New York City, White Collar Division. Thursday afternoon. February 19, 2004.

A/N Sad times are ahead for Byron's family. If character death is a trigger for you, when you reach the point in this chapter where Mozzie leaves you may wish to skip to chapter 9.

Peter and Jones looked up as Neal entered Peter's office. "Mozz will apply for the bartender job at Highbury, but he won't come to the Federal Building to talk about the case."

"Why not?" asked Jones.

"He won't meet with government employees unless he can sweep the location for bugs and hidden cameras first," Neal said, as if this were perfectly normal behavior.

"He's not going to give away his address," Peter guessed. "Your place?"

Neal nodded. "He said he'll be ready for us at 4:00." He plopped into the chair next to Jones and put his feet up on Peter's desk. "All right. I'm here to help. What have we got?"

Peter swatted his feet down, concerned that Neal was being overly playful, maybe overcompensating for nerves he felt about going back to face Byron's deteriorating state at the mansion. His best recourse was to keep the kid's mind occupied with the case. "Start over, Jones."

"I found the attorney who drafted the lease of Enscombe to Highbury Professional Connections. His name is Seamus Bickerton. He used to work for a law firm here in the city, but retired about a month after Adler disappeared."

"I'd have expected Adler to use a younger lawyer," Peter said. "As Neal pointed out, he had a preference for young minds."

"Seamus is barely forty," Jones said. "He came into some money, an inheritance according to the partners at the law firm, and moved to Boston. He deposited a million dollars into his bank account shortly before Adler disappeared, and a lot more a month later."

"An incentive and a reward after Adler made a clean getaway," Neal suggested.

"That's my take," Jones agreed. "The contract lists the owner of Enscombe as Perdue Incorporated. It's a shell company that I traced back to a Vincent Perdue. I can't find anything more than a social security number for him."

"Perdue means lost in French," Neal said. "That was Adler's goal – to stay lost when he decided to disappear."

"It's a plausible story," Peter said, "but not hard evidence. We can't get a warrant with this. What else did you find, Jones?"

"Perdue also owns a Wilhelm Salvage. They search the coastline for sunken ships and dropped cargo. They've been operating at a loss, but somehow stay in business." Jones opened a file and displayed a photograph. "This is Vincent Adler's father. When we went after Adler initially, we didn't spend much time investigating his family. He's an only child, both parents deceased. But Adler's father immigrated to the U.S. from Germany shortly after World War II."

Peter asked, "What does this have to do with the salvage company?"

"Wilhelm was the name of Adler's father. He spent most of his career in the U.S. working at a company that builds parts for submarines. There were rumors of Germany sending loot out of the country in U-boats toward the end of the war. What if Wilhelm Adler knew something about a ship that went down off the east coast of the United States, and told his son? It's possible Adler will return when the salvage company finds what they've been looking for, because he's made sure their operating costs are covered for the next decade. It's hard to imagine Adler sinking his money into something like that unless he's expecting a big return on his investment."

"A good angle," said Peter. "We can watch the salvage company but that lead could take years to pay off. Neal, you're awfully quiet. What are you thinking?"

"I think Jones should go to Boston and talk to Bickerton."

"I can't," Jones protested. "If I ask him about Adler or Perdue, he's going to know we're on to him. He'll clam up, and might find a way get a warning to Adler."

"Don't talk to him about his client. Ask about Highbury Professional Connections. Tell him you think they're using the estate for illegal purposes, and you want the owner's permission to search Enscombe for evidence."

Impressed, Peter leaned forward. "That's good. With the owner's permission, we don't need a search warrant. Would he risk it, knowing that Adler was using one of the suites?"

"He might not know Adler left anything behind," Neal said. "And if he refuses permission to search the property, that refusal could draw suspicion. He won't want the FBI looking into Enscombe's owner."

Jones nodded. "I could make that work."

"Make it work over the phone," Peter said. "That keeps it low key. For Adler we'd send an agent from New York. For a suspected blackmailer, a phone call asking for the estate owner's contact information is sufficient. If Bickerton is still acting as Adler's agent, he could grant permission on the owner's behalf. And if he says no, we can still accumulate evidence to ask a judge for a warrant."

Jones left to prepare for his conversation with Bickerton. Neal drifted toward the door, then turned around and said, "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"Mozzie has an interest in those U-boat rumors."

"So?"

"Just be careful what you say around him."

###

"... or Hitler clones," Mozzie was saying. He'd listed a dozen different theories of what might be in a sunken German U-boat, each wilder than the last.

Peter glared at Neal, who grinned and shrugged. "I warned you," the kid said under his breath. Then he interrupted his friend. "Another glass of wine, Mozz?"

When Neal walked away to refill his friend's glass, Peter dropped the glare. He wasn't angry. His prior conversations with Mozzie had prepared him for this. Peter had walked into it willingly, aware that he and Neal were playing a game of sorts, and that Neal needed this moment of lightheartedness.

