Federal Building, Manhattan. Sunday afternoon. July 18, 2004.

By the time Neal reached the Federal Building plaza with Mozzie, he was exhausted. He understood that Mozz had a deep-seated fear of entering the lair of the suits, and he had spent the last hour assuring his friend that they would be safe. Surveillance cameras could do their worst – in his Truman Capote look with trench coat, wide-brimmed hat and big sunglasses, Mozzie got a lot of puzzled glances but his only recognizable feature was his height. And Neal was certain Mozzie was wearing some kind of platform shoes or heels so that even that aspect of his look was misleading.

"Wait!" said Mozzie as Neal stepped onto the plaza. He slipped on latex gloves. "Fingerprints."

"Good thinking," said Neal, resisting the urge to check his watch. He started walking again and breathed a sigh of relief when Mozzie followed. "Remember, Peter's our ally in this," he added, and proceeded to remind Mozz about how Peter had been a rock for Neal in February. That had been a dark month, with Byron's death and funeral, the undercover assignment that had landed Neal on life support due to Robert's involvement, followed by increasing flashbacks to childhood events Neal had tried to forget. As they waited for the elevator Mozzie looked ready to dart away, and Neal talked about how Peter had used his vacation time to take Neal to the Burke family cabin to recover from everything that had happened in that month. "Peter and his wife are like family, Mozz," he said as the elevator opened. "They know you're my friend, and that means they'll treat you well."

Mozzie looked around the lobby one last time, and then stepped into the elevator. He pressed and held the "open" button while he'd scrutinized the elevator car, pointing out the security camera and the emergency door in the ceiling. Then he took a deep breath as he released the button and the doors closed.

Neal pressed the button for the twenty-first floor. By this time he'd used up his stories about Peter's trustworthiness and had to move on. "Did I tell you that one of the White Collar team members is an avid Star Trek fan? When he was nervous about an undercover op, I suggested he treat it as an away team mission. Turns out Spock is kind of a personal hero to him. He even looks a little Vulcan, to be honest."

For that Mozzie actually lowered his sunglasses slightly to look over the rims at Neal. "You don't suppose he's actually...? You know." He'd lowered his voice an octave, apparently concerned the security camera might record and digitize his voice.

They were treading a fine line here. Mozzie's love of Star Trek was tied into his firm belief that alien life existed and had a habit of visiting Earth over the centuries. Neal shook his head. "I don't think he's an alien. More like a kindred spirit." He hoped he hadn't overplayed Travis' interest in science fiction, because he suspected that if Mozzie ever met the agent, he'd quiz the man unmercifully about Star Trek trivia.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Neal stepped onto the twenty-first floor and strode forward purposefully, hoping Mozzie would follow automatically. No such luck. Mozz slowly shuffled off the elevator as he reviewed his surroundings, but then stood stock still in the elevator lobby, staring at the FBI logo etched on the glass doors leading to the bullpen. It was hard to tell under the coat, scarf and hat, but it looked like Mozzie was breathing faster. Sweating, too, but that was expected wearing all those layers in July.

Neal pulled out the piece of information he'd been holding onto as his final, irresistible lure. "Remember seeing Tricia Wiese at Enscombe, when you were playing bartender? She stayed outside most of the time, but came in to make the arrest. Her cover as a birdwatcher wasn't a lie, you know. She describes herself as an avid birder. She comes from a family of environmentalists and nature-lovers, and her summer vacation this year included taking her sons to see the puffins in Maine. When we were preparing for the op at Enscombe she told me that she went up to Alaska as a volunteer after the Exxon Valdez spill to help with the cleanup efforts." He smiled winningly as he went in for the kill. "Her involvement in protests against companies that cause excessive pollution and damage to the environment almost kept her out of the Bureau. She'd been arrested in one of those protests when she was in college. And of all the people Peter could have picked as his second-in-command, he chose Tricia."

"That was fifteen years ago, you know," Mozzie said, finally moving forward. "The Valdez spill was in March of 1989, and it was a disaster whose repercussions are still being discovered." He gained momentum both in speaking and walking as he lectured Neal on the evils of big government and big oil. He came to a stop in the center of the bullpen, looking around at the empty desks.

Neal was pleased to see that no one had decided to come into the office today. No extra suits to spook Mozz. Only Peter was there, walking out of his office to look down at them from the glass half wall. Since Neal was out of the stories he'd used like the Pied Piper of Hamlin to lure Mozzie forward, he took advantage of Mozzie's back being turned to gesture for Peter to come downstairs.

"She isn't here?" Mozzie said plaintively.

