A/N: I'm excited about this chapter, we get some answers finally. All the reviews have been extremely kind. I was going to break my every other day rule, but then RL got in the way. :O and I am sorry! But I have NOT had time to respond to any of my reviewers. But I still love you all the same! *squishes in hugs* Ok… enough of me. Let's get back to the story!

Neal hadn't seen Moz so worked up since he had "discovered" that global warming was a government conspiracy. Apparently, a secret cabal within the Pentagon was using taxpayer money to monkey around with the weather using highly advanced compounds called chemtrails. Moz had named Toyota as a major co-conspirator in this axis of evil and, in between gulps of wine, had sworn he'd never buy a Prius. Neal had done his best to avoid rolling his eyes.

And at the moment, Moz looked caught between choking on his drink and stroking out. All right, maybe "stroking out" was an exaggeration, but Neal didn't like the way his eyes were bugging. Best to cut to the chase.

"What did you find?"

Mozzie was off and running. "Her Pop was a fed, right? Well, 5 years ago, he was killed in an accident on a country road up in Maine, in the middle of winter. The thinking was that he and his wife were out for a drive, he hit a patch of ice, the car careened off the road past some trees, and crashed straight into an ice-covered pond, and they both died. Nice little prepackaged story. But our girl … Something made her question it. She started digging into the incident. By the way, I will continue to refer to it as an 'incident,' because it was definitely no accident at all."

He paused for breath, and Neal seized his chance to speak. "Before you go passing judgment, maybe it's not as sinister as you suspect."

Moz shook his head. "You weren't there, Neal. Her walls were covered in newspaper clippings, research, classified FBI files… God knows how she got her hands on those… When she wakes up, I would love to talk to her about that."

"Focus, Moz." Neal walked over to the kitchen counter and got the coffeemaker started.

"Oh, and there were photos," Moz went on. "Lots of photos, especially of her father. Those stalker types, with awesome backgrounds and kinda blurry faces? Lots of those. He was being followed, man. And they were taken after his retirement, because I saw he had a cane. Not to mention, there were lots of photos she took herself. Her entire closet is a dark room."

"Crimefighting photographer. Nice." Neal smiled, trying to add a little levity to keep his friend from having a coronary.

Moz waved him off. "Here's the important part. I think she made a break-through. She found a potential cover-up … within in the FBI."

Neal blinked slowly and tried not to make his sigh too dismissive, since it was early in the morning and he didn't have the energy to hold it in. This was so typically Moz. "Another one? Really?"

"I'm telling you man, those suits are more crooked than cons! Look, whatever it was, we have just found the apartment of The Woman Who Knew Too Much. Somebody caught on to what she was doing and tried to eliminate her."

Neal licked his lips. Moz seemed serious, but he had to ask. "Are you sure? That seems…"

"Sensational? Over the top? Insane? You know what they say."

Neal had no idea what they said, but he took a stab at it. "Truth is stranger than fiction?"

"No! Truth is rarely pure and never simple. That might seem like a dramatic exaggeration, but I have proof. Where's your computer?"

"Over there." He nodded his head at the bedside table, and Moz bolted to retrieve it. He quickly stuffed in his flashdrive, pressed a couple of buttons, and handed it over to Neal.

"Five hundred and thirty-six photos?"

Moz shrugged. "We need details … and I felt this needed to be done right. Besides, the cops will be crawling all over that place in an hour. I needed to record everything while it was still pristine."

As Neal started browsing the photos, he started to think that the girl he met last night would be a good match for Moz. She had done some very impressive work, documenting all of her father's actions before and after his shooting and retirement.

"He seemed to have been suspicious about something, and soon after that, he took a bullet to the knee," Moz said as Neal browsed. "Peculiar, no? Anyway, thanks to Shannon we know that he filed a complaint about friendly fire, but the investigation went nowhere and he dropped it." Neal scanned the files; looking at maps and documentation about the photographed locations, snapshots of different case files… it was a gigantic pile of information. Fortunately, Shannon had highlighted things that seemed to present some connections. Most intriguing to him was the photo of her parents' car.

