Chapter 8

No bullet holes, Peter was happy to see. Now if he could find where Caffrey stashed the keys because obviously the con would be...

Oddly, the con artist was not long gone at all, but passed out on the backseat. With doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition.

No bullet holes in the car, therefore no bullet holes in the man. No signs of an automobile accident. No blood. Peter shook Caffrey's shoulder. No response. At least he was breathing.

Someone might have drugged Caffrey's drink, although there wouldn't have been many opportunities, and what would be the motive? And there was no way he was wasted from drinking half a glass of wine. Right? Unless... "Caffrey, so help me, if you went bar hopping and got drunk driving my rental car, I will arrest you right now!" Caffrey wheezed. "What the hell?" Peter pulled Caffrey's nearest arm until the kid was sitting upright. He started coughing so hard Peter had to hold on to him, or he might have slid face-first into the back of the driver's seat. And now Peter sighed. Mystery solved, and the answer wasn't one he wanted to hear. "You're burning up, Caffrey. You're sick."

Caffrey nodded and made some sort of monotone "MmmMmMmMm" sound.

"Are you humming?"

Caffrey nodded again.

"Stop it."

"Can't. Can't find it."

"Find what?" Peter asked.

"The end. It just keeps going round and round again."

"This is ridiculous. What song is it?"

"Can't tell you, or it will get you, too."

"Okay. Give me a moment." Peter closed his eyes and attempted to ignore the humming. There had to be a way to get through to the intelligence hidden behind the fever. Something simple and basic for Caffrey to grasp onto, so Peter didn't have to suffocate him. "You know the alphabet song, right? Of course you do. It ends with Z. After Z, no more song, no more singing or humming. Do that for me, can you? Start with A, end with Z. I'm going to look for something."

Peter opened the trunk of Caffrey's rental, hoping to find Caffrey's luggage and whatever medicine he'd been taking. But Caffrey's rental held Peter's luggage. Peter opened the trunk of his own rental to put his luggage where it belonged, and there was a duffle bag he didn't recognize. Caffrey's, of course. "That was needlessly complex," he complained. Yet he had to acknowledge a certain mixed up logic to it, a certain symmetry that might appeal to a feverish con artist who intended to swap cars. Caffrey wouldn't have suddenly gotten this sick in the last hour. He'd been sick for a while now, would have been somewhat impaired the entire time they were at the bar. Interesting. Maybe wired wasn't his natural state.

Inside Caffrey's bag was a cold medicine. Peter read the notes and ingredients, then returned with it to the mercifully silent back seat. "How long have you been taking this?"

Caffrey reached for the box. "Once last night. Once this morning. It wore off and I wanted more but there's no water in your car, Peter. I hated you for that at first, but you made the song go away, so I can't hate you anymore."

"Wow. You have no filters at all right now, do you?"

Caffrey was coughing again, holding the box of medicine to his chest as if simply being near it would help. Peter went back to the Camry and retrieved the drink Caffrey had left there. It was only half-full and diluted from melted ice, but it would be better than nothing.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Peter said while Caffrey drank, "but the stuff in that box only suppresses symptoms. It doesn't actually cure anything. Essentially it made you feel better while you were getting worse. Let's get you back to your room, and then I'll make a run to a pharmacy for something else." Peter paused for a moment. "This is where you're staying, right?"

"Yeah, let's stay here."

Peter didn't bother arguing that the hotel didn't fit within his expense budget. He drove them to the hotel entrance and grabbed both sets of luggage before the valet parked the car. In the lobby, he found Caffrey at the front desk, checking in as Henry Winslow. "Here's yours," he said, handing Peter a keycard.

"I don't need –" Peter started to protest.

"Sure you do. I'm going to sleep as soon as we reach the room, and you're still planning to buy something better for my cold, right? With your own keycard you won't have to wake me up to get in the room when you're back from the pharmacy."

The woman at the front desk handed Caffrey a receipt and said, "We do have a doctor on call for our guests. Would you like me to send him to your room?"

"No," said Caffrey at the same time Peter said, "Yes."

"Yes," repeated Peter. "He should see a doctor."

"He'll be there within an hour," the desk clerk promised, "with some basic cold and flu meds. No need to go to a pharmacy. We'll send a driver to pick up anything the doctor prescribes if he doesn't have it with him. Just relax and get your son settled."

Peter looked away to hide his shock. He put Caffrey's bag over his shoulder and picked up his own in his left hand, placing his right hand on Caffrey's shoulder to guide him toward the elevators. "My son?" he asked in a low voice.

"Stepson, actually. But I told her you liked me to call you Dad." Away from the audience of the desk clerk, Caffrey let the exhaustion and discomfort return to his expression. He leaned a bit into the agent's hand on his shoulder once they stepped into the elevator. "Figured you would be bossy, and it was a simple explanation. Those are usually best."

They stopped at the seventh floor and Peter continued to guide Neal. "How about telling her I was your boss? That's a simple explanation for bossiness."

"No," Caffrey said. "Any company putting us up here would spring for a separate room for my boss." He opened the door to the room.