Peter had driven Neal home, and they'd entered the mansion together. June had asked Peter if he wanted to see Byron, the unspoken context being "one last time." The vibrant man Peter remembered now lay in a hospital bed. Byron turned his head toward the voices around him, but couldn't seem to form words. Peter walked to the bedside, announcing himself in the hopes that Byron remembered him, and thanked the man for acting as a mentor for Neal. He honestly didn't think Byron followed what he was saying.

And Neal... Smooth-talking Neal stood stiff and tongue-tied at the doorway. When Peter nodded toward the bed, Neal walked over, took Byron's hand and said, "Thanks, Byron. I'm going to bring fedoras back in style for you."

Peter was surprised to see Byron squeeze Neal's hand. It seemed the man was more aware of his surroundings than he'd realized. Peter wasn't sure if that made him glad, or sad. He thought maybe in Byron's place he wouldn't want to be aware. But no, he'd want to be able to hear El to the end even if he had to endure the pity of the people around him.

Neal had been silent on the way upstairs, and monosyllabic when talking to Mozzie. Peter gladly mentioned the U-boat theory to bring Neal back from whatever dark place his mind had gone.

Now Peter turned the conversation toward the investigation of Highbury, and the idea of sending Mozzie undercover as a bartender. They started building a resume for Dante Haversham, and even called El to ask if the gallery would give Dante a reference.

"Glowing reference!" the odd little man insisted while Peter spoke with his wife.

As Peter was ending the call, Mozzie said, "You aren't usually home on Thursday evenings, Neal. When are you going to tell me where you go?"

Neal checked his watch and grabbed his phone. "Be right back," he said, walking to the terrace. "Is Randy there?" he said as he closed the door behind him.

With Neal gone, Mozzie studied Peter. Suddenly he looked merely thoughtful rather than frighteningly intense. "We're on opposite sides, and that's never going to change as long as you're a cog in the wheel of the patriarchal government overlords. But we're both Neal's friends. Will you help keep an eye out for him? Make sure he doesn't spiral into a dark place when Byron dies?"

"Yeah. I'm planning to keep him busy with this case. That seems to help. Plus we'd already arranged for him to see a therapist this weekend about some other stuff. I assume she can talk to him about this, too."

"What other stuff?" Mozzie demanded.

Unsure what, if anything, Mozzie knew, Peter kept it vague. "He's had some flashbacks to events in his childhood. I need to make sure it won't happen when he's undercover."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "He told you about the abuse? He actually told you?"

"He didn't tell me," Peter protested. "I guessed."

"I knew it! I knew he was abused. You don't grow up in an orphanage and foster care and not learn to recognize the signs. But he'd never confirm it. This is why it will never work out with Kate. She has the same vibe. They each need someone whose damage isn't the same as their own. I can't believe he told you first." Mozzie paused. "Or did he?"

"What are you getting at?"

"What type of mind-control techniques did you employ to make this guess?"

Not willing to dignify that question with an answer, Peter said, "So Neal goes someplace every Thursday evening that you don't know about?"

"Oh I know where. I just don't know why. Are you planning to use your mind-control techniques to extract that answer, too?"

Neal opened the door from the terrace as Peter protested, "For the last time, the FBI does not control anyone's mind." As Neal closed the door behind him, Peter said, "Tell him, Neal. Tell him I'm not manipulating your mind.

With a wink that let Peter know the game was still in play, Neal responded, "I hear and obey. Oops. Not supposed to say that outside the office, am I? I mean: yes, boss."

"Ah-ha!" proclaimed Mozzie.

They convinced him they were kidding, and then put the finishing touches on their plans for Dante the bartender. Mozzie left, and Neal walked Peter back out to his car. When they were outside, Neal said, "Fedoras. That might have been the last time I talk to Byron, and all I could think of was fedoras."

"For what it's worth, I think he liked it," Peter said. "And you could go back in right now and say something else."

"I still don't know what to say. It should be something profound, shouldn't it? Con artists don't do profound. We live on the surface."

Peter sighed as he unlocked his car. "This isn't my area of expertise, but try thinking like a friend instead of a con."

###

As Neal left for work Friday morning, he offered again to stay home if June wanted. But she said no and he went to the Federal Building, relieved to get away and disgusted that he felt relieved.

He threw himself into the case, reading the transcripts of interviews with members of Adler's team. He made note of suggested follow-up questions in case any of these people were interviewed again, and looked up where they were working now. He couldn't find anything current about Gilbert Goddard, and the man's past seemed like a bare outline. How had Agent Hitchum missed the red flags in Gil's lack of background?

In the afternoon Neal reread all of the interviews by Hitchum, forcing himself to be objective. He didn't like the agent, but the man wasn't incompetent. Most of the interviews were thorough, if heavy-handed. But the transcript for Gil's was half the length of the others, and missed important, obvious questions.

