Chapter Text
“If your commutation hearing goes well, you’ll be a free man, Neal,” Mozzie stated the obvious. “That means no more handler or tracking anklet. You won’t even have to deal with a nosey parole officer demanding to know everything that you’re doing. So, what’s next on our agenda if that becomes a reality?”
Neal shrugged. “If that comes to pass, I don’t have a plan in mind, Moz. For the last almost four years, I’ve had to kowtow to the Bureau’s agenda without any say in the matter, so a spontaneous type of future where I can choose to live in the moment has its appeal.”
“C’mon, mon frere, resurrect some fond memories that need a do-over, like cappuccino in Rome or Dover sole across the Chunnel in London. Perhaps you may wish to envision more exotic past adventures in Dubai or Rio’s Ipanema Beach. The world will be our oyster, and we can finally live a little again.”
“Moz, you keep referring to us. I know you’re champing at the bit to leave New York, and I appreciate you’ve hung around for me. But since I’m not sure what I may do down the road, don’t continue to sacrifice your dreams for me, especially if this whole freedom thing doesn’t pan out.”
“But we’ve always been a team, Neal, ever since I met you when you were a wet behind the ears teenager from the Midwest,” Mozzie protested.
“Yeah, that was me, a stupid and careless idiot who allowed myself to get caught and then had to pay the price. But that was all on me, not you, Moz. You tried to warn me.”
“So, listen to my words of wisdom now,” the little bald man pushed. “If this possibility with the Feds doesn’t happen, you still have options. Actually, you always did have alternatives until you developed Daddy issues with the Suit.”
“That’s not how I see Peter,” Neal objected to that statement that made him sound needy.
“Look, mon frere, I realize you want to know the truth about a real father who left you and your mother high and dry. Growing up with a role model is a very important part of the maturation process for young children. But you never had that, so it’s not really surprising that Peter Burke might be fulfilling what you lacked for almost all of your life.”
“Mozzie, stop trying to play therapist. You suck at it,” Neal said irritably.
“I’m just sayin,’” the little man insisted.
“Well, don’t” Neal warned.
“Okay, but let’s stay on track. If you don’t get granted early release by your duplicitous jailors, you don’t have to continue sucking up to them ad infinitum. Our account in the Caymen Islands remains very robust, so we have the means to take up residence in a lot of places around the world that don’t honor extradition treaties with the US.”
Neal shrugged. “Well, countries like China and Russia are not very appealing, nor is practically all Sub-Saharan Africa. And the handful of ‘stan’ countries in Asia aren’t on my list of ‘must sees’ either,” he added drolly.
“Well, Samoa in Oceania might have potential. The weather is a lot more conducive to getting a tan,” Mozzie offered a novel idea.
When Neal didn’t seem impressed, the insistent little man looked pensive. “South America is a crapshoot because if Interpol issued a Red Notice, some of those Latin despots might allow open season for bounty hunters. And I know Mexico isn’t your cup of tea, but it really wouldn’t be too difficult to slip across the border for a few tequila sunrises and some salsa until things cool down and we can move on. I might be able to get the name of some ‘coyote’ who would be willing to take us down south for the right price, even though he may find it unusual for somebody to request being smuggled into Mexico.”
Neal sighed. “Mozzie, you’re always such a glass half-empty kinda guy. Worst case scenario, I have to stay here in New York to serve out my original sentence. That’s really not such a hardship. Then I’ll be a truly free man.”
“To do what, mon frere? Do you still have dreams of finding some sweet young thing, getting married, then living in the suburbs to raise 2.2 offspring? Neal, that’s not who you are, and I think, deep down, you know that.”
“Truthfully, Buddy, I don’t know who I am or what I want my future to be,” a young con man admitted.
“And I blame your handler for that,” a former cohort in crime said bitterly. “The Suit has had a long time to mess with your head, and what I see ain’t pretty. And I hate to harp on this, but what happens if the Feds renege on allowing you to have that carrot they’ve been dangling in front of you for years? I wouldn’t put it past them to keep you hobbled for life now that they know your potential as an asset. They’d surely want to keep their claws sunk into you forever.”
“Peter would never allow that to happen,” Neal quickly answered, but a little bit of doubt was still niggling in the young man’s brain. Could he really be sure that Peter would chance ruining his career by defying the system?
