had been one step ahead of him.
"Listen," Neal said, "whatever this is about, I haven't done anything. My name is Steve Tabernackle."
"I know who you are, Neal," Peter said.
Jones caught up with Peter and walked around him to get to Caffrey. Neal was surprisingly pliant as Jones pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Peter holstered his gun and took one of Caffrey's arms while Jones took the other. Together, they led him toward the front of the apartment.
When Annabelle saw him, she said, "Steve! What's happening?"
Her anguished voice seemed to rouse Caffrey. He blinked, looked at her, and said, "You need to call your father. I need a lawyer."
She nodded. "We'll get you a lawyer. Don't worry. You'll be home by tomorrow."
Peter didn't have the heart to tell her how unlikely that was.
As they led Caffrey out of the apartment, he looked over his shoulder at his crying girlfriend.
"I'll call you as soon as I can," he said. "I'll take care of this."
A few of the agents stayed behind to search Caffrey's things and gather evidence. Peter and Jones lead Neal away.
Caffrey didn't say anything more until they hustled him into the elevator. As they rode down to the lobby, he asked, "Are you going to tell me why I'm under arrest?"
* * *
Peter had imagined interrogating Neal Caffrey many times. But he never would have expected it to be like this.
The man sitting in front of him didn't seem like the same man who had once sent expensive champagne to the van. Or who'd made late-night, teasing phone calls from European resorts.
That man had respected Peter's intelligence.
"Come on, Neal," Peter said with a skeptical smile, "you really expect me to believe your real name is Steve Tabernackle?"
"Yes," Caffrey said. He tried to spread his arms, and the cuffs on his wrists jingled. "I showed you my ID."
"Considering you're known for having multiple aliases, I'm sure you'll forgive me for not trusting you."
When it came down to it, Caffrey's name was a minor concern. They'd chased him for a while before they even had a name for him.
But Caffrey wasn't just claiming that his real name was Steve Tabernackle. He was claiming to have no connection to Neal Caffrey whatsoever.
Frankly, it was insulting.
"Look, I'm telling the truth," Caffrey said. His voice became strained. "My name is Steve Tabernackle. I have no idea who Neal Caffrey is or what you think he's done."
"This is too desperate for you, Neal. You're better than this."
"That isn't my name."
Peter raised his eyebrows. He expected Caffrey to deny everything, but wasn't expecting him to raise his voice or sound so distressed. Criminals like Neal Caffrey were usually hard to rattle.
"Okay, let's talk about your relationship with Ms. Pryor. When did you meet her?"
"A couple months ago, while I was on vacation in Cape Cod. Whatever you think I've done, she has nothing to do with it."
"You guys seem pretty serious. I take it you're not with Kate anymore."
Caffrey blinked. "I don't know anyone named Kate."
"Relax, Neal, we know all about you and Kate. We also know about this." Peter reached into a box that was on the interrogation table and pulled out a bag. Inside was the passport his agents had found hidden in a secret compartment of Caffrey's suitcase.
He'd let Caffrey cool his heels until after the agents could conduct a preliminary search of his belongings. Peter wanted all the ammunition he could get, and now he placed the damning evidence on the table. "Recognize this?"
Caffrey shook his head. "No."
"So, you don't have any explanation for why we found a passport with the name Nick Halden hidden in your suitcase?"
"I thought you were looking for Neal Caffrey."
Peter picked up the bagged passport and looked at it. "Possession of a forged passport is a crime. Besides, we know all about Nick Halden and what he's been up to. We can link you to the alias, Neal. It's no good pretending. We know who you are."
Caffrey visibly swallowed. He looked like he wanted to speak, but instead he lowered his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed his forehead.
"Look, I'm tired. You've had me here all day, and I'm getting a headache."
"Sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can get you out of here. C'mon, stay with me."
Caffrey looked up. He squirmed in his seat. "Listen, there's something I haven't mentioned yet."
"Go on."
He hesitated before speaking. "When I was in Cape Cod, I had an accident. I had a head injury, and now I don't remember anything from before that."
Peter could barely contain a smile. "Amnesia? That's what you want to go with?"
"I can't remember anything. I don't know how I got that passport. When I came to, they told me I was Steve Tabernackle, and I didn't question it. I have no idea who Nick Halden is. Or Neal Caffrey."
"You really want me to believe this?"
Fear and anger flashed in Caffrey's eyes. "What? You think I'm lying?"
Peter raised his eyebrows.
"I have proof," Caffrey said. "You can check. I was at Randolph Memorial Hospital in Cape Code for over a week. I was treated by Dr. Britt. And I've started seeing Dr. Richard Mackey here in New York. He's a neurologist."
Peter scribbled this information down on a notepad that was sitting on the table. "All right. I will check."
"And you should run my names in government databases, if you haven't already."
"How come?"
"How do you know I'm not an undercover agent?"
"You're not an undercover agent, Neal."
"Can you know that? For sure?"
Caffrey's story was getting more outlandish by the moment. But when Peter looked in his eyes, he realized that Caffrey might be serious.
"Okay, I'll check."
"Thank you." Caffrey looked down at this cuffed hands. "And I may have lost my memory, but I know you can't make me talk to you. I'm not saying anything more until I have a lawyer."
At this point, Peter didn't care. If Caffrey wanted to stick with this amnesia story, he wasn't going to be divulging much, anyway. Peter packed up the evidence box and left the room, leaving Caffrey sitting at the table. Jones was on the other side of the two-way mirror.
"Man," he said after Peter shut the door, "this is getting interesting. So, what do you think? Has Caffrey lost it?"
"Only way to find out is to look into his story. I'm going to follow up on what he said about the doctors. Mind keeping an eye on him for a few minutes?"
"Sure, no problem."
It took more than a few minutes for Peter to follow up with the hospital and the local doctor Caffrey mentioned. The results were consistent with Caffrey's story. It would take longer to confirm it and gain access to Neal's medical records, but Peter had to grudgingly concede that he might actually have suffered a head injury.
He wasn't going to accept the claim of total amnesia so easily. Caffrey wouldn't have been the first suspect to pretend to have no memory of the crimes.
Still, the whole thing made Peter uneasy. Whether Caffrey was telling the truth or not, his claims of amnesia would need to be evaluated. That could delay the trial, which could be exactly what Caffrey wanted.
Peter sighed and shook his head. Was it too much to ask for a clean, simple arrest?
He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a moment. Then, he turned to his computer.
They'd already run the name Neal Caffrey through every database available to them, and there was never an indication of Caffrey being either an undercover cop or a spy. They'd done similar searches on all the other aliases they knew about. Steve Tabernackle was a new one to Peter, and he ran a quick search on the name.
It came up empty.
Peter stepped out of his office and found Diana, who was working at her desk.
"Hey," he said, "you guys have a chance to run Caffrey's prints yet?"
"Yeah," she said. "It looks like we might have a match on a couple prints we lifted from the bonds."
"So...there was nothing connecting him to the CIA or any other agency?"
Diana raised an eyebrow. With a smirk, she asked, "No, why?"
"Just checking."
If Caffrey really believed he might be a spy, he was going to be disappointed.
Peter headed back to the interrogation room. When he neared it, he saw that Jones was no longer outside but in the room. He was hovering over Caffrey, who was sitting on the floor. Peter ran the rest of the way inside.
He took in the sight in front of him. Caffrey was sitting on the floor, leaning over a metal wastebasket. Jones was standing with his hands on his knees.
"What happened here?" Peter asked.
Caffrey held up his cuffed hands. "I'm fine...." His weak voice suggested otherwise.
Jones straightened up and stepped over to Peter. "Caffrey's sick. Lost his lunch in the wastebasket."
Lifting his head, Caffrey said, "It's just the headache. This happens sometimes. I'll be okay."
Peter briefly wondered if Caffrey had manufactured this illness, and immediately felt a little guilty.
Caffrey looked in pretty bad shape, even for someone who had just been arrested. His face had gone pale, and the lightness of his skin emphasized the pink scar on his left temple. Peter had noticed the scar when they'd first brought him in. It must have been new-it wasn't in any of the descriptions or security camera pictures they had of him.
"I called for a medic," Jones said.
Before Peter could express approval, Caffrey leaned over the wastebasket and retched.
Today just kept drifting further and further away from Peter's expectations.
After what felt like an eternity, a nurse arrived. A custodian followed, and took away the foul wastebasket.
The nurse spent a few minutes talking to Neal. She gave him a bottle of water and something for his headache. After she left, Neal stayed on the floor of the interrogation room. He sat with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest.
"We're going to have the marshals collect you," Peter told him. "We can continue this conversation another time."
"Where am I going?" Caffrey asked.
"You're going to have to stay in lockup until your bail hearing."
Peter intended to make sure Caffrey didn't get bail. He was going to stress to the prosecutor that Caffrey was a serious flight risk.
By the time the marshals showed up to take him away, Caffrey had managed to get back up into the chair he'd vacated.
Peter walked the marshals to the elevator, and stood there until the doors closed.
* * *
Under different circumstances, Steve would have hesitated to touch the phone, let alone put it up to his ear. But he was so relieved to have a chance to make a phone call that he didn't spend much time worrying about how many inmates had touched the phone before him.
He'd waited hours for a phone call. Some U.S. marshals had escorted him from the FBI offices to a detention center, and the marshals had insisted on processing him before allowing him access to a phone.
His hands were still cuffed in front, so he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he raised both hands to dial. His finger hovered uselessly over the keypad. He had to call Annabelle. If he didn't, she would have no idea where he was. She was supposed to get him a lawyer.
But his mind was blank. He couldn't remember the number.
"You need to make your call."
Steve looked over his shoulder at the marshal, and then back at the phone. His heart was pounding.
