No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(28)

“A Mr. Finks. He didn’t say where he was calling from.”

“Put him through.”

A couple of seconds passed. “Mr. McNeal, I didn’t realize you were in Washington,” the Secret Service agent said.

“I didn’t realize it was widely known.”

“I just wanted you to know that we just got the toxicology report back from the medical examiner. I’m pleased—relieved, even—to say that you are no longer a person of interest. The toxicology points clearly to an overdose.”

“What kind of overdose?”

“I don’t have the full report in front of me. I read barbiturates, cannabis, and alcohol. And some ketamine. A lethal combination.”

“Caroline took ketamine? That’s a goddamn horse tranquilizer. Are you seriously saying she took these drugs and just walked into the Potomac?”

“No one can know the exact manner of her death.”

“What do the DC police say about it? What are their conclusions?”

“Same as us. They’ve ruled it a suicide.”





Twenty

It was dark when Andrew Forbes left his apartment in DC, a bag slung over his shoulder and one in his hand. He had a rare night off. But this was a special appointment.

He had been instructed to take a few countersurveillance measures. He had to cover his tracks. The first part of the measures was walking to the nearby Sofitel. He jittered, excited at what was to come, but it was also good to take some time out from the hothouse atmosphere of the White House, attending to the President’s every whim.

He loved the big guy. He would do anything for him. But at times, even Forbes’s good humor and patience were stretched to the limit by the President’s foibles.

Forbes had been up late the previous night and into the early hours. He’d had to listen to every gripe under the sun. Poor-quality air-conditioning at the White House, the grass was a strange shade of green on the North Lawn, Air Force One always seemed to run out of cashews. He made a mental note of the complaints and random observations, not knowing whether to laugh out loud or cry. On and on, a catalogue of pettiness. Are there too many Hispanic Secret Service agents on duty in the West Wing? Did the pilot of Air Force One fly in Vietnam? Would Yankee Stadium be big enough for one of his rallies in New York? Would the Rolling Stones allow him to take the stage before a gig in New Jersey? Does anyone know if Mick Jagger is a communist? Where the hell is my wife?

Forbes did what a good body man did. He listened. He nodded. He agreed. He said he’d try and find out from someone who might know. Would you like some more candy, Mr. President?

At times it seemed as if the President had consumed speedballs, he was so fucking wired. Did the big guy ever sleep? He had too much energy. It was unnatural.

Tonight, Forbes got away from all that. At least for a while. A time to catch up on something he knew was vitally important. A side project of his.

Forbes arrived at the plush Sofitel and checked in under his middle name, Charles. He needed to ensure he left no trail. It struck him as odd when someone carried his bags for him. He was usually the one doing the lifting for others.

Forbes’s overnight bags were taken to his room. He showered and changed into a button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He checked himself in the mirror. He looked like any college kid. His cheeks were puffier than when he had started his job. Not as much basketball. More sitting on long plane rides and sitting at his desk, waiting for the President to call him. He needed to start working out more.

He opened the room’s safe and put his cell phone inside, careful to lock it securely before keying in a four-digit code. Satisfied he wouldn’t be tracked, Forbes headed through the lobby and to Lafayette Square, mingling with the tourists.

The second stage of the countersurveillance measures was underway.

He walked to the nearest Metro and took a train to Foggy Bottom. Then he walked a couple hundred yards to a run-down luggage storage locker. He tapped in the five-digit code and reached inside. He pulled out a backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He took a train back to his room at the Sofitel and opened up the backpack, took out a brand-new iPhone.

He started it up.

A message pinged on the screen.

Call this number.

A few moments later, a cell phone number appeared on the screen.

Forbes pressed the number and was connected right away.

An electronically distorted voice answered. “Thanks for calling.”

“This cell I’m using is secure?”

“One hundred percent, Andrew. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I believe we have a problem.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning people are beginning to ask questions. Questions about the two women. And we now have a cop, the husband of Caroline McNeal, asking questions. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

Forbes had assumed it was all taken care of. “Are you serious?”

“We’re fine. But we need to make a decision.”

“What kind of decision?”

“The cop’s name is Jack McNeal. He knows something. He’s been in touch with his late wife’s psychologist. He’s a problem. We need to face this.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is ridiculous.”

“He also received a FedEx delivery from his late wife’s lawyer.”