[Fanfiction] Miles to Go Before I Sleep - part 2/3
Title: Miles to Go Before I Sleep
Author:
aragarna
Artist:
eldorah
Word Count: 20 400
Characters, pairings: Peter, Neal, Elizabeth, Mozzie, various FBI agents.
Rating: general audience, gen.
Warnings: none
Spoilers: up to 5x13
Summary: post-season 5. Neal goes missing, El goes to DC, Peter gets restless and Mozzie steps over the line.
Tuesday
7:00 AM, Manhattan.
Peter retrieved his mail from the incoming mail box and headed to his office. He put down his cup on his desk and checked quickly if there was anything urgent enough that it couldn’t wait for Neal to be found. One letter caught his attention. It was a simple white letter, classical 4x6 format. Posted from Manhattan. His name and office address were handwritten - most probably a man’s handwriting - and there was no return address, no heading. Nothing that could possible identify the sender. Intrigued, Peter cautiously opened the envelope and looked inside.
His heart stopped and Peter crashed on his chair, suddenly pale as a sheet. Inside the envelope was a single lock of hair. Peter would recognize its curl and shade anywhere. There was no doubt possible. It was Neal’s.
He’ll have to send it to the lab, have them run a DNA test on the hair to confirm the identity. The image of Neal’s hair being manipulated by some CSI made Peter felt nauseous.
An icy drop of sweat ran down his spine and his heart picked up again, racing to catch up its rhythm. Someone was holding Neal. Someone had cut his hair to send Peter a message. Someone was playing with them.
Peter looked into the envelope. It wasn’t containing anything else. Just Neal’s hair. With an unsteady hand, he reached for his desk phone. Forensics would look for clues. Prints, DNA. Peter’s gut was telling him they wouldn’t find anything, but you never know. It wouldn’t be the first time over confident criminals would slip.
11:30 AM, a coffee shop at Federal Plaza.
Peter entered the coffee shop and immediately spotted Mozzie. He was in the farthest corner from the door, wearing a long raincoat with the collar up, hiding part of his face, and… a wig?
“Nice hair,” Peter greeted him as he sat next to him at the table.
“Meeting you so close to Federal Plaza makes me nervous.”
“I bet.” Peter couldn’t help being amused by his odd friend’s paranoia.
“So why did you ask me to meet you here?”
“I’ve been thinking…” And Peter himself wasn’t so sure he wasn’t crazy to suggest such a plan. “I’ve set a team of agents reviewing Neal’s case files. We’re trying to see if there wouldn’t be someone out there, freshly released from prison, or with connections, that might be looking for some payback.”
“Seems reasonable to me.”
“The problem is, we’re lacking a perspective from the criminal side. There are tons of potential criminals that could be going after Neal. So I thought, maybe you could review the files with us, see if you could find any links to things you hear about, any particular name that stands out.”
“You want me to actually work with you.”
“It’s for Neal.”
“I’d be like your new CI.”
“Just while I’m looking for my real CI. I have no intention of replacing Neal. And especially not with you.”
That seemed to reassure Mozzie a little, so Peter pushed his last argument. “And that means I’d have to let you read all those files…”
Mozzie’s eyes sparkled. Peter smiled.
“Eight o’clock. My place.”
4:30 PM, the basement.
Neal was restless. He couldn’t stop his mind for making escape plans. It was a reflex action. Now that his eyes had adjusted better to the darkness, they kept scanning the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. As he walked around his cell, his fingers were inspecting every square inch of it, looking for anything that could be used as a tool, or a weapon. His whole body was tensed toward one goal: getting out of here.
For the hundredth time, he stopped in front of the door, his fingers brushing the locks. If only he had anything sharp. But all he had were his clothes - too soft, useless - and an old mattress. His tender ribs were telling him there were some solid springs in there. He could try and rip the old thing apart, but that would take him some time.
His best shot was still to wait for Big Guy to come back.
07:15 PM, Riverside
After work, Peter decided to make a detour by Neal’s apartment. Of course, the Marshals had already conducted their own search - and their report indicated they didn’t find anything useful. But maybe Peter would be luckier. Maybe he would be able to find some clues that Neal had been up to something, a sign that only Peter could catch. He wasn’t actually sure exactly what he’d look for, but he had to try. He couldn’t neglect any chance to catch a lead.
June opened the door herself.
“Peter,” she said simply.
Embarrassed, Peter shot her a shy smile as he fidgeted with whatever was inside his pants’ pockets.
“Hi,” he said.
By the landlady’s sorrow easily readable in her eyes, he didn’t have to ask if she had by any chance heard from Neal. She obviously hadn’t.
“Do you mind if I go upstairs?”
“The Marshals have already wracked the place.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“You know he wouldn’t run,” she said, and Peter heard the reproach in her cold tone. He wondered if that was coming only from the Marshals’ raid or if Neal had talked to her about their recent argument.
“I know,” he said softly, as much to reassure her of his good intention as to convince himself.
“Please bring our boy back.”
Peter nodded, the lump in his throat too sore to allow him to talk. Everyone was counting on him, as if he was a sort of guardian angel to Neal. As he walked back to his car he felt the responsibility weight on his shoulder. But he wouldn’t let them down.
11:30 PM, Brooklyn.
Mozzie regretted not bringing his own wine. The Suit had offered him a beer, apologizing for not being a better host, but he wasn’t used to have Mozzie around so much and he obviously had no time to waste in wine shopping. The beer itself wasn’t bad - for a beer. But beer simply didn’t have the same power of brain cell cleaning and stimulation wine had. At least on Mozzie’s brain.
They were at the dining table in Peter’s house, going through piles and piles of case files. All of Neal and Peter’s case reports since they had partnered. Mozzie had to admit it was an impressive case load. The two of them had taken off the street quite a number of criminals. He wasn’t sure if he should be terrified at the idea, or pleased to be rid of the competition.
What an odd situation. If four years ago someone had told Mozzie he would team up with a fed, to help out on his investigation, be invited to his home to go through case files, he wouldn’t have believed it for a second. Not a fed! And yet, here they were. Working side by side in rescuing their common friend, Peter trusting Mozzie with actual real case reports, in Neal’s name.
