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phantismaFandom: White Collar
Title: Practical Matters (Part One)
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth (implied Neal/Peter/Elizabeth), Mozzie, Jones, Diana, OMC
Word Count: 12,543 (Total for both parts)
Rating: NC-17 for theme
Summary: What starts out as a typical white collar case becomes anything but when an old acquaintance of Neal's surfaces, and Neal tries to protect his friends the only way he knows how.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
another_doyle for generosity in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
help_japan auction. Warnings for violence, implied sexual slavery, implied previous dub-con, non-con drug use, physical injury as a means of restraint. Part one of two.
The problem with his current situation, Neal decided, was that there were too many people. The time he spent in prison had only increased his love of quiet and solitude.
Not that he didn't love the people around him, for some value of love at any rate.
But there was no denying his life had gotten crowded since his escape.
On a night like this, he could feel it closing in around him as he woke. Or maybe it was Elizabeth's head on his shoulder. Or Peter's hand draped over her hip and onto Neal's stomach.
Or possibly it was the fact that he'd never fallen asleep here before. Not like this. There was the one night, on the couch after too many beers and a long day with far too many close calls, but not like this. Not after…
Neal rubbed his eyes and contemplated how to slip away without waking the two of them. It took delicate maneuvering to move his shoulder so that she slipped onto the pillow. He paused to make sure it wasn't going to wake her, then sat up.
Moving slowly and quietly, he gathered his clothes, though he couldn't find one sock in the dark. He tiptoed into the bathroom and turned on the shower without turning on the light.
It wasn't that he was ashamed. He'd let himself be drawn into this, whatever this was and it was probably crazy, more so than any of his scheming had ever been, but it wasn't shame that had him sneaking out in the small hours of the morning.
It was practical.
Peter had an early morning and Mozzie had been hanging out at Neal's place a lot lately, even when Neal wasn't there. There would be questions if Neal didn't come home at all.
Besides, this was Peter and Elizabeth's house. Peter and Elizabeth's bed. He didn't actually belong there.
He rinsed off and stepped out of the shower, drying off and dressing quickly. He eased out of the bathroom and down the stairs, but stopped at the bottom as Elizabeth, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, smiled at him, his missing sock in her hands.
"You running away?" she asked, and though her tone was light, her eyes showed concern.
"Just going home." He took the sock and sat on the stairs to put it on.
"You could stay." She brought him his shoes from where he'd dropped them by the couch early in the evening.
"I could." Neal agreed, leaning back to look up at her. "But I wouldn't want it to get weird."
The corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Weirder?"
He smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that." He bent to put his shoes on.
"I called you a cab."
"You didn't have to do that, El." Neal stood, rubbing his hands down his pants and stepping off the last stair.
She smiled as she drew him in, tilting her face up and brushing a kiss over his lips. "It was that or wake Peter and make him take you."
Of course it was. This was Elizabeth. "In that case, thank you."
Her arms slipped around his waist and tugged her against him. "It's okay, Neal," she whispered against his lips.
He nodded and let her draw him into a deeper kiss, her tongue sliding against his, at least until the sound of a car pulling up interrupted. "Get some sleep, El." Neal said softly, taking his hat off the coat rack and settling it on his head.
"Night." She stood at the door until he was in the cab, lifting a hand in goodbye as they pulled away.
It wasn't quite one in the morning when they pulled up outside June's house. Neal paid the driver and climbed from the cab. The only light on in the house was in his apartment.
"Mozzie." Neal murmured as he headed in. As he expected, Mozzie was in his chair, drinking his wine and reading a newspaper. "Moz."
He looked up. "Oh, you're home."
"I do live here." Neal put his hat of the coat rack by the door and slipped out of his jacket before going to pour himself some of the wine. "You don't."
Mozzie put down the newspaper. "You have something I need."
Neal snorted. "You know all my hiding places."
"I highly doubt I know all of them." Mozzie stood. "Besides, you have better wine."
"So, you waited here hoping I'd come home some time tonight?"
Mozzie squinted at him from behind his glasses. "I thought you had dinner with the suit and Mrs. Suit."
"I did." Neal drank from his glass and turned away. "But it's a long way between here and there. I might have gotten distracted."
"Were you with Sarah?" Mozzie asked, his expression unreadable.
"What? No." Neal hoped the rush of panic didn't show on his face. "I was at Peter's." It was too close to the truth.
Mozzie sensed that somehow and now he wasn't going to let it go. "Until one in the morning? Must have been some dinner."
"It was, if you must know. Elizabeth is an excellent cook." He drained his wine. "It was nice and we talked. A lot."
Mozzie had that look on his face and Neal knew he needed to re-direct this conversation or have to start spinning a story. “So what is it you’re looking for that you think I have?”
“The Dolchek.”
Neal stopped and looked at him, blinking. “I don’t have the Dolchek. I never did.”
“Huh.” Mozzie put down his wine glass. “I was sure you had it. You made that copy, the one you gave Kate.”
“From pictures.” Neal was frowning now, trying to figure out why Mozzie would want the diminutive statue.
It was one of those pieces that never really stayed in anyone’s hands too long. Stolen and recovered at least ten times over its one hundred and thirty year history, it was an exquisitely detailed Lipizzaner stallion that was only ten and half inches tall.
Its origins were murky at best and the name of the piece was lost in time, leaving only the name Dolchek, supposedly the name of the artist that sculpted it as a gift for the new born Olga Alexandrovna, youngest daughter of the Russian Emperor Alexander III. Its fame, and subsequent value, had as much to do with its story as the artistic merit, which was exceptional on its own.
Add to that the fact that it was the only known piece of the artist to survive, and the story told of the artist himself, and the tiny little piece had become something of a legend.
The facts that Neal had seen it in the same week in which it was last stolen, from a museum in Kiev, and that he had produced a pretty fine copy once upon a time were all that tied him to it, however.
Of course, none of that would explain why Mozzie wanted it, or why he thought Neal had it.
“Are you going to explain?”
Mozzie shrugged and slipped his bag over his shoulder on his way to the door. “It’s late, I should go.”
“Mozzie?” Neal followed him. He pushed the door closed before Mozzie could get out. “Spill.”
“I just thought you had it.” Mozzie fidgeted and Neal shook his head.
“Who’s looking for it?”
Again, Mozzie shrugged. “Word on the street is someone with a lot of money they’re willing to spend to get it.”
"Really, that's all you've got?" Neal leaned on the door, but he could tell Mozzie was done talking for now. "Fine. I don't have it. I never did."
"My mistake. Can I go now?"
Neal let him go, shaking his head as he closed and locked the door. He stripped on his way to bed. The last twenty-four hours had been a bit of a whirlwind and he could worry about Mozzie and whatever scheme he was getting up into in the morning.
Peter came in from lunch with Elizabeth to find Neal had finally shown up, his head bent over some file. He stopped at the desk where Neal sat. "Everything all right?" It was a loaded question, and Peter knew it, covering far more than whatever odd case had caught Neal's attention.