Hitchum wasn't incompetent. Something, or someone, had influenced him, caused him to dismiss Gil too quickly. Neal's own father had been a dirty cop, and therefore the idea of an agent being on the take wasn't hard for him to imagine. But maybe it was too easy for him to imagine. He knew what Peter would say: We need more evidence.

How do you prove an FBI agent is... Neal's train of thought was interrupted by his cell phone. It was June calling. The normally calm woman was sobbing, making it tricky to follow everything she said, but the message was clear. The nurse said Byron had only a few hours left. His hands were already cold. Could Neal come home?

Peter offered to drive Neal himself, but the agent was clearly in the middle of an intense conversation with Tricia about the case. "No, I got it," said Neal, and he took a cab back to Riverside Drive.

June escorted Neal to Byron's bedside. This time Neal didn't let his mind get in his way. He laid a hand on Byron's shoulder and said, "I'll remember everything you told me. All of your advice. Even the parts I don't understand yet. I'll remember how happy you were, when you talked about your family. That's..." Neal cleared his throat. "That's what I want someday, and you showed me it's not just a dream for guys like us."

Then he moved away and took a seat on the sofa beside the oldest daughter, listening to Byron's labored breathing. Eventually the room grew very quiet. The rasping ceased once and for all and June said, "He's gone."

A tiny part of Neal wanted to snap that she didn't have to say it, that it was obvious. But mostly he felt numb.

###

He stayed in the music room as a series of matter-of-fact individuals arrived to transport the body and gather the clothing Byron would wear for his funeral. Neal felt it would be rude to leave, but staying felt awkward, too. He'd almost gotten up the nerve to tell June he was going upstairs to his apartment when the maid walked up to him and said, "Mr. Caffrey, your aunt is here."

He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. It was Friday evening. Noelle had sent an email days ago saying her flight would arrive Friday afternoon and she would stop by his home after checking into her hotel. They were supposed to go out for dinner.

Following the maid to the entry hall, Neal braced himself to see his mother's identical twin sister. "You're blonde," he said in surprise.

Noelle smiled up at him. At five-foot six and wearing three-inch heels, she didn't have to look up very far. She had his mother's slender build, the same face, the same green eyes, but the dark hair he expected was replaced with waves of warm blond tresses. "Yes, I went blonde after the divorce. I was considering going back to brunette recently, but thought it might be easier for you if I didn't look exactly like Meredith."

Neal nodded.

"Is this your aunt?" Neal hadn't noticed June approach, but here she was, taking Noelle's hands and being the gracious hostess even in mourning.

"Yes," Neal said. "Noelle Winslow, this is my landlady, June Ellington. It's... She's..." His mind faltered at any attempt of describing what had happened today.

"My son told me about Byron, and the maid told me he passed this afternoon," said Noelle. "I'm so sorry for your loss, and to intrude at such a time. Would you mind if I stole Neal away for a little while? Or I can come back later, if you prefer."

June laid a hand on Neal's shoulder for a moment. "Take all the time you need."

###

They went to a restaurant, ordered, and made desultory conversation as they ate. At the end of the meal Neal couldn't recall a single word that they'd said. He reached for the check, and Noelle covered his hand.

He looked into her eyes, which seemed to see right into him. "Tell me," she said.

"Tell you what?"

"There's something running through your mind. You don't want to say it, don't want to think about it, but it won't go away. Let it out. I won't judge."

His hand clenched under hers. Taking a deep breath, he stared at his fist on the table and said, "I didn't want to be there." Another deep breath, followed by a rush of words. "I didn't know what to do. I always know what to do, what to say, and this time I had no idea. Like a total coward, I hoped it would happen while I was away. That I wouldn't have to see it happen. But they called, and I came home, and I was there."

"Was it disturbing?"

Neal finally looked up at his aunt. "One of his daughters described it as peaceful when she called family members to let them know. I guess it was. But it was... Yeah, it was disturbing. Every time I take a breath, or hear you breathe, I hear an echo of him during those last hours."

"Are you sad?"

He pulled a credit card out of his wallet. "I should be."

She took the credit card out of his hand and pushed it back across the table. She placed her own card on the bill, and an unobtrusive waiter whisked it away. "You'll feel a wide range of emotions after the shock wears off. The shock is a coping mechanism, and it's perfectly normal. You don't have to feel guilty about not feeling anything right away. The emotions are still there, and they'll rise to the surface soon enough."

Neal frowned. "I don't get why I'm in shock. I've known for weeks that this was coming. I knew when I left work that it was imminent. How much more prepared could I be?"

"Would you say you're an optimist?" When Neal nodded, Noelle continued, "You had hope. To the very last second, some part of you believed that there was a way out, a way to save him."

"There should have been," Neal said, more vehemently than he expected. Some of the numbness was wearing away.

"Yes, sweetheart, there absolutely should have been. But you have to accept that there wasn't."

A/N: I've read that grief hits different people in different ways. The reactions of Neal and others in this story are based on the experiences of my family, and I wish Noelle had been there for us as we struggled with our own grief.