Mozzie shook himself and focused back on the files.
“You okay, Moz’? Peter asked, looking up from his own pile of files.
“Yes, I’m good. Just, it’s been a long day.”
Peter rubbed his face with his hand. “We can call it a day, start again tomorrow.”
Looking at the Suit, Mozzie noticed his tired eyes. He was just as exhausted as Mozzie. The conman had no doubt Peter’s day had been as busy as his, as were the days before. And from the look of it, he didn’t seem to get much more sleep.
“I can go through a few more files. But if you’re tired, I can take some files home…”
“Nice try, Moz, but no. Those files don’t leave the house,” Peter smirked. “And don’t make me search you.”
Mozzie shrugged. He had to try.
“Let’s call it a day, then. You look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”
Peter smiled sadly. “It’s not that easy.”
“yeah.”
They look at each other. They knew they wouldn’t sleep much that night. But they had to try. Reload their batteries a little, so that they could face another day of search tomorrow.
“You think he’s okay?”
“Neal is resourceful, Suit. I’m sure he’s fine.” Mozzie wished he could believe his own words.
Wednesday
01:30pm, the basement.
Neal dragged himself to the mattress and collapsed on it. His ribs hurt, his skull hurt, his whole body was a ball of pain. He had to admit that this escape attempt didn’t lead him very far. He still had managed to kick one of the corridor doors opened and get a glimpse of the room behind it before his guardian grabbed him and dragged him back to his cell.
Then, blows had showered down on him. It was precise, professional. His captor knew exactly where to hit and the right strength to apply. He stopped right on time too, leaving Neal panting and hurting.
This was bad. Big guy would be more careful from now on. At least, Neal knew now that the building was residential. The room he saw had a window. This was a way out - If he could ever get past the three doors and the thug standing in the way.
Interestingly enough, though someone seemed determined to keep him alive - at least for now - Neal hadn’t seen anyone. He hadn’t met his kidnapper. He hadn’t been asked anything, neither job or information. Which could only mean one thing. He was a barging chip. Whoever had kidnapped him weren’t after him, but after someone he was close to. Mozzie? Peter? Someone from his past?
His criminal past…
Neal sighed. Sometimes it seemed he would never be able to escape it. No matter how hard he tried, it was always coming back to haunt him. There were always circumstances to drag him back in.
He was getting tired of being a criminal. It had brought him many more downs than ups lately. He’d been the toy of a sociopathic lover. Rebecca, Rachel. He had thought she was his chance to start things right. He had opened his heart to her like he rarely had in the past. And she had taken it, and squashed it. Rachel, like everyone in his life only saw his criminal potential. It used to be his gift, it was becoming his curse.
Even the one person who used to see more than that in him was starting to lose faith. Neal had thought he was saving his friend, but he had actually almost lost him, because he acted like a criminal, fixing things his way, paying the price, the end justifying the means. He thought he had been doing the right thing at the time. He had to get Peter out of prison. He couldn’t have lived with himself if he hadn’t, and this had been his only option. He had hoped Peter would have understood. Now, he wasn’t sure he would ever.
5:00 PM, Manhattan.
“Boss, they found Neal’s anklet!”
Diana rushed into Peter’s office without knocking. Peter felt a rush of blood in his heart as he immediately got up and took the file she was holding out to him.
“It seems a Brooklyn resident found it Saturday night in his truck. Says it’s not his. According to the police report, he was about to throw it away, but saw the serial number and reported it.”
“Saturday? What took them so long?”
Diana shrugged.
“So where is it?” Peter asked.
“Brooklyn precinct had it sent to the Marshals.”
“Ask them to send it over here, and have forensics look for prints or DNA.”
“Already did. We should get results by tomorrow. They know it’s top priority.”
“Good.”
With a little bit of luck, they’d be more successful than with the envelope, which, as Peter had feared, had appeared perfectly cleaned, absolutely useless. But the anklet hadn’t been meant to be recovered by the FBI… With a little luck…
Peter looked up at his faithful agent. She had deep shadows under her eyes and she was missing her usual fierce shine.
“Thank you, Diana, for everything you’re doing here,” he said softly.
“Sure thing, boss. Caffrey’s one of us.”
“How are you holding up? Between the crazy hours here, and baby Theo at home to take care of all by yourself, this has to be a difficult juggle.”
Diana displayed a brave smile. “I told you I’m a master at multi-tasking. I also found an awesome babysitter who doesn’t mind the crazy hours as long as she’s paid. And before you start arguing, you’re the last person who should give me advice on getting rest. You’ve been putting in more hours than anyone else here.”
“Neal’s my responsibility. If anything were to happen to him…” Peter blinked to chase a reminiscence of his nightmare from the night. “I’d rather don’t think about it,” he said hastily.
“You okay, boss?”
Peter attempted a smile and vaguely waved his fears away. “I’m fine.”
Against his hope, Diana didn’t leave. Instead she was looking at him with persistence.
“Are you getting any sleep at all?”
No, he wasn’t. For the little time he forced himself to go home and lay down, he couldn’t steal more than a few minutes of sleep here and there. Each time, he’d wake up in sweat, heart racing and gasping for air. Each day passing made it a little worse, the scenarios of his nightmare becoming increasingly painful and graphic. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing his friend, begging for help, begging for Peter to find him, or worse, lying unconscious, bleeding out, bleeding to death.
Peter wiped the image off his mind and tried to focus on the here and now. “Some,” he said, but from Diana’s look he was completely failing at pretending being fine.
“I’ll be fine when we’ll find Neal.”
“We’ll find him, Peter.”
Peter nodded. The question was: would it be soon enough?
Thursday
10:00 AM, Manhattan.
A new unread email appeared in Peter’s incoming box. It was a message from Forensics. High priority: results on analysis #1394. Print analysis on N. Caffrey’s anklet device. Holding his breath, Peter clicked on the email.
He browsed feverishly through the message until his eyes caught what he was hoping for. A name. Arthur Finnigan.
They had a name. Peter tried not to let hope rise to much - it was just a name, it could be a dead end, or a wrong lead.
He picked up his phone and dialed Jones to call for a meeting. Then he called Mozzie.
