Chapter 13

Peter held Neal's cell phone, listening to a man who had called from a New York number. With Neal deeply asleep, Peter had grasped the opportunity to talk to someone who could shed light onto Neal's life as a criminal. Peter could tell from the man's questions and tone that he was more than a boss or a business partner. Dante, as Peter was calling the man, thought of himself as Neal's friend.

"I've seen it happen before," the man was saying, "but it's always been mentors, or a mark. They meet Neal, pick up on that young, lost, vulnerable vibe, and they want to take him under their wing. I'm sure, now that he's sick, it's even more tempting. For you, that means turning him into a son. Essentially, a clone of yourself."

"That's not—" Peter protested, but that didn't stop Dante.

"What you have to keep in mind is that he doesn't want a father figure. He avoids them like the plague. Even when it would be convenient, he'll never introduce a partner as his father or call a mark Dad to play up that angle. Don't take it personally. Just walk away, cut your losses, and let Neal be his own person."

"He's already introduced me as his father."

Dante was silent.

"He just did it as a joke," Peter added, already regretting that he had mentioned it. For some reason he felt like he had betrayed an intimate secret. "He said it to see my reaction."

"He doesn't joke about that."

"Maybe not normally, but he was running a really high fever. And actually he called me his stepfather, not his real dad."

"That's even worse."

"How could that be worse?"

"It means he went to the effort to make it seem real. You're too young to be his real dad, so if he wants you as a father, he has to explain how you could fit into his life in that role. This is serious."

"I'm sure it's nothing." Honestly, though, Peter was stunned, and maybe a little flattered. Unless this was some kind of con. For all Peter knew, Neal called every older man Dad, and then his partner followed with this tale to make the mark feel special.

"Don't take advantage of him."

"Hey, I'm the FBI agent here. I'm the good guy. I don't take advantage of people."

"You're a suit. That's what you do. It's as natural to you as breathing. I'm gonna figure this out. Just don't do anything. And don't make Neal do something he's going to regret." Dante abruptly ended the call.

Peter placed the phone down on the desk and looked over at Neal, who hadn't moved since Peter had added the extra blanket. He did look young and vulnerable.

Putting that blanket on the bed hadn't meant anything. It was something any good roommate would do. It wasn't a paternal action, per se.

Dr. Santos never questioned that they were father and stepson. Or maybe he was too professional to comment on the relationships between people he met at the hotel.

The fact that Neal had the same coloring as Elizabeth, that he resembled what a son of Peter's and El's might have looked like... that was a coincidence.

And it was irrelevant. Neal could have been twice Peter's age, and it would be equally satisfying to help him get on the straight and narrow. It had nothing to do with a desire to be a father figure.

Determined not to let his mind continue circling around an idea planted by a likely felon and con artist, Peter finally turned out the lights and got some sleep.

                                                                           ###

A morning person at heart, Peter couldn't sleep past 8am despite the late night he'd had. He got out of bed and dressed, as his roommate slumbered on. At some point in the night Neal had rolled over onto his back, sprawled across the bed with the extra blanket kicked off. Other than his slightly congested breathing, he didn't make a sound.

Peter called room service for breakfast, and then called his wife. "Hey, hon. Do you have a minute?"

"Barely," Elizabeth said. "We have clients arriving any moment to talk about holding a party at the gallery."

"This is, what, the fourth time the gallery has turned over a party to you? At this rate you could go into event planning as a second career."

"It's been at the back of my mind, actually. But that's something to discuss when you're home. When do you get back to New York?"

"Soon, I hope. The doctor will be stopping by in about an hour to check on Neal again. If he's well enough to be left alone, I could catch an afternoon flight."

"'Well enough to be left alone'? I didn't realize it was that serious."

Peter glanced at the items on the nightstand. He really wanted to ask Neal what the origami swan was about. "It's more a matter of the meds leaving him too loopy to be unsupervised. Or so the doctor said."

"And Nurse Burke is in charge?" Elizabeth giggled. "I wish I could see that."