"Uh..." Neal took a moment to catch up. Tricia. They'd been talking about Tricia. "No, not today, but she's working on the case. Bringing down an evil corporate giant like Masterson, how could she resist?" Before Mozzie could ask him to tie Masterson to environmental causes, he said, "Peter, thanks for waiting for us. It took us a little longer than we thought."

###

As Peter approached, he could almost recognize Mozzie under all the clothing. "There's always paperwork to catch up on," he said calmly. "Thanks for coming to see me today. I put a pot of coffee on when I arrived. Care for a cup of Bureau brew?"

"Please," said Neal, so emphatically that Peter had to smile. Neal wasn't normally a fan of the coffee here, but it looked like bringing his friend to the office had been an ordeal that made any caffeine welcome now.

As he poured three identical cups of coffee, Peter was aware of intense scrutiny from Mozzie. No sooner had he placed the mugs on a table than Mozzie rearranged them. It was like watching the guys who set up tables in Central Park and dared you to guess which cup had the ball under it. Mozzie was moving a bit slower than those guys, in deference to the hot liquid sloshing in these mugs, but the smooth motions showed him to be a veteran at the game.

"Which cup, Suit?" Mozzie asked.

Peter started to reach for a mug at random and then pulled his hand back. "No suit today. Just an ordinary guy in jeans."

"Still carrying a badge," Mozzie muttered. "It projects the suit aura around you, no matter what you wear." He rearranged the mugs again. "Pick one."

"Neal, why don't you pick for me?" Peter suggested. "I'll trust your judgment."

Those words seemed to work some kind of magic. Mozzie relaxed slightly and accepted the distribution of cups by Neal. As they went up to the conference room and reviewed the data accumulated on Masterson so far, Peter took care to treat Neal as an equal partner. Letting Neal do much of the talking seemed to help soothe the little guy. Mozzie had taken care to sit on the side of the table that let him monitor the door into the room, and at first he was constantly looking up as if expecting someone to rush in and arrest him. Peter didn't know what Mozzie intended to do in such a circumstance, but was increasingly convinced that Neal had been right to arrange this meeting for a time when the office was empty. The passage of time with no disruptions, combined with the reveal of interesting facts about Masterson Music worked to calm the little guy enough that he started opening up about his own plans for Urban Legend.

Mozzie's strategy for a combination of concerts, interviews and guest appearances was actually quite clever, ensuring Urban Legend would remain interesting and newsworthy. He also outlined his approach for the group's website, with a continuous stream of new material and a series of live chats with members of the group. "Henry has a way with kids," Mozzie said, "and he tells me Angela prefers folk songs to pop. Tuesday afternoon they'll perform at a local children's hospital, singing mostly folk and kids' music. I've arranged a live stream to other children's hospitals around the country. We'll have kid-friendly instruments at each location – whistles, recorders, xylophones, and the like – and will have times when the kids are invited to participate."

Neal looked surprised. "That's great, Mozz. Not what Urban Legend is known for, but it will be a welcome change for Henry and Angela. Where'd you get the idea?"

By now Mozzie had removed the trench coat and sunglasses. Even with the scarf partially obscuring his face, it was obvious he looked smug. "You need to get back to your roots, Neal. The Caffrey Caravan was filled with music. Some of them crafted instruments that ranged from toys to sophisticated pieces that were works of art. The children were encouraged to participate in the songs and were learning to sing and play instruments as soon as they could walk and talk."

"It sounds magical," Neal said.

"I'm glad you feel that way, because you'll be joining the performance at the hospital. Given your cover story of recovering from brain cancer, you need to show an interest in the terminal patients."

Neal shook his head. "It's one thing to fool Masterson by playing the sympathy card. I don't want to con a bunch of little kids. That's not how I work."

"You won't have to con them," Mozzie explained. "I already told the hospital staff that you're not comfortable talking about your ordeal yet. All you have to do is sing to them and listen if they want to share some of their own stories. I'm told that most of them would rather talk about something other than their reasons for being in the hospital. They're more likely to ask how you learned to play the guitar."

"That I can handle, but what about the live streaming you mentioned? How are we going to set that up without you? None of us are computer experts."

"Angela has the skills."

"No. I mean, yes, she probably does, but she'll be busy setting up for the performance and singing. She can't be monitoring the computer to make sure the feed is working."

"Why can't Mozzie be there?" Peter asked, finally breaking into the conversation.

"At a hospital?" Mozzie nearly shrieked. "Do you have any idea how many germs...?" He shuddered and seemed incapable of continuing.

"Germophobe," said Neal to Peter. "It's okay, Mozz. We'll figure something out."

"Jones is a computer expert," Peter offered. "He talks about hanging out with his niece and nephew, so I assume a roomful of kids won't scare him off."