Neal looked up briefly, then away, back to the picture in his hand. "Fine." It was a non-answer that gave Peter no insight into why Neal had bolted in the middle of the night or he had shown up so late. He couldn't detect any remorse for what they'd done, and it wasn't like they hadn't played around before, but it wasn't like Peter could just ask him. Not here.
"What are you looking at? New case?"
Neal sat back in his chair, lifting the photo to look at. "I'm not sure." He bit his lip, squinting at the picture, then handed the picture to Peter. "Do you know this piece?"
Peter took the picture and looked over it. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Do I want to?"
"Maybe." Neal picked up the file and handed it to Peter. "It's got a colorful history, made for a princess, stolen during political unrest, lost, found, stolen again and again."
"Okay, so what's the angle?"
Neal stood, looking over the edge of the file. "Dexi Tartikov, she was the last legitimate owner, depending on how loosely you use the word." Neal leaned back on the desk, arms crossed. “She loaned it to a museum in Kiev a few years back, as part of an exhibit of art once belonging to the Romanov family. It was stolen from the museum, two days after I was there, actually.”
Peter raised an eyebrow and waited. Neal rolled his eyes. “I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t have. The one on display was a fake. A very good fake, but not worth stealing. Someone took it though, leading some to believe it was me.”
Peter closed the file and tucked it up under his arm. “Okay, so far all you’ve given me is a story.”
“Tartikov recovered the Dolchek from a private collector and produced the provenance to prove that it was real and that it was rightfully hers to claim. She’s a distant descendant of the Romanovs. Paid a tidy sum to the governments involved to keep it. But because of the history of the piece, she didn’t want it put on display. So she commissioned the copy.”
Peter opened the file again, squinting at the picture. “Are you saying that you knew it was a copy because you copied it?”
Neal held up both hands. “It was a legit job for the owner of the piece. I made two copies. The first one wasn’t close enough to perfect. The second is the one she put on display, and loaned to the museum.”
“So it was the second one that was stolen.” Peter gestured toward his office and started that way, with Neal following.
“From the museum, yes.”
Peter set the file down on his desk and exhaled slowly. “Why do I feel like this is just the beginning of this story?”
Neal sat in the chair opposite Peters and sighed. “I found out a year or so later, that the original was stolen from Tartikov’s private vault as well.”
“At the same time?”
Neal shrugged. “She’s never been completely honest about it, so I don’t know.”
“And what happened to that first copy?”
“I gave it to Kate.” Neal shifted a little uncomfortably and looked away. “I’m not sure where it ended up.”
Peter wasn’t sure if the discomfort was Neal being less than honest with him or the reminder of Kate. He decided the best course of action was to deflect him back onto the topic at hand. “So, what brought this up now, if this was all years ago?”
Neal looked back at him. “Someone is looking for it.”
“Someone?”
“Haven’t figured out who, but they clearly think I have it or at least know where it is.”
“And you know this how?”
Neal made a face. “Let’s just say I was asked about it recently.”
“So, Mozzie.”
“Yeah, okay, Mozzie.”
“Explain to me why this has you bothered.” Peter could see it if he looked, and lately, Peter looked. He was starting to learn his way around Neal’s body language a lot better than he had when they were just working together.
To his credit, Neal didn’t even try denying it. He stood, hands in his pockets, and crossed to the window. “Until today only three people knew that I ever had my hands on the original.”
“Tartikov, you…and…who?”
Neal didn’t respond for a long time, and when he did, it was not what Peter expected. Neal inhaled and turned to Peter, a false smile on his face. “You know, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just going to ask around a little on the sly, see if anything turns up.”
"Neal—" Peter stood, but Neal was already gone, out of the office and down the stairs, and in his place Hughes was leaning into his office.
"My office, I have a case for you."
Peter stood, still watching Neal as he followed Hughes.
"Close the door."
Peter dragged his eyes away from Neal and did as he was told. Hughes handed him a file. "We need to act fast, before this gets away."
"What is it?" Peter flipped open the file, his eyes darting over the familiar picture, then back to the door. "That son of a—" He went to the door, intending to call Neal in, but Neal was gone.
"Burke?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Neal just brought me this same file."
"Did he?"
Peter nodded, thumbing through the file. It was more complete than the one Neal had brought him.
"We got a tip last night that there was going to be a sale of high priced stolen art here in New York in the next few days. The only thing specifically mentioned was that piece."
"The Dolchek." Peter looked up at his boss. "Where'd the tip come from?"
"A CI who puts together buyers and sellers of unique pieces. He was contacted by someone looking to buy this about a month ago. Then two days ago, someone contacted him looking to feel out the market, claiming to have it."
"What's it worth?" Peter asked.
"It was last appraised at something close to a million dollars, but if it can be proven to be real, it's probably worth three times that now."
"Any ideas on who the seller or buyer is?"
"Couple on either side. No real proof. I figured this was right up Caffrey's alley."
"Probably so far up it we don't want all the details." Peter murmured. "I'll get the team started."
The more he thought about the Dolchek, the less comfortable he was. There were parts of his life no one, even Peter or Mozzie, ever knew about. There were people in his past he would just as soon forget ever existed.
The problem with that was…they did exist, and Neal was pretty sure he was about to be reminded of that in the case of one man.
There was only one person who knew enough to use the Dolchek to flush Neal out. If that's what was going on. He had his doubts, because really, he wasn't all that hard to find.
Still. Neal couldn't stop thinking about it now that it had been brought up. Because the picture in the FBI's file on the Dolchek was of a fake, and not his fake. It was good, maybe better than his. And that could only have happened in the presence of the real thing.
Which meant that whoever stole it copied it, or had it copied. And only a handful of people in the world had the skill.
Neal slid into the coffee shop behind a group of giggle teenagers, and slipped into a seat at a table beside a woman doing a very good impression of a classic geek, her mousy brown hair in messy pigtails, the black frame on her glasses thick and sliding down her nose, her oversized striped shirt at odds with the long corduroy skirt over worn out chucks.
She groaned, but didn't put down her book. "Not today, Neal. I'm busy."
"Aw, come on Grace, I just want to have a cup of coffee with a friend."
"We're not friends, and you don't have coffee. What do you want?"
"I'm looking for the Dolchek." He decided honest and straight forward was his best play. At least until she kicked him under the table. "Ow."
"Keep your voice down. I’m not looking to get dead today." She put the book down and looked around them while she raised her coffee.
"Whoa, what are you talking about?" Neal asked, his eyes skimming the place now too.
"Look, the only thing I know about that particular piece is Joey Pecotti is brokering a deal between a seller who claims to have it and several buyers looking to buy it. And the last person who had their hands on it is dead."
"Pecotti is handling it?" Neal frowned. Pecotti was not the most discreet middle man, and he and Neal had never really gotten along. "When is this happening?"
"Tomorrow, from what I heard. But you didn't hear it from me."
