No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(36)

Peter sighed. “Point taken.”

“I need to pursue this. I have to pursue this.”

“You’re going to talk to Graff, aren’t you?”

Jack nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”





Twenty-Six

McNeal read the number scrawled on the piece of paper. He considered whether his father passing on the number was his way of prodding him to reach out and ask for help. Before he spoke to Graff, he needed to find out more about the man, and if anyone could find out about Henry Graff, it was someone like O’Brien.

Finn O’Brien was ex-NYPD. He had set up a successful private investigation firm in Boca Raton. He provided surveillance for ex-wives to help secure higher divorce settlements, background checks on government employees, bankruptcies, credit ratings . . . you name it, he did it. He was tough. Inscrutable. He had a ton of contacts in law enforcement and various New York and Florida Mafia hoods he was friendly with.

McNeal took a deep breath and dialed the number. It rang three times before it was picked up.

“O’Brien Investigations,” a voice answered, then the man cleared his throat. Finn was still a big smoker. From what his father had told him, Finn was also an even bigger drinker, especially after his wife died a decade earlier.

“Mr. O’Brien, my name is Jack McNeal. Hope you don’t mind me bothering you.”

“Danny’s son?”

“That’s right. I’m the eldest of Daniel’s children.”

O’Brien began to cough, which merged into a throaty laugh. “Christ almighty. I’ll be damned. How nice to hear your voice. I haven’t heard from your father for months. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

McNeal sighed. “Bottom line? I need some help.”

“The NYPD Internal Affairs Bureau needs my help?”

“This is personal. Off the books, so to speak.”

“I get you. Tell me, how’s your dad?”

“You know how he is. Pain in the ass.”

O’Brien let out a hacking cough and laughed hard. “He was always that. He’s a good man. He was always there for me when I joined the force. I’ll never forget that. Is he still living on Staten Island?”

“They’ll have to take him out in a box. He’ll never move.”

“Florida. That’s where it’s at. You can’t move for fucking New Yorkers. You can tell they’re New Yorkers because they talk louder than anyone else!”

McNeal laughed. “It’s true.”

“Fucking right it’s true. Big-mouthed sons of bitches. But hey, we are what we are, right?”

“Absolutely right.”

“Tell your father to come down here and take a week or two to unwind. Winter’s hell up north.”

“Tell me about it.”

McNeal exhaled long and hard. He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

“You said this was something personal. What happened?”

McNeal recounted the events that had led up to his wife’s death, then the aftermath.

“Christ, son, I’m so sorry.”

“We’re all really torn up about it.”

“You don’t think this was an accident or drowning or suicide. Would I be correct in that assumption?”

“It’s a possibility. We can’t rule it out.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“No, I do not.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I believe she was killed. Murdered. But I don’t know by who. I intend to find out. I want some information on a certain guy.”

“You’ve come to the right place. We specialize in certain guys. I need to know, though, that you’re not going to use that information to cause harm to a person.”

“My only interest is in finding out more about him. If I find out anything untoward, it will be passed on to law enforcement.”

“That’s all I need to know, son.”

“It’s got to be done very quietly. No trace back to me.”

“Whatever we talk about, it’s confidential. Very discreet. No comeback on you. End of story. What do you need?”

“I want to know everything you can get your hands on about a guy called Henry Graff.”

“G-r-a-f-f ?”

“Two f’s, that’s right. I believe he’s based in and around DC. Heard he might have links with a security company. His wife overdosed in DC three years ago.”

“In the name of God.”

“I believe he’s also old friends with the President.”

O’Brien cleared his throat. “Interesting. My firm is very thorough. When do you need this?”

“As soon as you can. Whatever it costs.”

“That won’t be necessary, Jack. I knew you when you were knee-high. What’s the best way to contact you?”

McNeal gave him his private email address.

“Henry Graff . . . Name doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll see what we can find.”

McNeal knew he had crossed a line. He asked himself if he had done the right thing by reaching out to O’Brien and setting off down a path of no return.

The more he thought about it, the more he worried. What the hell was he doing? It was the kind of thing he investigated in Internal Affairs. Cops who took it upon themselves to start poking their noses into matters that didn’t concern them. Crossing boundaries.