Neal leaned in closer for a better look at an evidence snapshot with a lot of promise. It was a close-up of the twisted driver's side bumper of her dad's classic Buick Riviera … with a smattering of very blue paint flecks on a very green car. Neal tensed.

"She had every right to be suspicious."

"What'd I tell you?" Moz looked up from texting.

"And the cops are there?"

"As we speak, mon frere. Is Peter going to be working this?"

Neal shrugged. "He hasn't called yet. But, in any case, I'm the prime suspect right now. Even if he does take this on, he might not be able to include me."

"Then we continue working it ourselves." Moz tucked his PDA into his shirt pocket and stood up. "I have to go. I have someone with information."

"Let me know what you find," Neal said. "I'll see you later." Moz waved once in farewell and slipped out the door silently.

Alone at last, Neal sat there thinking and unconsciously rubbing his arms until it dawned on him why he was feeling a little chilly. He smiled and shook his head. The things you forgot when you were excited, honestly. Neal padded over to his bed to lay out his suit and dress while the coffeemaker worked its magic. There was no time to waste; he had to grab a cup of joe and get out of here. If Peter wouldn't be able to include him in this then he'd have to head straight for the source.

Eyes on the mirror, hand and comb working in waves, Neal slicked back his hair. He picked up his pea coat from its spot on the bed, shrugged into it, and checked his pockets to make sure he had his wallet. His fedora lay ignored on the dining table. Fashion demanded this; it didn't go well with the coat. But common sense and the weather both demanded something protective, so he slung his favorite plaid muffler around his neck and snagged a pair of leather gloves on his way out. The loft door closed almost noiselessly behind him. He avoided the squeaky boards under the stairs, and the living room was empty when he made the landing, which was a relief. He'd be able to escape the house before June could detain him with pleasantries, or pastries, or coffee, or whatever. He slipped out the front door and caught a cab.

Neal worked through what he knew during the quiet ride. This girl's father had been run off the road in the dead of winter, possibly by his own people. His daughter, trying to rectify matters by investigating on her own, had been shot in an alley. Anger flared as his thoughts drifted back to Kate. She too had been killed by people who hid in the shadows, and his hunt for her killers was on hold because of this case.

"You okay, man?" The cabbie was looking back at him expectantly, and Neal realized they were idling in front of the hospital.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." He pulled out his wallet and handed the money to the driver. His hands were shaking. He stuffed them back in his pockets.

The cabbie looked sympathetic. "It's okay. Every time I gotta take my Elsie here for chemo, it messes with me pretty bad."

"Really? So I'm not the only one?" Neal let himself look just lost and pained enough to be convincing. It wasn't hard.

"Not at all. I hope it goes well for you." The driver smiled his encouragement.

"Thanks." He opened the door and the icy cold cut through every layer of clothing on his body. It took him a moment to catch his breath and adjust. As he stood across the street from the slick sliding doors of the oldest hospital in America, he watched as people entered and left. Almost compulsively, his thoughts drifted back to Kate. Had she survived the blast, Neal would have pulled strings to get her brought here. Bellevue had the best trauma center in Manhattan. He would have come here with flowers and get well cards, and stayed by her bedside while she slept. If only he had insisted they meet somewhere else. If only he had known. If only.

His pocket was vibrating. Shaking off the mounting anxiety and guilt, he stuffed the darkness into the recesses of his mind and glanced at the caller ID. It made him smile that he'd even looked. Who else would it be this early in the morning? He hit "send."

"Peter! I was beginning to worry you had forgotten I was on your team."

"No. Not really. I, uh, well..."

"Couldn't involve me?"

"Yeah. Good news, though. You've been cleared as the main suspect, and we have a new lead."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I need you at the Bureau. You're on your way?"

"Of course," he answered with a cheerfulness he didn't feel, and hung up.

