Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 8
For Chapter 7, click HERE
“I know, Bruce,” Peter argued, pacing the bedroom floor. “I understand he’s within his rights. I just want to-” He stopped pacing and listened, shook his head and then realized Bruce couldn’t see it. “No-it doesn’t have to be by phone. Hell, Bruce, it doesn’t even have to be me. I just want to get a message to him.” Peter’s head jerked. “What? What do you mean, no messages? Kramer said-Kramer said?-have you talked to Kramer about this? Whose side are you-damn it, I will not-” He stopped and pushed a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said at last. “Fine. Just fine. You do it. That will be great. As long as-right, right. When?” There was a silence. “When, Bruce? When are you going to-well, it does matter, it would matter a whole hell of a lot if it were…fine. No, that’s fine. Call me, won’t you?” There was another silence. “Thanks Bruce. No-I mean it. Thanks. This has just…you know how I feel about my people. Right. Thanks. Thanks again.” He hung up.
Elizabeth looked up from the book she had been pretending to read and looked at him. “The end of that conversation sounded better than the beginning.”
“It was,” Peter said, pacing again. “It was better-it wasn’t good, but it was better.”
She waited for him, letting him tell her in his own way. “Kramer says no phone calls and no messages, but Bruce promises to get a word to Neal.”
“What word?” Elizabeth said. “What’s Bruce going to tell him?”
They exchanged looks. Peter could hardly impart to Bruce that they were planning on getting Neal back one way or another-as long as it stuck. “He’s…he’s going to tell him we’re concerned about him and how he’s doing. That’s the best we can do.”
“Will Neal understand? Will he know you can’t talk to him?”
Peter looked flummoxed for a moment. “He…he hasn’t called us,” he said at last. “I assumed he couldn’t.” Peter thought about it a moment. “Kramer probably told Neal he’ll get in trouble if he calls us. At least, that what I assumed.” The thought cheered him a little. Neal was, at least, following orders. But on the heels of that came another worry: How worried would Neal have to be to do exactly what Kramer said? What did Kramer have on him? What did he know? What evidence was hanging over Neal’s head that might fall any moment? Peter knew of a few things. Would bringing Neal back to White Collar cause Kramer to drop another bomb-maybe even send Neal back to prison? There were too many questions and not enough answers.
Peter sighed, realizing he might just have to get used to it. He stopped pacing and looked to see Elizabeth watching him, her face suffused with tenderness. She patted the cover beside her. “Come to bed,” she said gently. “We’ll work on this again tomorrow.”
****
Sara slid onto the barstool and smiled at the bartender. It so discombobulated the man that he overfilled the mug he held under the tap. The foam overflowed and he cursed, sidestepping the spill, then colored and clamped his mouth shut. He got a fresh stein, filled it and practically slammed it down in front of the customer who had ordered it, who looked at him in bafflement at the surly treatment. Sara pretended not to notice, tapping buttons on her phone, but when the bartender appeared in front of her she looked up and gave him another one of her dazzling smiles.
“What can I get you?” the man asked breathlessly.
“A white…um, how about a beer?” She didn’t like the look of the wine glasses.
“Draft or bottle?”
“How ‘bout a Sam Adams?”
“Sure thing.” He trundled off.
“Figured you for the type that orders Chateau something-or-other,” murmured a voice near her elbow. Sara started a little. She hadn’t heard him come in, but she managed a smile and turned to face her companion.
“Stop speculating about my type,” she said pleasantly, but her eyes were like flint. “Your boss said you might know something about…what we discussed.”
“I might.” The man smiled. The smile broadened when the bartender, upon seeing him, put a draft down in front of him without asking. “Thanks Joey.” He turned and looked at Sara. “I know lots of things. If you’re nice to me-”
He had reached to put a hand on her knee, but that hand was now in agony. While appearing to reach for and clasp his hand with both of hers, she had his pinky finger bent back at an angle it didn’t seem to want to go.
“I’m always nice,” said Sara while the man tried not to whimper. “You know what else I always am? In a hurry.” She smiled. “Do you have something for me, or do I tell your boss that our little deal is off?”
“Okay, okay-hell, woman-”
She applied pressure and he bit off the word.
“Sorry,” he panted.
“That’s better. Start talking.”
“He…the word on the street says he was good for it, but that’s just talk. What I found out was the guy what did it-the real guy what did it-is a real piece of work. Fingers in all kinds of pies, heavy-duty connections. He’s a good forger, but has a bad rep.”
“For?” Sara asked. She had backed off the pressure on the man’s finger.
“Turning on his partners,” the man said. “Ratting people out.” His disdain was obvious. Few people were as hated in the criminal world as snitches.
“So you’re saying the guy who took the fall isn’t the guy who did the forgery-is that right?”
“Smart dame,” the man muttered.