Had he known her number before? His short-term memory still wasn't perfect, but he'd been doing okay lately. But he couldn't think right now.
Aware that the marshal behind him was getting impatient, Steve took a deep breath and dialed the first number that came to mind. It rang eight times before Steve hung up and tried a different number.
This time, after a few rings, a man answered and said, "Renaldo's Pizza."
"Sorry," Steve said. "Wrong number." He hung up.
"All right," the marshal said, "let's go."
"No, I haven't made my call yet." He picked up the phone in panic.
"You just did."
"I have to reach my girlfriend. She's going to contact my lawyer."
"She didn't answer. You can try again in the morning."
"I dialed the wrong number." He held up a finger. "One more time, okay? One more."
The marshal sighed. "All right, man. One more try, then you've gotta come with me."
A number came to mind and he dialed it, hoping for the best. Eventually, someone answered, but it wasn't Annabelle. It was the strange man he'd met the other day.
"Mozzie!"
"Neal? What's going on?"
"I've been arrested."
"The Feds got you?"
"Yeah, and I need your help, okay? You have to find my girlfriend and tell her where I'm at. I'm in the custody of the U.S. Marshals."
"Okay. What's her name?"
Steve didn't worry about whether he could trust Mozzie or not. Right now, he was his only chance. "Annabelle Pryor. She lives at 250 East 82nd Street. Her apartment is 2031. Buzz her apartment and tell her you know me. She knows me as Steve Tabernackle."
"Ah, of course. I should've known she thinks you're Steve."
"Just find her, okay?"
"I'm on it. Just...worry about taking care of yourself."
"Thanks."
Steve hung up, feeling immensely relieved. At least now someone knew where he was.
The marshal took him by the arm and led him down a hallway. They stopped in front of a small, single occupancy cell.
The marshal took the handcuff key off his belt, and Steve raised his hands so the cuffs could be taken off. The only time the cuffs had come off since his arrest was when he'd first arrived here, and had to strip and put on an oversized white jumpsuit. He hoped the cuffs would be off for a while, now. They hadn't been very tight, but he still rubbed his wrists.
"How long am I going to be here?" he asked.
"You'll have your first court appearance within the next few days. If you're not granted bail, or you can't make bail, we'll put you in with the general population. There are a lot of people awaiting trial."
In other words, he could be locked up for a while.
"This whole thing is a mistake," he said. "They might drop the charges."
"Sure, wait and see what the judge says."
The marshal didn't sound very optimistic. Steve could tell he was humoring him.
After the marshal left, locking the door behind him, Steve sat on the plastic mattress on the "bed" and rested his head in his hands. The nurse at the FBI offices had given him some Tylenol. It wasn't as effective as his prescription medication, but it had helped. At least he wasn't nauseous anymore. He'd told the marshals about his prescriptions, but he still hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to need them.
After a minute, he got up and walked over to the door. He peered out the small window. In the cell across from his, he could make out a man pacing back and forth. Otherwise, he seemed to have relative privacy for the time being.
He had to go to the bathroom, bad. He hadn't gone since early that afternoon, and he'd drunk all the water he was given at the FBI. His cell had a stainless steel toilet with no seat, and he quickly used it. He realized afterward that he didn't have any soap, but he washed his hands with cool water in the matching stainless steel sink.
Feeling much better with an empty bladder, he lay down on the bed. He hoped the plastic mattress was clean, but it wasn't like he had many options, and he was exhausted. Eventually, he was sure he would start getting bored. But there was no way he would be able to concentrate on a book or other diversion right now.
He wanted to believe that this whole thing was one big mistake. People had been mistaken for fugitives before. Maybe there was someone named Neal Caffrey who was his doppelganger. Maybe Neal was his brother.
He wasn't sure he really believed that. As much as he wanted to be Steve Tabernackle, he wasn't dense. Ever since he'd found the alternate passport hidden in his luggage, the possibility that he was a criminal had been in his mind. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, but to not be aware of it took more denial than he was capable of.
"Neal Caffrey," he whispered, trying to get the feel of the name. It sounded no more familiar than Steve Tabernackle, but he supposed it was best to start thinking of himself as Neal.
He wondered if he should have told Agent Burke about the apartment, and about Mozzie. He hadn't been completely honest when he'd claimed not to know about Neal Caffrey. But his gut told him that it was best not to reveal anything. Besides, if they couldn't prove he was the man they were looking for, they couldn't keep him here. Could they?
The cell was cold and disturbingly quiet. He hoped he wouldn't be forgotten. He hoped Mozzie was finding Annabelle right now. He wondered how long it had been since he'd made the phone call. He didn't have his watch.
After a long time spent deep in thought, he somehow found sleep.
* * *
In the morning, he was picking at his breakfast when a marshal opened his cell door.
"Your lawyer is here to see you. Try to finish that up in the next five minutes."
Steve cared much more about seeing a lawyer than eating the sorry excuse for oatmeal that he'd been given. He pushed his tray aside and stood up.
The marshal escorted him to a private meeting room, where a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a crisp suit sat at the table, surrounded by papers. He stood when Neal entered, and offered his hand.
"Good morning. I'm Michael Griffin, with Kilgore, Griffin, and Pritchard. Greg and Annabelle Pryor have asked me to represent you."
Neal took a seat across from Griffin. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"No problem, Mr. Caffrey," Griffin said as he returned to his seat. "Most criminal cases are short notice. Oh, and is it Caffrey or Tabernackle?"
"I suppose that depends."
"I understand your situation is complicated. For now, I think it's best that we maintain that your identity is Steve Tabernackle, and that you have no reason to believe otherwise."
"Have you found out when I'll see a judge?"
"I have, yes. The Feds have requested a few days to prepare before your bail hearing. Your hearing has been scheduled for Thursday. The fact that they asked for this time probably means they intend to show that you're a flight risk and shouldn't be released pending trial. But I'm optimistic. You're going before Judge Dryer. He's usually pretty good at granting reasonable bail. And I think we can use your medical condition to our advantage."
"Will I have to enter a plea?"
"No, your arraignment will be a separate hearing. Do you intend to plead not guilty?"
"Of course." He hadn't considered any alternatives.
"Best case scenario the case won't make it past the indictment, and you won't have to worry about pleading. Unfortunately, we don't know what type of evidence the Feds have on you yet. I'll put in a request to review the evidence immediately."
"What's the worst case scenario?"
"That it goes to trial and you're found guilty. But it's too soon to worry about that. Right now, I want you to start thinking about where you'll live if you are granted bail. You'll need a permanent address."
Neal hadn't considered that. He'd taken for granted that she would support him, but he still hadn't spoken to her. He had no way of knowing. Still, the fact that she and her father had found him an attorney was a good sign.
"If the case goes to trial," Neal said, "what then? How am I supposed to defend myself against these charges when I don't remember if I committed the crimes or not?"
"We'll work with that, Mr. Tabernackle. I won't lie-your case is a difficult one. But I like a challenge."
* * *
Later that afternoon, he had another visitor. This time, it was Annabelle and her father.
They were in the regular meeting room, where they were separated by a pane of glass. Annabelle handled the phone gingerly, only holding it with her fingertips and not placing it against her ear.
"We'll get you out of here," she said. "Don't worry."
"Thank you. And thank you for calling a lawyer for me."
Mr. Pryor took the phone from his daughter. "I know Mike. He's a good lawyer." Then, abruptly, he said, "They're saying you forged Atlantic Partners' bonds."
"Among other things, apparently. I didn't do any of it."
"Frankly, I don't know if you can say that. I'd like to believe you, but let's be honest-your history has a lot of holes in it. I'm only here because my daughter seems to believe in you."
"Well, sir, I'm glad you have such confidence in Annabelle's judgment."
"We'll see, I suppose. Anyway, I know Stuart Gless. He owns Atlantic Partners. He's a decent guy-I'm sure he'll agree to a settlement."
"Dad, it's not that type of case." Annabelle's voice was muffled as she wasn't speaking directly into the phone. "I think they're going to prosecute Steve no matter what Mr. Gless wants."
"I know that," Mr. Pryor said. "But that doesn't mean he won't have any influence on the sentencing. And we have to think ahead. The last thing Steve needs is a civil case on top of the criminal one."
Neal hadn't considered that he might be sued. There was so much happening so quickly.
"Right now," Neal said, "I just want to get out of here."
"I'm sure they'll grant you bail," Mr. Pryor said. "Mike won't let them keep you locked up in here."
"Mr. Griffin says that if I get out, I'll need an address."
Annabelle took the phone from her father. "Isn't mine okay? I mean, I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you're worried about."
Neal smiled sheepishly. "I wouldn't blame you."
"Don't be ridiculous. We'll get to the bottom of this."
* * *
The next few days stretched by slowly, and Neal had far too much time to think in his small solitary cell.
On the morning of his hearing, he was woken up early. Once at the courthouse, he spent what felt like the whole morning locked in a holding pen waiting to be collected. He wished he had his watch.
When he was finally escorted to the courtroom, he was happy to see Griffin. He also got a look at the U.S. attorney who was going to be prosecuting his case. She appeared to be in her thirties, and was wearing a tailored black suit with a pale blue shirt. Her shoulder-length light brown hair was plain but neatly curled under at the tips.
As he took his place in front of the bench, Neal looked around and spotted Annabelle and her father sitting in the gallery. Annabelle gave him a nervous smile.
Griffin noticed where Neal's gaze was focused. Leaning over, he said softly, "I let her know it would help if she was present today. We need to show that you have ties to the city."
That made sense, but the idea that Annabelle might not be there solely because she wanted to be made him nervous. Nonetheless, it was a positive sign that she wanted to visibly support him.
Everyone, except for Neal, was nicely dressed. It made him feel out of place in his white jumpsuit. His hands were again cuffed in front of him.