Peter wasn't there to see Neal's mask fall, to see the slumped shoulders or the sigh of disappointment. He wouldn't be talking to Shannon today. Neal glanced up at the higher floors of the building. Somewhere behind one of those windows was a woman who needed him. She'd done a very brave thing, and now he had a duty to see her investigation through to the end. Neal didn't believe in destiny, but he did believe in the old saying that there were no accidents. He'd followed his gut and gone back for a reason. He'd found her in that alley for a reason. He could help her, and he would. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, and walked away with purpose.

"Peter! Hey, guys, I brought coffee." He gently slid some papers out of the way and set the tray of cups on the conference room table. "So, what'd I miss?" Peter's analytical stare was easily ignored. Instead, Neal politely acknowledged the scattering of NYPD detectives sitting among the agents.

"Well, Miss Gregory was in the middle of unraveling a cover-up. Her father and mother were murdered. Her father was undoubtedly the target, and someone tried to make it look like an accident."

He let his face twist in puzzlement, knowing full well Peter was gauging his reaction. "A cover-up."

"Yeah." The word was heavy. "We think that a dirty cop, or possibly a corrupt FBI agent, was on the payroll of the Boston mob."

Neal nodded solemnly, even though he knew this already. And while he kind of enjoyed hearing "corrupt" and "FBI" in the same sentence, he still felt a little bad for Peter, who probably felt disgusted and slightly filthy by association.

"I see. And when did this person kill Shannon's parents?"

"Five years ago. We need to talk to the SAC in Boston, and maybe even the mobster that Agent Gregory was pursuing. The guy only went down for possession, but the DA got the charges to stick for a very long time." Peter's jaw twitched, probably, Neal reasoned, because his famous gut was bothering him. "We'll be driving."

Neal flashed him a megawatt smile. "Road trip!"

Peter just groaned. But as soon as they were alone and walking to the car, Peter grabbed his elbow and asked what Mozzie had dug up.

Neal shrugged. "He couldn't even find a parking ticket on her. But he did say this was an FBI cover-up."

Peter shook his head. "Unbelievable. If we keep uncovering cover-ups, pretty soon there'll be no FBI left." He stalked ahead to the car, fuming all the way about crooks in the ranks, while Neal desperately fought down a smile.

On the way to Boston, Neal had the back of the Taurus all to himself. Detective Tamara Marcelo was riding along and she'd called shotgun, but frankly he felt he'd gotten the better deal. Sitting pretty in the middle of the backseat, he enjoyed the panoramic view and let his limbs sprawl out like a spider, stretching himself as far as he could because there was nobody to bump into. The winter scenery flew by on either side as they made their way out of the city. They drove down the highway and Neal absently took in all the spruce and fir trees dusted with snow. It was relaxing. Living with so many other people crammed into a fairly small town, it was hard to imagine any other kind of life, but once Peter hit the 95 and they'd been driving a few miles, it felt like they'd slipped into Monet's "Cart on the Road to Honfleur." The houses they passed were half a mile apart and small towns lay quiet under dazzling white blanket of snow.

Marcelo had been fractious and difficult to deal with, but Neal wasn't terribly concerned about the friction. It was exactly what he expected from a hardcore cop begrudgingly working with a convicted felon. He knew he'd win her over eventually. That said, they'd been driving for a while and she had yet to say a word to him. Squirming in the silence, he checked the clock on the dashboard. Another couple hours before they pulled into Boston, at least. His eyes darted around as he looked for something to occupy him. He couldn't afford to get lost in his own head, especially not with other people around. Something was winking at him from under Peter's seat. He reached down and grabbed it. It was a slightly dusty clicky pen. Clicking it in and out, he gazed out the window again, watching the snowdrifts pass by. The countryside was gorgeous, and soon they would be entering Worchester. On second thought, maybe the countryside was less Monet and more Renoir…

"Stop that!" Peter barked.

Neal jumped and dropped the pen back on the floor. "Sorry. So, what's the plan?"

Marcelo finally said something, even though it wasn't exactly a newsflash. "We're going to Boston and investigate Agent Gregory's death. That should lead us to Shannon's attacker." She shot a look over to Peter. "This means FBI takes the case, doesn't it?"

"Yep. It's ours, now."

"Care to leave us in the loop?"