“So…how do we know this. How can we prove this?”
“That’s above my pay grade,” said the man sullenly.
Sara released his hand, smiling sweetly all the while. She reached in her purse and saw the man tense-evidently news of her and her baton had made the rounds-but merely fished out a bill and dropped it on the counter.
She smiled at the man nursing his drink and his finger. “I’ll tell your boss you were very helpful,” she said, and walked out of the bar.
She got into the waiting taxi, glad to not have to drive, and the cab pulled into traffic without instructions.
“What’d you learn?” asked Mozzie’s voice from the front seat.
“He didn’t do it,” said Sara. “He was framed.” She leaned forward, her face earnest in the pale light coming into the cab from streetlights. “Mozzie-we can use this. I’m sure of it.”
“Think we should tell the Suit?”
Sara bit her lip, thinking hard. “Not yet,” she said. “I want to try to find out if I can prove it.”
****
“He changed after that,” Diana told Jones. “Everybody who knew him before and after said so.” They had gone out together for a cup of coffee-any excuse to leave the office so they could talk-and now stood with their coats flapping around them in the wind and light rain.
“But Peter knew him after that,” Clinton argued. “He didn’t know him before.”
“It’s not the same,” Diana said. “He was Peter’s mentor.” Clinton looked doubtful, and she glared at him.
“I want you to think of the worst-most unpleasant-instructor you had at the Naval Academy-the biggest son of a bitch you can think of.”
Clinton looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Well?”
“It’s hard to choose one,” Clinton said dryly, and Diana rolled her eyes.
“Just pick one already.”
“Fine! Okay, got it.”
“Did you like him?”
“Like him? What do you mean, did I like him?” Jones was indignant. “He was impossible. He demanded perfection, and when we gave it to him, he demanded more!”
“Made a man out of you, didn’t he?” She was grinning.
Clinton grinned back. “A soldier at least. I like to think I managed the other on my own. But what does General-oh. Oh. I see where you’re going.”
Diana smacked his arm. “Give the man a gold star.”
“So…so you’re saying that because he was Peter’s teacher, well, mentor, that Peter sees him differently-”
“Saw him differently,” Diana corrected. “I’m pretty sure he sees him clearly now.”
“You can say that again.”
“You know what I’d like to say?”
Clinton’s voice was resigned. “There’s no telling.”
“I’d like to say, ‘I’m wet and cold and can we please quit this cloak and dagger stuff for a while and go back to the office.’ How’s that?”
“Anything for a lady,” said Clinton, and they turned back toward White Collar.
****
Peter tried to be patient. It wasn’t his strong suit, not by a long stretch.
There were a lot of things happening, but none of them were happening quickly. Bruce’s message-insouciant and bland though it was-had been delivered. Neal knew they were concerned about him, at least. Peter tried to remind himself that he had sent Neal undercover in much more dangerous situations than this. Here, Neal’s personal safety was not at stake, but there were bigger issues at stake.
In the two years since they’d worked together, Peter would have had to be blind not to see the changes that had taken place in Neal. He remembered like it was yesterday the time that Neal had admitted that he trusted no one-no one at all-but that he trusted Peter. Peter, who had grown up in a family as unremarkable as it seemed possible to have, had nevertheless had a kind of security that Neal had never experienced. Peter had watched the changes wrought in Neal as Neal had come to trust Peter’s advocacy and loyalty.
True, it had been a loyalty often tried by two very different viewpoints, and the last few months had been rather harrowing after the U-boat treasure had been taken. Peter still felt ashamed of the way that had been handled. True, Neal should have told him, but that would have meant ratting out Mozzie, a thing that Neal would never do. Peter realized after the fact the vice they had put Neal in, him and Mozzie, but he still thought-still believed that, had Neal come to him, they could have worked something out.
He tried to imagine Neal approaching Kramer with the same degree of trust and could not picture it. Even when he had been an agent under Kramer, awed by the man, under his spell, it had not been easy to go to Kramer for help. Peter hoped that Neal was managing to flourish after having been so rudely thrust into Kramer’s garden, but he did not know. From Neal, there had been no word-not even from Bruce.
Things were busy in the office, too. The case against David Cook was nearing its anniversary, and Peter knew that that meant another heist was probably already planned. He wished Neal was here to offer his expertise, but-almost immediately-the selfishness of the thought caused him to dash it away. Was he just missing Neal because he was useful to him? Was he any better than Kramer?
Intel and ideas continued to pour in. Diana had found a few skeletons and was painstakingly digging them up. June seemed to be on to something, but Peter tried to stay out of what Mozzie and Sara had going as well. If it worked, he didn’t want to know about it and have to shut it down. If it didn’t, he had no desire to see anyone else he cared about dragged off in cuffs.
