Spring Break

Chapter 8

Neal's loft, Manhattan. March 22, 2005. Tuesday evening.

There wasn't much time left. Neal had been avoiding this for almost two months, and if he didn't get it done in the next few weeks, he could be in serious trouble.

He knew he could ask for help, but it felt awkward. He'd pulled off intricate heists and was fluent in multiple languages. How could he admit to being intimidated by a mere tax return? It was only two pages long, although the instructions were well over a hundred pages.

In his prior career as a thief and con artist, he hadn't paid income tax. Then he'd been hired by the FBI at the end of 2003, receiving his first paycheck in January of 2004. So this was the first year he'd received a W-2. It and the tax form were side-by-side on his dining table, in all their mystifying glory.

He procrastinated by turning on classical music and pouring a glass of wine.

And as if summoned by the wine, Mozzie was at the door with his distinctive knock. Neal hastily shoved the forms beneath his textbooks, but he knew it was a lost cause. Mozzie was like a bloodhound when it came to government documents.

Sure enough, in less than three minutes, Mozzie had uncovered the forms. "A 1040EZ!" he exclaimed. "Have I taught you nothing? We must itemize." Mozzie opened one of Neal's notebooks, muttering as he jotted down proposed deductions.

"We? Since when have you paid taxes?"

"Know your enemy, mon frère. I've taken multiple tax preparation courses."

Peter's office, Manhattan. March 23, 2005. Wednesday morning.

"Do you have a minute?"

Peter looked up to see Neal, who was holding a file folder. When Peter nodded, Neal handed over the file, which contained a few sheets of paper covered with notes. "You can have a seat," Peter offered.

Neal shook his head, and remained standing just inside the doorway. He looked like he was keeping an eye on the stairs, in case he needed to escape.

A quick glance told Peter the notes weren't in Neal's handwriting. A longer glance told him the topic was tax deductions. He raised his brow as he turned over the first page and glanced down the second. He continued through the third and fourth pages, and then looked at Neal. "If I'm reading this correctly, you're looking for a refund that's more than your annual salary. You're begging for an audit."

Neal winced. "Yeah, I could tell Mozzie was going overboard."

"This is Mozzie's handwriting?" Peter wondered if he should file this in case they needed it for evidence one day.

"Not really. He adopts different handwriting for each project. This is how he thinks an accountant would write."

Peter thought back to the precise ledgers he and his fellow accounting students had produced in college, and had to give Mozzie credit. "He isn't wrong. I mean, about the handwriting. Please tell me you're not going to let him do your taxes."

Neal glanced over his shoulder, as if double-checking no one else would overhear. "I want to do them myself, but I'm worried about getting it wrong."

That's when Peter realized that Neal had probably never dealt with income tax before. And it gave him an idea.

Federal Building, Manhattan. March 25, 2005. Friday morning.

June Ellington and Elizabeth Burke walked through the White Collar bullpen, followed by the stares of the agents who were at their desks.

"Looks like our being here is a surprise," El said as they walked up to Peter's office. He was on the phone, and waved them toward the conference room. She took a seat at the table.