"Okay, fine. One last thing."
She rolled her eyes and looked at him. "What?"
"Have you heard any whispers about…Nigel Ethan being in town?" He stood, his eyes checking the people around them, as if the name alone was enough to conjure the man.
"The Collector? No, I don't think so."
Neal slipped a business card onto the table. "If you do, call me."
He slipped his hat on as he exited the building, keeping his eyes moving but trying to look nonchalant. His phone rang and he knew it would be Peter before he pulled it out of his pocket.
"Hello Peter."
"Where are you?"
"Just having coffee with a friend."
"Get your ass back to the office. Hughes just handed me a case."
"I'm on my way." Neal pushed all thoughts of the Dolchek or the Collector to the back of his brain, and turned on his heel to head for the FBI. He need to focus on whatever case Peter had for them, and not let Nigel Ethan play head games with him.
Peter could tell Neal was distracted, even nervous, before he even reached the conference room. His eyes danced to Peter's, then over the scattered paperwork on the table. There was a question in those eyes.
"Okay, now that Caffrey has decided to join us, let's get started. Hughes kicked this down." He made sure to make eye contact with Neal, making sure he understood that Peter hadn't started this just on Neal's whim. "The piece in question is called the Dolchek. It is a one of a kind."
Neal licked his lips, hesitating only a second before he stepped into place. "It is the only work known to have survived by this artist, an Ivan Petrovsky Dolchek. It was made for the youngest daughter of the Russian Emperor Alexander the 3rd. It disappeared around the time of the revolution, reappeared in Stockholm a few years later, was stolen again. It surfaced briefly in London, then vanished for almost fifty years. It was found in the home of a wealthy private collector after his passing, which is when Dexi Tartikov laid claim to it. She had the provenance and the family records to prove that it was rightfully hers. However, it was stolen from her several years ago and current whereabouts are unknown."
He picked up the picture and looked at it for a minute. "It is an exquisite piece, very detailed. Stands ten and a half inches tall, but is worth a conservative million dollars, possibly more now."
"And, according to one of our CI's it is up for sale, right here in New York City." Peter added, watching Neal. He already knew that, he didn't even blink. "So our job is to find out who's doing the selling and recover the art."
"Why don't we just wait until the CI sets up the buy and grab him then?" Jones asked.
"This kind of sale will be done without exposing the buyer or the seller." Neal explained. "There will be an agreement made on the price, negotiated through the middle man. Money will be moved electronically, then the seller will make a drop, feed the drop location to the middle man, who will give it to the buyer."
"Making it difficult to just show up and nab the bad guys." Peter said. "So, we need to find out who it is that is selling the piece. Get on it."
The room started to empty out, but Peter caught Neal's elbow and held him back, closing the conference room door. "What aren't you telling me?"
Neal licked his lips and exhaled slowly. "I…I don't know anything for sure."
"Neal. We made a promise to each other, remember?" Peter pinned him to the door, hands on Neal's hips.
Neal closed his eyes. "I'm being honest. I don't know anything for sure."
"But you have an idea."
He nodded. "I…okay. I have a name, but I'm not sure which side he's on. Hell, I'm not even sure if he's involved."
He moved away from Peter, crossing to the big windows to stand staring out at the fading light of the day, his hands in his pockets. "His name is Nigel Ethan. He's known as The Collector."
"What does he collect?"
Neal stiffened noticeably. "Whatever he wants. Pretty things, pretty people, pretty much anything."
"How do you know him?"
Neal went quiet, his back to Peter.
"Neal?"
He sighed. "He…tried to collect me, once upon a time."
"He what?"
Neal turned and shook his head. "It's a long story, and we have a case."
"You're not getting off that easy here. Not when you say something like that."
Neal rubbed a hand down his face and thought about it for a minute. "Okay, long story short…we were brought together by a mutual acquaintance while I was in Kiev. I was working on the Dolchek at the time. He was interested, I wasn't. I finished the work and beat it the hell out of Kiev."
There was more to the story, Peter could tell. But, it was all he was getting out of Neal for the moment. "Okay, I'll have Diana run the name, see what we can find on the guy."
Neal nodded. "Good. Something isn't right here, Peter. I don't like it."
"Noted. Why don't you head home then. We can manage this without you." He expected an argument. When he didn't get one, when Neal just nodded and brushed past him and disappeared, Peter knew that this was much more than a brush with a guy who wanted Neal.
Much more.
To be honest, Neal had always thought Mozzie went overboard when it came to his personal security, the conspiracy theories and all making him just a touch paranoid.
But now he was glad he paid attention anyway. He took a cab from the FBI offices to the center of his two mile radius, walked a few blocks and took another cab from a different company to the east end of his radius, then walked home.
Even then, he was glad June was away for the week visiting with friends. He locked the doors as behind him and felt only slightly more safe in his apartment. The thing he knew about Nigel Ethan was that the man was insatiable…and once he decided to add something to his collection, he wouldn't be stopped.
The man had money and reach and influence. He was also not afraid of anything, which made him dangerous.
He had warned Neal the last time they had seen one another that he would be back for him. Had promised Neal that one day he would add Neal to his collection…that no price was too high, no prison so secure that he would not get what he wanted.
Neal wiped sweaty hands down his pants and let himself out onto the rooftop patio. The sun was down and the lights of the city spread out around him. He'd gotten accustomed to prison. Learned to wait, to be patient and still. He'd found a place here, with Peter. With Peter and Elizabeth. He hadn't even given thought to leaving in so long.
But knowing that Nigel was out there, somewhere, and coming for him had Neal ready to run. He wouldn't let Peter or Elizabeth or Mozzie, or any of the FBI people he'd grown to like get hurt for him.
If he ran now, Nigel would follow him.
If he ran now, Peter and the others would all be safe.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Mozzie, I need you to liquidate anything you can. Tonight."
"Have you seen Neal?" Peter asked as Diana appeared in his doorway.
She shook her head. "Not yet, but it's early."
"What do you have for me?" Peter was concerned, but he had nothing really to go on, just the way Neal had acted.
Diana handed him a file. "This Nigel Ethan guy is a piece of work. He's been connected to any number of art heists and other thefts in the last fifteen years, but nothing stuck. He's rumored to be responsible for a number of grisly deaths, though no one's ever been able to pin anything on him. He has dual citizenship, US and France. Lot of money, a lot of powerful friends, including Senators and foreign heads of state. He's known as the Collector, and has a reputation for being able to get anything he wants."
"This him?" Peter lifted a picture. The man in it was fairly average, aside from his three thousand dollar suit, dark hair, pale complexion, dark green eyes. He wasn't heavy or especially muscled, he looked like your average wall street shark.
"Yeah, he has a place here in town. Customs has him coming in from Paris three days ago." She reached over and flipped the pages of the file. "That's not all."
He followed where her finger was pointing, frowning hard at the words on the page. "Are you serious?"
"Again, nothing has ever been proven, but there are reports that tie him to it."