Judge Dryer emerged from his chambers after a minute, and started the proceedings immediately. For the most part, it was routine. The charges were read and Neal was informed of his rights.
Then, it was time to decide on bail. The prosecutor, whose name was Morales, spoke first.
"Your Honor, Neal Caffrey has eluded the authorities for three years. He's managed to avoid capture several times, and is an expert forger. When he was arrested, forged passports were found in his possession. It is the opinion of the United States government that he is a flight risk, and should be remanded into custody pending trial.
"Mr. Caffrey is being charged with several counts of fraud and theft that span the course of three years. He has no legitimate employment that we know of, and part of the reason it's taken so long to apprehend him is because he owns no property, doesn't have a valid driver's license or state ID, and doesn't pay utility bills. If he's released pending trial, there's nothing stopping him from fleeing."
Judge Dryer looked at Griffin. "How does the defense respond to this?"
"Your Honor," Griffin said, "perhaps Neal Caffrey is the sort of man who would run. But my client is not the same man the FBI has been chasing for the past few years."
"You're claiming that the FBI arrested the wrong man?"
"I intend to show that my client's identity cannot be conclusively established. But regardless of who my client is, he has no memory of the time period over which the alleged crimes were committed. A few months ago, he suffered a severe head injury that resulted in complete retrograde amnesia and mild anterograde amnesia. This means that he has no memory of his life prior to his accident, and that his ability to form short-term memories has been damaged. For the past three months, he has lived as Steve Tabernackle. He has had every reason to believe that Steve Tabernackle is his true identity. He has a girlfriend, whom he lives with. If that isn't a reason to stay, I don't know what is.
"In addition, my client wouldn't know how to begin to run. He doesn’t know how to forge identification or hide from the authorities. If he ever knew, that knowledge is long lost to him."
Morales spoke up. "Your Honor, the FBI and the U.S. Attorney's office are skeptical about Mr. Caffrey's claim of amnesia."
"His injury is well-documented," Griffin said. "He was treated by a doctor in Cape Cod after the accident, and had no reason to fake amnesia at that time.
"Keeping my client in jail pending trial would be cruel and have detrimental effects on his health. Mr. Caffrey, or Mr. Tabernackle, suffers from post-concussion syndrome, a condition that causes severe headaches and nausea. He has continuing problems with his eyesight in his left eye, and he has to take anticonvulsive medication to prevent seizures. Since his arrest two days ago, my client has complained of worsened confusion and short-term memory loss. He deserves the chance to recover at home with his loved ones while he awaits trial. If it would help, I have a letter from his neurologist stating that it would be difficult for the defendant to obtain the care he needs while in jail-"
Judge Dryer held up a hand. "That won't be necessary. Thank you, Mr. Griffin. I agree that withholding bail in this case is excessive. However, I also appreciate the concerns about Mr. Caffrey, or whatever his name is, running. Mr. Caffrey will be released on bail on the following conditions: he will surrender his passport and remain on house arrest pending trial, with the exception of work and doctor's appointments."
Griffin nodded. "Thank you, Your Honor."
The prospect of house arrest was less than appealing. But Neal had spent a lot of time at home lately. It was better than jail, in any case.
* * *
After everything was arranged, the marshals took Neal home. At the apartment, they put an electronic monitoring anklet on Neal while Annabelle watched with her arms crossed and a pained expression on her face.
They went over the rules: he couldn't leave the apartment except for set times. Since he didn't have a job, that meant he was stuck there twenty-four-seven for the most part. The only exceptions were for doctor's appointments, which he had to notify the marshals of in advance, and court appearances.
Considering the alternative, Neal wasn't about to complain.
The entire time the marshals were in the apartment, Annabelle stood by the front door with her arms crossed, as though she was waiting to usher them out.
Finally, he and Annabelle were alone.
Annabelle moved into the entrance to the living room, and looked down at her shoes. Neal was sitting in a chair. He crossed his legs so that he could get a look at the anklet they'd put on him.
"You won't run, will you?" she asked.
He looked up. "I wouldn't do that."
She made a small murmur. "Should I still call you Steve? Or is it Neal now?"
"I don't know which one is really my name," he admitted. "If either of them are."
"Well, which do you want?"
Neal got up. He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She felt tense.
"Which do you think?"
"It's better for you if you're Steve Tabernackle, isn't it?"
"It's better because I have you. I want this life." He leaned in and kissed her, a gesture she only half-heartedly returned.
She pulled back. "A man came to see me a few days ago," she said softly. "He said his name is Haversham. He was the one who told me where you were, after they arrested you."
"Oh, right. When the marshals took me in, I couldn’t remember your number. I had to call him."
"Who is he? Why didn't you tell me you knew someone here?"
"I'd just met up with him. I would have told you about it, but I didn't have a chance. He's an old friend, apparently."
Annabelle sucked on her lower lip. "If he knows you're Steve, he should tell the FBI. It'd help your case, wouldn't it? If they could see you have a history?"
Neal was silent.
Annabelle swallowed visibly and took a deep breath. "Or does he not know you as Steve?"
"I don't know how he knows me. I didn't want to ask. He doesn't know how bad my amnesia is."
"You didn't know about this Neal Caffrey person, then?"
"No. I swear I didn't know."
She smiled softly. "I'm glad." She stepped away, over to the hall table. She started to shift through takeout menus. "I was thinking we could order dinner in tonight, since we can't go out. What sounds good to you?"
"Anything but jail food."
As she started to look through her stack of takeout menus, she said, "It's probably just mistaken identity. Or maybe someone sold you the forged bonds. We'll figure it out...."
* * *
Peter wondered how many women Neal Caffrey had played.
From all indications, Neal had been very devoted to Kate Moreau. But Peter had also heard plenty of stories about Neal's romantic exploits. There was the princess. And the attractive art restorer. And the supermodel.
Now, there was Annabelle Pryor: heiress, art collector, gallery manager, and socialite. Judging by her lack of cooperation, she was still under Caffrey's spell.
"How long have you known Neal Caffrey, exactly? When did you guys meet?"
Annabelle sat rigidly in her chair with her hands folded on her lap. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a bun. "In Cape Cod," she said. "In late June. My father and I go up there for the summer. I met Steve at a yacht party. We seemed to have a lot in common, so we made lunch plans. And then I suppose we started seeing each other."
"How long had you known him when he had his accident?"
"A couple weeks, give or take."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "And you let him recover in your home? Big commitment for someone you knew for two weeks."
"He was hurt," she said, defensiveness creeping into his voice. "On our boat. I wasn't going to abandon him."
"You and your father have already been helping with his medical bills. Giving him a place to live goes beyond the call of duty."
"I care about him. And-I blame myself."
"Ms. Pryor," Peter said gently, "if he's said anything to make you feel like you owe him your hospitality, it's not your fault. You wouldn't be the first person to be conned by him."
Annabelle leaned forward and planted her hands on the table. "No, it isn't like that at all. Steve doesn't even remember what happened. I'm not an idiot, Agent Burke. I know my legal responsibilities. My father has a reputation for being tough-he's never been afraid to sue people, and I know how the system works. But I also like to think I'm a decent person. I couldn't just abandon him. None of this would have happened if it weren't for me."
"I don't think you can blame yourself-"
"It was my fault. The accident. I didn't have control of the boom, and it hit him."
"And Steve isn't aware of this?"
"No," she said softly.
"You thought he would sue?"
"He could have," Annabelle said with a shrug. She studied her fingernails. "My father was afraid that would happen. We didn't cheat him. Like you said, we've done more than enough. But I wasn't afraid of being sued. I just wanted to do the right thing. And when Steve woke up...he was so lost and confused. I couldn't tell him how the accident happened."
Peter couldn't help but have some sympathy for her. And for Neal. Looking at Annabelle, Peter believed her when she said she'd meant well. But Neal also deserved to know the truth.
"I understand feeling responsible," he said gently. "It was a terrible accident, and it's natural to want to make things better. But it doesn't change the facts. The man you know as Steve Tabernackle is actually Neal Caffrey. He's a conman, thief, and forger. He didn't deserve to be hurt, but protecting him now won't do anything to remedy that."
Annabelle looked thoughtful, and Peter hoped he was getting through to her.
"Now," he said, "I need you to think back to when you first met Neal. In retrospect, did he do or say anything that might have been suspicious? Did he express any interest in artwork or other valuables you might own?"
Annabelle blinked and folded her hands. "Well, we talked about art. He was interested in a Matisse I purchased last fall, but that doesn't make him an art thief."
Peter had questioned many people in his career, and he considered himself good at it. Despite Annabelle's words, he could hear the doubt in her voice, and see it in her eyes.
* * *
"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?!"
"I didn't know who you were. Or how you knew me. I wanted to figure out what was going on before I divulged too much." Neal smiled sheepishly. "When I learned about the different identities, I might have thought I was a spy."
Mozzie appeared slightly mollified. "Okay, that is a reasonable belief under the circumstances. But I'd still appreciate it if my best friend let me know he couldn't remember me!"
"Exactly. I didn't remember you were my best friend."
And though Neal didn't say it, he didn't truly know that even now. Mozzie could tell him whatever he wished, and Neal would have no way of verifying it.
But he tentatively trusted Mozzie. He was still grateful to him for contacting Annabelle. And this afternoon, Mozzie had showed up unexpectedly to offer further support. Annabelle was out this afternoon, and Neal had been bored. He was starting to feel the limitations of his house arrest, and having some company helped ease them.
Since Mozzie was clearly going to be a part of his life, he'd had no choice but to tell him the truth about his amnesia. Mozzie would learn the truth eventually, and Neal wanted it to be from him.