11:00 AM, Manhattan.
As people gathered quickly in the conference room, Peter put up Finnigan’s picture on the flat screen. After asking Jones to do research on everything he could find on the suspect - their first in five days - Peter had called for a new meeting.
“Meet Arthur Finnigan. His fingerprints were found on Neal’s anklet. He has quite a rap sheet. He’s served some time for armed robbery and assault on a police officer. He had been released after a key witness withdraw his testimony. He’s been suspected in half a dozen other thefts. He’s dangerous and connected.”
Peter slid copies of Finnigan’s file through the table. As the agents were going through them, Peter distributed the tasks.
“I want you to look into his phone records, credentials, all known addresses. Check also his known associates and former suspects in those crimes he’s been suspected of. He doesn’t have the profile of a mastermind. He’s more probably hired muscle.”
Out of habit, Peter turned to the far right of the room: Neal’s favorite spot. This was usually the moment of the briefing where the ever resourceful CI would suggest something. Except Neal wasn’t there. A probie that Peter didn’t know - probably one of Rice’s - was occupying his chair, raising a surprised look at him. Peter’s eyes drifted toward the window, his heart hurting.
1:30 PM, the basement.
Clenching his fists, Neal pressed himself against the wall, next to the door. Big Guy would come back any minute now, and he would be ready.
He heard the footsteps down the stairs, then the locks slowly turning in their pad. Neal held his breath and flattened himself even more against the wall. His heart was racing. Adrenaline was running through his veins. Big Guy pushed the door opened and stepped in. Now Neal thought. He jumped on his guardian’s back, folded an arm against the throat and pressed hard. He was quick, but Big Guy was, well, big. He fought back, trying to get hold on Neal. Neal pressed his throat harder. This was the part of his plan he liked the less. It was crude, violent, and hazardous. But he had to get rid of his enemy. An enemy that wasn’t determined to give up easily. Stepping back, he pushed Neal violently against the wall. As his back hit the hard surface, Neal’s vision got blurry and stars danced around him. Closing his eyes shut, Neal tried to focus on keeping his hold against Big Guy’s neck. How long could it take for someone to pass out?
Finally, Big Guy staggered and slowly slumped to the floor. Cautiously, keeping a high guard, Neal let go of him. Big Guy was out. Step One completed. Keeping an eye on the unconscious figure, Neal processed his pockets. He found keys, a lighter, but no phones. Quickly, he left the room and locked behind him. In silent, he climbed the stairs. At the door, he pressed his ear against the panel. No sound was coming from the corridor and Neal cracked it open, risking an eye. No one. Neal slid to the door he had broken open the day before. It had been repaired and reinforced with a lock that opened from the other side. Neal looked quickly through Big Guy’s keys and promptly found the right one.
Slowly, carefully, ears in alert for any sound, Neal turned the handle. He paused, and when he was sure he didn’t hear any sound, he opened the door very slightly and risked his head through the breach. One again, no one was in sight. Relieved, Neal let himself in and carefully closed the door behind him.
In three strides, he was at the window, which didn’t make any difficulty to open. The area was most definitely isolated. The house was surrounded by a vast land made of grass and earth. A couple trees were visible. All in all, not much of a place to hide. A long trail started at the house, leading to a bigger road far ahead. A car was parked about a hundred feet from the house.
Neal bent over the frame. Not a soul in sight. He passed a leg through the window, then the other, and he slid outside. The rude gravel hurt his feet, but Neal barely noticed it. He had reached the outside, he was free.
Or so he thought.
Someone suddenly appeared around the corner of the house. Neal recognized the man with the cowboy boots that had been stalking him. Both equally shocked by the unexpected appearance, Neal and the man stopped short and stared at each other. Neal was the first to pull himself back together. He ran. He ran as fast as he could, disappearing around the opposite corner of the house, then straight forward, toward a wood he could see in the distance, far, too far away.
“Caffrey!” In the silence, the shout hit Neal like an angry bullet. If he still didn’t know his kidnapper, it seems the man knew who he was. And he sure wasn’t happy that he escaped.
Neal heard the engine of the car start. He looked frantically around. There was nowhere to hide. It wasn’t long until the car caught up on him, passed him and blocked his way. Neal changed direction, but his pursuer ran after him. Neal was fast, but malnourished and still recovering from his beat-up the previous day. The man suddenly jumped on him, taking them both to the ground. In the hand to hand fight, Neal didn’t resist for long. His already bruised body wasn’t fit and his opponent quickly gained the upper hand.
“You’re lucky we need you alive,” the man hissed between his teeth as he pinned Neal to the ground. He took a gun that was tucked in his belt, and with the butt he hit Neal hard on the temple.
Millions of stars invaded Neal’s vision, and as the world around him span, he slid into the dark.
4:00 PM, the café near Federal Plaza
“Hey Moz’,” Peter greeted Mozzie as he sat at the table of the café.
“Shhh, Suit. No names,” he whispered angrily.
Peter raised his hand in sign of peace. “So did you find anything?” he asked.
Mozzie nodded. He looked around, scanning the area, and when he was sure no one was watching them, he opened his shoulder bag and took out a folder. He slid in on the table toward Peter with a finger. Peter turned the file and opened it, which got him a slap on the file from Mozzie.
“Don’t open it here!”
Peter snorted in annoyance. Mozzie thought, irrelevantly, that his nostrils flared like a bull’s. The Suit was certainly not in a good mood. Maybe Mozzie shouldn’t press him too hard today.
“It contains sensitive information. And I wouldn’t want anyone to report I’ve been playing snitch. It’s bad for my business,” he said more peacefully. Despite the appearances - and it would be hard to pretend the man seated in front of him wasn’t a Fed - Mozzie was not an informant.
09:00 PM, Washington DC.
El launched the video chat program and greeted Peter with her usual “Hey, hon”.
“Hey hon,” Peter answered back, lighting up at the sight of her.
He looked tired. Well, more like worn-out exhausted. Dark shadows were encircling his tired eyes. He looked abnormally pale, and he obviously hadn’t bothered giving his hair a comb this morning. “I see you’re once again still at the office.”
“Yes, I am. We’re working on some leads. We may have identified Neal’s kidnappers. At least some of them.”