And just like that, this case had gotten bigger than his little white collar unit could handle on their own. "Can we get this Agent Billson in here?"
"She's on her way from Washington." Diana said.
"Let me know the minute she gets in." Peter looked up at here. "And find Neal."
Neal hadn't been exaggerating about the man. If anything, he'd seriously understated the whole thing. If the file was telling the truth about Nigel Ethan, Neal had a right to be afraid of him.
Human trafficking was no small matter.
"Don't ask." Neal said in way of greeting as he opened the door for Mozzie, taking the envelope.
"The less I know the better." Mozzie agreed, though he eyed the suitcase waiting by the door.
"Thanks, Moz. You might want to lay low a while. Peter might not be the only one looking for me."
"I can handle the suit."
Neal nodded. "Take care of yourself." He put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket alongside his new passport and other papers, and reached for his hat. For the moment, he wanted to be himself. Once he was on the train, he would slough of Neal Caffrey and become someone else.
"You got everything you need?" Mozzie asked as Neal lifted his suitcase.
Neal nodded. "I'm good, Moz."
"Well, be careful."
"Always."
Neal left Mozzie standing there, in the doorway of his apartment. Outside, in the early morning sun, he slipped on a pair of shades and adjusted his grip on the suitcase. He had a plan. He would get on a train heading north.
Before the train left the station, he would cut the anklet, drop the suitcase and get off again. By the time Peter and the others found the anklet, Neal would be in Athens or Sydney, anywhere but where they were looking for him.
That was the plan.
His phone rang about the time he got to the station. He gave thought to not answering, but figured that could get Peter down on him faster than he wanted. He checked the caller ID and answered the phone.
"Diana."
"Neal, Peter's looking for you."
"Peter knows where I am Diana. So do you. I'm not hard to find."
"Okay, so I know where you are, but Peter told me to find you and get you in here."
"I'm following up on a lead." Neal said. "Give me a half hour. I'll be there."
"Half hour. One minute longer and I'll come bust your ass myself."
Neal smiled. "I know you will. Bye, Diana."
He ended the call and dropped the phone in the trashcan before he turned and entered the station.
It wasn't until he was on the train and the anklet was cut that he realized he was in trouble. He didn’t see them, not until the needle bit into his hip. Then an arm slipped around his waist. “Easy, sir. We’ve got you.”
His knees buckled and those hands lowered him into a chair. “You’re on the wrong train sir, your father is waiting for you.” Neal tried to protest, but his words came out all jumbled and before they even had him out of the car, he was out.
"Caffrey's anklet's been cut." Jones said, loud enough to grab Peter's attention. He was up and away from his desk in seconds.
"What? Where?"
"It was cut at Grand Central, moving north."
"Stop that train." Peter told him, already pulling his jacket on.
"He was there when I called him a few minutes ago." Diana said, her phone in her hand.
"Call him again." Peter's stomach sank. He had trusted Neal with far more than just his freedom. He couldn't believe that Neal would break that trust. Not without a damn good reason.
"No answer." Diana said.
"Get units rolling to wherever that train is. Find him." He wiped his mouth. "Diana, you're with me."
"Where?"
"Neal's apartment. He was trying to tell me something last night." He dialed Neal's number, not surprised when it dumped right to voicemail. "You drive."
Peter wasn't sure what he was expecting, but his heart raced him into the apartment. Everything was neat and orderly, nothing clearly out of place except for an envelope on the kitchen table with his name on it and an opening in the kitchen wall that Peter imagined used to hide something.
Diana headed to the bedroom while Peter lifted the envelope, opening it as if something might explode.
He was gone.
Peter sat down hard in the chair, dropping the letter to the table.
Neal ran.
"No sign of—" Diana came to a stop, her eyes darting over Peter and around the room. "Boss?"
"He's gone. We won't find anything here. We're better off with the train. Someone had to see something."
Neal groaned and tried to lift his head, but the drugs had him woozy and everything felt heavy. They were moving, he was still in the wheelchair, and they were moving.
A blanket covered his lap and legs, hiding the fact that his hands were…bound somehow. He couldn't feel his fingers exactly.
"Easy, sir, we're almost there," a voice said in his ear. It wasn't Nigel. That didn't make him feel better.
"He shouldn't be awake," another voice said.
"I'm not dosing him again so soon. We'll just have to make do."
Neal was vaguely aware of people around them, of the smell of water, salt water.
"Boss won't like it if he's awake too soon."
"Look at him, he's not awake. He's just not completely out. You got the keys?"
"Yeah, I got the keys."
"Go on ahead and get the doors open."
Neal tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were heavy, thick. He tried to say something, but all that came out was groaning. They rolled over a series of bumps, then he was being pushed up and incline.
He fought to stay awake, to move, to do something besides be a passive passenger, but the drugs weren't done with him and by the time they reached the top of the incline, Neal was dragged back down into the dark.
"Anything?" Peter asked as he and Diana finally got to the scene.
Jones came toward them, holding a bag with the anklet. "Not much. Neal left this and a suitcase. We're questioning the other passengers, but mostly we’re getting a lot of people saying they didn’t notice anything.”
“He was here when he cut it. Someone has to have seen something.”
His attention was drawn to an older woman talking to one of their agents. “The fella said the poor boy had just gotten confused, got on the wrong train, bless his heart.”
“Wait, you saw someone taken off this train?” Peter asked.
She nodded, clutching at her purse. “Yes, sir. He looked confused when he got on, and he bent over, looking like he was going to fall, then these other men got on and helped him, said he’d wandered away from his father, shouldn’t be on his own, heavy medication or something. They put him in a wheelchair and took him off the train.”
Peter felt his stomach tighten. “Did you get a look at any of these men? Is this the man they took?” He held up a picture of Neal. She nodded, her wrinkled finger pointing to him.
“Yes, that was him, poor soul.”
“What about the others?”
“Oh, they were big men, in suites and sunglasses.”
“Like private security.” The speaker was a younger woman who stepped up beside the older one. “I saw them too. Only, he didn’t really look like he knew them. He was surprised when he stood up, then confused, and he was pretty out of it when they wheeled him away.”
“They drugged him.” Peter turned to find Diana. “Get the rest of their statements.” Peter said to the agent beside him. He grabbed Diana’s elbow. “I don’t think Neal left here under his own power.”
“You don’t think he was running?”
He shook his head. “No, he was running, but I don’t think it went the way he planned. I want the surveillance video for this platform and all exits, and I want it now. We’re looking for two men with a wheelchair.”
“On it.” She sprinted off toward the men in station security and Peter forced himself to draw in a deep breath. Neal was resourceful and he’d dealt with this guy before. Assuming this was Nigel Ethan.
He would be okay until Peter found him. He had to believe that.
Title: Practical Matters (Part One)
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth (implied Neal/Peter/Elizabeth), Mozzie, Jones, Diana, OMC
Word Count: 12,543 (Total for both parts)
Rating: NC-17 for theme
Summary: What starts out as a typical white collar case becomes anything but when an old acquaintance of Neal's surfaces, and Neal tries to protect his friends the only way he knows how.