Now, Mozzie was pacing back and forth in front of Neal. Neal, who was sitting back in one of the living room chairs, followed him with his eyes.
Stopping momentarily, Mozzie said, "You really don't remember anything?"
"No, nothing. There are some vague memories from when I was a kid, but that's it." Something occurred to him, and he frowned. "I don't even know how old I am."
His three sets of identification had three different dates of birth.
"You're twenty-six. Your birthday's March 23. That much I know. As for the other part, we've always shared a mutual respect for chosen names."
Neal smirked. "I figured your name isn't really Mozzie."
Mozzie stepped over to a desk that was against the wall and opened one of the drawers, taking a peek inside. He'd already scanned the titles on the bookshelf and peeked behind all the paintings and mirrors he could find on the walls ("I wouldn't put it past the marshals to plant bugs," he'd said).
It was a good thing Annabelle wasn't there.
"Don't worry," Mozzie said. "You can count on me. I'll find a way to help you get your memory back."
"It's not that simple. Besides, it might be better if I don't get it back right away. My lawyer's hoping to use my amnesia to our advantage."
If Neal was indicted, Griffin hoped to delay the trial. He was also certain the he could use Neal's condition to gain a jury's sympathy.
Neal was scheduled to see a psychologist in a few days. The psychologist was supposed to be able to verify that Neal's amnesia was real. The prosecution and the FBI seemed to have their doubts. Neal supposed a lot of suspects must fake amnesia.
While Mozzie explored the living room, Neal took a peek at the two large canvas tote bags Mozzie had brought over. Mozzie had taken it upon himself to provide Neal with some entertainment.
One of the bags contained a few books. Neal took a quick look at the titles. A few were nonfiction, dealing mainly with history and art. There were a couple novels. Finally, there was a book about UFOs. Neal wondered if this was representative of his taste, and whether his taste had changed since the accident.
The other bag had pencils, pastels, and a sketchpad.
"I know it isn't much," Mozzie said. "Next time, I'll try to bring your easel."
"Do you think the Feds found much in my apartment?"
He knew they had searched it. He'd had his apartment key on him when he was arrested, and he'd had the address written down somewhere in his bedroom. It couldn't have taken them long to figure it out.
"After you called me from lockup, I took it upon myself to clean your place. I had to be quick, but I'm confident that nothing incriminating was found."
That was good to hear. Neal had wondered if they'd found more evidence against him.
"They're all true then? The charges?"
"Uh, yeah. Did you really think they weren't?"
Neal shrugged. "I didn't know. I don't remember."
"Ah. 'A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.' Mark Twain."
Bad memory or not, by this point Neal wouldn't be surprised if he'd done everything he was accused of. He was only resistant to admitting it. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't returned to New York. He couldn't believe he would have evaded the authorities forever. Not when he wasn't aware he had to evade them. But maybe he would have had months or even years of a good life. Would that make what he was going through now easier or harder?
"Of course," Mozzie said, "your assets are safe. Except for your Steve Tabernackle account. Obviously, the Feds will do whatever they can to take that money."
Something occurred to Neal. "Were you the one who gave me the note with the security questions? I found it in my wallet after my accident."
Mozzie's eyes widened. "Neal! I specifically instructed you to burn that!"
"It's a good thing I didn't. If I did, I wouldn't have had any money for the past few months."
"I just can't help but feel a little protective over Steve. I helped create him. I set up the account. And now he's been burned. You'll never be able to use that alias again."
Neal blinked. "This isn't just a name we're talking about, here. This is my life."
"Correction: you thought it was. Steve Tabernackle is a great guy, but he's not real. I know you like this life, but sooner or later you'll have to accept reality."
It wasn't that simple. Right now, his life as Steve Tabernackle was no more or less real than anything else he knew. What if he never remembered who he was? Did he even want to remember? The thought unnerved him. What if remembering changed him?
Mozzie continued. "Right now, just focus on getting yourself out of this mess. And if you want to run-"
"I don't," Neal said quickly. "But thank you. For all your help."
"It's nothing, mon frère."
Mozzie stayed a little while longer. After he left, Neal started to check out the art supplies. He was curious how much of his abilities he'd retained.
He sat down at the dining room table and laid out the supplies. He selected a pencil, held it over the sketchpad, and tried to sketch without thinking about it too much.
He hoped, perhaps, that he would instinctively draw something buried in his subconscious. Instead, he started a sketch of Mozzie.
The ease with which the lines flowed from his hand surprised him. It was reassuring. He had times when he wondered if the man he'd been before his accident had been erased, but moments like this gave him confidence that his memories were still there, beneath the surface.
He was almost finished with the sketch when Annabelle came home. She set her purse on the hall table and walked over to him, looking over his shoulder.
"That's wonderful. Is that your friend Mr. Haversham?"
"Yeah, he brought over these supplies for me today."
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Maybe later, you can draw me."
Neal looked up at her and smiled. "Sure. I think I can do that."
She returned his smile, but it was tense. Releasing his shoulder, she walked around the table and sat down across from him.
"I wanted to tell you, my father has hired a private investigator."
Neal set down the pencil. "To investigate me?"
"It's not that he doesn't trust you-"
"Are you sure about that?"
Annabelle tucked her hair behind her ear. "Well, maybe he has some doubts. But it doesn't matter. He's hoping the PI will be able to dig up something about your past. Maybe find family or other friends. It could help you. That's your whole defense, that if you had your memory you might be able to exonerate yourself."
She was right. If he uncovered his past, maybe there would be something to prove that he wasn't the person the FBI was looking for. On the other hand....
"And if the investigator finds incriminating evidence?"
"He won't," she said, but Neal thought her voice lacked conviction.
If she was starting to doubt him, he didn't blame her. Something told him that he was used to being distrusted.
Chapter 3
This entry was originally posted at http://citrinesunset.dreamwidth.org/126984.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Neal/OFC, past Neal/Kate
Rating: Teen
Contains: Amnesia. Medical trauma.
Word count: 27,000
Summary: Pre-series. Neal Caffrey is happily eluding the Feds when a sailing accident robs him of his memories and, consequently, his identity. As he recovers, he takes takes refuge in his new girlfriend, who helps him rediscover his identity as Steve Tabernackle, jet-setting millionaire. But when Steve returns to New York, it doesn't take long for his past to catch up with him.
Notes: Written for whitecollar_bb. This fic is an AU taking place around the time of Neal's arrest in "Forging Bonds."
Peter regarded the stack of check and mortgage fraud cases on his desk with some apprehension. He wasn't one to complain about dull cases, and he knew El appreciated it when his caseload allowed him to come home in time for dinner. But he would have rather been working on the James Bonds case.
There'd been nothing new about Caffrey for over a month. He'd thought they were so close to catching him. Almost five months ago, the NYPD interrupted the robbery of some very valuable Byzantine coins, and nearly apprehended a man matching Caffrey's. But both Caffrey and the coins got away, and since then, there'd been nothing. Interpol couldn’t find any trace of Caffrey in Europe or Asia. Peter was thinking about checking South American and African countries. Caffrey was reportedly fluent in Spanish and knew conversational Swahili.
El recently accused him of obsessing over the case. Maybe he was. If he couldn't catch Caffrey, maybe it was for the better that the trail had gone cold. When Caffrey reappeared (and he would. A criminal that bold could never stay away for long), Peter would be fresh and ready to tackle the case with new energy.
He'd just dived into a mortgage fraud case when there was a frantic knock on the doorframe. Looking up, he saw Jones standing in the doorway, out of breath and carrying a rolled-up newspaper in his hand.
"You won't believe what I just found."
"What happened?" Peter asked. "Did you run here?" He looked at his watch. He'd gotten to work early today, before most of his team. Jones wasn't due to arrive for another ten minutes.
"I was looking through the paper while I was in line for coffee, and guess who I saw? Neal Caffrey."
Peter stood up. "What are you saying? Caffrey's in the paper? Are you sure it's him?"
"Almost positive. Here, take a look for yourself." Jones stepped into the office and laid the paper out on the desk. He turned to the society page and pointed at a photograph from a charity ball.
The picture showed a silver-haired, middle-aged man in a tux. To his left was a younger woman in a green evening gown, and standing beside her, at the edge of the picture, was a man who looked remarkably like Neal Caffrey. His hair was shorter, but Peter would recognize the face anywhere. Caffrey's hand was on the woman's arm.
Peter read the photo's caption. Gregory Pryor, CEO of Pryor Industries and co-sponsor of the 2004 Benefit to End Multiple Sclerosis.
Tapping the photo with his finger, Peter said, "This Gregory Pryor. I always see him on those 'Most Successful' lists. You think Neal was attending the event with him?"
"Don't know, but he's definitely with the woman. Look how they're standing."
"I bet she's connected to Pryor. Let's see what we can find out about these people."
"I'm on it." Jones turned and started to leave.
"Oh, and Jones? Good job."
Jones stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled. "Thanks. But it was just luck."
"It was a good eye."
After Jones left, Peter sat back down and leaned back in his chair. He couldn't keep himself from smiling.
The trail was hot again. At the very least, they knew Caffrey was in New York. And with luck, Caffrey had no idea they were onto him.
Peter was going to catch him.
* * *
"How much do you think an apartment in a building like this would cost?"
Diana smirked. "Why? Thinking about moving?"
"No," Peter said, "I think I'm happy with what I've got."
It was hard for him to wrap his mind around an apartment that might be more expensive than his house. But in this building, he wouldn't have been surprised if that was the case. Hell, they'd even had to be buzzed in before they could enter, and now they were walking up to a reception desk. Peter saw now that the man who had buzzed them in was a uniformed security guard. He appeared to be in his thirties, and his curly black hair was closely cropped.
Peter pulled out his badge again, even though he'd flashed it to a security camera a few minutes ago. "We're here to see Annabelle Pryor."