"I'll have you know I'm a very good nurse. I've fetched blankets, arranged for meals, and gotten pretty good at my assigned task of checking for a fever. Fortunately, it's gone down each time." Peter walked over to the bed, realizing he hadn't checked this morning. "Ah, hell. It went up again."

"I'd better let you get back to your patient, then."

"El?" Peter walked back to the window, where he didn't have to look at Neal as he confessed, "He... He introduced me as his dad. Stepdad. The hotel staff and doctor believed him. I'm not sure what to do with that. If he really views me that way should I use it, to persuade him to change his ways?"

"Oh, hon. Is there... I don't know... Is there a policy about things like that?"

"I think I'm on my own with this one."

"And my clients are here. I'll call you back when they leave. I know you'll do the right thing, though. Love you, honey."

"Love you, hon," Peter responded.

When breakfast had arrived, Peter finally shook Neal awake. His pseudo-son was still out of it from the meds, but at least his appetite had returned. Unfortunately, the coughing and sniffling had also returned. "Is there any law against taking night-time medications during the day?" Neal asked as he finished eating. "Because I felt much better after that stuff kicked in. I'd give a lot to be able to breathe freely again."

Peter picked up the bottle of bright-blue liquid to see if there were any warnings about how much a person should take in one day. "What exactly would you be willing to give? Maybe a confession?"

Elbows propped on the desk they used as a breakfast table, Neal rubbed his temples and yawned. "I'll confess that I have a major headache. Will that do?"

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Peter placed the bottle back on the nightstand, next to the swan. "How about explaining the origami?"

"Not my best effort, but I wanted a reminder..." Neal paused for another round of coughing.

"A reminder of what?"

Neal started to answer, but that kicked off more coughing.

"Need some water?"

Giving up on speaking, Neal simply nodded.

When Peter returned with a glass of water, Neal looked pitifully grateful, and Peter gave up asking any more questions. Soon, Peter couldn't take it anymore. "Just looking at you is making me feel miserable. Go back to bed."

"Okay." Neal meandered back to his bed and propped the pillows up against the headboard to sit up against them. "What did the bottle say?"

"It should be safe to take another dose after the doctor checks you out."

Neal nodded and closed his eyes until Dr. Santos arrived a few minutes later. He subjected quietly to all of the doctor's questioning, much to Peter's consternation. The person Peter had been chasing the last few months was high-energy and low-compliance. Finally, Peter gave up pretending to look out the window and said, "His fever went back up again."

"I noticed," the doctor replied calmly.

"He's not usually this quiet."

"There's no reason to be concerned. He's young and in good health, other than this virus. What's going around this year is a nasty version. Fighting it off is exhausting, but your son should be fine." The doctor put away his stethoscope. "I'd recommend staying here another twenty-four hours, if you can. By then he'll be in better shape to fly. In his current state, the changes in altitude would be extremely uncomfortable. I had another patient describe flying as having her ear canals squeezed shut and then twisted."

"Ouch," said Peter automatically. "Does he need--" A knock on the door interrupted him. "Let me get that."

Two people were at the door. Both in their early forties, they wore suits and white shirts, and looked like they worked for the government. The man was a tall blond with Scandinavian features. The woman was Black and a couple of inches taller than Peter's wife. She showed a badge. "Marcy Weaver and Simon Preston. U.S. Marshals. Are you Henry Winslow?"

Shaking his head, Peter stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. "I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. Henry Winslow is a CI. What do you want with him?"

"Can we see some ID?" Weaver asked.

Peter opened his jacket slowly so they wouldn't think he was going for a gun, he and handed his badge over. Preston eyed it carefully and handed it back before asking, "Is Winslow inside?"

"Yes, with a doctor."

"Were you both here this morning, around 1am?" asked Weaver.

"I was at the airport with St. Louis PD, arresting a group of people who had just robbed a local museum. Winslow was here, too sick to take part in the arrest."