A/Ns & Warnings: Written for
another_doyle for generosity in the help_japan auction. Warnings for violence, implied sexual slavery, implied previous dub-con, non-con drug use, physical injury as a means of restraint. Part one of two.The problem with his current situation, Neal decided, was that there were too many people. The time he spent in prison had only increased his love of quiet and solitude.
Not that he didn't love the people around him, for some value of love at any rate.
But there was no denying his life had gotten crowded since his escape.
On a night like this, he could feel it closing in around him as he woke. Or maybe it was Elizabeth's head on his shoulder. Or Peter's hand draped over her hip and onto Neal's stomach.
Or possibly it was the fact that he'd never fallen asleep here before. Not like this. There was the one night, on the couch after too many beers and a long day with far too many close calls, but not like this. Not after…
Neal rubbed his eyes and contemplated how to slip away without waking the two of them. It took delicate maneuvering to move his shoulder so that she slipped onto the pillow. He paused to make sure it wasn't going to wake her, then sat up.
Moving slowly and quietly, he gathered his clothes, though he couldn't find one sock in the dark. He tiptoed into the bathroom and turned on the shower without turning on the light.
It wasn't that he was ashamed. He'd let himself be drawn into this, whatever this was and it was probably crazy, more so than any of his scheming had ever been, but it wasn't shame that had him sneaking out in the small hours of the morning.
It was practical.
Peter had an early morning and Mozzie had been hanging out at Neal's place a lot lately, even when Neal wasn't there. There would be questions if Neal didn't come home at all.
Besides, this was Peter and Elizabeth's house. Peter and Elizabeth's bed. He didn't actually belong there.
He rinsed off and stepped out of the shower, drying off and dressing quickly. He eased out of the bathroom and down the stairs, but stopped at the bottom as Elizabeth, wrapped in a fluffy white robe, smiled at him, his missing sock in her hands.
"You running away?" she asked, and though her tone was light, her eyes showed concern.
"Just going home." He took the sock and sat on the stairs to put it on.
"You could stay." She brought him his shoes from where he'd dropped them by the couch early in the evening.
"I could." Neal agreed, leaning back to look up at her. "But I wouldn't want it to get weird."
The corner of her mouth quirked upward. "Weirder?"
He smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that." He bent to put his shoes on.
"I called you a cab."
"You didn't have to do that, El." Neal stood, rubbing his hands down his pants and stepping off the last stair.
She smiled as she drew him in, tilting her face up and brushing a kiss over his lips. "It was that or wake Peter and make him take you."
Of course it was. This was Elizabeth. "In that case, thank you."
Her arms slipped around his waist and tugged her against him. "It's okay, Neal," she whispered against his lips.
He nodded and let her draw him into a deeper kiss, her tongue sliding against his, at least until the sound of a car pulling up interrupted. "Get some sleep, El." Neal said softly, taking his hat off the coat rack and settling it on his head.
"Night." She stood at the door until he was in the cab, lifting a hand in goodbye as they pulled away.
It wasn't quite one in the morning when they pulled up outside June's house. Neal paid the driver and climbed from the cab. The only light on in the house was in his apartment.
"Mozzie." Neal murmured as he headed in. As he expected, Mozzie was in his chair, drinking his wine and reading a newspaper. "Moz."
He looked up. "Oh, you're home."
"I do live here." Neal put his hat of the coat rack by the door and slipped out of his jacket before going to pour himself some of the wine. "You don't."
Mozzie put down the newspaper. "You have something I need."
Neal snorted. "You know all my hiding places."
"I highly doubt I know all of them." Mozzie stood. "Besides, you have better wine."
"So, you waited here hoping I'd come home some time tonight?"
Mozzie squinted at him from behind his glasses. "I thought you had dinner with the suit and Mrs. Suit."
"I did." Neal drank from his glass and turned away. "But it's a long way between here and there. I might have gotten distracted."
"Were you with Sarah?" Mozzie asked, his expression unreadable.
"What? No." Neal hoped the rush of panic didn't show on his face. "I was at Peter's." It was too close to the truth.
Mozzie sensed that somehow and now he wasn't going to let it go. "Until one in the morning? Must have been some dinner."
"It was, if you must know. Elizabeth is an excellent cook." He drained his wine. "It was nice and we talked. A lot."
Mozzie had that look on his face and Neal knew he needed to re-direct this conversation or have to start spinning a story. “So what is it you’re looking for that you think I have?”
“The Dolchek.”
Neal stopped and looked at him, blinking. “I don’t have the Dolchek. I never did.”
“Huh.” Mozzie put down his wine glass. “I was sure you had it. You made that copy, the one you gave Kate.”
“From pictures.” Neal was frowning now, trying to figure out why Mozzie would want the diminutive statue.
It was one of those pieces that never really stayed in anyone’s hands too long. Stolen and recovered at least ten times over its one hundred and thirty year history, it was an exquisitely detailed Lipizzaner stallion that was only ten and half inches tall.
Its origins were murky at best and the name of the piece was lost in time, leaving only the name Dolchek, supposedly the name of the artist that sculpted it as a gift for the new born Olga Alexandrovna, youngest daughter of the Russian Emperor Alexander III. Its fame, and subsequent value, had as much to do with its story as the artistic merit, which was exceptional on its own.
Add to that the fact that it was the only known piece of the artist to survive, and the story told of the artist himself, and the tiny little piece had become something of a legend.
The facts that Neal had seen it in the same week in which it was last stolen, from a museum in Kiev, and that he had produced a pretty fine copy once upon a time were all that tied him to it, however.
Of course, none of that would explain why Mozzie wanted it, or why he thought Neal had it.
“Are you going to explain?”
Mozzie shrugged and slipped his bag over his shoulder on his way to the door. “It’s late, I should go.”
“Mozzie?” Neal followed him. He pushed the door closed before Mozzie could get out. “Spill.”
“I just thought you had it.” Mozzie fidgeted and Neal shook his head.
“Who’s looking for it?”
Again, Mozzie shrugged. “Word on the street is someone with a lot of money they’re willing to spend to get it.”
"Really, that's all you've got?" Neal leaned on the door, but he could tell Mozzie was done talking for now. "Fine. I don't have it. I never did."
"My mistake. Can I go now?"
Neal let him go, shaking his head as he closed and locked the door. He stripped on his way to bed. The last twenty-four hours had been a bit of a whirlwind and he could worry about Mozzie and whatever scheme he was getting up into in the morning.
Peter came in from lunch with Elizabeth to find Neal had finally shown up, his head bent over some file. He stopped at the desk where Neal sat. "Everything all right?" It was a loaded question, and Peter knew it, covering far more than whatever odd case had caught Neal's attention.