Elizabeth felt a hint of relief growing in her chest. She knew it wasn’t the end just yet, she’d been at Peter’s side long enough to know how investigations went. But Peter’s assured tone told her that it was a solid lead. And he seemed a little more upbeat than he was the days before.
“Oh hon, this is great.”
“We’ve been coordinating surveillance on several locations where we think they may stay. I’m going on a stakeout tonight.”
Elizabeth suddenly frowned as she noticed Peter looking embarrassed. He was fidgeting with something off screen.
“What is it, Peter?” she asked gently.
Peter took a deep breath and looked straight at her. “I… I don’t think I’ll be able to come to DC this weekend. I know I had promised. But the investigation is moving forward, and we need all the forces we can get.”
Elizabeth felt sad, though this was expected.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said.
El shook her head.“It’s okay, hon, I understand.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“You’d better.”
Peter touched the screen, and she mirrored his gesture. They exchange a sad smile.
“I miss you too, hon. I love you,” Peter said tenderly.
“I love you too.”
Elizabeth shut the computer and let go a heavy sigh. New York had never felt so far away. She didn’t like feeling so far, with her loved ones out of reach. She glanced around at her half empty apartment. It still needed quite some work, and a few more furniture and accessories that she had hoped to buy over the weekend. It’ll have to wait. Not for too long, she hoped.
Friday
07:43 AM, Manhattan
Late, he was late. Fatigue was slowing him down. Everything seemed to take more time. He was functioning on just three scant hours of restless sleep and he was moving way too slowly. What little energy he had was used up by the time he’d finished getting ready for work. To make matters worse, he got caught in the peak of rush hour traffic and was frustratingly late getting into the office.
As he retrieved his mail on his way to his office, Peter noticed another unmarked envelope, address noted with the same handwriting. Anxiety spiked in his veins. He set his coffee aside on his desk and discarded the rest of the mail. He sat on his chair and reached for a pair of gloves he was keeping in the bottom drawer of his desk. He put them on and took a deep breath before ripping the envelope open. Inside, was a typed letter.
If you want to see him again you’ll depose $ 25 million in cash in locker 126, YMCA, West Side before noon this sunday. No FBI, no trap, or you’ll receive more parts of your little friend.
Peter shivered. He bit his fist not to cry right now and here in his office. Forty-eight hours, that’s all they had to find Neal. He’d been dreading this moment, when kidnappers made their demands. He had hoped they’d give him something he could work with, space to maneuver, stall. He had hoped for at least a meeting, or a traceable phone call, anything that would get them closer to their enemy.
He didn’t have twenty-five million.
Maybe he could ask Mozzie. But even for resourceful criminals, twenty-five million was a lot of money, and forty-eight hours was a short delay.
Forty-eight hours.
So little time, and their investigation was nowhere near the end. They had so many names and locations to check. Needles in a haystack. And forty-eight hours.
Maybe he could try and gather the money, just in case the investigation wouldn’t go fast enough. He wouldn’t hinder the investigation. He would give the letter to Forensics - though he didn’t have much hope he would give them much more clues than the first one -, he wouldn’t hide it. He would just gather the money. Just in case.
But if he gave the letter, it would get official. Rice would want to set surveillance around the YMCA building. And if they set surveillance, he wouldn’t be able to drop the money.
Peter looked down at the letter lying on his desk. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his palm. Seconds were flowing by inexorably, and Peter had to make a decision.
Clenching his teeth, he discarded the tempting thought. He felt angry just for thinking of doing such a thing. That wasn’t the way to go. We don’t negotiate with criminals. More than that, There’s no guarantee they’d keep their part of the bargain. He knew that. He had to advise his team, work with the FBI to find Neal. His heart was racing. It was not so easy to do things right when it got personal. But he had to. At least he had to try.
They had leads, they had names. They could do this. They had to. Or Peter wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself.
04:00 PM, Manhattan
Different teams had been sent throughout New York State, and even in neighboring New Jersey to check on known and suspected locations attached to Finnigan and several of his most recent associates. Peter and Agent Rice were coordinating from the conference room. So far, they didn’t have any luck. No trace of Finnigan, nor Neal.
Peter was restless. Each negative report left him a little more strained, a little less optimistic.
Jones suddenly rushed into the room. “A phone registered under an old alias of Parker’s - one of Finnigan’s associates that the little guy gave us - has been sporadically active the last few days in a remote area south of Camden - near Cherry Hill. Switched on for only a few minutes at a time. Obviously avoiding being tracked.”
Peter immediately perked up. “Send me a team immediately. Camden? Damn, that’s far. See with the local PD if they’ve seen him. Eventually check for facial recognition on their city CCTV footage.”
Jones left the room promptly. Peter pressed his fist in his opposite hand. The net was finally closing in on their prey.
08:00 PM, Brooklyn.
Peter got of his car and climbed the front steps to his house. His muscles were exhausted from the tension and stress. He could feel the weight of every inch of his body, like hundreds of little anvils. Yet, he was already dreading the moment he would have to lay down. But he really needed to get some rest if he had to drive to Camden at the wee hours. The FBI confirmed that Finnigan and Parker were there and their likely location - a small house in a rundown area - had been spotted. To minimize the chance of letting him slip through their fingers, they had decided to be all set for a take down at dawn.
It wasn’t until he entered the house that Peter realized the light was on. He frowned, trying to remember if he might have forgotten to switch it off before leaving early that morning. He was already reaching for his gun under his jacket when Elizabeth appeared from the kitchen.
Peter blinked. “Hon?”
Elizabeth approached and they fell into each other’s arms. Peter buried his face in Elizabeth’s fresh hair and she nestled against his chest, holding him tight. He slowly rubbed her back and he felt some of the tension in his muscles subside a little at her contact.
“I thought that since you couldn’t make it to DC, I could as well come to you,” El whispered.
“You’re an angel,” Peter said as he bent forward to kiss his wife. “But, you know, I might not be much around this weekend. I have to drive down to Camden in a few hours.”
“I assumed you’d be busy. But at least for the few hours you’ll be home, I’ll be here with you. If only to help you relax and make sure you’ll have something to eat.”
