(Disclaimer: Not my characters.)
Since a two-mile radius doesn't give you much room to roam, Neal frequently passes the fleabag motel where Peter once tried to store him. Some days he strolls by it with a grin, occasionally offering it a tip of his fedora.
Some days he strides quickly past, barely glancing at it. That's when he has something tickling his conscience—never anything big, of course. Just enough to make him feel that maybe that place really was what he deserved.
The day he finds Adler's stolen art, he hurries past, hands stuffed in his pockets, and never looks up at all.