"I believe she's out at the moment. But I can ring her apartment, if you'd like."
"If you don't mind."
The guard picked up a clunky white phone and jabbed some buttons. After a minute, he hung up and said, "Sorry, no answer."
"That's all right. Hey, while we wait, maybe you can answer a couple questions for us."
The guard shrugged. "I can certainly try. I hope Ms. Pryor isn't in any trouble. She's a nice woman, and she seems to be a great tenant."
"Actually," Peter said, "we're more interested in a possible friend of hers." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a folded-up copy of their sketch of Caffrey. He set it on the desk. "Have you seen anyone matching this description?"
The guard raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. That looks like Steve."
"Steve?"
"Yeah, Steve Tabernackle. He's Ms. Pryor's boyfriend. Seems like a nice guy."
"Is he here often?"
"He lives here. Has ever since Ms. Pryor returned from vacation in Cape Cod."
Peter exchanged a look with Diana. To the guard, he said, "Thank you for the information. I think we'll call on Ms. Pryor again in a bit. Listen, would you mind not saying anything about this visit? I don't want to alarm Ms. Pryor before we get a chance to talk to her."
"Right...this Steve guy, he didn't do anything, did he?"
"Nothing you need to worry about." Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his cards. Handing it to the guard, he said, "But if you do see him, it's important you don't say we were looking for him. If you see anything odd, or if there's any sign that Mr. Tabernackle is planning to go out of town, give me a call."
The guard looked down at the card and nodded. "Yeah...will do."
Once they were outside, Diana smiled, shook her head, and said, "I can't believe we have him."
"We don't have him yet. We can't take anything for granted-Caffrey's made some close escapes before. We'll have to act fast."
"When do you want to move?"
"As soon as we can get a team together."
* * *
Peter didn't dare take anything for granted. Caffrey was good at having escape routes worked out. Europol had almost caught him once in Spain, and he escaped by zip-lining down a clothesline. Peter still didn't know how he managed that.
So Peter covered his bases. Diana was helping with surveillance from the van, and there were agents stationed at the various fire exits. Peter led a team consisting of Jones and four other agents up to the twentieth floor.
When they reached the apartment, Jones stood beside Peter while the other agents took their positions on either side of the door. Peter knocked and then held his breath, listening carefully for any noise on the other side of the door. He heard soft footsteps, and then the sound of the deadbolt unlocking.
The door opened a crack. Peter recognized Annabelle Pryor.
"Yes?" she asked. She looked confused, probably wondering how they'd gotten up there without buzzing her apartment.
Peter held up his badge. "Agent Burke, FBI. We have a warrant for the arrest of Neal Caffrey."
Annabelle smiled nervously. "I think you have the wrong apartment. I don't know anybody by that name."
"What about Steve Tabernackle? That name sound familiar?"
Her smile disappeared. "Do you have a warrant?"
Peter pulled the paperwork out of his breast pocket. "Yes, we do. In addition, we have probable cause to believe a fugitive is on the premises."
Peter didn't want to push his way into the apartment, but Annabelle appeared to be frozen. He gently pushed on the door, and she stepped back, clearing the way.
But as she saw the agents with their guns drawn, she shook her head, saying, "This is a mistake. I'm going to call my father and our lawyer, and I'm going to file a complaint. You can't come in here."
Peter drew his own gun and made his way down the hall toward a closed door. He moved quietly and carefully. As he started to reach for the doorknob, the door suddenly opened, and Peter raised his gun on Neal Caffrey.
Caffrey stood in the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw the gun, and he slowly raised his hands.
"Neal Caffrey," Peter said, "you're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say may be used against you in a court of law...."
His heart was pounding, and he started to smile. He'd spent three years waiting for this moment, and now that it was happening, it felt unreal, like a dream.
Caffrey didn't say a word, but his eyes darted, betraying his surprise. Peter realized he didn't have a plan. He hadn't been expecting this.
For once, Peter had been one step ahead of him.
"Listen," Neal said, "whatever this is about, I haven't done anything. My name is Steve Tabernackle."
"I know who you are, Neal," Peter said.
Jones caught up with Peter and walked around him to get to Caffrey. Neal was surprisingly pliant as Jones pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed him. Peter holstered his gun and took one of Caffrey's arms while Jones took the other. Together, they led him toward the front of the apartment.
When Annabelle saw him, she said, "Steve! What's happening?"
Her anguished voice seemed to rouse Caffrey. He blinked, looked at her, and said, "You need to call your father. I need a lawyer."
She nodded. "We'll get you a lawyer. Don't worry. You'll be home by tomorrow."
Peter didn't have the heart to tell her how unlikely that was.
As they led Caffrey out of the apartment, he looked over his shoulder at his crying girlfriend.
"I'll call you as soon as I can," he said. "I'll take care of this."
A few of the agents stayed behind to search Caffrey's things and gather evidence. Peter and Jones lead Neal away.
Caffrey didn't say anything more until they hustled him into the elevator. As they rode down to the lobby, he asked, "Are you going to tell me why I'm under arrest?"
* * *
Peter had imagined interrogating Neal Caffrey many times. But he never would have expected it to be like this.
The man sitting in front of him didn't seem like the same man who had once sent expensive champagne to the van. Or who'd made late-night, teasing phone calls from European resorts.
That man had respected Peter's intelligence.
"Come on, Neal," Peter said with a skeptical smile, "you really expect me to believe your real name is Steve Tabernackle?"
"Yes," Caffrey said. He tried to spread his arms, and the cuffs on his wrists jingled. "I showed you my ID."
"Considering you're known for having multiple aliases, I'm sure you'll forgive me for not trusting you."
When it came down to it, Caffrey's name was a minor concern. They'd chased him for a while before they even had a name for him.
But Caffrey wasn't just claiming that his real name was Steve Tabernackle. He was claiming to have no connection to Neal Caffrey whatsoever.
Frankly, it was insulting.
"Look, I'm telling the truth," Caffrey said. His voice became strained. "My name is Steve Tabernackle. I have no idea who Neal Caffrey is or what you think he's done."
"This is too desperate for you, Neal. You're better than this."
"That isn't my name."
Peter raised his eyebrows. He expected Caffrey to deny everything, but wasn't expecting him to raise his voice or sound so distressed. Criminals like Neal Caffrey were usually hard to rattle.
"Okay, let's talk about your relationship with Ms. Pryor. When did you meet her?"
"A couple months ago, while I was on vacation in Cape Cod. Whatever you think I've done, she has nothing to do with it."
"You guys seem pretty serious. I take it you're not with Kate anymore."
Caffrey blinked. "I don't know anyone named Kate."
"Relax, Neal, we know all about you and Kate. We also know about this." Peter reached into a box that was on the interrogation table and pulled out a bag. Inside was the passport his agents had found hidden in a secret compartment of Caffrey's suitcase.
He'd let Caffrey cool his heels until after the agents could conduct a preliminary search of his belongings. Peter wanted all the ammunition he could get, and now he placed the damning evidence on the table. "Recognize this?"
Caffrey shook his head. "No."
"So, you don't have any explanation for why we found a passport with the name Nick Halden hidden in your suitcase?"
"I thought you were looking for Neal Caffrey."
Peter picked up the bagged passport and looked at it. "Possession of a forged passport is a crime. Besides, we know all about Nick Halden and what he's been up to. We can link you to the alias, Neal. It's no good pretending. We know who you are."
Caffrey visibly swallowed. He looked like he wanted to speak, but instead he lowered his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and rubbed his forehead.
"Look, I'm tired. You've had me here all day, and I'm getting a headache."
"Sooner you cooperate, the sooner we can get you out of here. C'mon, stay with me."
Caffrey looked up. He squirmed in his seat. "Listen, there's something I haven't mentioned yet."
"Go on."
He hesitated before speaking. "When I was in Cape Cod, I had an accident. I had a head injury, and now I don't remember anything from before that."
Peter could barely contain a smile. "Amnesia? That's what you want to go with?"
"I can't remember anything. I don't know how I got that passport. When I came to, they told me I was Steve Tabernackle, and I didn't question it. I have no idea who Nick Halden is. Or Neal Caffrey."
"You really want me to believe this?"
Fear and anger flashed in Caffrey's eyes. "What? You think I'm lying?"
Peter raised his eyebrows.
"I have proof," Caffrey said. "You can check. I was at Randolph Memorial Hospital in Cape Code for over a week. I was treated by Dr. Britt. And I've started seeing Dr. Richard Mackey here in New York. He's a neurologist."
Peter scribbled this information down on a notepad that was sitting on the table. "All right. I will check."
"And you should run my names in government databases, if you haven't already."
"How come?"
"How do you know I'm not an undercover agent?"
"You're not an undercover agent, Neal."
"Can you know that? For sure?"
Caffrey's story was getting more outlandish by the moment. But when Peter looked in his eyes, he realized that Caffrey might be serious.
"Okay, I'll check."
"Thank you." Caffrey looked down at this cuffed hands. "And I may have lost my memory, but I know you can't make me talk to you. I'm not saying anything more until I have a lawyer."
At this point, Peter didn't care. If Caffrey wanted to stick with this amnesia story, he wasn't going to be divulging much, anyway. Peter packed up the evidence box and left the room, leaving Caffrey sitting at the table. Jones was on the other side of the two-way mirror.
"Man," he said after Peter shut the door, "this is getting interesting. So, what do you think? Has Caffrey lost it?"
"Only way to find out is to look into his story. I'm going to follow up on what he said about the doctors. Mind keeping an eye on him for a few minutes?"
"Sure, no problem."