PART THREE
Author:
aragarna
Artist:
eldorah
Word Count: 20 400
Characters, pairings: Peter, Neal, Elizabeth, Mozzie, various FBI agents.
Rating: general audience, gen.
Warnings: none
Spoilers: up to 5x13
Summary: post-season 5. Neal goes missing, El goes to DC, Peter gets restless and Mozzie steps over the line.
Tuesday
7:00 AM, Manhattan.
Peter retrieved his mail from the incoming mail box and headed to his office. He put down his cup on his desk and checked quickly if there was anything urgent enough that it couldn’t wait for Neal to be found. One letter caught his attention. It was a simple white letter, classical 4x6 format. Posted from Manhattan. His name and office address were handwritten - most probably a man’s handwriting - and there was no return address, no heading. Nothing that could possible identify the sender. Intrigued, Peter cautiously opened the envelope and looked inside.
His heart stopped and Peter crashed on his chair, suddenly pale as a sheet. Inside the envelope was a single lock of hair. Peter would recognize its curl and shade anywhere. There was no doubt possible. It was Neal’s.
He’ll have to send it to the lab, have them run a DNA test on the hair to confirm the identity. The image of Neal’s hair being manipulated by some CSI made Peter felt nauseous.
An icy drop of sweat ran down his spine and his heart picked up again, racing to catch up its rhythm. Someone was holding Neal. Someone had cut his hair to send Peter a message. Someone was playing with them.
Peter looked into the envelope. It wasn’t containing anything else. Just Neal’s hair. With an unsteady hand, he reached for his desk phone. Forensics would look for clues. Prints, DNA. Peter’s gut was telling him they wouldn’t find anything, but you never know. It wouldn’t be the first time over confident criminals would slip.
11:30 AM, a coffee shop at Federal Plaza.
Peter entered the coffee shop and immediately spotted Mozzie. He was in the farthest corner from the door, wearing a long raincoat with the collar up, hiding part of his face, and… a wig?
“Nice hair,” Peter greeted him as he sat next to him at the table.
“Meeting you so close to Federal Plaza makes me nervous.”
“I bet.” Peter couldn’t help being amused by his odd friend’s paranoia.
“So why did you ask me to meet you here?”
“I’ve been thinking…” And Peter himself wasn’t so sure he wasn’t crazy to suggest such a plan. “I’ve set a team of agents reviewing Neal’s case files. We’re trying to see if there wouldn’t be someone out there, freshly released from prison, or with connections, that might be looking for some payback.”
“Seems reasonable to me.”
“The problem is, we’re lacking a perspective from the criminal side. There are tons of potential criminals that could be going after Neal. So I thought, maybe you could review the files with us, see if you could find any links to things you hear about, any particular name that stands out.”
“You want me to actually work with you.”
“It’s for Neal.”
“I’d be like your new CI.”
“Just while I’m looking for my real CI. I have no intention of replacing Neal. And especially not with you.”
That seemed to reassure Mozzie a little, so Peter pushed his last argument. “And that means I’d have to let you read all those files…”
Mozzie’s eyes sparkled. Peter smiled.
“Eight o’clock. My place.”
4:30 PM, the basement.
Neal was restless. He couldn’t stop his mind for making escape plans. It was a reflex action. Now that his eyes had adjusted better to the darkness, they kept scanning the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. As he walked around his cell, his fingers were inspecting every square inch of it, looking for anything that could be used as a tool, or a weapon. His whole body was tensed toward one goal: getting out of here.
For the hundredth time, he stopped in front of the door, his fingers brushing the locks. If only he had anything sharp. But all he had were his clothes - too soft, useless - and an old mattress. His tender ribs were telling him there were some solid springs in there. He could try and rip the old thing apart, but that would take him some time.
His best shot was still to wait for Big Guy to come back.
07:15 PM, Riverside
After work, Peter decided to make a detour by Neal’s apartment. Of course, the Marshals had already conducted their own search - and their report indicated they didn’t find anything useful. But maybe Peter would be luckier. Maybe he would be able to find some clues that Neal had been up to something, a sign that only Peter could catch. He wasn’t actually sure exactly what he’d look for, but he had to try. He couldn’t neglect any chance to catch a lead.
June opened the door herself.
“Peter,” she said simply.
Embarrassed, Peter shot her a shy smile as he fidgeted with whatever was inside his pants’ pockets.
“Hi,” he said.
By the landlady’s sorrow easily readable in her eyes, he didn’t have to ask if she had by any chance heard from Neal. She obviously hadn’t.
“Do you mind if I go upstairs?”
“The Marshals have already wracked the place.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“You know he wouldn’t run,” she said, and Peter heard the reproach in her cold tone. He wondered if that was coming only from the Marshals’ raid or if Neal had talked to her about their recent argument.
“I know,” he said softly, as much to reassure her of his good intention as to convince himself.
“Please bring our boy back.”
Peter nodded, the lump in his throat too sore to allow him to talk. Everyone was counting on him, as if he was a sort of guardian angel to Neal. As he walked back to his car he felt the responsibility weight on his shoulder. But he wouldn’t let them down.
11:30 PM, Brooklyn.
Mozzie regretted not bringing his own wine. The Suit had offered him a beer, apologizing for not being a better host, but he wasn’t used to have Mozzie around so much and he obviously had no time to waste in wine shopping. The beer itself wasn’t bad - for a beer. But beer simply didn’t have the same power of brain cell cleaning and stimulation wine had. At least on Mozzie’s brain.
They were at the dining table in Peter’s house, going through piles and piles of case files. All of Neal and Peter’s case reports since they had partnered. Mozzie had to admit it was an impressive case load. The two of them had taken off the street quite a number of criminals. He wasn’t sure if he should be terrified at the idea, or pleased to be rid of the competition.
What an odd situation. If four years ago someone had told Mozzie he would team up with a fed, to help out on his investigation, be invited to his home to go through case files, he wouldn’t have believed it for a second. Not a fed! And yet, here they were. Working side by side in rescuing their common friend, Peter trusting Mozzie with actual real case reports, in Neal’s name.
Mozzie shook himself and focused back on the files.