Neal looked up briefly, then away, back to the picture in his hand. "Fine." It was a non-answer that gave Peter no insight into why Neal had bolted in the middle of the night or he had shown up so late. He couldn't detect any remorse for what they'd done, and it wasn't like they hadn't played around before, but it wasn't like Peter could just ask him. Not here.
"What are you looking at? New case?"
Neal sat back in his chair, lifting the photo to look at. "I'm not sure." He bit his lip, squinting at the picture, then handed the picture to Peter. "Do you know this piece?"
Peter took the picture and looked over it. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Do I want to?"
"Maybe." Neal picked up the file and handed it to Peter. "It's got a colorful history, made for a princess, stolen during political unrest, lost, found, stolen again and again."
"Okay, so what's the angle?"
Neal stood, looking over the edge of the file. "Dexi Tartikov, she was the last legitimate owner, depending on how loosely you use the word." Neal leaned back on the desk, arms crossed. “She loaned it to a museum in Kiev a few years back, as part of an exhibit of art once belonging to the Romanov family. It was stolen from the museum, two days after I was there, actually.”
Peter raised an eyebrow and waited. Neal rolled his eyes. “I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t have. The one on display was a fake. A very good fake, but not worth stealing. Someone took it though, leading some to believe it was me.”
Peter closed the file and tucked it up under his arm. “Okay, so far all you’ve given me is a story.”
“Tartikov recovered the Dolchek from a private collector and produced the provenance to prove that it was real and that it was rightfully hers to claim. She’s a distant descendant of the Romanovs. Paid a tidy sum to the governments involved to keep it. But because of the history of the piece, she didn’t want it put on display. So she commissioned the copy.”
Peter opened the file again, squinting at the picture. “Are you saying that you knew it was a copy because you copied it?”
Neal held up both hands. “It was a legit job for the owner of the piece. I made two copies. The first one wasn’t close enough to perfect. The second is the one she put on display, and loaned to the museum.”
“So it was the second one that was stolen.” Peter gestured toward his office and started that way, with Neal following.
“From the museum, yes.”
Peter set the file down on his desk and exhaled slowly. “Why do I feel like this is just the beginning of this story?”
Neal sat in the chair opposite Peters and sighed. “I found out a year or so later, that the original was stolen from Tartikov’s private vault as well.”
“At the same time?”
Neal shrugged. “She’s never been completely honest about it, so I don’t know.”
“And what happened to that first copy?”
“I gave it to Kate.” Neal shifted a little uncomfortably and looked away. “I’m not sure where it ended up.”
Peter wasn’t sure if the discomfort was Neal being less than honest with him or the reminder of Kate. He decided the best course of action was to deflect him back onto the topic at hand. “So, what brought this up now, if this was all years ago?”
Neal looked back at him. “Someone is looking for it.”
“Someone?”
“Haven’t figured out who, but they clearly think I have it or at least know where it is.”
“And you know this how?”
Neal made a face. “Let’s just say I was asked about it recently.”
“So, Mozzie.”
“Yeah, okay, Mozzie.”
“Explain to me why this has you bothered.” Peter could see it if he looked, and lately, Peter looked. He was starting to learn his way around Neal’s body language a lot better than he had when they were just working together.
To his credit, Neal didn’t even try denying it. He stood, hands in his pockets, and crossed to the window. “Until today only three people knew that I ever had my hands on the original.”
“Tartikov, you…and…who?”
Neal didn’t respond for a long time, and when he did, it was not what Peter expected. Neal inhaled and turned to Peter, a false smile on his face. “You know, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m just going to ask around a little on the sly, see if anything turns up.”
"Neal—" Peter stood, but Neal was already gone, out of the office and down the stairs, and in his place Hughes was leaning into his office.
"My office, I have a case for you."
Peter stood, still watching Neal as he followed Hughes.
"Close the door."
Peter dragged his eyes away from Neal and did as he was told. Hughes handed him a file. "We need to act fast, before this gets away."
"What is it?" Peter flipped open the file, his eyes darting over the familiar picture, then back to the door. "That son of a—" He went to the door, intending to call Neal in, but Neal was gone.
"Burke?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Neal just brought me this same file."
"Did he?"
Peter nodded, thumbing through the file. It was more complete than the one Neal had brought him.
"We got a tip last night that there was going to be a sale of high priced stolen art here in New York in the next few days. The only thing specifically mentioned was that piece."
"The Dolchek." Peter looked up at his boss. "Where'd the tip come from?"
"A CI who puts together buyers and sellers of unique pieces. He was contacted by someone looking to buy this about a month ago. Then two days ago, someone contacted him looking to feel out the market, claiming to have it."
"What's it worth?" Peter asked.
"It was last appraised at something close to a million dollars, but if it can be proven to be real, it's probably worth three times that now."
"Any ideas on who the seller or buyer is?"
"Couple on either side. No real proof. I figured this was right up Caffrey's alley."
"Probably so far up it we don't want all the details." Peter murmured. "I'll get the team started."
The more he thought about the Dolchek, the less comfortable he was. There were parts of his life no one, even Peter or Mozzie, ever knew about. There were people in his past he would just as soon forget ever existed.
The problem with that was…they did exist, and Neal was pretty sure he was about to be reminded of that in the case of one man.
There was only one person who knew enough to use the Dolchek to flush Neal out. If that's what was going on. He had his doubts, because really, he wasn't all that hard to find.
Still. Neal couldn't stop thinking about it now that it had been brought up. Because the picture in the FBI's file on the Dolchek was of a fake, and not his fake. It was good, maybe better than his. And that could only have happened in the presence of the real thing.
Which meant that whoever stole it copied it, or had it copied. And only a handful of people in the world had the skill.
Neal slid into the coffee shop behind a group of giggle teenagers, and slipped into a seat at a table beside a woman doing a very good impression of a classic geek, her mousy brown hair in messy pigtails, the black frame on her glasses thick and sliding down her nose, her oversized striped shirt at odds with the long corduroy skirt over worn out chucks.
She groaned, but didn't put down her book. "Not today, Neal. I'm busy."
"Aw, come on Grace, I just want to have a cup of coffee with a friend."
"We're not friends, and you don't have coffee. What do you want?"
"I'm looking for the Dolchek." He decided honest and straight forward was his best play. At least until she kicked him under the table. "Ow."
"Keep your voice down. I’m not looking to get dead today." She put the book down and looked around them while she raised her coffee.
"Whoa, what are you talking about?" Neal asked, his eyes skimming the place now too.
"Look, the only thing I know about that particular piece is Joey Pecotti is brokering a deal between a seller who claims to have it and several buyers looking to buy it. And the last person who had their hands on it is dead."
"Pecotti is handling it?" Neal frowned. Pecotti was not the most discreet middle man, and he and Neal had never really gotten along. "When is this happening?"
"Tomorrow, from what I heard. But you didn't hear it from me."
"Okay, fine. One last thing."
She rolled her eyes and looked at him. "What?"
"Have you heard any whispers about…Nigel Ethan being in town?" He stood, his eyes checking the people around them, as if the name alone was enough to conjure the man.
