Chapter 16

Peter was immensely grateful when Dr. Santos volunteered to watch over Neal while Peter took a break. He purchased a cup of coffee from a shop in the lobby, and then walked out to the Gateway Arch. Sitting on one of the benches in the park, he looked at a bridge crossing the Mississippi River, and wished it was the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd been away from home too long.

At least the weather was decent, although the clouds gathering on the horizon looked like they would bring rain later. And he got a decent signal on his cell phone. He'd called in his report on the Villiers' arrest last night, but should check in, and he needed to run something past his boss without Neal overhearing.

Trust Hughes to get right to the point. "Good job last night, Peter. I've gone through your report. But why aren't you back in New York, or at least on a plane?"

"Remember our James Bonds, a.k.a. Neal Caffrey? Villiers brought him in for the museum job, but when I showed up Caffrey walked to avoid blowing my cover. He didn't just walk away from the take; he also provided information I needed to make the arrest."

"Why?"

Peter had been wondering the same thing since yesterday afternoon. "He doesn't like Villiers' methods. He protected my cover because he thought I'd be in danger, even though helping me meant sacrificing his cut. I honestly think he enjoyed taking down the bad guys. His definition of bad guys is probably different than yours and mine, but there's enough common ground that he could be a valuable asset for us."

"You think you can bring him over to our side."

"I think part of him is already there, or wants to be there. He was acting on instinct yesterday, with no prompting from me, and his first instinct was helpful rather than criminal. I want to stay in St. Louis a little longer, to talk to him about it away from his less savory friends in New York."

"Are you saying his information and actions had a material impact on last night's operation?"

"There is a very good chance Villiers would have escaped if Caffrey hadn't been on our side."

"Is he asking for immunity?"

"Can we offer it?" Peter countered.

After a brief pause to consider, Hughes said, "I'll run it up the ladder and see what we can do. In return, we'll need to ask for information to help us recover items Caffrey's suspected of stealing. And immunity would only be for past crimes. Any sign that he continues to engage in criminal activities, and we'll throw his ass in jail. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And remember, it doesn't matter what he agrees to in St. Louis, if he can't stick with it when he's back among those less savory friends you mentioned. Don't make a deal unless you're sure you can trust him."

                                                                          ###

After Peter returned to the hotel room, Dr. Santos left, satisfied that his patient was in good hands. "If he can keep lunch down, he can try the prescription meds again," he told Peter.

By noon, Neal was still coughing and sniffling, but was more awake. He was also restless and bored, and at one point Peter looked up from his email to see the kid breaking into the room's safe.

"There's nothing in there," Peter said. "You're wasting your time."

"Do you go to a shooting range to practice?"

"Of course."

"It's the same thing. And as it's an empty safe in my room, there's nothing illegal about it. Oh, look." He pulled one of Peter's ties out of the safe.

Peter was impressed at how fast his roommate had cracked the safe and by the sleight-of-hand with the tie, but he didn't want to encourage Neal. Who knew what the next trick would be? Probably disappearing from the room. And since he'd been experiencing cabin fever himself, he couldn't blame the kid for wanting a change of scenery. Peter had better arrange an outing on his own terms, if he wanted to stay in control. "Where do you want to go for lunch?"

"You mean we can leave the hotel?"

"You're not a prisoner. If you think you can handle it without passing out, throwing up, or doing that humming thing again, then yeah, let's get out of here for a while."

"Humming thing?" Neal asked, then shook his head. "I probably don't want to know." He walked over to the desk and pulled Peter's laptop toward himself.

"Hey," Peter protested. "That's FBI property."

Neal was typing. "I don't care about your mortgage fraud case. I'm looking for a restaurant. Although..." He glanced at Peter and treated him to a brilliant smile. "I would love to read my file."

"No." Peter tugged the laptop back. The screen showed the home page of a local restaurant. Steak and seafood, prices that weren't too outrageous, and only a few blocks from the hotel. "This looks good." He pushed Neal's hands away from an attempt to access the keyboard again. "You're not going to read your file."

"Fine. I can wait while you log out of the FBI systems. I need to find someplace I can buy more clothes. I didn't pack for more than two days." Neal sounded hoarse, but thankfully much more coherent than he'd been earlier.

"No."

"You really like saying no. You should try yes sometimes. It can be fun. Let's face it. You could really use a new tie. Something from this century."

"My ties are fine, and I'm not taking you shopping. The front desk can point us to a laundromat."

"Peter! No."

"See, I'm not the only one saying no."

Neal gathered his clothing and started sorting it on his bed. "Peter, we're not talking about polyester here. This is the finest wool. Cashmere. Cotton-silk blend. You don't toss these into a washer with your socks." He walked back to the desk and paged through the hotel's service directory. "The hotel will pick up our clothes and take them to a trusted drycleaner. They can get everything back to us first thing tomorrow morning. I'll call."

Peter rolled his eyes, but collected his own clothes while Neal called in the request. Then the kid dressed in black slacks and a black sweater. With their clothing on the way to the drycleaners, Peter's laptop in the safe, and the do-not-disturb sign removed so the maid service would visit their room, they left for lunch.