"Are you sure he was sick?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Peter said. Before Weaver could continue her questioning, Peter shook his head. "No, I'll answer your questions after you tell me what's going on." Met with silence, Peter said, "We're on the same side. But we're talking about a CI. Having three law enforcement officials in the room is going to make him nervous on a good day, and today he's sick on top of everything else. I know him better than you do. Just tell me what you're after, and I can help you get your answers as quickly and painlessly as possible."

Weaver and Preston looked at each other. Weaver nodded, and Preston said, "Around 1am, a woman we monitor received a call from this room. She says it was a wrong number, but the conversation went on longer than normal for a misdial. We need to check out who Henry Winslow is, and why he called her number."

"He made a few calls for me, to the airport."

"We saw those on the list of calls from this room. Those were closer to midnight. And about an hour later a call was placed to this room, from a cell phone."

"That would have been me. I called to let him know the action was over and he should get some sleep."

"And then one more call was made from this room. Do you know anything about that?" Weaver asked. When Peter shook his head, she continued, "Then we need to talk to your CI."

Peter opened the door to the room. Dr. Santos was stepping out of the bathroom with a damp washcloth in his hands. "I thought this would make Henry more comfortable, since his temperature is up again. I gave him another dose of medicine, so he should be feeling better soon."

"Thanks, doctor," Peter answered, following the man back toward Neal. "Henry, there are a couple of people here to talk to you about a phone call you made last night. They're U.S. Marshals."

Neal, who was still leaning against the headboard, pushed away the covers and got out of bed.

"What the –" Peter began, stepping forward with the instinct to stop a fleeing suspect, but then he heard a choking sound and pushed the Marshals out of the way while Neal ran into the bathroom followed by Dr. Santos. Peter and the Marshals waited by the beds, listening uncomfortably to the sound of retching.

"Can you grab a clean shirt for him?" the doctor asked over the sound of the toilet flushing. Peter opened Neal's bag, but saw only dress shirts. Instead he grabbed one of his own white T-shirts and brought it to the entrance of the bathroom. Neal stood at the sink, washing his face, his black shirt on the floor. The doctor was right about being in good health; Neal clearly stayed in shape. Peter should check to see if any of Neal's aliases had gym memberships. But moments later, in a T-shirt a size too large for him, shaky and pale as a ghost, Neal looked like a kid who needed someone to look out for him.

The doctor hovered while Neal walked out and sat on the foot of the bed. Neal looked up at Peter, but his eyes didn't seem entirely focused as he said, "This isn't my shirt."

"No, it isn't," Peter agreed. "But I need you to concentrate for a minute. Who did you call last night, around 1am? That was shortly after I called you to say we had arrested Villiers."

Neal gestured vaguely in the direction of the nightstand. "Big ad. They deliver." His voice was hoarse, making a person want to keep the conversation brief in case he lost his voice completely.

Simon Preston grabbed the phonebook, which was open to the pharmacy section. He nodded to Weaver and then asked, "Why would you have called a drugstore last night?"

"Cough drops." Neal rubbed his face.

"Why did you stay on the line so long? It was a wrong number, and the woman told you she couldn't help you."

"Wrong number? She..." Neal trailed off, sounding dazed. "She sounded nice. Who are you?"

Preston squatted down, closer to Neal's level. "I'm Simon. Why didn't you end the call when she said you had the wrong number?" Preston didn't sound like he was interrogating someone. He sounded and looked concerned for Neal, as did Dr. Santos. Of course a doctor was supposed to be concerned about his patients, but Preston was another matter. Peter couldn't help thinking back to Dante's words about wannabe father figures. Was Neal purposely manipulating Preston right now?

"Isn't it strange to say a number is wrong?" Neal asked. "It's the right number for someone." He closed his eyes and groaned. "Where's Peter?"

Peter stepped beside Preston. "I'm right here. What do you need?"

Neal squinted at him. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"I feel really weird."

Peter took a step back. "Are you going to throw up again?"

"No. Something's wrong. I can't..." Neal swayed, and both Preston and Dr. Santos reached out to steady him, grabbing his shoulders. Before Neal could finish what he'd been saying, his eyes rolled back and he passed out.