"The Collector? No, I don't think so."
Neal slipped a business card onto the table. "If you do, call me."
He slipped his hat on as he exited the building, keeping his eyes moving but trying to look nonchalant. His phone rang and he knew it would be Peter before he pulled it out of his pocket.
"Hello Peter."
"Where are you?"
"Just having coffee with a friend."
"Get your ass back to the office. Hughes just handed me a case."
"I'm on my way." Neal pushed all thoughts of the Dolchek or the Collector to the back of his brain, and turned on his heel to head for the FBI. He need to focus on whatever case Peter had for them, and not let Nigel Ethan play head games with him.
Peter could tell Neal was distracted, even nervous, before he even reached the conference room. His eyes danced to Peter's, then over the scattered paperwork on the table. There was a question in those eyes.
"Okay, now that Caffrey has decided to join us, let's get started. Hughes kicked this down." He made sure to make eye contact with Neal, making sure he understood that Peter hadn't started this just on Neal's whim. "The piece in question is called the Dolchek. It is a one of a kind."
Neal licked his lips, hesitating only a second before he stepped into place. "It is the only work known to have survived by this artist, an Ivan Petrovsky Dolchek. It was made for the youngest daughter of the Russian Emperor Alexander the 3rd. It disappeared around the time of the revolution, reappeared in Stockholm a few years later, was stolen again. It surfaced briefly in London, then vanished for almost fifty years. It was found in the home of a wealthy private collector after his passing, which is when Dexi Tartikov laid claim to it. She had the provenance and the family records to prove that it was rightfully hers. However, it was stolen from her several years ago and current whereabouts are unknown."
He picked up the picture and looked at it for a minute. "It is an exquisite piece, very detailed. Stands ten and a half inches tall, but is worth a conservative million dollars, possibly more now."
"And, according to one of our CI's it is up for sale, right here in New York City." Peter added, watching Neal. He already knew that, he didn't even blink. "So our job is to find out who's doing the selling and recover the art."
"Why don't we just wait until the CI sets up the buy and grab him then?" Jones asked.
"This kind of sale will be done without exposing the buyer or the seller." Neal explained. "There will be an agreement made on the price, negotiated through the middle man. Money will be moved electronically, then the seller will make a drop, feed the drop location to the middle man, who will give it to the buyer."
"Making it difficult to just show up and nab the bad guys." Peter said. "So, we need to find out who it is that is selling the piece. Get on it."
The room started to empty out, but Peter caught Neal's elbow and held him back, closing the conference room door. "What aren't you telling me?"
Neal licked his lips and exhaled slowly. "I…I don't know anything for sure."
"Neal. We made a promise to each other, remember?" Peter pinned him to the door, hands on Neal's hips.
Neal closed his eyes. "I'm being honest. I don't know anything for sure."
"But you have an idea."
He nodded. "I…okay. I have a name, but I'm not sure which side he's on. Hell, I'm not even sure if he's involved."
He moved away from Peter, crossing to the big windows to stand staring out at the fading light of the day, his hands in his pockets. "His name is Nigel Ethan. He's known as The Collector."
"What does he collect?"
Neal stiffened noticeably. "Whatever he wants. Pretty things, pretty people, pretty much anything."
"How do you know him?"
Neal went quiet, his back to Peter.
"Neal?"
He sighed. "He…tried to collect me, once upon a time."
"He what?"
Neal turned and shook his head. "It's a long story, and we have a case."
"You're not getting off that easy here. Not when you say something like that."
Neal rubbed a hand down his face and thought about it for a minute. "Okay, long story short…we were brought together by a mutual acquaintance while I was in Kiev. I was working on the Dolchek at the time. He was interested, I wasn't. I finished the work and beat it the hell out of Kiev."
There was more to the story, Peter could tell. But, it was all he was getting out of Neal for the moment. "Okay, I'll have Diana run the name, see what we can find on the guy."
Neal nodded. "Good. Something isn't right here, Peter. I don't like it."
"Noted. Why don't you head home then. We can manage this without you." He expected an argument. When he didn't get one, when Neal just nodded and brushed past him and disappeared, Peter knew that this was much more than a brush with a guy who wanted Neal.
Much more.
To be honest, Neal had always thought Mozzie went overboard when it came to his personal security, the conspiracy theories and all making him just a touch paranoid.
But now he was glad he paid attention anyway. He took a cab from the FBI offices to the center of his two mile radius, walked a few blocks and took another cab from a different company to the east end of his radius, then walked home.
Even then, he was glad June was away for the week visiting with friends. He locked the doors as behind him and felt only slightly more safe in his apartment. The thing he knew about Nigel Ethan was that the man was insatiable…and once he decided to add something to his collection, he wouldn't be stopped.
The man had money and reach and influence. He was also not afraid of anything, which made him dangerous.
He had warned Neal the last time they had seen one another that he would be back for him. Had promised Neal that one day he would add Neal to his collection…that no price was too high, no prison so secure that he would not get what he wanted.
Neal wiped sweaty hands down his pants and let himself out onto the rooftop patio. The sun was down and the lights of the city spread out around him. He'd gotten accustomed to prison. Learned to wait, to be patient and still. He'd found a place here, with Peter. With Peter and Elizabeth. He hadn't even given thought to leaving in so long.
But knowing that Nigel was out there, somewhere, and coming for him had Neal ready to run. He wouldn't let Peter or Elizabeth or Mozzie, or any of the FBI people he'd grown to like get hurt for him.
If he ran now, Nigel would follow him.
If he ran now, Peter and the others would all be safe.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Mozzie, I need you to liquidate anything you can. Tonight."
"Have you seen Neal?" Peter asked as Diana appeared in his doorway.
She shook her head. "Not yet, but it's early."
"What do you have for me?" Peter was concerned, but he had nothing really to go on, just the way Neal had acted.
Diana handed him a file. "This Nigel Ethan guy is a piece of work. He's been connected to any number of art heists and other thefts in the last fifteen years, but nothing stuck. He's rumored to be responsible for a number of grisly deaths, though no one's ever been able to pin anything on him. He has dual citizenship, US and France. Lot of money, a lot of powerful friends, including Senators and foreign heads of state. He's known as the Collector, and has a reputation for being able to get anything he wants."
"This him?" Peter lifted a picture. The man in it was fairly average, aside from his three thousand dollar suit, dark hair, pale complexion, dark green eyes. He wasn't heavy or especially muscled, he looked like your average wall street shark.
"Yeah, he has a place here in town. Customs has him coming in from Paris three days ago." She reached over and flipped the pages of the file. "That's not all."
He followed where her finger was pointing, frowning hard at the words on the page. "Are you serious?"
"Again, nothing has ever been proven, but there are reports that tie him to it."
And just like that, this case had gotten bigger than his little white collar unit could handle on their own. "Can we get this Agent Billson in here?"
"She's on her way from Washington." Diana said.