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Ten days later, Peter was hellbent on confronting his superior and doing just that. “This never should have happened, Reese!” he growled out in frustration.
“You’re right, Peter. Your confidential informant fleeing New York never should have happened because it gives White Collar a big black eye,” Hughes said nastily.
“That’s not what I mean, as you well know!” Peter continued to fume. “The powers that be led Neal to believe that they had his back and the commutation hearing was just a formality since his spectacular record working for us spoke for itself. Nonetheless, they insisted that they had to follow protocol by hearing evaluations of his good character, but that was just supposed to be a formality, as well. And every one of those supportive statements was glowing, including mine. Then, without any valid excuse, they pulled the rug out from under him. That’s just not fair or right.”
“No, Peter, it’s politics. The Bureau must appear to be fair when they evaluate a criminal’s supposed rehabilitation because the FBI is always under scrutiny and is forced to give lip service to transparency. They want to document everything to cover their ass. But it doesn’t really mean a thing when procedures are done behind closed doors. I’m surprised a con man like Caffrey was gullible enough to buy into it.”
“That’s because he was establishing trust with me as well as the Bureau. They gave him hope and then they abruptly took it away. I don’t blame him for giving us the finger and blowing town.”
“You better not let others hear you say that, Peter. Sometimes I think the walls have ears,” Hughes cautioned.
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But another person did hear Peter say it. Elizabeth commiserated with her husband when he returned home from work after the debacle had unfolded. “You’re right, Hon. It wasn’t fair and I feel so bad for Neal. He probably found himself wondering if they’d ever agree to let him off the hook, and most likely that’s probably why he ran.”
Peter was nodding his head in agreement. “And to make matters worse, it’s obvious they think I was complicit in his escape,” he said morosely. “OPR actually has somebody tailing me whenever I leave the building, and they’re not even taking the trouble of being covert about it. So, I’m going to do an electronic sweep of our townhouse to make sure there are no listening devices spying on me in my own home.”
“You have a tool that can do that?” Elizabeth seemed a bit impressed.
“I do now. I just happened to have acquired it when I tossed Neal’s loft and found one of Mozzie’s electronic gizmos hidden in a secluded compartment in the wall. June finally told me what it was and how to use it. I think Ms. Ellington might feel a bit sorry for me and realizes I’m caught between a rock and a hard place.”
“June is a very wise woman with a lot of compassion when it comes to the right people she allows into her orbit,” Elizabeth commented.
“Yeah, and right now I need to be smart, as well,” Peter agreed.
“Did you happen to find anything else, Hon, like a goodbye letter from Neal addressed to you or maybe a map of the globe with some arrows drawn on it?”
“No, El, Neal wanted a clean break without putting me and my career in jeopardy. I guess I can thank him for that if I ever catch him.”
“Are you going to take up the chase again, Peter?” El asked softly.
“Not if I can help it, but I don’t make the rules. I’m just supposed to follow them blindly like a good little soldier.”
“Well, maybe don’t be so good at your job this time if the Bureau insists that you pursue him,” Elizabeth whispered in her husband’s ear, just in case their house really was bugged.
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Thankfully, Peter was spared the unpleasant task of tracking down someone who had become a friend as well as a CI. The department heads obviously thought he was a compromised liability and practically kept him chained to his desk working cold cases. Of course, Peter was resentful, but his biggest concern—a fear really, was that others might get lucky in their no-holds barred approach to catching an escaped felon. Over the years that Peter had once chased his slippery adversary, he had learned not to believe bogus death reports coming from abroad. What caused him to worry now was that perhaps this time one would be real.
But time did move on as it always does, and Peter finally allowed his anxiety to lessen with each passing week after nothing about Neal’s whereabouts could be unearthed. He began visualizing him in different places around the world, maybe eating prime beef in Argentina, playing baccarat in Monte Carlo, or even snorkeling and surfing in far-flung Australia. “I’m living vicariously through you, Buddy, so make your new life a good one,” Peter would tell his old partner in his mind.
Then, nine months into Neal’s absence, Peter received a call from June Ellington who inexplicably invited him to join her for lunch at a tucked away little restaurant down in Brighton Beach. The establishment was allegedly owned and maintained by a faction of the new Cosa Nostra who wished to put a legitimate face on their money laundering enterprises. Of course, Peter was intrigued and graciously agreed to this invitation that had come out of the blue. And when he met the older woman on the following Saturday in a darkened back booth, it was like that first encounter between them after Neal had taken up residence in her mansion. She still looked elegantly poised, and her lips held a hint of a smile. The only thing missing was a small dog cradled in her arms.
