No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(54)

“Maybe.”

“Know what you need?”

“What?”

“A few drinks to forget things for a few hours. How does that sound?”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Can you think of a better one?”

McNeal smiled.

“Any good bars around here?”

“Sure. You’ve just got to know where to look.”

They headed back to the house, put the dog inside, and took a cab to Rothbard’s.

Jack got the first few rounds, tequila shots and beers, before they moved over to single malts. They talked baseball, in particular how shitty the Yankees were this season, but also highs and lows of life and memories of growing up on Staten Island.

“You think Dad’ll ever leave?” Peter asked.

“Staten Island?”

“I mean, I’ve asked him if he wants to move in with me.”

“What did he say?”

“‘Are you nuts?’ That’s what he said. Said he loved Staten Island. ‘Why the hell would I move to Jersey?’”

“Old habits die hard.”

“Better believe it. He’s old-school. He likes what he likes.”

McNeal smiled as his gaze wandered around the gastropub. A lot of well-heeled Westporters enjoying kicking back for a few hours.

“Nice place, by the way.”

“Yeah, Caroline liked it a lot. We had a lot of great Saturday afternoons in here. I was away from New York, she was away from Washington, and it was just us. It was like she could switch off here.”

“You think you’re going to stay here in Westport?”

“I don’t know. The commute is a pain in the ass.”

“I hear you.”

The bonhomie and good cheer continued for a few good-natured hours. The brothers had a few more drinks before they called it a night. They caught a cab back to the house on Compo Beach.

As they approached the gravel drive, McNeal again spotted lights on upstairs.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Peter said, “You definitely turned off all the lights. I saw you.”

“I know I did.”

McNeal paid the cabdriver, who drove off. He drew his gun, as did his brother, before they headed inside. The alarm had again been deactivated. He switched on the hallway lights. It was all just as they had left it.

McNeal headed upstairs, his brother covering him. He saw the bathroom door slightly ajar. He pushed back the door with his gun.

“Oh my God!” Peter screamed.

His beautiful dog was on the bathroom floor in a pool of his own vomit, eyes open. Charlie was dead.





Thirty-Eight

A cotton candy dawn bathed the dark waters of Long Island Sound.

Jack McNeal stood over the newly dug grave at the edge of his backyard as Peter carefully lowered Charlie down into the hole. After a few words from Peter about how much his dog meant to him and his family, he helped his brother fill in the grave with shovelfuls of earth, patting it down with the back of his spade.

His tough-guy brother broke down sobbing.

“I’m sorry this happened, Peter. Truly sorry.”

“Who kills a fucking dog?”

“The same people who killed Caroline.”

“But why? It’s a dog.”

McNeal nodded.

“Why would they do that, Jack?”

Peter wiped away the tears with the back of his sleeve.

McNeal explained, “They’re sending a not-so-subtle message. ‘We can get you any time we like.’ Remember what I said? They’re fucking with us.”

“What do I tell the kids?”

“Tell them the truth. You found him dead.”

“What do we do now?”

McNeal knew it was important not to have a gut reaction. He needed time to think. But Peter wanted answers, and he wanted to crack some heads. “We take stock.”

“Then what? What the hell is really going on? Are they watching us?”

“Maybe. We might be under surveillance. Maybe electronic.”

“We need to get new phones.”

McNeal nodded.

“The question is, do we just sit here and wait?”

“There is no ‘we.’ This is not about us.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Jack. They killed my dog. My brother is in their sights. I can’t just sit back and take this.”

McNeal stood, hands on hips, cursing the mound of earth. “Motherfucker!”

“They’re not going to divide us.”

“I need more time to figure this out.”

McNeal’s cell phone interrupted the conversation.

“Sorry for taking so long to get back to you, son.” The gruff voice of O’Brien bled through. “You okay to talk?”

“Not a problem. You find out anything from the police files?”

“It makes interesting reading.”

“How so?”

“Your late wife reported a prowler to the DC police. This was noted. Police arrested a guy a couple hundred yards from her home matching the description.”

“You got a name?”

“Frank Nicoletti. He was released after he was questioned. Pled the Fifth. I’ve been doing some digging. He’s onetime CIA.”