The wide, stone-tiled entry had closets to the right and a luxurious bathroom to the left, with a large tub and separate shower. Continuing into the room beyond the closets, there was a bureau topped with a big-screen TV and then a desk with chairs on either side set up so that it could also serve as a dining space. To the left were two beds. And at the end of the room, a wall of windows overlooked the Gateway Arch. How had Caffrey sweet-talked the desk clerk into giving them a room with the best view in the city? He'd only had a couple of minutes to talk to her. "Nice view," Peter said.

Caffrey just shrugged. "Which bed do you want?"

"I'm only staying here long enough to make sure you see that doctor," Peter insisted.

"You brought your luggage."

"I needed my laptop. I can do research and catch up on work while the doctor's here. Then you're on your own."

The con man sat on the nearest bed and pulled off his shoes before exchanging his sweatshirt for a dress shirt and then flopping down. He draped one arm over his eyes, as if the lights bothered him. "All that time you spend on surveillance, and you're passing up a chance to watch me now? This has got to be more comfortable than those municipal vans."

Peter had to admit to himself that it was tempting, if he were willing to take the chance that while he learned about Caffrey, Caffrey would also be learning about him.

On the one hand, staying in a room paid for by a suspect raised ethical issues. On the other hand, it was the perfect set-up for the Caffrey Conversation. If they split the room charges, he could eliminate the appearances of accepting a bribe. But Peter still wondered, "Why offer to share your space with someone you're usually running away from?"

No answer. Peter stared at Caffrey, who seemed to be asleep, and then looked away because sleep made almost anyone look younger and more innocent, and that was simply another con. Checking his watch, he noticed it would be a convenient time to call El. He'd rather have a little more privacy but didn't know when he'd have a better chance to talk to her tonight. He walked over to the windows. Being next to them improved the signal for his phone slightly, and by facing away from the beds there was less chance he'd be overheard. Because he wanted privacy, he told himself, not because he thought Caffrey needed undisturbed sleep.

"Hey honey," he said when his wife answered the phone.

"How's everything going?" Elizabeth asked. Even though Peter didn't do undercover work often, she knew the drill: stick to boring, non-specific conversation until he confirmed no one was listening in.

"Remember what I said about undercover work? It always starts with a simple, straightforward plan..."

"And then you deal with the complications. I take it things have gotten complicated. Should I be worried?"

"No," Peter said. "Just annoyed. I've acquired a roommate who is either really asleep or doing a good job of faking it."

"Oh. Tell me about the roommate."

"Neal Caffrey."

There was a pause as Elizabeth processed this bit of news. She had been the inspiration for the Caffrey Conversation idea so of course she asked, "Have you talked to him?"

"I haven't had a chance yet. Looks like he's got a variation on the vicious cold that's been going around the office. We're waiting for a doctor to check him out."

"You didn't mention that he was going to be in St. Louis. Did you know?"

Peter glanced toward the bed. Caffrey hadn't moved. "I think it was a surprise for both of us. And maybe the biggest surprise of all is how he handled it. He kept my cover safe by placing suspicion on himself. Now they think he's an agent."

"Impersonating a federal agent. Isn't that illegal?"

"It's supposed to be, but he couldn't make it that easy for me. You might say he found a loophole."

"And you're safe? They really don't suspect you?"

"Yeah." Peter paused, wondering how best to reassure his wife without lying. Villiers wouldn't hesitate to kill him if the truth came out before Peter could arrest him. There was a chance that Caffrey had a plan to redeem himself in Villiers' eyes by proving Peter was an agent. But his gut told him Caffrey wouldn't do that. Caffrey forged, he stole, he lied, but he didn't jeopardize the lives of others. And sharing a room was a way for Peter to see that Caffrey wasn't contacting Villiers. Was Caffrey trying to prove that Peter could trust him? It was something of a shock to realize that, at least in this instance, Peter already did trust him. "There will be other complications, I'm sure, but this isn't a double-cross."

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me that Neal Caffrey was there for a job, for which he presumably would be compensated very well. He saw you there, realized your cover could be in jeopardy, and his reaction was to keep you safe by getting himself cut out of the action. And he did it in such a way that, not only does he not get paid this time, but he also loses out on any future, um, income opportunities with this group of people. Is that right?"

"That about sums it up," Peter said. "I know how unlikely it sounds."

"I'm starting to understand why Neal is the one you would rather reform than arrest."

"It's not an either-or option, El. There has to be justice. But sometimes... Sometimes there can be more."

"Did you thank him?" When Peter didn't respond, Elizabeth continued, "I'm going to take that as a No. Thank him, Peter. People like to be thanked and praised for doing the right thing. That's part of what encourages us to make the effort to do good things again, when it would be easier to do nothing."

"I get it. So now I will thank my wife for being exceptionally wise and patient. I wish --" Peter was interrupted by a knock on the door. "The doctor's here. Gotta go. Love you, hon."

Author's Note: I've never stayed at a hotel that had a doctor on call, but it was a convenient element for this story.