No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(37)
No one was above the law. That was his mantra. He was not above the law. But he was acutely aware that he was allowing his love for his wife to erode his judgment. Bit by bit, he felt himself being consumed by it all.
McNeal pushed his negative thoughts to one side. Hunger gnawed at his gut. He needed to eat. He freshened up, putting on a change of clothes before he headed down to the hotel’s restaurant. He ate alone. His mind wandered. Had Caroline ever eaten here? She almost certainly had. It was a prestigious hotel in the heart of DC. She would have eaten lunch here with colleagues. Friends. He thought of her, alone, carving out a new single life in Washington, DC. It made him sad. He thought back to their wedding day. The dress she had worn. The church on Staten Island. It had been a blazing-hot day. To honor. To love. Till death do us part.
He remembered her friends at the wedding reception afterward. Prominent American journalists, writers, some intellectuals. His side of the family was all cops, truck drivers, and homemakers. The first dance was a Sinatra number they both loved: “Summer Wind.” He remembered her smiling face, dazzling eyes. Everyone watching them. The music played. It was intoxicating.
McNeal left a twenty-dollar bill as a tip and put the check on his room tab. He headed through to the bar. He pulled up a stool and ordered a beer. Then another.
He let the emptiness return. Not in his belly this time. But in his heart.
He drank a third beer, then followed it up with a single malt. He looked around. The bar was starting to fill up. Mostly couples. A few singles. A couple of girls. Guys on business trips with colleagues. A family from the Midwest talking about visiting the Smithsonian and talking loudly about how dirty the Metro was. They’ve never been on the New York subway, he thought.
“Jack? Is that you?” A woman’s voice from the other side of the bar.
McNeal snapped out of his thoughts and looked around. A stunning blonde woman wearing a tight black dress approached. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Jack McNeal, right? Don’t say you don’t recognize me.”
McNeal turned red, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I’m not good with names.”
The woman offered a manicured hand, bright-red nail polish. “Sylvia Walsh.”
The name didn’t mean anything to him. “Sylvia Walsh?”
“We went in Catholic school together. Staten Island? I was only there for a few weeks. But I remember you.”
McNeal sensed something was wrong. He shook her hand. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to place you. I’m pretty good with faces.”
“Well, no matter. I remember you. You’ve barely changed at all. Mind if I sit down?”
McNeal squirmed, uncomfortable. He wanted to be alone. But it seemed rude to say he didn’t want her to sit beside him. “Sure, please.”
Sylvia slid into the stool next to him, her thigh brushing against his. “I can’t believe it’s you. I heard you had joined the force.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, I bumped into a girl you dated at the time. Shirley O’Connell?”
McNeal didn’t want to engage in small talk, or any kind of talk, for that matter. “Shirley? That’s a blast from the past. How is she?”
“She’s good. She’s still working on Staten Island.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why are you in Washington?”
“I’m in town for a conference.”
“What kind of conference?”
“Lingerie. I run a shop in Jersey City.”
McNeal smiled. “Is there much demand for sexy lingerie in Jersey City?”
“You’d be amazed. So, what brings you to town? I can’t believe I just bumped into you after all these years.”
“This and that.”
“Tell me about the NYPD.”
“I don’t talk about my job, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure, I understand. I see you’re married.”
McNeal looked at his wedding ring. “I was married.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. That was insensitive.”
“You couldn’t have known. My wife died recently. Very sudden.”
“Oh my God, and here’s me, blabbering on. I’m so sorry to hear that, Jack.” She reached out and held his hand, squeezing it softly. “I know what it’s like.”
“To lose a spouse?”
Sylvia nodded. “Husband knocked down and killed by a careless driver in the Village. He was leaving the Blue Note jazz club just after one in the morning.”
“I live on that same street.”
McNeal sensed something was off. He questioned what the odds were. He had bumped into a girl who claimed she had gone to the same school. And her husband was knocked down and killed on the street where he lived.
“Are you kidding me?” she scoffed.
“Scout’s honor.”
“So, there was an Uber driver from Romania or Rwanda, or something. He was on his cell phone at the time. Ran into my husband. Dead on arrival.”
“That’s tough. I’m sorry.”
“It was a couple years back, but the pain is always there. I know that better than anyone.”
McNeal felt it in his bones. He could tell she was playing him. He wondered if she was a grifter. He imagined she made a lot of money picking up men in bars. But if she was a pickup artist, how did she know so much about him? Something was definitely off. No doubt about it. She hadn’t gone to his school. He would remember her.