“You okay, Moz’? Peter asked, looking up from his own pile of files.
“Yes, I’m good. Just, it’s been a long day.”
Peter rubbed his face with his hand. “We can call it a day, start again tomorrow.”
Looking at the Suit, Mozzie noticed his tired eyes. He was just as exhausted as Mozzie. The conman had no doubt Peter’s day had been as busy as his, as were the days before. And from the look of it, he didn’t seem to get much more sleep.
“I can go through a few more files. But if you’re tired, I can take some files home…”
“Nice try, Moz, but no. Those files don’t leave the house,” Peter smirked. “And don’t make me search you.”
Mozzie shrugged. He had to try.
“Let’s call it a day, then. You look like you could use a few hours of sleep.”
Peter smiled sadly. “It’s not that easy.”
“yeah.”
They look at each other. They knew they wouldn’t sleep much that night. But they had to try. Reload their batteries a little, so that they could face another day of search tomorrow.
“You think he’s okay?”
“Neal is resourceful, Suit. I’m sure he’s fine.” Mozzie wished he could believe his own words.
Wednesday
01:30pm, the basement.
Neal dragged himself to the mattress and collapsed on it. His ribs hurt, his skull hurt, his whole body was a ball of pain. He had to admit that this escape attempt didn’t lead him very far. He still had managed to kick one of the corridor doors opened and get a glimpse of the room behind it before his guardian grabbed him and dragged him back to his cell.
Then, blows had showered down on him. It was precise, professional. His captor knew exactly where to hit and the right strength to apply. He stopped right on time too, leaving Neal panting and hurting.
This was bad. Big guy would be more careful from now on. At least, Neal knew now that the building was residential. The room he saw had a window. This was a way out - If he could ever get past the three doors and the thug standing in the way.
Interestingly enough, though someone seemed determined to keep him alive - at least for now - Neal hadn’t seen anyone. He hadn’t met his kidnapper. He hadn’t been asked anything, neither job or information. Which could only mean one thing. He was a barging chip. Whoever had kidnapped him weren’t after him, but after someone he was close to. Mozzie? Peter? Someone from his past?
His criminal past…
Neal sighed. Sometimes it seemed he would never be able to escape it. No matter how hard he tried, it was always coming back to haunt him. There were always circumstances to drag him back in.
He was getting tired of being a criminal. It had brought him many more downs than ups lately. He’d been the toy of a sociopathic lover. Rebecca, Rachel. He had thought she was his chance to start things right. He had opened his heart to her like he rarely had in the past. And she had taken it, and squashed it. Rachel, like everyone in his life only saw his criminal potential. It used to be his gift, it was becoming his curse.
Even the one person who used to see more than that in him was starting to lose faith. Neal had thought he was saving his friend, but he had actually almost lost him, because he acted like a criminal, fixing things his way, paying the price, the end justifying the means. He thought he had been doing the right thing at the time. He had to get Peter out of prison. He couldn’t have lived with himself if he hadn’t, and this had been his only option. He had hoped Peter would have understood. Now, he wasn’t sure he would ever.
5:00 PM, Manhattan.
“Boss, they found Neal’s anklet!”
Diana rushed into Peter’s office without knocking. Peter felt a rush of blood in his heart as he immediately got up and took the file she was holding out to him.
“It seems a Brooklyn resident found it Saturday night in his truck. Says it’s not his. According to the police report, he was about to throw it away, but saw the serial number and reported it.”
“Saturday? What took them so long?”
Diana shrugged.
“So where is it?” Peter asked.
“Brooklyn precinct had it sent to the Marshals.”
“Ask them to send it over here, and have forensics look for prints or DNA.”
“Already did. We should get results by tomorrow. They know it’s top priority.”
“Good.”
With a little bit of luck, they’d be more successful than with the envelope, which, as Peter had feared, had appeared perfectly cleaned, absolutely useless. But the anklet hadn’t been meant to be recovered by the FBI… With a little luck…
Peter looked up at his faithful agent. She had deep shadows under her eyes and she was missing her usual fierce shine.
“Thank you, Diana, for everything you’re doing here,” he said softly.
“Sure thing, boss. Caffrey’s one of us.”
“How are you holding up? Between the crazy hours here, and baby Theo at home to take care of all by yourself, this has to be a difficult juggle.”
Diana displayed a brave smile. “I told you I’m a master at multi-tasking. I also found an awesome babysitter who doesn’t mind the crazy hours as long as she’s paid. And before you start arguing, you’re the last person who should give me advice on getting rest. You’ve been putting in more hours than anyone else here.”
“Neal’s my responsibility. If anything were to happen to him…” Peter blinked to chase a reminiscence of his nightmare from the night. “I’d rather don’t think about it,” he said hastily.
“You okay, boss?”
Peter attempted a smile and vaguely waved his fears away. “I’m fine.”
Against his hope, Diana didn’t leave. Instead she was looking at him with persistence.
“Are you getting any sleep at all?”
No, he wasn’t. For the little time he forced himself to go home and lay down, he couldn’t steal more than a few minutes of sleep here and there. Each time, he’d wake up in sweat, heart racing and gasping for air. Each day passing made it a little worse, the scenarios of his nightmare becoming increasingly painful and graphic. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing his friend, begging for help, begging for Peter to find him, or worse, lying unconscious, bleeding out, bleeding to death.
Peter wiped the image off his mind and tried to focus on the here and now. “Some,” he said, but from Diana’s look he was completely failing at pretending being fine.
“I’ll be fine when we’ll find Neal.”
“We’ll find him, Peter.”
Peter nodded. The question was: would it be soon enough?
Thursday
10:00 AM, Manhattan.
A new unread email appeared in Peter’s incoming box. It was a message from Forensics. High priority: results on analysis #1394. Print analysis on N. Caffrey’s anklet device. Holding his breath, Peter clicked on the email.
He browsed feverishly through the message until his eyes caught what he was hoping for. A name. Arthur Finnigan.
They had a name. Peter tried not to let hope rise to much - it was just a name, it could be a dead end, or a wrong lead.
He picked up his phone and dialed Jones to call for a meeting. Then he called Mozzie.
11:00 AM, Manhattan.
