No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(47)

Graff was quiet for a few moments, his face impassive. “I’m sorry to hear that. How did your wife die?”

“She drowned in the Potomac, apparently.”

“I’m so sorry. Can you tell me more about her?”

“My wife was Caroline McNeal. She worked for the Washington Post.”

“That was your wife?”

McNeal nodded. “That was my wife.”

“I read about that. I’m with you now. She drowned?”

“Floating in the Potomac. Three years after your wife’s death.”

“You seem to know a lot about this. Do you mind if I call you Jack?”

“Jack is fine.”

“This is all a bit sudden and out of the blue. Beyond the manner of their deaths, I’m not sure I can see the connection.”

“My late wife was, by all accounts, rather interested in your late wife. And how she died.”

Graff steepled his fingers. “Why would she be interested in my wife’s tragic death? That strikes me as rather bizarre. Cruel, even.”

“She was a journalist. Her joy was to pursue stories.”

“Real or imagined?”

“Caroline believed your wife’s death was suspicious.”

“Journalists, from my experience, live in a fantasy world most of the time. Barely credible, many of them. Live off the scraps given by sources, sometimes real, sometimes imagined.”

McNeal smiled, feeling himself burrowing underneath Graff’s skin.

Graff cleared his throat. “What exactly is the purpose of your visit?”

“Just to introduce myself and explain some background. I was hoping you might be able to provide me with some answers about either my wife’s death or your wife’s death.”

“You’re wearing my patience very thin, Mr. McNeal.” His tone became slightly sinister. “What do you know about my wife?”

“I know your wife was very well known in Washington social circles. I remember there was a private memorial service that the President attended very recently on the third anniversary of her death. You’re well connected. As was your wife.”

Graff sighed, as if disappointed by a recalcitrant child. “Mr. McNeal, without wishing to appear rude, my wife’s death has nothing to do with you. It was a deeply personal and private tragedy for my family. I’m at a loss to understand why you have come here at all.”

“With respect, Mr. Graff, I have to disagree. My wife was investigating your wife’s death.”

Graff stared at McNeal for what seemed an eternity, as if letting the words sink in. “We seem to be going around in circles, Mr. McNeal.”

“Do we?”

“What’s your background, Mr. McNeal?”

“I grew up on Staten Island.”

“No, I mean, what do you do for a living?”

“Internal Affairs Bureau, NYPD.”

Graff summoned a wry smile. “So, you investigate corrupt cops, right?”

“Among other things.”

“How fascinating. Does the NYPD know that you are conducting a personal investigation way down here in DC?”

“I’m on bereavement leave, and this is not a personal investigation.”

“Is that so? I would’ve thought, Mr. McNeal, you would have preferred to spend your time more constructively during this very sad time for you.”

McNeal thought Graff’s words were tinged with sarcasm. “I would’ve preferred to spend this time more constructively too. But my wife unearthed some documents. It looks like there were two different autopsies carried out on your late wife. Rather bizarre, I thought.”

Graff went tight-lipped. Then, quietly, “Finally you get to the point.”

“Would you like me to show them to you?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“The autopsies show inconsistencies. Did you know about this?”

Graff’s skin seemed to drain of color. Bone white. “Listen here, Mr. McNeal. Just so you know, I have no idea what kind of conspiracy theory you are trying to prove. Frankly, I don’t care about such matters. My wife suffered from bipolar disorder. She was either manic or suicidal. She died after taking a massive overdose. That’s what the medical examiner found.”

McNeal sat quietly, wanting Graff to keep on talking.

“I have given you time to talk about whatever it was you wanted to talk about, but I believe you have now overstayed your welcome. I would ask you, respectfully, to leave the premises, or you’ll be escorted out.”

“Your late wife was by all accounts a very popular lady. In social circles. Life and soul of the party. A wide circle of male admirers.”

Graff stared at McNeal. “Ordinarily, I would have had you thrown out for such scurrilous suggestions. But you have lost a wife, too, so I understand the pain and poor judgment it causes.”

McNeal nodded. He allowed the silence to linger. It was an interview technique he used in Internal Affairs.

“What exactly do you want, Mr. McNeal?”

“Some answers.”

“If I’m not able to furnish you with answers, what then?”

“I’ll have to go elsewhere and ask questions. I’m like that.”

“Jack, I know loss. And I know what it’s like. I know what you’re going through. Could I have done more? Why wasn’t I there for her?”