Title: The Accidental Wheelman
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Length: 1300-ish words
Note: Gen or pre-Moz/Sara. Set before 2.05. Reference to something from 4.13. Much thanks to sherylyn for beta and Ameripicking. <3
Summary: Mozzie and Sara's professional paths cross on Christmas Eve.


It was getting dark. Moz, idling at the light, had just decided to call it a night and make a late appearance at his chess club, when someone burst into the backseat of his cab in a flurry of parcels and snowflakes, and gasped, “Drive! Now!”

“What’s the rush?” muttered Moz, resenting the unceremonious intrusion, but then he glimpsed the three gorilla-like goons, two with guns in their hands, all of them enraged, pounding up the sidewalk. He slammed his foot down just as the light changed green.

A delivery van came at them crossways, sneaking through on red, but Mozzie gritted his teeth and swerved, fishtailing on the icy street, and somehow they were free and clear, sailing down Third Avenue, anonymous among all the other yellow cabs. He checked the rear-view mirror to make sure they’d really shaken the goons and caught the eye of his passenger, a stylish redhead in a charcoal turtleneck, her cheeks pink from the cold—or the chase. “Park Slope,” she said.

Mozzie flicked on his blinker and changed lanes. “Who were your friends?” He snuck another look. What he’d mistaken for a parcel was actually an ornately framed painting—and a familiar one, at that. “Is that Henderson’s Moses?”

“It’s stolen.” The redhead was distracted, examining the painting for damage.

“Obviously. Look, I know it’s none of my business—”

“You’re right. It isn’t.” She didn’t even spare him a glance.

“—and I generally try to avoid dipping my fingers into the mire of other people’s private business, but maybe don’t go around confessing your Grand Theft Artwork to every Tom, Dick and cab driver.”

She looked up then, rolling her eyes. “It was stolen. I’m retrieving it.”

“So it’s yours.” Mozzie made no effort to hide his skepticism.

He expected her to retort, It is now! but she only shrugged. “It belongs to my client.”

“Does your ‘client’ know you’re so loose-lipped?” Mozzie changed lanes to avoid an array of double-parked limos. When he was free to resume the conversation, he found her eyeing him suspiciously.

“My client is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. What did you think was going on?”

“Oh.” Mozzie frowned. “No comment.”

She wasn’t listening anyway, an unnecessary and unasked for explanation spilling from her lips. “They insure their entire collection with Sterling Bosch.”

“Insurance?” Moz experienced a dark sinking feeling.

“My employers.” The redhead tossed her hair.

The snow was falling more heavily now, but Mozzie didn’t let that stop him. He pulled over to the side of the road. They were nearly at the Battery Park underpass. “No. I have standards. I’m not providing aid and succor to someone who works insurance!”

“You didn’t suffer any such qualms when you thought I was a thief.” The redhead stayed stubbornly in her seat, holding the painting like a shield. “It can’t be more than thirty degrees out there!”

Mozzie glanced at his modified dashboard array. “Twenty-seven. Your point?”

“It’ll take forever to get another cab around here, especially at this time of night. The cold will damage the painting.”

“You should have thought of that when you went masterpiece hunting without a weatherproof bag.”

“I brought a bag, but I was interrupted.” The redhead huffed. “Would it make a difference if I told you those oafs who came after me work for Wilson Frankton Jr?”

“The weapons monger?”

“No, the racehorse.” The redhead leaned forward, her hair sparking with righteous indignation. “Frankton received this painting as payment for a shipment of automatic rifles.”

“So he didn’t steal it himself? You’re not undermining the hard work of some enterprising soul who went to all the trouble of—”

“What’s your medallion number?” The redhead took out her phone. “I’m calling the FBI.”

“The FBI? You’d have to raise your sights higher than that to disadvantage me,” scoffed Moz, but in truth, if the Suit got involved, the odds of him playing favorites in Mozzie’s favor were approximately fifty-fifty: he wouldn’t arrest Moz—there were no grounds, and if he tried, Neal would contrive to talk him around—but he might take advantage of the situation to, say, take a mugshot and record Moz’s fingerprints for posterity.

Mozzie cleared his throat. “Calm yourself, Red.” He pulled back into traffic. “Park Slope, you said.”

Red lowered her phone, but didn’t put it away. Her eyes were narrowed. “On second thought, any well-lit, populated area will suffice.”

“I resent what you’re implying.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “It’s a magnificent artwork. Let me take a proper look when we arrive, and I’ll waive the cab fare.”

“I’m not stupid.” But her gaze dropped to the canvas and lingered there appreciatively. “And the fare is a legitimate business expense.”

“Words to tarnish a man’s soul.”

“Which word? ‘Legitimate’?”

Mozzie chose to ignore that barb. “Besides,” he said, surveying the snow-swept cityscape around them, “I’ve always felt an affinity for that painting. Moses in the Rushes. From one orphan to another, I can’t help imagining—what?”

Red’s breath had caught audibly, but at his query, her mouth firmed. “Nothing.”

Ah. “You, too? My condolences.” Mozzie’s tone softened, despite himself.

“It’s been years.” She looked out the side window.

“Even so.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was small but seemed sincere. After a moment, she shook herself. “You can take a look at the painting when we get there. I’m on Second Street, 8602.”

“And a surprisingly easy mark,” observed Mozzie, to hide his real reaction.

“I’m not, actually. But I am armed with several inventive ways to make you regret it if you try anything—on me or Moses.”

“Duly noted.” Mozzie took exit 26 onto Hamilton Avenue. The snow was starting to settle, crunching under his tires. “So, working Christmas Eve…”

“Pot, kettle.”

“Touché.” They traversed Second Street in silence, and Moz pulled up outside the appointed brownstone. He turned on the interior light and leaned between the seats to take a proper look at the Henderson: the baby Moses in his reed boat, carried along by a fateful current. “It’s magnificent. And genuine, in case you had any doubts. Wait here, and I’ll see if I have anything you can use to protect it from the elements.”

He went and dug the silver emergency blanket out of the first aid kit in the trunk, then held the passenger door for the redhead while she swaddled Moses. When she was on the sidewalk, he offered his business card. “Call me next time you need a wheelman.”

She looked at him, a few snowflakes drifting in the air between them. After a moment of apparent indecision, she took the card and glanced at it. “Hal Hoover.”

“I should go,” said Mozzie, but he couldn’t move.

“You know, there’s a wine bar on the corner with a respectable selection.” She hefted the artwork in its silver wrapping. “Give me ten minutes to lock this away, and I’ll buy you a drink.”

Mozzie felt his eyebrows shoot up.

“Just one,” she clarified. “I mean, it’s Christmas. Us orphans have to look out for each other, right?”

“In that case, my treat.”

Red started up the steps, treading carefully. “If you can afford Park Slope prices, you must be overcharging your fares,” she shot over her shoulder.

“I do all right.” Mozzie leaned against his cab, arms folded, as the snow swirled around him. Red went inside, and a few seconds later, the second-floor lights came on, and then he darted up to the front door to check the names on the buzzers. Apartment 2 was S. Ellis.

Ellis. Sterling Bosch. Reality hit him like a chessboard to the back of the head. Sara Ellis, Insurance Investigator. She’d testified at Neal’s trial—against him!

Still, she was fascinatingly full of contradictions and quite lovely. And it was Christmas Eve. What harm could one drink do? Neal need never find out.

END