As people gathered quickly in the conference room, Peter put up Finnigan’s picture on the flat screen. After asking Jones to do research on everything he could find on the suspect - their first in five days - Peter had called for a new meeting.
“Meet Arthur Finnigan. His fingerprints were found on Neal’s anklet. He has quite a rap sheet. He’s served some time for armed robbery and assault on a police officer. He had been released after a key witness withdraw his testimony. He’s been suspected in half a dozen other thefts. He’s dangerous and connected.”
Peter slid copies of Finnigan’s file through the table. As the agents were going through them, Peter distributed the tasks.
“I want you to look into his phone records, credentials, all known addresses. Check also his known associates and former suspects in those crimes he’s been suspected of. He doesn’t have the profile of a mastermind. He’s more probably hired muscle.”
Out of habit, Peter turned to the far right of the room: Neal’s favorite spot. This was usually the moment of the briefing where the ever resourceful CI would suggest something. Except Neal wasn’t there. A probie that Peter didn’t know - probably one of Rice’s - was occupying his chair, raising a surprised look at him. Peter’s eyes drifted toward the window, his heart hurting.
1:30 PM, the basement.
Clenching his fists, Neal pressed himself against the wall, next to the door. Big Guy would come back any minute now, and he would be ready.
He heard the footsteps down the stairs, then the locks slowly turning in their pad. Neal held his breath and flattened himself even more against the wall. His heart was racing. Adrenaline was running through his veins. Big Guy pushed the door opened and stepped in. Now Neal thought. He jumped on his guardian’s back, folded an arm against the throat and pressed hard. He was quick, but Big Guy was, well, big. He fought back, trying to get hold on Neal. Neal pressed his throat harder. This was the part of his plan he liked the less. It was crude, violent, and hazardous. But he had to get rid of his enemy. An enemy that wasn’t determined to give up easily. Stepping back, he pushed Neal violently against the wall. As his back hit the hard surface, Neal’s vision got blurry and stars danced around him. Closing his eyes shut, Neal tried to focus on keeping his hold against Big Guy’s neck. How long could it take for someone to pass out?
Finally, Big Guy staggered and slowly slumped to the floor. Cautiously, keeping a high guard, Neal let go of him. Big Guy was out. Step One completed. Keeping an eye on the unconscious figure, Neal processed his pockets. He found keys, a lighter, but no phones. Quickly, he left the room and locked behind him. In silent, he climbed the stairs. At the door, he pressed his ear against the panel. No sound was coming from the corridor and Neal cracked it open, risking an eye. No one. Neal slid to the door he had broken open the day before. It had been repaired and reinforced with a lock that opened from the other side. Neal looked quickly through Big Guy’s keys and promptly found the right one.
Slowly, carefully, ears in alert for any sound, Neal turned the handle. He paused, and when he was sure he didn’t hear any sound, he opened the door very slightly and risked his head through the breach. One again, no one was in sight. Relieved, Neal let himself in and carefully closed the door behind him.
In three strides, he was at the window, which didn’t make any difficulty to open. The area was most definitely isolated. The house was surrounded by a vast land made of grass and earth. A couple trees were visible. All in all, not much of a place to hide. A long trail started at the house, leading to a bigger road far ahead. A car was parked about a hundred feet from the house.
Neal bent over the frame. Not a soul in sight. He passed a leg through the window, then the other, and he slid outside. The rude gravel hurt his feet, but Neal barely noticed it. He had reached the outside, he was free.
Or so he thought.
Someone suddenly appeared around the corner of the house. Neal recognized the man with the cowboy boots that had been stalking him. Both equally shocked by the unexpected appearance, Neal and the man stopped short and stared at each other. Neal was the first to pull himself back together. He ran. He ran as fast as he could, disappearing around the opposite corner of the house, then straight forward, toward a wood he could see in the distance, far, too far away.
“Caffrey!” In the silence, the shout hit Neal like an angry bullet. If he still didn’t know his kidnapper, it seems the man knew who he was. And he sure wasn’t happy that he escaped.
Neal heard the engine of the car start. He looked frantically around. There was nowhere to hide. It wasn’t long until the car caught up on him, passed him and blocked his way. Neal changed direction, but his pursuer ran after him. Neal was fast, but malnourished and still recovering from his beat-up the previous day. The man suddenly jumped on him, taking them both to the ground. In the hand to hand fight, Neal didn’t resist for long. His already bruised body wasn’t fit and his opponent quickly gained the upper hand.
“You’re lucky we need you alive,” the man hissed between his teeth as he pinned Neal to the ground. He took a gun that was tucked in his belt, and with the butt he hit Neal hard on the temple.
Millions of stars invaded Neal’s vision, and as the world around him span, he slid into the dark.
4:00 PM, the café near Federal Plaza
“Hey Moz’,” Peter greeted Mozzie as he sat at the table of the café.
“Shhh, Suit. No names,” he whispered angrily.
Peter raised his hand in sign of peace. “So did you find anything?” he asked.
Mozzie nodded. He looked around, scanning the area, and when he was sure no one was watching them, he opened his shoulder bag and took out a folder. He slid in on the table toward Peter with a finger. Peter turned the file and opened it, which got him a slap on the file from Mozzie.
“Don’t open it here!”
Peter snorted in annoyance. Mozzie thought, irrelevantly, that his nostrils flared like a bull’s. The Suit was certainly not in a good mood. Maybe Mozzie shouldn’t press him too hard today.
“It contains sensitive information. And I wouldn’t want anyone to report I’ve been playing snitch. It’s bad for my business,” he said more peacefully. Despite the appearances - and it would be hard to pretend the man seated in front of him wasn’t a Fed - Mozzie was not an informant.
09:00 PM, Washington DC.
El launched the video chat program and greeted Peter with her usual “Hey, hon”.
“Hey hon,” Peter answered back, lighting up at the sight of her.
He looked tired. Well, more like worn-out exhausted. Dark shadows were encircling his tired eyes. He looked abnormally pale, and he obviously hadn’t bothered giving his hair a comb this morning. “I see you’re once again still at the office.”
“Yes, I am. We’re working on some leads. We may have identified Neal’s kidnappers. At least some of them.”