"Let me know the minute she gets in." Peter looked up at here. "And find Neal."
Neal hadn't been exaggerating about the man. If anything, he'd seriously understated the whole thing. If the file was telling the truth about Nigel Ethan, Neal had a right to be afraid of him.
Human trafficking was no small matter.
"Don't ask." Neal said in way of greeting as he opened the door for Mozzie, taking the envelope.
"The less I know the better." Mozzie agreed, though he eyed the suitcase waiting by the door.
"Thanks, Moz. You might want to lay low a while. Peter might not be the only one looking for me."
"I can handle the suit."
Neal nodded. "Take care of yourself." He put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket alongside his new passport and other papers, and reached for his hat. For the moment, he wanted to be himself. Once he was on the train, he would slough of Neal Caffrey and become someone else.
"You got everything you need?" Mozzie asked as Neal lifted his suitcase.
Neal nodded. "I'm good, Moz."
"Well, be careful."
"Always."
Neal left Mozzie standing there, in the doorway of his apartment. Outside, in the early morning sun, he slipped on a pair of shades and adjusted his grip on the suitcase. He had a plan. He would get on a train heading north.
Before the train left the station, he would cut the anklet, drop the suitcase and get off again. By the time Peter and the others found the anklet, Neal would be in Athens or Sydney, anywhere but where they were looking for him.
That was the plan.
His phone rang about the time he got to the station. He gave thought to not answering, but figured that could get Peter down on him faster than he wanted. He checked the caller ID and answered the phone.
"Diana."
"Neal, Peter's looking for you."
"Peter knows where I am Diana. So do you. I'm not hard to find."
"Okay, so I know where you are, but Peter told me to find you and get you in here."
"I'm following up on a lead." Neal said. "Give me a half hour. I'll be there."
"Half hour. One minute longer and I'll come bust your ass myself."
Neal smiled. "I know you will. Bye, Diana."
He ended the call and dropped the phone in the trashcan before he turned and entered the station.
It wasn't until he was on the train and the anklet was cut that he realized he was in trouble. He didn’t see them, not until the needle bit into his hip. Then an arm slipped around his waist. “Easy, sir. We’ve got you.”
His knees buckled and those hands lowered him into a chair. “You’re on the wrong train sir, your father is waiting for you.” Neal tried to protest, but his words came out all jumbled and before they even had him out of the car, he was out.
"Caffrey's anklet's been cut." Jones said, loud enough to grab Peter's attention. He was up and away from his desk in seconds.
"What? Where?"
"It was cut at Grand Central, moving north."
"Stop that train." Peter told him, already pulling his jacket on.
"He was there when I called him a few minutes ago." Diana said, her phone in her hand.
"Call him again." Peter's stomach sank. He had trusted Neal with far more than just his freedom. He couldn't believe that Neal would break that trust. Not without a damn good reason.
"No answer." Diana said.
"Get units rolling to wherever that train is. Find him." He wiped his mouth. "Diana, you're with me."
"Where?"
"Neal's apartment. He was trying to tell me something last night." He dialed Neal's number, not surprised when it dumped right to voicemail. "You drive."
Peter wasn't sure what he was expecting, but his heart raced him into the apartment. Everything was neat and orderly, nothing clearly out of place except for an envelope on the kitchen table with his name on it and an opening in the kitchen wall that Peter imagined used to hide something.
Diana headed to the bedroom while Peter lifted the envelope, opening it as if something might explode.
Dear Peter,
There are no words to thank you for everything you have done for me since we met. This is not what I wanted, to leave like this…but if I stay…the last time…well, we all know how it ended with Kate. If I go now maybe it won't hurt as much…
I tried not to care for you, for Elizabeth…but you both make it impossible.
I won't let either of you get hurt. Say goodbye to her for me? I always sucked at goodbyes.
Neal
He was gone.
Peter sat down hard in the chair, dropping the letter to the table.
Neal ran.
"No sign of—" Diana came to a stop, her eyes darting over Peter and around the room. "Boss?"
"He's gone. We won't find anything here. We're better off with the train. Someone had to see something."
Neal groaned and tried to lift his head, but the drugs had him woozy and everything felt heavy. They were moving, he was still in the wheelchair, and they were moving.
A blanket covered his lap and legs, hiding the fact that his hands were…bound somehow. He couldn't feel his fingers exactly.
"Easy, sir, we're almost there," a voice said in his ear. It wasn't Nigel. That didn't make him feel better.
"He shouldn't be awake," another voice said.
"I'm not dosing him again so soon. We'll just have to make do."
Neal was vaguely aware of people around them, of the smell of water, salt water.
"Boss won't like it if he's awake too soon."
"Look at him, he's not awake. He's just not completely out. You got the keys?"
"Yeah, I got the keys."
"Go on ahead and get the doors open."
Neal tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were heavy, thick. He tried to say something, but all that came out was groaning. They rolled over a series of bumps, then he was being pushed up and incline.
He fought to stay awake, to move, to do something besides be a passive passenger, but the drugs weren't done with him and by the time they reached the top of the incline, Neal was dragged back down into the dark.
"Anything?" Peter asked as he and Diana finally got to the scene.
Jones came toward them, holding a bag with the anklet. "Not much. Neal left this and a suitcase. We're questioning the other passengers, but mostly we’re getting a lot of people saying they didn’t notice anything.”
“He was here when he cut it. Someone has to have seen something.”
His attention was drawn to an older woman talking to one of their agents. “The fella said the poor boy had just gotten confused, got on the wrong train, bless his heart.”
“Wait, you saw someone taken off this train?” Peter asked.
She nodded, clutching at her purse. “Yes, sir. He looked confused when he got on, and he bent over, looking like he was going to fall, then these other men got on and helped him, said he’d wandered away from his father, shouldn’t be on his own, heavy medication or something. They put him in a wheelchair and took him off the train.”
Peter felt his stomach tighten. “Did you get a look at any of these men? Is this the man they took?” He held up a picture of Neal. She nodded, her wrinkled finger pointing to him.
“Yes, that was him, poor soul.”
“What about the others?”
“Oh, they were big men, in suites and sunglasses.”
“Like private security.” The speaker was a younger woman who stepped up beside the older one. “I saw them too. Only, he didn’t really look like he knew them. He was surprised when he stood up, then confused, and he was pretty out of it when they wheeled him away.”
“They drugged him.” Peter turned to find Diana. “Get the rest of their statements.” Peter said to the agent beside him. He grabbed Diana’s elbow. “I don’t think Neal left here under his own power.”
“You don’t think he was running?”
He shook his head. “No, he was running, but I don’t think it went the way he planned. I want the surveillance video for this platform and all exits, and I want it now. We’re looking for two men with a wheelchair.”
“On it.” She sprinted off toward the men in station security and Peter forced himself to draw in a deep breath. Neal was resourceful and he’d dealt with this guy before. Assuming this was Nigel Ethan.
He would be okay until Peter found him. He had to believe that.
