No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(48)

McNeal nodded.

“You know that my wife was very fond of parties. And had a very active social life. Just so you know, we had drifted apart, years earlier. We weren’t living together when she died. I work abroad a lot. I understand your insinuations. I know what people said about her. Her reckless lifestyle. The liaisons with other men. I heard it all. But I was devastated when she died, as I’m sure you are about your wife.”

McNeal nodded. He knew Graff wasn’t going to confess to killing his own wife or McNeal’s. He turned his attention to the window, suddenly contemplative. “I wonder what it was about your wife’s death that intrigued my wife. Did Sophie know too much? Was that it?”

“My wife was a charitable soul. She raised hundreds of millions of dollars for worthwhile charities across the world. Starving children, cancer charities, educational charities—the list went on and on. Her death was a tragedy.”

What he wanted to do was put Graff on notice, and he’d accomplished that and more. “Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Graff. I’ll let myself out.”

Graff sighed. “A little bit of advice to you before you go. Sometimes you just need to let go. Death comes to us all. And we just have to accept it.”





Thirty-Two

It was nearly midnight when Graff’s office door opened. He saw Karen Feinstein’s reflection in the window while he stared out at the near-deserted parking lot, watching a pair of security guys with flashlights and a dog patrol the area. He turned around.

Feinstein pulled up a seat, ashen-faced.

Graff stared daggers. “So, Karen, do you want to explain how this is possible? How some Internal Affairs guy from NYPD comes to my office. Do you have any idea what this means for me? For our cover story? The whole thing has been blown to shit. Complete mess.”

“Henry, if you just sit down, I’ll try and explain.”

Graff remained standing, hands on hips. “Don’t tell me what to do. When I was in New York, you told me this was all under control. Did you or did you not?”

“We’re working on this.”

“This is you working on this? Karen, you’re going to have to do better than that. Don’t you see what the fuck is happening? Can’t you see it? This fucker is toying with me.”

“We will deal with him, trust me.”

“I paid your firm over a million dollars for your work on this contract. And there are bonuses on top that could work out to two million.”

“I work night and day for you, Henry.”

“Listen to me. You either fix this, or I will rip up the goddamn contract, do you hear me?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“That fuck was here in my office! I’m being grilled in my office? Me! A cop? What the fuck? I’m dying here! Who is this crazy fuck?”

“That’s why I’m here. We are facing a challenge. But I’ve got this.”

“I want answers! How is this happening?”

“My NSA guy has scraped telephone records from Jack McNeal. He has been in contact with a private eye down in Florida, Finn O’Brien. Old-school New York cop. Friend of McNeal’s father. And O’Brien has been feeding information back to McNeal.”

“This isn’t making me feel any better, Karen.”

“The searches carried out by O’Brien’s company were initially focused on you, Henry. Then they turned their attention to Francesca Luca.”

“The hooker? Tell me you’re fucking kidding. Really?”

“The honey trap girl. That’s right.”

“Fuck.”

“That, in turn, has flagged my maiden name. O’Brien did some searching about me. A deep dive of myriad records, court records, government and otherwise. Public records. Confidential IRS tax returns might have been accessed, perhaps by hackers, for the right price. Perhaps they did a forensic financial audit of my company. And it would show that your company has done work for me, Henry, just like I’ve done work for you. And you are the widower of Sophie Meyer. Can you see how they could be putting this together? It’s cute.”

Graff sighed. “You think this is all because Jack McNeal got the real identity of the honey trap girl?”

“It all stemmed from there.”

“How could that bitch have been so stupid? Carrying her real ID?”

“Let’s forget about that for a moment.”

“Forget about it? How the hell can I forget about it? The fucker, McNeal, turns up in the lobby, wanting to speak to me. I’ll guarantee he knows about my past too. The bastard was sitting where you are now, cool as a cucumber.”

“Why didn’t you call security?”

“Don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter if I got him thrown off the premises or called the cops, that by itself would have opened up further problems.”

Feinstein nodded. “I understand.”

“So what the fuck do we do now? He told me that his wife had found documents pertaining to two autopsies.”

“That’s impossible.”

Graff shook his head.

Feinstein implored, “We need to stay calm. He wants you to lash out. We need to remain focused.”

“What a mess.”

“We are where we are.”