It took more than a few minutes for Peter to follow up with the hospital and the local doctor Caffrey mentioned. The results were consistent with Caffrey's story. It would take longer to confirm it and gain access to Neal's medical records, but Peter had to grudgingly concede that he might actually have suffered a head injury.
He wasn't going to accept the claim of total amnesia so easily. Caffrey wouldn't have been the first suspect to pretend to have no memory of the crimes.
Still, the whole thing made Peter uneasy. Whether Caffrey was telling the truth or not, his claims of amnesia would need to be evaluated. That could delay the trial, which could be exactly what Caffrey wanted.
Peter sighed and shook his head. Was it too much to ask for a clean, simple arrest?
He leaned back in his desk chair and thought for a moment. Then, he turned to his computer.
They'd already run the name Neal Caffrey through every database available to them, and there was never an indication of Caffrey being either an undercover cop or a spy. They'd done similar searches on all the other aliases they knew about. Steve Tabernackle was a new one to Peter, and he ran a quick search on the name.
It came up empty.
Peter stepped out of his office and found Diana, who was working at her desk.
"Hey," he said, "you guys have a chance to run Caffrey's prints yet?"
"Yeah," she said. "It looks like we might have a match on a couple prints we lifted from the bonds."
"So...there was nothing connecting him to the CIA or any other agency?"
Diana raised an eyebrow. With a smirk, she asked, "No, why?"
"Just checking."
If Caffrey really believed he might be a spy, he was going to be disappointed.
Peter headed back to the interrogation room. When he neared it, he saw that Jones was no longer outside but in the room. He was hovering over Caffrey, who was sitting on the floor. Peter ran the rest of the way inside.
He took in the sight in front of him. Caffrey was sitting on the floor, leaning over a metal wastebasket. Jones was standing with his hands on his knees.
"What happened here?" Peter asked.
Caffrey held up his cuffed hands. "I'm fine...." His weak voice suggested otherwise.
Jones straightened up and stepped over to Peter. "Caffrey's sick. Lost his lunch in the wastebasket."
Lifting his head, Caffrey said, "It's just the headache. This happens sometimes. I'll be okay."
Peter briefly wondered if Caffrey had manufactured this illness, and immediately felt a little guilty.
Caffrey looked in pretty bad shape, even for someone who had just been arrested. His face had gone pale, and the lightness of his skin emphasized the pink scar on his left temple. Peter had noticed the scar when they'd first brought him in. It must have been new-it wasn't in any of the descriptions or security camera pictures they had of him.
"I called for a medic," Jones said.
Before Peter could express approval, Caffrey leaned over the wastebasket and retched.
Today just kept drifting further and further away from Peter's expectations.
After what felt like an eternity, a nurse arrived. A custodian followed, and took away the foul wastebasket.
The nurse spent a few minutes talking to Neal. She gave him a bottle of water and something for his headache. After she left, Neal stayed on the floor of the interrogation room. He sat with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest.
"We're going to have the marshals collect you," Peter told him. "We can continue this conversation another time."
"Where am I going?" Caffrey asked.
"You're going to have to stay in lockup until your bail hearing."
Peter intended to make sure Caffrey didn't get bail. He was going to stress to the prosecutor that Caffrey was a serious flight risk.
By the time the marshals showed up to take him away, Caffrey had managed to get back up into the chair he'd vacated.
Peter walked the marshals to the elevator, and stood there until the doors closed.
* * *
Under different circumstances, Steve would have hesitated to touch the phone, let alone put it up to his ear. But he was so relieved to have a chance to make a phone call that he didn't spend much time worrying about how many inmates had touched the phone before him.
He'd waited hours for a phone call. Some U.S. marshals had escorted him from the FBI offices to a detention center, and the marshals had insisted on processing him before allowing him access to a phone.
His hands were still cuffed in front, so he cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he raised both hands to dial. His finger hovered uselessly over the keypad. He had to call Annabelle. If he didn't, she would have no idea where he was. She was supposed to get him a lawyer.
But his mind was blank. He couldn't remember the number.
"You need to make your call."
Steve looked over his shoulder at the marshal, and then back at the phone. His heart was pounding.
Had he known her number before? His short-term memory still wasn't perfect, but he'd been doing okay lately. But he couldn't think right now.
Aware that the marshal behind him was getting impatient, Steve took a deep breath and dialed the first number that came to mind. It rang eight times before Steve hung up and tried a different number.
This time, after a few rings, a man answered and said, "Renaldo's Pizza."
"Sorry," Steve said. "Wrong number." He hung up.
"All right," the marshal said, "let's go."
"No, I haven't made my call yet." He picked up the phone in panic.
"You just did."
"I have to reach my girlfriend. She's going to contact my lawyer."
"She didn't answer. You can try again in the morning."
"I dialed the wrong number." He held up a finger. "One more time, okay? One more."
The marshal sighed. "All right, man. One more try, then you've gotta come with me."
A number came to mind and he dialed it, hoping for the best. Eventually, someone answered, but it wasn't Annabelle. It was the strange man he'd met the other day.
"Mozzie!"
"Neal? What's going on?"
"I've been arrested."
"The Feds got you?"
"Yeah, and I need your help, okay? You have to find my girlfriend and tell her where I'm at. I'm in the custody of the U.S. Marshals."
"Okay. What's her name?"
Steve didn't worry about whether he could trust Mozzie or not. Right now, he was his only chance. "Annabelle Pryor. She lives at 250 East 82nd Street. Her apartment is 2031. Buzz her apartment and tell her you know me. She knows me as Steve Tabernackle."
"Ah, of course. I should've known she thinks you're Steve."
"Just find her, okay?"
"I'm on it. Just...worry about taking care of yourself."
"Thanks."
Steve hung up, feeling immensely relieved. At least now someone knew where he was.
The marshal took him by the arm and led him down a hallway. They stopped in front of a small, single occupancy cell.
The marshal took the handcuff key off his belt, and Steve raised his hands so the cuffs could be taken off. The only time the cuffs had come off since his arrest was when he'd first arrived here, and had to strip and put on an oversized white jumpsuit. He hoped the cuffs would be off for a while, now. They hadn't been very tight, but he still rubbed his wrists.
"How long am I going to be here?" he asked.
"You'll have your first court appearance within the next few days. If you're not granted bail, or you can't make bail, we'll put you in with the general population. There are a lot of people awaiting trial."
In other words, he could be locked up for a while.
"This whole thing is a mistake," he said. "They might drop the charges."
"Sure, wait and see what the judge says."
The marshal didn't sound very optimistic. Steve could tell he was humoring him.
After the marshal left, locking the door behind him, Steve sat on the plastic mattress on the "bed" and rested his head in his hands. The nurse at the FBI offices had given him some Tylenol. It wasn't as effective as his prescription medication, but it had helped. At least he wasn't nauseous anymore. He'd told the marshals about his prescriptions, but he still hoped he wouldn't be here long enough to need them.
After a minute, he got up and walked over to the door. He peered out the small window. In the cell across from his, he could make out a man pacing back and forth. Otherwise, he seemed to have relative privacy for the time being.
He had to go to the bathroom, bad. He hadn't gone since early that afternoon, and he'd drunk all the water he was given at the FBI. His cell had a stainless steel toilet with no seat, and he quickly used it. He realized afterward that he didn't have any soap, but he washed his hands with cool water in the matching stainless steel sink.
Feeling much better with an empty bladder, he lay down on the bed. He hoped the plastic mattress was clean, but it wasn't like he had many options, and he was exhausted. Eventually, he was sure he would start getting bored. But there was no way he would be able to concentrate on a book or other diversion right now.
He wanted to believe that this whole thing was one big mistake. People had been mistaken for fugitives before. Maybe there was someone named Neal Caffrey who was his doppelganger. Maybe Neal was his brother.
He wasn't sure he really believed that. As much as he wanted to be Steve Tabernackle, he wasn't dense. Ever since he'd found the alternate passport hidden in his luggage, the possibility that he was a criminal had been in his mind. He hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, but to not be aware of it took more denial than he was capable of.
"Neal Caffrey," he whispered, trying to get the feel of the name. It sounded no more familiar than Steve Tabernackle, but he supposed it was best to start thinking of himself as Neal.
He wondered if he should have told Agent Burke about the apartment, and about Mozzie. He hadn't been completely honest when he'd claimed not to know about Neal Caffrey. But his gut told him that it was best not to reveal anything. Besides, if they couldn't prove he was the man they were looking for, they couldn't keep him here. Could they?
The cell was cold and disturbingly quiet. He hoped he wouldn't be forgotten. He hoped Mozzie was finding Annabelle right now. He wondered how long it had been since he'd made the phone call. He didn't have his watch.
After a long time spent deep in thought, he somehow found sleep.
* * *
In the morning, he was picking at his breakfast when a marshal opened his cell door.
"Your lawyer is here to see you. Try to finish that up in the next five minutes."
Steve cared much more about seeing a lawyer than eating the sorry excuse for oatmeal that he'd been given. He pushed his tray aside and stood up.
The marshal escorted him to a private meeting room, where a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a crisp suit sat at the table, surrounded by papers. He stood when Neal entered, and offered his hand.
"Good morning. I'm Michael Griffin, with Kilgore, Griffin, and Pritchard. Greg and Annabelle Pryor have asked me to represent you."
Neal took a seat across from Griffin. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"No problem, Mr. Caffrey," Griffin said as he returned to his seat. "Most criminal cases are short notice. Oh, and is it Caffrey or Tabernackle?"
"I suppose that depends."
"I understand your situation is complicated. For now, I think it's best that we maintain that your identity is Steve Tabernackle, and that you have no reason to believe otherwise."
"Have you found out when I'll see a judge?"
