“We have a problem.”
Forbes took a few moments to choose his words carefully. “What kind of problem?”
“The cop . . . the husband of the dead journalist?”
“I’m listening.”
“The cop got a call. From his late wife’s therapist. He’s headed down there.”
“He’s headed to DC?”
“It’s problematic. The therapist was privy to the journalist’s innermost thoughts.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
“Don’t worry. We already have a plan in place. I’m hopeful the problem will be resolved very soon. I’ll be in touch.”
Fourteen
It was late afternoon when the FedEx truck pulled up outside Jack’s Westport home.
He signed for the large package and hauled it into the house. Inside was a cardboard box full of Caroline’s belongings, including her house keys, and papers sent by her lawyer in DC.
McNeal put down the box and cracked open a couple of cold beers for him and Peter. Their father had left early to head back to the familiarity of his old haunts on Staten Island.
Jack ordered Chinese for two, and they ate at the kitchen table. He was happy to have some company.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Peter said, scooping up some fried rice. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”
“And?”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should be cautious.”
“Thanks. It’s a lot to take in. I need time. I need space.”
“I understand.”
After the brothers finished their food, Peter cracked open another couple of cold beers. Jack carefully unpacked Caroline’s papers, which included a copy of her will.
“What the hell is this?” Peter asked.
Jack told Peter about the telephone conversation with Garrett, the executor of Caroline’s will.
“God bless her,” Peter said.
McNeal laid out all the photos and legal papers on the living room table. Methodically. Photos of their wedding. Extensive typewritten notes from her diary that she had passed to her lawyer.
He began to work his way through it all. He skimmed through the sometimes painful insights into his late wife’s mindset. She talked of “being watched” and being “under surveillance.”
He read on, determined to find out what had happened to her.
Jack sipped his beer as he leafed through the typewritten notes. He highlighted in red pen a passage where Caroline had talked about cars following her. The sound of clicking on her home phone. A mysterious prowler outside her home in the weeks before her death.
“I don’t know if she contacted the police about this. I’d like to know if this was followed up. If she even reported it. The Secret Service knew about this.”
Peter shook his head, obviously struggling to wrap his mind around it all.
The more he read the notes, the more depressed Jack got. He knew his wife—or at least he thought he did. She had been a rational person. She wasn’t superstitious. She wasn’t easily spooked. She was tough. Independent-minded. But something had been troubling her. Deeply. She wasn’t imagining it.
Jack spent hours plowing his way through the typewritten diary. He perused the letters from him that she had kept. Personal letters from friends she had received, and a couple of CDs. One was Jackson Browne. He knew she liked him. But Lady Gaga? She didn’t like her music at all.
The last item on the table was a thumb drive.
Peter leaned back in his seat, gulped some more beer. “Wonder what’s on it.”
Jack shrugged. He went up to his study and brought down his laptop. He inserted the thumb drive. The screen came alive. A homemade video of Caroline appeared, smiling, tears streaming down her face, filmed in what looked like her kitchen.
Peter patted him on the back. “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
Jack sighed as his throat tightened, seeing his late wife. “Hey, honey,” he said, without thinking.
Caroline smiled back at him, wiping away tears, speaking from beyond the grave. “Jack, if you’re watching this, it means I’m dead, darling. This is so difficult. I don’t know who I can trust. But I do know I can trust you. I always could. You were always the one I could turn to.”
Jack stared at the screen.
“I want you to know,” she said, brushing her brown hair from her glassy eyes, “I believe people are trying to kill me. I wanted you to know that. Maybe I should have told you sooner. But I guess it’s too late now. I know you’re a good man, Jack. I always did.”