For Chapter 9, click HERE
“I know, Bruce,” Peter argued, pacing the bedroom floor. “I understand he’s within his rights. I just want to-” He stopped pacing and listened, shook his head and then realized Bruce couldn’t see it. “No-it doesn’t have to be by phone. Hell, Bruce, it doesn’t even have to be me. I just want to get a message to him.” Peter’s head jerked. “What? What do you mean, no messages? Kramer said-Kramer said?-have you talked to Kramer about this? Whose side are you-damn it, I will not-” He stopped and pushed a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said at last. “Fine. Just fine. You do it. That will be great. As long as-right, right. When?” There was a silence. “When, Bruce? When are you going to-well, it does matter, it would matter a whole hell of a lot if it were…fine. No, that’s fine. Call me, won’t you?” There was another silence. “Thanks Bruce. No-I mean it. Thanks. This has just…you know how I feel about my people. Right. Thanks. Thanks again.” He hung up.
Elizabeth looked up from the book she had been pretending to read and looked at him. “The end of that conversation sounded better than the beginning.”
“It was,” Peter said, pacing again. “It was better-it wasn’t good, but it was better.”
She waited for him, letting him tell her in his own way. “Kramer says no phone calls and no messages, but Bruce promises to get a word to Neal.”
“What word?” Elizabeth said. “What’s Bruce going to tell him?”
They exchanged looks. Peter could hardly impart to Bruce that they were planning on getting Neal back one way or another-as long as it stuck. “He’s…he’s going to tell him we’re concerned about him and how he’s doing. That’s the best we can do.”
“Will Neal understand? Will he know you can’t talk to him?”
Peter looked flummoxed for a moment. “He…he hasn’t called us,” he said at last. “I assumed he couldn’t.” Peter thought about it a moment. “Kramer probably told Neal he’ll get in trouble if he calls us. At least, that what I assumed.” The thought cheered him a little. Neal was, at least, following orders. But on the heels of that came another worry: How worried would Neal have to be to do exactly what Kramer said? What did Kramer have on him? What did he know? What evidence was hanging over Neal’s head that might fall any moment? Peter knew of a few things. Would bringing Neal back to White Collar cause Kramer to drop another bomb-maybe even send Neal back to prison? There were too many questions and not enough answers.
Peter sighed, realizing he might just have to get used to it. He stopped pacing and looked to see Elizabeth watching him, her face suffused with tenderness. She patted the cover beside her. “Come to bed,” she said gently. “We’ll work on this again tomorrow.”
****
Sara slid onto the barstool and smiled at the bartender. It so discombobulated the man that he overfilled the mug he held under the tap. The foam overflowed and he cursed, sidestepping the spill, then colored and clamped his mouth shut. He got a fresh stein, filled it and practically slammed it down in front of the customer who had ordered it, who looked at him in bafflement at the surly treatment. Sara pretended not to notice, tapping buttons on her phone, but when the bartender appeared in front of her she looked up and gave him another one of her dazzling smiles.
“What can I get you?” the man asked breathlessly.
“A white…um, how about a beer?” She didn’t like the look of the wine glasses.
“Draft or bottle?”
“How ‘bout a Sam Adams?”
“Sure thing.” He trundled off.
“Figured you for the type that orders Chateau something-or-other,” murmured a voice near her elbow. Sara started a little. She hadn’t heard him come in, but she managed a smile and turned to face her companion.
“Stop speculating about my type,” she said pleasantly, but her eyes were like flint. “Your boss said you might know something about…what we discussed.”
“I might.” The man smiled. The smile broadened when the bartender, upon seeing him, put a draft down in front of him without asking. “Thanks Joey.” He turned and looked at Sara. “I know lots of things. If you’re nice to me-”
He had reached to put a hand on her knee, but that hand was now in agony. While appearing to reach for and clasp his hand with both of hers, she had his pinky finger bent back at an angle it didn’t seem to want to go.
“I’m always nice,” said Sara while the man tried not to whimper. “You know what else I always am? In a hurry.” She smiled. “Do you have something for me, or do I tell your boss that our little deal is off?”
“Okay, okay-hell, woman-”
She applied pressure and he bit off the word.
“Sorry,” he panted.
“That’s better. Start talking.”
“He…the word on the street says he was good for it, but that’s just talk. What I found out was the guy what did it-the real guy what did it-is a real piece of work. Fingers in all kinds of pies, heavy-duty connections. He’s a good forger, but has a bad rep.”
“For?” Sara asked. She had backed off the pressure on the man’s finger.
“Turning on his partners,” the man said. “Ratting people out.” His disdain was obvious. Few people were as hated in the criminal world as snitches.
“So you’re saying the guy who took the fall isn’t the guy who did the forgery-is that right?”
“Smart dame,” the man muttered.