"Thanks, Peter." Neal didn't draw things out after that. Peter now knew the schedule Mozzie had put together as the group's agent. Mozz knew that Peter would meet with a rep from Masterson on Wednesday, as well as the litany of crimes they suspected the company of. Neal definitely put a spin on that. Mozzie didn't care about the tax fraud, because he clearly viewed the IRS as an evil entity that deserved to be defrauded. But he did care about the individual singers and musicians who received less than their fair share because Masterson lied about their revenues.

When Peter described the possible piracy and mentioned the less-than-legit companies Masterson was suspected of working with, it was obvious that Mozzie recognized the names of some of those companies. "I'll look into them," Mozz said. "I have resources I can call on for this kind of thing."

"Nothing illegal," Peter warned. "Any evidence obtained illegally could jeopardize our entire case. We can't let them walk on a technicality after coming this far."

Mozzie grumbled at that, but muttered something about a snitch. He also looked pointedly at his watch, reminding them that his role as Urban Legend's agent left him with a long list of things he needed to get back to.

"I'll walk you out," Neal offered. "Peter, are you heading home?"

That had been Peter's hope, but he'd stick around if Neal wanted to talk. "I'm not in a hurry."

"Not a lot of cabs around here on a Sunday," Neal said.

"Need a ride home?" Peter asked. When Neal nodded he said, "Give me a couple minutes to lock up the Masterson files and power down my computer. I'll meet you in the lobby."

When Peter stepped off the elevator about five minutes later, Neal was alone, listening to an MP3 player. He took out the ear buds when he saw Peter walk up and said, "Learning another song by Miranda."

Peter nodded and glanced around the lobby. "Mozzie didn't want a ride?" He'd assumed that Neal had asked for the ride as an excuse to talk without his friend, but wanted to be certain.

"He's making his own very circuitous way. My asking you for a ride assured him that you'd be heading to Riverside Drive and not trying to follow him to one of his safe houses."

"One?"

Neal stood. "He has three so far. His goal is to have one for each day of the week, and constantly rotate among them."

Peter led the way to where he'd parked. "I gotta say, I think of you as an out-of-the-box thinker, but your friend is so far out of the box he's in another zip code sometimes."

"He's different, but with good reason. As a kid he found himself at the mercy of the system and learned firsthand how flawed it can be. He may be distrustful of the government agencies you take for granted, but you couldn't ask for a more loyal friend," Neal said somewhat defensively.

Peter unlocked the car but stayed standing, looking across the roof of the vehicle at the kid. "I wasn't criticizing him. He takes a lot of getting used to, but I'm starting to appreciate what he brings to the table. I just wish it wasn't so hard getting him to the table."

They opened the doors and took their places in the car. "Me, too," confided Neal. "You needed to know what he had scheduled for us so far and to discuss the options going forward, and he needed to see what we have and what we're looking for in this case. You know that, I know that, and he does too. But it was a major deal getting him here. I hope next time will be easier, but I also hope I get a long break before the next time."

As Peter pulled out of the parking garage, he turned the conversation in a direction he'd been fretting about. "Is your aunt Noelle free this evening?"

"Trying to set her up with your brother?" Neal asked with a smile. "It's too late. All the parents and grandparents are heading to their respective homes this afternoon."

Peter had almost forgotten that his brother had hit a rough patch with Noelle on the Fourth of July. He had asked about her schedule because he'd hoped to talk to her about what Henry had said offstage at the concert last night. "All of them leaving so soon? It's only been a few days since your cousins were kidnapped. I thought some of the older generation would hang around to keep an eye on them, especially after everything Henry went through."

"They were tempted. On the one hand, they want to be here for him. On the other hand, he said having them looming over his shoulder and constantly asking if he wanted to talk was making it harder for him – said he felt like a ticking time bomb that everyone was tiptoeing around. In the end they agreed that staying in New York would go counter to our claims that they aren't supporting Urban Legend."

Peter felt stymied. His preference had been to put a bug in Noelle's ear and then let her deal with her son. Who better than a psychologist and a mother to help him with his issues? If that wasn't possible, all he knew to do was exactly what Henry apparently didn't want: keeping watch and asking if he wanted to talk. "You've got the concert tonight, and interviews Monday night. Do the three of you have plans for Tuesday night?"

"Not that I know of. What do you have in mind?"

"I thought we might give June and her chef a break, and have you over to my house for dinner."

Neal smirked. "Have you thought this through, or is this going to be like the time you invited Henry and me to stay the night without checking with Elizabeth first?"