Elizabeth felt a hint of relief growing in her chest. She knew it wasn’t the end just yet, she’d been at Peter’s side long enough to know how investigations went. But Peter’s assured tone told her that it was a solid lead. And he seemed a little more upbeat than he was the days before.
“Oh hon, this is great.”
“We’ve been coordinating surveillance on several locations where we think they may stay. I’m going on a stakeout tonight.”
Elizabeth suddenly frowned as she noticed Peter looking embarrassed. He was fidgeting with something off screen.
“What is it, Peter?” she asked gently.
Peter took a deep breath and looked straight at her. “I… I don’t think I’ll be able to come to DC this weekend. I know I had promised. But the investigation is moving forward, and we need all the forces we can get.”
Elizabeth felt sad, though this was expected.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said.
El shook her head.“It’s okay, hon, I understand.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“You’d better.”
Peter touched the screen, and she mirrored his gesture. They exchange a sad smile.
“I miss you too, hon. I love you,” Peter said tenderly.
“I love you too.”
Elizabeth shut the computer and let go a heavy sigh. New York had never felt so far away. She didn’t like feeling so far, with her loved ones out of reach. She glanced around at her half empty apartment. It still needed quite some work, and a few more furniture and accessories that she had hoped to buy over the weekend. It’ll have to wait. Not for too long, she hoped.
Friday
07:43 AM, Manhattan
Late, he was late. Fatigue was slowing him down. Everything seemed to take more time. He was functioning on just three scant hours of restless sleep and he was moving way too slowly. What little energy he had was used up by the time he’d finished getting ready for work. To make matters worse, he got caught in the peak of rush hour traffic and was frustratingly late getting into the office.
As he retrieved his mail on his way to his office, Peter noticed another unmarked envelope, address noted with the same handwriting. Anxiety spiked in his veins. He set his coffee aside on his desk and discarded the rest of the mail. He sat on his chair and reached for a pair of gloves he was keeping in the bottom drawer of his desk. He put them on and took a deep breath before ripping the envelope open. Inside, was a typed letter.
If you want to see him again you’ll depose $ 25 million in cash in locker 126, YMCA, West Side before noon this sunday. No FBI, no trap, or you’ll receive more parts of your little friend.
Peter shivered. He bit his fist not to cry right now and here in his office. Forty-eight hours, that’s all they had to find Neal. He’d been dreading this moment, when kidnappers made their demands. He had hoped they’d give him something he could work with, space to maneuver, stall. He had hoped for at least a meeting, or a traceable phone call, anything that would get them closer to their enemy.
He didn’t have twenty-five million.
Maybe he could ask Mozzie. But even for resourceful criminals, twenty-five million was a lot of money, and forty-eight hours was a short delay.
Forty-eight hours.
So little time, and their investigation was nowhere near the end. They had so many names and locations to check. Needles in a haystack. And forty-eight hours.
Maybe he could try and gather the money, just in case the investigation wouldn’t go fast enough. He wouldn’t hinder the investigation. He would give the letter to Forensics - though he didn’t have much hope he would give them much more clues than the first one -, he wouldn’t hide it. He would just gather the money. Just in case.
But if he gave the letter, it would get official. Rice would want to set surveillance around the YMCA building. And if they set surveillance, he wouldn’t be able to drop the money.
Peter looked down at the letter lying on his desk. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his palm. Seconds were flowing by inexorably, and Peter had to make a decision.
Clenching his teeth, he discarded the tempting thought. He felt angry just for thinking of doing such a thing. That wasn’t the way to go. We don’t negotiate with criminals. More than that, There’s no guarantee they’d keep their part of the bargain. He knew that. He had to advise his team, work with the FBI to find Neal. His heart was racing. It was not so easy to do things right when it got personal. But he had to. At least he had to try.
They had leads, they had names. They could do this. They had to. Or Peter wasn’t sure he would be able to forgive himself.
04:00 PM, Manhattan
Different teams had been sent throughout New York State, and even in neighboring New Jersey to check on known and suspected locations attached to Finnigan and several of his most recent associates. Peter and Agent Rice were coordinating from the conference room. So far, they didn’t have any luck. No trace of Finnigan, nor Neal.
Peter was restless. Each negative report left him a little more strained, a little less optimistic.
Jones suddenly rushed into the room. “A phone registered under an old alias of Parker’s - one of Finnigan’s associates that the little guy gave us - has been sporadically active the last few days in a remote area south of Camden - near Cherry Hill. Switched on for only a few minutes at a time. Obviously avoiding being tracked.”
Peter immediately perked up. “Send me a team immediately. Camden? Damn, that’s far. See with the local PD if they’ve seen him. Eventually check for facial recognition on their city CCTV footage.”
Jones left the room promptly. Peter pressed his fist in his opposite hand. The net was finally closing in on their prey.
08:00 PM, Brooklyn.
Peter got of his car and climbed the front steps to his house. His muscles were exhausted from the tension and stress. He could feel the weight of every inch of his body, like hundreds of little anvils. Yet, he was already dreading the moment he would have to lay down. But he really needed to get some rest if he had to drive to Camden at the wee hours. The FBI confirmed that Finnigan and Parker were there and their likely location - a small house in a rundown area - had been spotted. To minimize the chance of letting him slip through their fingers, they had decided to be all set for a take down at dawn.
It wasn’t until he entered the house that Peter realized the light was on. He frowned, trying to remember if he might have forgotten to switch it off before leaving early that morning. He was already reaching for his gun under his jacket when Elizabeth appeared from the kitchen.
Peter blinked. “Hon?”
Elizabeth approached and they fell into each other’s arms. Peter buried his face in Elizabeth’s fresh hair and she nestled against his chest, holding him tight. He slowly rubbed her back and he felt some of the tension in his muscles subside a little at her contact.
“I thought that since you couldn’t make it to DC, I could as well come to you,” El whispered.
“You’re an angel,” Peter said as he bent forward to kiss his wife. “But, you know, I might not be much around this weekend. I have to drive down to Camden in a few hours.”
“I assumed you’d be busy. But at least for the few hours you’ll be home, I’ll be here with you. If only to help you relax and make sure you’ll have something to eat.”
PART THREE