“I’m so glad to see you, Peter. I trust that you are well?” she asked solicitously.
“I’m fine, Ms. Ellington, but please forgive my manners. Perhaps I should be asking about your wellbeing?”
“Agent Burke, you don’t have to be circumspect in your questions. It’s perfectly okay to ask about Neal, but unfortunately, I’m as much in the dark as you are. I believe the dear boy wants to protect me by keeping me out of the loop. But enough about all that. Now, perhaps you should study the specials of the day so we can order our lunch. I happen to favor the veal carbona myself.”
Peter watched the sly doyenne push the menu closer to him, and when he opened it, he found himself staring at a sealed envelope with the word “Suit” written in bold block letters across the front. Peter used his own sleight of hand to slide it under a napkin until it found its way into his overcoat pocket.
For the next hour, he tried not to fidget as he listened to June talk about her charity work and some repairs she had to make in her residence. However, he was extremely thankful when she finally ended the small talk by claiming she had another appointment in the city. He quickly signaled for the check, but the hovering waiter waved him off saying it had already been taken care of by a longtime cherished patron.
Once back in his car, Peter stifled the impulse to open what was obviously a letter from Mozzie. Maybe Neal’s former handler was still harboring a healthy dose of paranoia, but it never hurt to be cautious just in case certain people were watching. But once he was safely locked behind a closed townhouse door in Brooklyn, he gave in to his nervous curiosity. As Elizabeth looked over his shoulder, he sliced open the envelope and was intrigued to find an open-ended first-class airline ticket to Cancún in Mexico and a small ferry ticket to a place called Isla Mujeres. The most intriguing thing about this development was a yellow post it note adhered to the tickets with more block lettering. “Dire situations call for dire actions. Please come!”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Elizabeth whispered.
“No, it doesn’t,” her husband agreed.
“Are you going to go, Hon?”
Peter didn’t answer at first because he was using El’s work computer to look up a place he’d never heard of before. He found that Isla Mujeres was a small Caribbean island located on the Yucatan Peninsula. It was touted for its turquoise water, white‑sand beaches, Mayan history, and a relaxed, friendly vibe. And it just so happened to be an easy 30‑minute ferry ride from Cancún.
Finally, Peter answered El’s question. “This seems very cloak and dagger, just like Mozzie. But it’s also very out of character for him to ask for help.”
“That’s true,” Elizabeth agreed. “I think he’s made it almost impossible for you to ignore this mysterious plea, so I assume you’re going to check it out?”
Peter shrugged. “Well, I do have weeks of vacation time accrued at the Bureau, so maybe I will take a trip down below the border to bask in the sun for a bit,” he replied, trying for blasé but missing the mark by miles. His wife saw right through her husband’s ruse.
“If that’s the case, Hon, then I’m going with you. Solitary vacations are no fun, and we haven’t taken a trip together since you took me to Belize for our anniversary years ago.”
“El, I don’t know what this is really all about, and I don’t want to put you in danger,” Peter tried to dissuade Elizabeth from tagging along in an unknown scenario. He always wanted to keep her safe, and he wasn’t sure what this trek would entail.
“Peter, we’re a team, and it’s obvious that this is somehow connected to Neal. If Neal ran, Mozzie ran right beside him, and I doubt they’re separated now. So, I’m willing to take this risk if you are,” she insisted.
At that point, her husband threw in the towel because there was no changing her mind.
“I love you, Hon,” he said fondly.
“Right back at you, Hon,” came the answer.
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The next day, Peter submitted his vacation papers, and when Hughes signed off on his two-week request, it was a done deal. As the New York couple boarded the jet at JFK that would be taking them to the unknown, Peter fretted about what he was going to find when he finally made landfall in a foreign country. What the hell did “Dire Situations and Dire Actions” really mean? Was Mozzie just being Mozzie—obscure and annoying? Or was he alluding to something that he needed Peter’s help fixing? He must have been desperate to turn to his arch nemesis for assistance.
With that thought uppermost in his mind, Peter had prudently left his FBI credentials at home since he had no jurisdiction outside of the United States. Besides, he wasn’t an agent today. He was just another burnt-out worker bee taking his wife on a much-needed holiday.