No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(25)

“I never said you did. I’m here to help. I want to do what I can.”

“You have a family to look after.”

“I’m serious. Is there something I need to know about?”

McNeal took a few minutes to tell Peter about the call from Seligman, the sudden cancellation of the meeting after a break-in, and someone remotely accessing the Dropbox files before deleting them. “So, after learning about Caroline’s death, and that she was investigating Sophie Meyer’s death, this all points to the same thing.”

Peter was quiet for a few moments, as if contemplating everything he’d just been told.

“I think Caroline knew too much. Whatever she had unearthed about Sophie Meyer and the nature of her death got her killed. That’s what I think.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“Maybe not. But I’m not buying that Caroline’s death was a suicide.”

“I never believed that for one fucking moment. We’re on the same page for sure. She knew something, Jack.”

“The psychologist I was supposed to speak to alluded to an investigation Caroline was working on. It must’ve been related to the documents we saw. But all the notes the psychologist took from the sessions are gone. Everything.”

“Let me make a few calls.”

McNeal shifted the phone to his other ear. “Not yet. I want to establish some facts before I decide what I’m going to do. I’m still a person of interest, and if I start contacting cops, informally, Feds or whoever, they might think I’m trying to interfere in their investigation.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s a fact. Now listen, I’m going to try and figure out how I’m going to approach this. You know how I work. It’s methodical, right?”

“Jack, I can’t just sit here after what happened. I need to get involved. Christ, I want to help you.”

“I know you do. Peter, listen to me. What happened is a tragedy. I’m still reeling from it all. But I’m no closer to establishing what happened. The psychologist who saw Caroline mentioned she was paranoid.”

“You think that sounds like her?”

“No, it doesn’t. But I’m looking at this from an investigator’s point of view. I’m playing devil’s advocate. Maybe she was on medication. I just don’t know. Maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe the fact is I didn’t know my own wife.”

Peter got quiet, then lashed out, “This was no fucking accident. Listen, I understand you’ve got a fancy degree. We’re proud of you. You’re the smart one. But sometimes playing by the rules gets you nowhere.”

McNeal knew from firsthand experience at the Internal Affairs Bureau that there was something to what Peter was saying. He had run up against the bureaucracy and powers that be before. The Internal Affairs Bureau had tried-and-tested ways of doing things. He had lost count of the number of bad cops he had investigated who were put on dismissal probation. It meant if they kept their noses clean for a year, everything was forgotten. There were scores and scores of cases like that. The system sometimes worked. Usually it was imperfect, and that was being diplomatic. He had fired off numerous emails and internal memos about the lack of rigor. A rigged system. He was told that he was a first-rate officer, but he had to understand that this was the way things were done. Despite his best efforts, he kept coming up against a brick wall.

Peter took a deep breath. “You know what I mean, Jack. If we don’t try and get to the truth of this, we’ll never find out what really happened.”

“I’ll find out, alright. I’m just going to do it my way and in my own time.”





Eighteen

Henry Graff spotted her. The woman was pretending to take photographs of the monuments at night. She was wearing sensible shoes, a white shirt, jeans, and a white Yankees cap. She was standing close to the Lincoln Memorial, bathed in its eerie light. He approached her, and she didn’t acknowledge him. He brushed past her, and her eyes fixed on his.

Graff walked on slowly. He turned and slowed further to make sure she was following close behind. He stopped for a few moments until they were finally walking together.

“Nice evening for it,” he said.

“What took you so long?” She aimed her camera behind her. A nice bit of countersurveillance.

“Recalcitrant staff. Pain in the ass.”

She shook her head. “I’ve told you before, you employ too many people. Let me deal with whatever it is you need dealing with. And I mean everything. You need to delegate more. Outsource more.”

“I already do. I don’t know, maybe I’m too loyal.”

“You’re soft, Henry. That’s what your problem is.”

“That’s not what you said last month in Jakarta.”

Feinstein smiled. “Hah!”

He had known ex-CIA special operations analyst Karen Feinstein for the best part of fifteen years. They had been intimate for the last ten. She lived in New York, he in Arlington. He needed his space. But he could always rely on her and her firm, Fein Solutions. He had relied on them for years.

She was smart, tough, and about the only person on earth he really trusted. She didn’t sugarcoat things. If there was bad news, she didn’t shirk from giving it to him straight. He liked that about her. And she had a ruthlessness about her that he found alluring. A coldness. Some people viewed her as standoffish. But not Graff. He viewed her as a rational person who didn’t get swayed by emotions. And that made her, in his eyes, the perfect hire.