"I have, yes. The Feds have requested a few days to prepare before your bail hearing. Your hearing has been scheduled for Thursday. The fact that they asked for this time probably means they intend to show that you're a flight risk and shouldn't be released pending trial. But I'm optimistic. You're going before Judge Dryer. He's usually pretty good at granting reasonable bail. And I think we can use your medical condition to our advantage."
"Will I have to enter a plea?"
"No, your arraignment will be a separate hearing. Do you intend to plead not guilty?"
"Of course." He hadn't considered any alternatives.
"Best case scenario the case won't make it past the indictment, and you won't have to worry about pleading. Unfortunately, we don't know what type of evidence the Feds have on you yet. I'll put in a request to review the evidence immediately."
"What's the worst case scenario?"
"That it goes to trial and you're found guilty. But it's too soon to worry about that. Right now, I want you to start thinking about where you'll live if you are granted bail. You'll need a permanent address."
Neal hadn't considered that. He'd taken for granted that she would support him, but he still hadn't spoken to her. He had no way of knowing. Still, the fact that she and her father had found him an attorney was a good sign.
"If the case goes to trial," Neal said, "what then? How am I supposed to defend myself against these charges when I don't remember if I committed the crimes or not?"
"We'll work with that, Mr. Tabernackle. I won't lie-your case is a difficult one. But I like a challenge."
* * *
Later that afternoon, he had another visitor. This time, it was Annabelle and her father.
They were in the regular meeting room, where they were separated by a pane of glass. Annabelle handled the phone gingerly, only holding it with her fingertips and not placing it against her ear.
"We'll get you out of here," she said. "Don't worry."
"Thank you. And thank you for calling a lawyer for me."
Mr. Pryor took the phone from his daughter. "I know Mike. He's a good lawyer." Then, abruptly, he said, "They're saying you forged Atlantic Partners' bonds."
"Among other things, apparently. I didn't do any of it."
"Frankly, I don't know if you can say that. I'd like to believe you, but let's be honest-your history has a lot of holes in it. I'm only here because my daughter seems to believe in you."
"Well, sir, I'm glad you have such confidence in Annabelle's judgment."
"We'll see, I suppose. Anyway, I know Stuart Gless. He owns Atlantic Partners. He's a decent guy-I'm sure he'll agree to a settlement."
"Dad, it's not that type of case." Annabelle's voice was muffled as she wasn't speaking directly into the phone. "I think they're going to prosecute Steve no matter what Mr. Gless wants."
"I know that," Mr. Pryor said. "But that doesn't mean he won't have any influence on the sentencing. And we have to think ahead. The last thing Steve needs is a civil case on top of the criminal one."
Neal hadn't considered that he might be sued. There was so much happening so quickly.
"Right now," Neal said, "I just want to get out of here."
"I'm sure they'll grant you bail," Mr. Pryor said. "Mike won't let them keep you locked up in here."
"Mr. Griffin says that if I get out, I'll need an address."
Annabelle took the phone from her father. "Isn't mine okay? I mean, I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you're worried about."
Neal smiled sheepishly. "I wouldn't blame you."
"Don't be ridiculous. We'll get to the bottom of this."
* * *
The next few days stretched by slowly, and Neal had far too much time to think in his small solitary cell.
On the morning of his hearing, he was woken up early. Once at the courthouse, he spent what felt like the whole morning locked in a holding pen waiting to be collected. He wished he had his watch.
When he was finally escorted to the courtroom, he was happy to see Griffin. He also got a look at the U.S. attorney who was going to be prosecuting his case. She appeared to be in her thirties, and was wearing a tailored black suit with a pale blue shirt. Her shoulder-length light brown hair was plain but neatly curled under at the tips.
As he took his place in front of the bench, Neal looked around and spotted Annabelle and her father sitting in the gallery. Annabelle gave him a nervous smile.
Griffin noticed where Neal's gaze was focused. Leaning over, he said softly, "I let her know it would help if she was present today. We need to show that you have ties to the city."
That made sense, but the idea that Annabelle might not be there solely because she wanted to be made him nervous. Nonetheless, it was a positive sign that she wanted to visibly support him.
Everyone, except for Neal, was nicely dressed. It made him feel out of place in his white jumpsuit. His hands were again cuffed in front of him.
Judge Dryer emerged from his chambers after a minute, and started the proceedings immediately. For the most part, it was routine. The charges were read and Neal was informed of his rights.
Then, it was time to decide on bail. The prosecutor, whose name was Morales, spoke first.
"Your Honor, Neal Caffrey has eluded the authorities for three years. He's managed to avoid capture several times, and is an expert forger. When he was arrested, forged passports were found in his possession. It is the opinion of the United States government that he is a flight risk, and should be remanded into custody pending trial.
"Mr. Caffrey is being charged with several counts of fraud and theft that span the course of three years. He has no legitimate employment that we know of, and part of the reason it's taken so long to apprehend him is because he owns no property, doesn't have a valid driver's license or state ID, and doesn't pay utility bills. If he's released pending trial, there's nothing stopping him from fleeing."
Judge Dryer looked at Griffin. "How does the defense respond to this?"
"Your Honor," Griffin said, "perhaps Neal Caffrey is the sort of man who would run. But my client is not the same man the FBI has been chasing for the past few years."
"You're claiming that the FBI arrested the wrong man?"
"I intend to show that my client's identity cannot be conclusively established. But regardless of who my client is, he has no memory of the time period over which the alleged crimes were committed. A few months ago, he suffered a severe head injury that resulted in complete retrograde amnesia and mild anterograde amnesia. This means that he has no memory of his life prior to his accident, and that his ability to form short-term memories has been damaged. For the past three months, he has lived as Steve Tabernackle. He has had every reason to believe that Steve Tabernackle is his true identity. He has a girlfriend, whom he lives with. If that isn't a reason to stay, I don't know what is.
"In addition, my client wouldn't know how to begin to run. He doesn’t know how to forge identification or hide from the authorities. If he ever knew, that knowledge is long lost to him."
Morales spoke up. "Your Honor, the FBI and the U.S. Attorney's office are skeptical about Mr. Caffrey's claim of amnesia."
"His injury is well-documented," Griffin said. "He was treated by a doctor in Cape Cod after the accident, and had no reason to fake amnesia at that time.
"Keeping my client in jail pending trial would be cruel and have detrimental effects on his health. Mr. Caffrey, or Mr. Tabernackle, suffers from post-concussion syndrome, a condition that causes severe headaches and nausea. He has continuing problems with his eyesight in his left eye, and he has to take anticonvulsive medication to prevent seizures. Since his arrest two days ago, my client has complained of worsened confusion and short-term memory loss. He deserves the chance to recover at home with his loved ones while he awaits trial. If it would help, I have a letter from his neurologist stating that it would be difficult for the defendant to obtain the care he needs while in jail-"
Judge Dryer held up a hand. "That won't be necessary. Thank you, Mr. Griffin. I agree that withholding bail in this case is excessive. However, I also appreciate the concerns about Mr. Caffrey, or whatever his name is, running. Mr. Caffrey will be released on bail on the following conditions: he will surrender his passport and remain on house arrest pending trial, with the exception of work and doctor's appointments."
Griffin nodded. "Thank you, Your Honor."
The prospect of house arrest was less than appealing. But Neal had spent a lot of time at home lately. It was better than jail, in any case.
* * *
After everything was arranged, the marshals took Neal home. At the apartment, they put an electronic monitoring anklet on Neal while Annabelle watched with her arms crossed and a pained expression on her face.
They went over the rules: he couldn't leave the apartment except for set times. Since he didn't have a job, that meant he was stuck there twenty-four-seven for the most part. The only exceptions were for doctor's appointments, which he had to notify the marshals of in advance, and court appearances.
Considering the alternative, Neal wasn't about to complain.
The entire time the marshals were in the apartment, Annabelle stood by the front door with her arms crossed, as though she was waiting to usher them out.
Finally, he and Annabelle were alone.
Annabelle moved into the entrance to the living room, and looked down at her shoes. Neal was sitting in a chair. He crossed his legs so that he could get a look at the anklet they'd put on him.
"You won't run, will you?" she asked.
He looked up. "I wouldn't do that."
She made a small murmur. "Should I still call you Steve? Or is it Neal now?"
"I don't know which one is really my name," he admitted. "If either of them are."
"Well, which do you want?"
Neal got up. He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She felt tense.
"Which do you think?"
"It's better for you if you're Steve Tabernackle, isn't it?"
"It's better because I have you. I want this life." He leaned in and kissed her, a gesture she only half-heartedly returned.
She pulled back. "A man came to see me a few days ago," she said softly. "He said his name is Haversham. He was the one who told me where you were, after they arrested you."
"Oh, right. When the marshals took me in, I couldn’t remember your number. I had to call him."
"Who is he? Why didn't you tell me you knew someone here?"
"I'd just met up with him. I would have told you about it, but I didn't have a chance. He's an old friend, apparently."
Annabelle sucked on her lower lip. "If he knows you're Steve, he should tell the FBI. It'd help your case, wouldn't it? If they could see you have a history?"
Neal was silent.
Annabelle swallowed visibly and took a deep breath. "Or does he not know you as Steve?"
"I don't know how he knows me. I didn't want to ask. He doesn't know how bad my amnesia is."
"You didn't know about this Neal Caffrey person, then?"
"No. I swear I didn't know."
She smiled softly. "I'm glad." She stepped away, over to the hall table. She started to shift through takeout menus. "I was thinking we could order dinner in tonight, since we can't go out. What sounds good to you?"
"Anything but jail food."
As she started to look through her stack of takeout menus, she said, "It's probably just mistaken identity. Or maybe someone sold you the forged bonds. We'll figure it out...."
* * *
Peter wondered how many women Neal Caffrey had played.