Peter grimaced. He knew El would be happy to have Urban Legend at their townhouse for an evening, but he had trouble keeping up with her work schedule. For all he knew, Burke Premiere Events might have something planned for Tuesday, but he felt a responsibility to keep an eye on Henry. If El was busy, he'd have to manage without her. "Weather's supposed to be decent. I should get some use out of the grill. How about a barbecue? Both of your cousins like burgers?"

"Sounds good," Neal said. "I'll check with them and let you know. I think they'll go for it. A family barbecue could be just what we need. We'll miss the family gatherings now that everyone's going home."

Despite his worries, Peter had to smile. Just four months ago Neal had been nearly overwhelmed when his family gathered to celebrate his birthday. Now he'd grown accustomed to them. FBI consultant, member of a family, soon to be a college student. He was putting down roots. There was nothing better to counter that flight instinct of his.

###

Tuesday evening was indeed perfect for a barbecue. The temperature was mild, with clouds to keep the setting sun from glaring in their eyes. Peter manned the grill while El relaxed with their guests at the patio table. Neal brought a bottle of wine and poured glasses for himself, El and Angela. Peter and Henry had beers.

A call to his brother Joe Sunday night hadn't helped much. Joe had simply backed up what Peter had already suspected: his best approach was to keep an eye on Henry and to be there when the kid was finally ready to talk.

At the moment all three of the cousins were telling El stories about their concert at the hospital that afternoon.

"So then Agent Jones put on the cowboy hat," Angela was saying, "and Neal started singing 'I Wanna Be a Cowboy' while Henry got the kids into a circle, holding hands and dancing around Jones. The hospital had a photographer there and I'm sure a picture of that dance will be on the hospital's website by tomorrow."

"You're comfortable around kids, aren't you?" El asked Henry. "That's rather surprising for an only child."

"It seemed like I was surrounded with kids growing up. There were tons of Winslows around Baltimore, first cousins and the grandkids of Pops' siblings. There were just as many Winstons, and honestly half the time I couldn't tell the Winstons and Winslows apart. I was probably ten before I realized I wasn't related to all of them."

"The surprising part this afternoon," Angela continued, "is that there wasn't a round of the Hospital Game. I was preparing my arguments for why they shouldn't play hide-and-seek in the hospital, and didn't have to use them."

"We were setting a good example for the kids," Henry said in superior tones, while Neal snorted.

"What's the real story?" El asked.

"Yeah," Angela added. "Why does Neal keep laughing each time I ask about it?"

While Peter carried a platter of hamburgers to the table and everyone customized their burgers, Neal told El and Angela about Tuesday Tails, a tradition he'd established where White Collar agents refined their skills by trying to follow him over the lunch hour every Tuesday. Today he'd upped the ante, challenging two agents to follow him. What Travis and Jorge didn't realize was that Neal was also working with a partner. Henry had dressed like Neal and was following a similar route. The two agents were constantly catching glimpses of Neal in opposite directions and disagreeing about where they should go to catch him.

Henry was laughing now. "I gotta implement something like that at Win-Win. I haven't had that much fun in ages."

Angela looked carefully at both of her cousins. "You both have found your calling, haven't you? You love this work – not just tailing people, but everything involved in solving crimes. When this is all over with Masterson Music, Urban Legend will cease to exist and you'll move on to stopping the next bad guy."

Peter put down his burger, too invested in hearing the answer to concentrate on his meal.

"I don't know if Urban Legend can cease to exist right away," Neal said. "If we sign a contract with Masterson, we may have legal obligations to the company that will take a while to fulfill. But beyond that, yeah, singing will be a hobby. Stopping bad guys is our vocation."

Henry shrugged.

"C'mon, man," Neal said. "You didn't get nearly as upset as either of us expected you would after I gave up our Legend aliases. It's because stopping Masterson is more important to you than keeping your own secrets, right? Even if those secrets were painful."

Henry picked up his beer bottle. "It's like they said in Casablanca. The problems of three people don't amount to a hill of beans compared to what's going on around us. Masterson has to be stopped."

"Sounds like a calling to me," Angela said wistfully.

"Speaking of solving crimes," said Peter, "I'd like to get both of you to stop by the office tomorrow morning. I'm meeting with a Masterson rep in the afternoon, and I want to get your take on what I need to know about Urban Legend and the music industry."

Angela looked intrigued at the idea of visiting the FBI. Henry looked bored. "Why not go over it tonight?" he asked.

"I want others on the team to hear this," Peter said. "Plus, it's a tradition that in the Wednesday morning briefing we cover what we learned from Tuesday Tails. Since you participated in an FBI training event, you need to be there."