“So…how do we know this. How can we prove this?”
“That’s above my pay grade,” said the man sullenly.
Sara released his hand, smiling sweetly all the while. She reached in her purse and saw the man tense-evidently news of her and her baton had made the rounds-but merely fished out a bill and dropped it on the counter.
She smiled at the man nursing his drink and his finger. “I’ll tell your boss you were very helpful,” she said, and walked out of the bar.
She got into the waiting taxi, glad to not have to drive, and the cab pulled into traffic without instructions.
“What’d you learn?” asked Mozzie’s voice from the front seat.
“He didn’t do it,” said Sara. “He was framed.” She leaned forward, her face earnest in the pale light coming into the cab from streetlights. “Mozzie-we can use this. I’m sure of it.”
“Think we should tell the Suit?”
Sara bit her lip, thinking hard. “Not yet,” she said. “I want to try to find out if I can prove it.”
****
“He changed after that,” Diana told Jones. “Everybody who knew him before and after said so.” They had gone out together for a cup of coffee-any excuse to leave the office so they could talk-and now stood with their coats flapping around them in the wind and light rain.
“But Peter knew him after that,” Clinton argued. “He didn’t know him before.”
“It’s not the same,” Diana said. “He was Peter’s mentor.” Clinton looked doubtful, and she glared at him.
“I want you to think of the worst-most unpleasant-instructor you had at the Naval Academy-the biggest son of a bitch you can think of.”
Clinton looked thoughtful for a moment.
“Well?”
“It’s hard to choose one,” Clinton said dryly, and Diana rolled her eyes.
“Just pick one already.”
“Fine! Okay, got it.”
“Did you like him?”
“Like him? What do you mean, did I like him?” Jones was indignant. “He was impossible. He demanded perfection, and when we gave it to him, he demanded more!”
“Made a man out of you, didn’t he?” She was grinning.
Clinton grinned back. “A soldier at least. I like to think I managed the other on my own. But what does General-oh. Oh. I see where you’re going.”
Diana smacked his arm. “Give the man a gold star.”
“So…so you’re saying that because he was Peter’s teacher, well, mentor, that Peter sees him differently-”
“Saw him differently,” Diana corrected. “I’m pretty sure he sees him clearly now.”
“You can say that again.”
“You know what I’d like to say?”
Clinton’s voice was resigned. “There’s no telling.”
“I’d like to say, ‘I’m wet and cold and can we please quit this cloak and dagger stuff for a while and go back to the office.’ How’s that?”
“Anything for a lady,” said Clinton, and they turned back toward White Collar.
****
Peter tried to be patient. It wasn’t his strong suit, not by a long stretch.
There were a lot of things happening, but none of them were happening quickly. Bruce’s message-insouciant and bland though it was-had been delivered. Neal knew they were concerned about him, at least. Peter tried to remind himself that he had sent Neal undercover in much more dangerous situations than this. Here, Neal’s personal safety was not at stake, but there were bigger issues at stake.
In the two years since they’d worked together, Peter would have had to be blind not to see the changes that had taken place in Neal. He remembered like it was yesterday the time that Neal had admitted that he trusted no one-no one at all-but that he trusted Peter. Peter, who had grown up in a family as unremarkable as it seemed possible to have, had nevertheless had a kind of security that Neal had never experienced. Peter had watched the changes wrought in Neal as Neal had come to trust Peter’s advocacy and loyalty.
True, it had been a loyalty often tried by two very different viewpoints, and the last few months had been rather harrowing after the U-boat treasure had been taken. Peter still felt ashamed of the way that had been handled. True, Neal should have told him, but that would have meant ratting out Mozzie, a thing that Neal would never do. Peter realized after the fact the vice they had put Neal in, him and Mozzie, but he still thought-still believed that, had Neal come to him, they could have worked something out.
He tried to imagine Neal approaching Kramer with the same degree of trust and could not picture it. Even when he had been an agent under Kramer, awed by the man, under his spell, it had not been easy to go to Kramer for help. Peter hoped that Neal was managing to flourish after having been so rudely thrust into Kramer’s garden, but he did not know. From Neal, there had been no word-not even from Bruce.
Things were busy in the office, too. The case against David Cook was nearing its anniversary, and Peter knew that that meant another heist was probably already planned. He wished Neal was here to offer his expertise, but-almost immediately-the selfishness of the thought caused him to dash it away. Was he just missing Neal because he was useful to him? Was he any better than Kramer?
Intel and ideas continued to pour in. Diana had found a few skeletons and was painstakingly digging them up. June seemed to be on to something, but Peter tried to stay out of what Mozzie and Sara had going as well. If it worked, he didn’t want to know about it and have to shut it down. If it didn’t, he had no desire to see anyone else he cared about dragged off in cuffs.
For Chapter 9, click HERE