No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(30)

McNeal went quiet for a few moments.

“My wife was convinced she was being followed. Then she was found floating in the Potomac. She was investigating the death of Sophie Meyer, who was found overdosed three years earlier, also in Washington. I also watched a video of my late wife on the flash drive. It mentioned the name Henry Graff. Graff was Sophie Meyer’s husband. I believe he’s an old friend of the President. So, you can see why I’m bringing you such information. It’s very sensitive.”

Ryan nodded respectfully, slowly leafing through the papers again.

“I understand these are classified papers. Pentagon, top secret. No idea how Caroline got those. But there seem to be names of other key individuals who have been redacted.”

“I think you did the right thing bringing this to our attention.” Ryan scribbled down more information. “What do you believe happened? You’re a cop, after all.”

“I’m Internal Affairs. My brother is the cop. But we both think it’s highly suspicious. To say the least. And that it warrants further investigation.”

Peter stared at Ryan. “You’re from Staten Island, Jack was saying?”

“Grew up there.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Travis, on the West Shore.”

Peter nodded. “New Dorp, on the East Shore.”

Ryan nodded. “I know where you are. Giacomo’s, right? Best pizza on the island.”

Peter smiled. “You know it. Look, something is clearly amiss here. We want to be up-front. We’re not looking for a favor. We’re doing things by the book. Nothing to hide. I can see you’re a stand-up guy. We all grew up in the same neighborhood, right? We just want you to open an investigation into this. Perhaps you might want to pass it on to the DC police after the FBI have checked it out.”

“I can’t make any promises. You understand that, right?”

Jack leaned forward. “As Peter explained, we don’t want favors. We just want the FBI to investigate this. We thought about handing this over to the police. But this is clearly a sensitive issue. Perhaps with national security considerations.”

“You made the right call, Jack.”

“Just so you know, too, I was previously a person of interest. Diplomatic Security visited the Internal Affairs Bureau in Manhattan. Then the Secret Service in Brooklyn wanted to talk to me.”

Ryan added that to his notes. “That is interesting.”

“I’ve been cleared. At least that’s what the Secret Service said. Agent Finks.”

Ryan sighed. “I’m assuming because your wife worked on Capitol Hill, she knew people there, hence the involvement of the Secret Service?”

“Right. Diplomatic Security couldn’t find her hard pass. She attended White House press briefings, that kind of thing. She was a political journalist.”

Ryan nodded. “Appreciate the heads-up. Makes sense. You got a cell number I can call you on?”

Jack handed over his Internal Affairs business card. “Day or night, call the cell phone number.”

“I’ll get back to you in a couple of days and hopefully give you a preliminary update of what’s happening.”

Peter stared at Ryan, long and hard. “We’re trusting you to do the right thing. Just make sure you do.”





Twenty-Two

The rain lashed off the eighty-seventh-floor windows as Henry Graff stared out over Manhattan’s West Side. He had grown up in New York, privileged. But he never felt at home here.

The way the poor and wealthy mingled so freely. It unnerved him. Wealth could inoculate a man from the poverty and disease, though all too often the two worlds collided on the streets of New York. A simple walk down Fifth Avenue, and you could encounter a knife-carrying gangbanger who wanted your watch, drugged-out panhandlers, and mental patients who had been discharged from the hospital.

It was enough to keep any sane person on edge.

Graff could never relax in the city. A lot of people enjoyed the manic buzz, the constant noise, the relentless assault on the senses. He, on the other hand, loathed the appalling madness of New York. The sounds of jazz, hip-hop, and rock music blaring from cabs, buildings, bodegas, and headphones; the cacophony of traffic; the air pollution; the construction workers drilling holes in the fucking roads morning, noon, and night. If all that wasn’t enough, there were people from New Jersey! If talking loudly, brashly, and fast was an Olympic sport, people from New Jersey would win the gold. Then there was the weather. One hundred degrees, stifling humidity, choking on car fumes. In the winter, ankle-deep slush. The list went on and on. It never stopped.

“Why in God’s name did you want to set up shop here, Karen?” Graff chided. He turned around and looked at Karen Feinstein, who sat beside her desk, tapping away at her computer.

Feinstein smiled. “What is it with you and New York? How can you hate New York? How is that even possible?”

“It’s dirty. The weather’s terrible. It smells of piss and garbage in summer. There are socialists and communists everywhere. You want me to go on?”

“What do you even know about New York?”

“I know enough. I lived here once.”

“When? Growing up at that townhouse on East Sixty-Third? Gimme a break.”

“I was fortunate, I know. But this city makes me want to scream.”