"You're in the car, aren't you? Frankly, I think we should keep working this from the NYPD precinct, to keep as much distance as we can from the FBI. If we have a mole, I don't want them to know what's going on."

Neal nodded. It was a sound idea, especially since Hughes had called them at the last gas station. The FBI was leading the investigation and technically Organized Crime should have taken over, but a sudden flare-up in Chinatown had the department overextended and Peter had been granted permission to continue running the case. OPR hadn't been notified yet of the possible corruption angle and Hughes was deliberately dawdling with the initial paperwork, a move that Peter had praised. After the White Collar division's previous experiences with OPR, nobody was eager to involve them in this until it was absolutely necessary.

In any case, Neal was completely confident that his handler could handle this.

Boredom struck again. He was still exhausted from the night before, and he decided a cat nap wouldn't hurt. He toed off his shoes and neatly lined them up underneath Marcelo's seat, then brought his legs up to sit Indian style and tipped his head back against the headrest. His lashes fluttered shut, and he relaxed. And almost immediately, he saw her.

Eyes of deepest blue gazed into his. Soft hair the color of molten chocolate framed an angel's face. Her familiar pouty little lip stuck out a little. He gently brushed her wavy tresses off her cheeks and leaned in to kiss her. Warmth enveloped him, and it was so pleasant that it took him a minute to realize there was a problem. The warmth wasn't coming from the inward flush from a kiss. He looked down and gave a shout; Kate's left pant leg was on fire. He beat it down, trying to put it out, but it was like slapping a ball of dough onto a pile of flour. The fire just exploded in all directions. He looked around for something to fight the blaze, but he was alone in an empty room. His coat! He took it off to smother the flames, but by the time he got it off, she was completely engulfed.

"Kate!"

No screaming, no pain. Just his name. "Neal." Her voice was velvet and growly, like when they made love. "Neal, look deeper. It's not what it looks like."

"Kate!" He reached out for her, but she dissolved into ash and the wind blew her away. "KATE!"

He sat straight up, fighting with whatever was restraining him and gasping for air. It was the seatbelt, looming over him. Somehow he'd fallen asleep and toppled over on his side. He glanced at the front seat and huffed in relief. The car was stopped in a parking lot, snow was drifting gently down onto the windshield, and he was alone. Shaking off the remnants of the dream, he fought his way through the seatbelts, sat up, and tried to straighten his clothing. A welcome sight out the window distracted him from his thoughts.

Peter was walking towards the car with a take-away bag, breath fogging in the frosty air. They nodded at each other in greeting as the agent climbed in and slammed his door shut.

"Marcelo's in the head. She'll be out soon."

Neal yawned. "A'right."

Peter quietly situated himself in the driver's seat while Neal stretched his arms and finally got a look at the back seat, which had started out tidy and was now a total mess. He shook his head. During the course of his epic nap, he'd apparently made a little nest for himself out of his pea coat, and snack wrappers – undoubtedly Peter's and Marcelo's – littered the floor of the cabin.

"Here, I got you some dinner. I was going to wake you up and take you in with us, but you looked like you needed the rest."

The small consideration was surprisingly touching. Neal gave him a genuine smile. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter nodded. "It's nothing fancy, but it's food." He leaned across the front elbow rest and handed Neal a steaming sack of Taco Bell.

Neal's mouth wisely said nothing. Neal's face said, "I beg to differ." He eyed the contents suspiciously, resealed the top, and handed it back to Peter. His smile was tight, now. "You know, that's really kind of you, but I'm actually not that hungry."

Peter snatched the bag away. "Fine, then. More for me."

Neal ignored this and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "How much longer until we hit Boston?"

"About 45 minutes. Oh, wait! Here, I got you something else." Peter handed him a small book, obviously purchased from the 7-11 across the street from the Taco Bell. "There ya go. You can put that clicky pen to good use."

Neal accepted the book – pamphlet, really – from Peter. Printed on gray recycled paper with a goofy cartoon cowboy on the cover, the title screamed, NINETY-NINE CROSSWORDS FOR NINETY-NINE CENTS! WOW!

"You're too kind."