"Yeah, Henry, you should stick around after lunch for another training event. Peter asked me to talk to the team about how to interact with teen runaways during a case. I'm finally doing that in the afternoon. You might have something to add. Maybe you can help me roleplay some scenarios I planned to cover."

"Sure, kiddo. I can help with that." Henry put down his beer and faced Peter. "Like Angela said in the concert Saturday night, we're used to singing for our supper. Is there a song you want to hear?"

Peter had a feeling Henry was deliberately turning the conversation away from the FBI and vocations, but he could be patient. He'd find a time to talk to Henry alone tomorrow. "El's more of the music buff than I am. Do you want a song, hon?"

Before she could answer, a flash of lightning was followed quickly by the boom of thunder. "I think we'd better pick things up and move inside first," she said.

Peter looked up to see the clouds above them had turned ominously dark. He helped carry the plates inside. Everyone had finished their burgers, so they took the dishes into the kitchen. El pulled ice cream and toppings out of the fridge, and handed them to Neal and Henry. She followed them into the dining room with fresh plates and spoons, and got them started on building banana splits.

Peter opened the dishwasher to find it was full of clean dishes, so he started to empty it while Angela rinsed off the dishes they'd brought inside. "You don't have to do that," he protested.

"No, it's fine," Angela said. "I can't do a lot of the things Henry and Neal are doing for the case. It's good to have something to keep me occupied." Peter was about to say something about losing her father, but she continued, "I wish I had a vocation."

"You're still in college, aren't you?" Peter seemed to recall Neal saying Angela had a semester left before she graduated.

"Yeah, but the pressure's on to either find a job or enroll in grad school. I have no idea what I want to study, or what I want to do for a career."

"People have been saying you could go pro, if you want. You know, with the music."

"I guess you could say I had an epiphany when we were waiting to be rescued at Enscombe. I love music, but touring and performing for big crowds isn't my passion. It's something I tolerate because it lets me be part of Urban Legend. There's the camaraderie with my cousins and other musicians, learning new songs and tweaking the arrangements... Those I love. Actually playing music, that's something I need, but I'd be happy doing that alone in a room somewhere." She glanced at the dishwasher and, seeing it was empty, started placing dishes in the racks. "I just don't see how that adds up to a career."

Neither did Peter. "Have you talked to Henry about it?"

"He's so laser-focused on Masterson these days, I don't want to start a conversation that sounds like I want to leave the group. He's stressed enough."

Good point. "What about your music professors? Shouldn't they have ideas?"

"I'm kind of embarrassed to tell them how lost I am," Angela admitted.

"They're supposed to provide guidance to their students. If you had all the answers, you wouldn't need them."

"I suppose," Angela said. "I can ask them, but I know what they'll say: Follow your passion. I just don't know what that is anymore."

"Sounds like you need to take a break. Try to relax and don't think about it too much. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon after we wrap up the Masterson case and those pressures ease you'll be able to let your subconscious take over. That part of your brain can solve tough puzzles for you."

"Is that how you became an FBI agent?"

"In a sense. I started out as a baseball player. I knew that being injured was a possibility, and so I got degrees in accounting and thought about my options but it didn't feel real. When I got hurt seriously enough that I knew I needed to leave the game, at first I was in shock. I hadn't expected the moment to happen so soon, and froze when people asked what I was going to do next. I spent a month at my parents' place and my mother told me to let go of the worry and let the answer come when I was ready. By the end of the month I'd filled out my application to work for the FBI and was certain it was the right decision."

Henry yelled that the ice cream was melting, and they left the kitchen to admire the banana splits before devouring the creations. Peter suspected Neal had been in charge of toppings, because each dessert had looked artistically arranged.

A few more claps of thunder shook the house as they ate, and by the time they finished rain was pounding on the back windows.

"If you want a song, I have an idea," Angela said.

"I'd love to have a private performance by Urban Legend, but you don't have your instruments," El said.

"We won't need them. Everyone follow my lead." Angela snapped her fingers and then clapped, with the others picking up the cadence. Even El and Peter joined in. Satchmo lay on the floor by the table and it seemed his tail wagged in time. "The rain's our beat," she added, and Henry started drumming softly on the dining room table. Angela stood and sang the first verse of "I Love a Rainy Night," with Neal taking the next verse. Henry wandered about the room, using the bookcases and even the walls for percussion, and joined in the choruses.

Peter wished he'd recorded the performance, to replay the way his brother Joe did with videos of his daughters. But he met El's eyes and knew that they'd fixed this evening in their memories. They could play it again whenever they wanted.

A/N: Throughout the story I've borrowed names from the movie Casablanca, and in this chapter a few of the characters' lines are based on dialogue from the movie.