No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(68)

Forbes took a few moments to admire the beautiful cut and fit. “It’s truly fantastic. When did it arrive?”

“Last night. Flown in from London. Appreciate the heads-up on the tailor.”

“Got to love a great suit, Mr. President.”

An aide passed in the corridor and handed the President a mug of coffee. The President smiled and took a couple of gulps.

“Mr. President, do you mind if I have a quick word?”

The President shrugged and walked into Forbes’s office, shutting the door behind him. He sat down in a desk chair and took in the room. “This is nice. Cozy. Got a nice ambience.” His eyes fixed on a photo of Forbes with his dad and mom. “Lovely family you’ve got, Andrew. Cherish that.”

“I hear you.”

“Is there a lucky girl in your life?”

Forbes blushed. “There’s a girl I’m seeing. She’s talking about getting married. She’s a lot of fun.”

“A lot of fun, huh? Let me tell you, I’ve met girls who are a lot of fun, which is fine, but has she met your mother?”

“Not yet. I’m taking it slow.”

“Slow is always good. It pays to take your time.” The President looked at his watch. “I’ve got a CIA briefing in an hour, and I need to read the report again. So, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Mr. President. A friend of mine works at the Post.”

The President nodded.

“I was asking her in passing about any other reporters interested in the death of Sophie Meyer.”

“Very sad, her passing.”

“Indeed. Well, my source at the Post—and this person is involved at the highest level editorially—reassured me that this is not an area of interest. No reporter is pursuing this. So, the matter is closed. They are satisfied it was a tragic accident.”

The President got to his feet. “Which it was. Appreciate the heads-up. A million things going on in the world, Andrew. The death of a rich socialite taking her life while high is a personal tragedy. But the world moves on. Anything else?”

“No, Mr. President. Is there any way I can be of assistance?”

The President smiled. “How about a beer tonight. Monday Night Football?”

“Love to, sir.”

The President winked at him and walked out, shutting the door quietly as he left.





Fifty

The dawn of a new day. McNeal and his brother pulled into a diner on the outskirts of Trenton, New Jersey. They carefully washed their hands in the men’s room before sitting down to plates full of pancakes with maple syrup and black coffee. They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Peter wiped the syrup from the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “Couple of things we have to go over.”

“The car. My car.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I know a guy. Five miles from here. Old friend of mine. He won’t ask questions.”

“Who is he?”

“You don’t need to know. He runs a breaker’s yard. We put your car in. Pulp it. End of story.”

Jack realized he had slipped into murder and criminality with surprising ease. He wondered why he didn’t feel much. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was his way of dealing with it. “I want to talk about Nicoletti, the prowler.”

Peter sipped his coffee. “What about him?”

“I want to know what he knows. Graff said that Nicoletti was the link man.”

“Link man to who?”

“Someone close to the President. I want to know who that is.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you going to kill him too?”

“Maybe.”

Peter was quiet for a few minutes. His gaze skipped around the diner, as if seeking divine intervention.

“Please walk away,” McNeal begged.

“No can do. I’m not leaving your side until this is done. What do you want to do?”

McNeal took out Graff’s cell phone. It was using a virtual private network to preserve anonymity, and the location showed as Mexico, which clearly wasn’t the case. He scrolled through the contacts. He saw Nicoletti’s number. “I want to speak to this Nico. He’s the fucker who killed Caroline. He’s the one who was contacted by some serious people.”

“Do you realize this isn’t going to end well?”

“I’m way beyond caring.”

Peter bowed his head and sighed.

“We kill this guy, the chances of getting caught rise exponentially.”

Jack shook his head. He had already made up his mind. He was going to find the man who killed his wife. And find out exactly who was giving the orders. Where did it lead?

Peter leaned closer. “You’re going to send him a message pretending to be Graff?”

McNeal realized he was smiling. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. He lives in a place you might remember.”

“Where?”

“Warwick.”

“Warwick, New York?”

“Got it.”

Peter nodded. They both knew the town. They had visited their grandmother, who lived there. They had played in the fields outside the town.

“Think back.”