From all indications, Neal had been very devoted to Kate Moreau. But Peter had also heard plenty of stories about Neal's romantic exploits. There was the princess. And the attractive art restorer. And the supermodel.
Now, there was Annabelle Pryor: heiress, art collector, gallery manager, and socialite. Judging by her lack of cooperation, she was still under Caffrey's spell.
"How long have you known Neal Caffrey, exactly? When did you guys meet?"
Annabelle sat rigidly in her chair with her hands folded on her lap. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a bun. "In Cape Cod," she said. "In late June. My father and I go up there for the summer. I met Steve at a yacht party. We seemed to have a lot in common, so we made lunch plans. And then I suppose we started seeing each other."
"How long had you known him when he had his accident?"
"A couple weeks, give or take."
Peter raised his eyebrows. "And you let him recover in your home? Big commitment for someone you knew for two weeks."
"He was hurt," she said, defensiveness creeping into his voice. "On our boat. I wasn't going to abandon him."
"You and your father have already been helping with his medical bills. Giving him a place to live goes beyond the call of duty."
"I care about him. And-I blame myself."
"Ms. Pryor," Peter said gently, "if he's said anything to make you feel like you owe him your hospitality, it's not your fault. You wouldn't be the first person to be conned by him."
Annabelle leaned forward and planted her hands on the table. "No, it isn't like that at all. Steve doesn't even remember what happened. I'm not an idiot, Agent Burke. I know my legal responsibilities. My father has a reputation for being tough-he's never been afraid to sue people, and I know how the system works. But I also like to think I'm a decent person. I couldn't just abandon him. None of this would have happened if it weren't for me."
"I don't think you can blame yourself-"
"It was my fault. The accident. I didn't have control of the boom, and it hit him."
"And Steve isn't aware of this?"
"No," she said softly.
"You thought he would sue?"
"He could have," Annabelle said with a shrug. She studied her fingernails. "My father was afraid that would happen. We didn't cheat him. Like you said, we've done more than enough. But I wasn't afraid of being sued. I just wanted to do the right thing. And when Steve woke up...he was so lost and confused. I couldn't tell him how the accident happened."
Peter couldn't help but have some sympathy for her. And for Neal. Looking at Annabelle, Peter believed her when she said she'd meant well. But Neal also deserved to know the truth.
"I understand feeling responsible," he said gently. "It was a terrible accident, and it's natural to want to make things better. But it doesn't change the facts. The man you know as Steve Tabernackle is actually Neal Caffrey. He's a conman, thief, and forger. He didn't deserve to be hurt, but protecting him now won't do anything to remedy that."
Annabelle looked thoughtful, and Peter hoped he was getting through to her.
"Now," he said, "I need you to think back to when you first met Neal. In retrospect, did he do or say anything that might have been suspicious? Did he express any interest in artwork or other valuables you might own?"
Annabelle blinked and folded her hands. "Well, we talked about art. He was interested in a Matisse I purchased last fall, but that doesn't make him an art thief."
Peter had questioned many people in his career, and he considered himself good at it. Despite Annabelle's words, he could hear the doubt in her voice, and see it in her eyes.
* * *
"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?!"
"I didn't know who you were. Or how you knew me. I wanted to figure out what was going on before I divulged too much." Neal smiled sheepishly. "When I learned about the different identities, I might have thought I was a spy."
Mozzie appeared slightly mollified. "Okay, that is a reasonable belief under the circumstances. But I'd still appreciate it if my best friend let me know he couldn't remember me!"
"Exactly. I didn't remember you were my best friend."
And though Neal didn't say it, he didn't truly know that even now. Mozzie could tell him whatever he wished, and Neal would have no way of verifying it.
But he tentatively trusted Mozzie. He was still grateful to him for contacting Annabelle. And this afternoon, Mozzie had showed up unexpectedly to offer further support. Annabelle was out this afternoon, and Neal had been bored. He was starting to feel the limitations of his house arrest, and having some company helped ease them.
Since Mozzie was clearly going to be a part of his life, he'd had no choice but to tell him the truth about his amnesia. Mozzie would learn the truth eventually, and Neal wanted it to be from him.
Now, Mozzie was pacing back and forth in front of Neal. Neal, who was sitting back in one of the living room chairs, followed him with his eyes.
Stopping momentarily, Mozzie said, "You really don't remember anything?"
"No, nothing. There are some vague memories from when I was a kid, but that's it." Something occurred to him, and he frowned. "I don't even know how old I am."
His three sets of identification had three different dates of birth.
"You're twenty-six. Your birthday's March 23. That much I know. As for the other part, we've always shared a mutual respect for chosen names."
Neal smirked. "I figured your name isn't really Mozzie."
Mozzie stepped over to a desk that was against the wall and opened one of the drawers, taking a peek inside. He'd already scanned the titles on the bookshelf and peeked behind all the paintings and mirrors he could find on the walls ("I wouldn't put it past the marshals to plant bugs," he'd said).
It was a good thing Annabelle wasn't there.
"Don't worry," Mozzie said. "You can count on me. I'll find a way to help you get your memory back."
"It's not that simple. Besides, it might be better if I don't get it back right away. My lawyer's hoping to use my amnesia to our advantage."
If Neal was indicted, Griffin hoped to delay the trial. He was also certain the he could use Neal's condition to gain a jury's sympathy.
Neal was scheduled to see a psychologist in a few days. The psychologist was supposed to be able to verify that Neal's amnesia was real. The prosecution and the FBI seemed to have their doubts. Neal supposed a lot of suspects must fake amnesia.
While Mozzie explored the living room, Neal took a peek at the two large canvas tote bags Mozzie had brought over. Mozzie had taken it upon himself to provide Neal with some entertainment.
One of the bags contained a few books. Neal took a quick look at the titles. A few were nonfiction, dealing mainly with history and art. There were a couple novels. Finally, there was a book about UFOs. Neal wondered if this was representative of his taste, and whether his taste had changed since the accident.
The other bag had pencils, pastels, and a sketchpad.
"I know it isn't much," Mozzie said. "Next time, I'll try to bring your easel."
"Do you think the Feds found much in my apartment?"
He knew they had searched it. He'd had his apartment key on him when he was arrested, and he'd had the address written down somewhere in his bedroom. It couldn't have taken them long to figure it out.
"After you called me from lockup, I took it upon myself to clean your place. I had to be quick, but I'm confident that nothing incriminating was found."
That was good to hear. Neal had wondered if they'd found more evidence against him.
"They're all true then? The charges?"
"Uh, yeah. Did you really think they weren't?"
Neal shrugged. "I didn't know. I don't remember."
"Ah. 'A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory.' Mark Twain."
Bad memory or not, by this point Neal wouldn't be surprised if he'd done everything he was accused of. He was only resistant to admitting it. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn't returned to New York. He couldn't believe he would have evaded the authorities forever. Not when he wasn't aware he had to evade them. But maybe he would have had months or even years of a good life. Would that make what he was going through now easier or harder?
"Of course," Mozzie said, "your assets are safe. Except for your Steve Tabernackle account. Obviously, the Feds will do whatever they can to take that money."
Something occurred to Neal. "Were you the one who gave me the note with the security questions? I found it in my wallet after my accident."
Mozzie's eyes widened. "Neal! I specifically instructed you to burn that!"
"It's a good thing I didn't. If I did, I wouldn't have had any money for the past few months."
"I just can't help but feel a little protective over Steve. I helped create him. I set up the account. And now he's been burned. You'll never be able to use that alias again."
Neal blinked. "This isn't just a name we're talking about, here. This is my life."
"Correction: you thought it was. Steve Tabernackle is a great guy, but he's not real. I know you like this life, but sooner or later you'll have to accept reality."
It wasn't that simple. Right now, his life as Steve Tabernackle was no more or less real than anything else he knew. What if he never remembered who he was? Did he even want to remember? The thought unnerved him. What if remembering changed him?
Mozzie continued. "Right now, just focus on getting yourself out of this mess. And if you want to run-"
"I don't," Neal said quickly. "But thank you. For all your help."
"It's nothing, mon frère."
Mozzie stayed a little while longer. After he left, Neal started to check out the art supplies. He was curious how much of his abilities he'd retained.
He sat down at the dining room table and laid out the supplies. He selected a pencil, held it over the sketchpad, and tried to sketch without thinking about it too much.
He hoped, perhaps, that he would instinctively draw something buried in his subconscious. Instead, he started a sketch of Mozzie.
The ease with which the lines flowed from his hand surprised him. It was reassuring. He had times when he wondered if the man he'd been before his accident had been erased, but moments like this gave him confidence that his memories were still there, beneath the surface.
He was almost finished with the sketch when Annabelle came home. She set her purse on the hall table and walked over to him, looking over his shoulder.
"That's wonderful. Is that your friend Mr. Haversham?"
"Yeah, he brought over these supplies for me today."
She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Maybe later, you can draw me."
Neal looked up at her and smiled. "Sure. I think I can do that."
She returned his smile, but it was tense. Releasing his shoulder, she walked around the table and sat down across from him.
"I wanted to tell you, my father has hired a private investigator."
Neal set down the pencil. "To investigate me?"
"It's not that he doesn't trust you-"
"Are you sure about that?"
Annabelle tucked her hair behind her ear. "Well, maybe he has some doubts. But it doesn't matter. He's hoping the PI will be able to dig up something about your past. Maybe find family or other friends. It could help you. That's your whole defense, that if you had your memory you might be able to exonerate yourself."
She was right. If he uncovered his past, maybe there would be something to prove that he wasn't the person the FBI was looking for. On the other hand....
"And if the investigator finds incriminating evidence?"
"He won't," she said, but Neal thought her voice lacked conviction.
If she was starting to doubt him, he didn't blame her. Something told him that he was used to being distrusted.
Chapter 3
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