                                                                    ###

It was a gray and drizzly day in St. Louis, but the combination of brisk air and the pulse of the city around them perked Neal up considerably. It wasn't until the energy returned to his step and the sharpness to his mind that he appreciated how out of it he'd been for the last thirty-six hours. He was still congested, but at least he could think now, rather than just react.

As much as he wanted a glass of wine and one of the more exotic dishes at the restaurant, he knew it wouldn't be a good mix with the meds. He selected a caffeinated soft drink and broiled catfish, shaking his head in amusement as the server took away their menus.

"What?" asked Peter.

"I don't think I've had catfish since I was a teenager."

"I guess that doesn't fit with your world traveler image these days." Peter paused as their drinks arrived and took a deep breath before saying, "Are you ready to talk about changing your image?"

Neal couldn't suppress a smile. "You're not really a small talk kind of guy, are you?"

"You want to tell me about the last time you were in St. Louis?" Peter countered.

"Right. Let's talk about business. What do you have in mind?"

"When the Marshals dropped by this morning, I told them you were a CI. That was essentially the role you played in the arrest of Villiers, so I wasn't lying to them. And that's what I had planned to offer you. It's a sporadic kind of arrangement, where we contact you when we need information, or you contact us if you come across something that we'd find useful. In return, you get some leniency and sometimes there's reward money."

Neal nodded. He'd expected something like that.

Peter continued, "But there's a problem with that scenario. It doesn't keep you busy. Between the need for money and sheer boredom, you'd still be out there getting into trouble. Sooner or later that trouble would be serious enough that I'd have to arrest you. It's really just a matter of time before you end up in prison, and that would be a waste. I know you probably won't tell me how you ended up on the wrong side of the law, but I hope you'll let me bring you back to my side, because I honestly believe it's where you belong."

"You had planned to offer me a CI role. If you've changed your mind, what other option is there?"

"I'd like to bring you in full-time."

Neal could feel his eyes widening in shock. "As an agent?"

"No, we can't do that. But we do hire civilian consultants. If half the things we suspect you of are true, then you have a lot of expertise that can be used to help us solve crimes. I think you enjoyed your part in putting Villiers away."

"Still playing cops and robbers, but on the other side."

"Where I can keep an eye on you, and train you."

As the waiter delivered their meals, Neal thought back to his plan for a self-directed degree program in crime. He hadn't found a clear direction. Could this be it? Solving crime, with Peter as his advisor? He turned it over in his head, considering it from every angle. He was surprised at how tempting he found the offer. Then he was surprised to find he'd finished most of his meal in silence.

He looked up to find Peter watching him with apparent boundless patience. This was the Agent Burke who would sit in a van for hours on end to catch a suspect. Neal did not look forward to that particular lesson, but he'd been accused of impatience and recklessness enough to know that it was something he needed to address. "I'd work specifically with you, not some random agent?" Neal asked.

"Not what I expected as your first question," Peter admitted. "I've accepted a promotion to lead a new White Collar taskforce, and you'd start out as a member of my team. Over time, as you prove your worth to the Bureau, other groups might ask for your help. Or you can move to another team at your own request, if you want more variety."

"You can't simply make me this offer without asking for something in return," Neal said. Before he could find out what the Bureau wanted from him, the waiter returned with a dessert menu. With regret, Neal pushed the menu away. He still didn't have much of an appetite. "What am I expected to do to show good faith?"

"Help us track down the whereabouts of missing items, so we can return them to their rightful owners. Specifically, things that went astray with your help." Peter gave the waiter a credit card.

"How many?"

"The more you return, the better the chances we can close the cases where you're the prime suspect without pressing any charges. I can't give you exact numbers or guarantees yet, Neal. If you tell me you're interested, then the final negotiations will happen back in New York."

Peter signed the check, and they started the walk back to the hotel. Neal was disappointed that his energy level had dropped. Fighting off the illness was taking a lot out of him. He stopped and ran his hands through his hair in sheer frustration at his physical weakness and indecisiveness. "Peter."

The agent turned around. "You okay?"

"I don't usually work alone. Others will be affected if I do this."

"I can't offer them immunity, too. It will be hard enough getting it for you."

"I know. It's just... I need to leave out a few names if I help you close some of those cases of yours."

"Neal, we're going to expect to make arrests as a result of bringing you on board. You'll have to name names."

Neal closed his eyes for a moment, before deciding that was a bad idea. It made him dizzy. They were standing in front of an office building with wide, shallow steps leading up to the entrance. Flanking the steps were ornate brass handrails. Neal leaned against one of them. He looked up, as if seeking inspiration, and recognized the building. His mother had worked here.

He rarely thought of her anymore, but right now he wondered what it had been like for her to enter WITSEC. To leave behind so much, knowing so little about what would happen next. And knowing there was no turning back. Before today, he hadn't had much empathy with her. Right now, that was starting to change.

Peter stood in front of him, his expression a mix of puzzled and worried. "You're looking a little pale."

"It's starting to hit me; this is one of the scariest things I've ever considered."

Author's Note: I had a chance to visit St. Louis while completing this story, and enjoyed walking around the Gateway Arch. I didn't have a specific office building in mind when I wrote this chapter, but there were several in the vicinity of Chestnut Street that would work for this scene.