Chapter 4

"Neal? Neal…please answer, Neal. I think it's important."

June's words ease him awake. No, not ease. Ease suggests the process is comfortable and relaxed. June's words jolt him awake. He blinks twice, and brings a palm to his pounding forehead, taking in his surroundings. He's sprawled out on the floor, and his apartment looks like a crime scene. The normally immaculately-kept space is littered with bottles, crimson-stained tissues, and discarded rigs, and several paintings have clattered to the floor. There's a bandage wrapped around his upper arm, and it takes a moment for him to remember slicing a considerable gash into his arm trying to cut the belt off when he was too drunk to get it off himself. The radio sings a low, static hum, and he reaches out an arm, flailing slightly until he slams the 'off' button. After slipping on a shirt, making sure it covers both the bandage and his bruised, pock-marked forearm, he rises, shaking out his hair, and scrubbing his hands over his face. After kicking the bottles under the sofa and stashing his rigs in the cubbyhole behind the painting next to his bed, he crosses over to the door and opens it a crack. "Yeah."

"Peter's here, I think it's rather important," June pauses. "Are you alright, dear? You look pale." The deep click-clack of Peter's shoes coming down the hall warn Neal, and he clears his throat and stands a little taller just as his boss shows up in the doorway. Neal forces a smile at June.

"I'm fine. Just a little under the weather. Thanks, June." He nods at her, and opens the door all the way, making room for Peter to enter. The men lock eyes and study each other as Peter crosses into the apartment. He pauses just inside the doorway, then turns to look at Neal.

"You were right. The 15 clients are somehow connected to his charitable contributions," Peter admits, adjusting his trousers before sitting at the table. Neal pours coffee into a mug for Peter, then some for himself, taking the seat across from him.
"Have we identified if the charity is legit?"
Peter nods, sipping his coffee. "Yep. All we know at this point, though, is that it's a non-profit drug and alcohol rehabilitation facility." Neal's breath hitches, and Peter stops. "What."
"Nothing. So how are the 15 clients connected?"
"Not sure yet, all we know is they are all somehow affiliated with the organization."
Neal raises his eyebrows, looking down at his coffee mug. "So, I'm assuming you're here to tell me you're proud of my genius and I can return to work?"

When Peter doesn't respond, Neal looks up. Peter's eyes are locked on something on the counter. When Neal turns to see what's caught his mentor's attention, his heart sinks. "Peter, I-"

"What did you do, Neal?" All Neal can do in response is sink a little lower in his chair while Peter stands, crossing the room and inspecting the knife on the counter covered in blood. The agent turns, now visibly angry. "What the hell happened?"

Neal shuts his eyes, making sure to stay facing away from Peter. "It was an accident, cut myself cooking," he lies through his teeth.

Peter nods, though clearly isn't convinced. "Cut yourself cooking. Where?"
Neal finally rises, crossing over to the knife and running it under water. "Don't worry about it, let's get to the office."

Peter grunts in response, and studies Neal for a moment. It's a test. If Neal breaks eye contact, he's fucked. He maintains himself, and he almost thinks he's clear, when Peter's brow furrows. "You're hungover again." Neal breaks eye contact and studies the knife in the sink, feeling like he's just been punched in the gut. Peter shifts, folding his arms across his chest. "What's going on, Neal. Talk to me."

"I had a few drinks. Is that a problem? I'm a big boy, I can handle myself."

"Can you?" Peter challenges, and finally, Neal cracks, his voice low and as close to menacing as it can get.

"Listen, Peter. I get it. I'm your little project. A single goddamn thing happens to me and Hughes will serve you up to the board on a silver platter. But I am your employee and what goes on in my personal life is no concern of yours. Just forget it, and let's get to work."

This catches Peter off guard, and he stops a moment, then nods, looking down. "Yeah. Okay. Let's go."

Neal knows better than to believe he's off the hook, but it doesn't stop him from grabbing the flask from the door of his end table and slipping it into the messenger-style briefcase he slings over his shoulder before following Peter out the door, because God knows he needs it.

In the boardroom, Neal is antsy. It feels like the entire White Collar division is crammed into the space, Neal is claustrophobic, and no matter what happens in the room, Peter has been staring at him since he sat down.

"At this point, we've identified the 15 clients, but we can't determine association with the rehabilitation clinic due to doctor/patient confidentiality laws," Diana says, shrugging.

"Do we have anything more on Wilcox's financials?" says Jones, sipping his coffee.

Diana points her clicker to a graph on the flat screen. "Several malpractice lawsuits were filed against the facility in 2010, shortly after Wilcox gave a few lucky clients a pass on their contract fees. They were dropped when the plaintiffs involved all rescinded their claims, nearly simultaneously."

"I tried to look into the details of the lawsuits, but again, protected under doctor/patient confidentiality," Diana admits, clearly bothered by this. Jones nods, looking down for a moment, before suddenly standing, shoving his hands into his pockets and studying the graph.

"Something isn't right here. I don't think it's too early to consider an undercover investigation," Jones ventures, crossing his arms. Peter's lips slightly twitch upward, still focused on Neal. The younger man's heart sinks. He knows where this is going.

"I think that's a great idea, Jones. Neal, start packing. You're going to rehab."