“Clearly not.”
“While it’s possible for a person to commit suicide, or appear to commit suicide, for there to also be a break-in at the office of the therapist his late wife was seeing strains credulity. He’ll know there’s more to this.”
“Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.”
“What’s your gut reaction?”
Feinstein considered before speaking. “If Jack McNeal’s past and personal psychological profile and reports are anything to go by, he won’t get involved much further. He’s reserved. His brother’s a hothead. But Jack appears to be the polar opposite. He doesn’t make spontaneous decisions.”
Graff wondered if Feinstein was underestimating the threat Jack McNeal could pose.
“I think he’ll rationalize that his wife got involved in something, maybe a relationship. It turned toxic, and she took her own life. With regards to the break-in, there were forty-three separate files taken, including Caroline McNeal’s. So, Jack might think this was just a random break-in. Dumb luck, that kind of thing.”
“I don’t think he’ll buy that.”
Feinstein’s gaze wandered around the floodlit monuments for a few fleeting moments. “Then we may have a problem on our hands.”
Nineteen
It was late the following morning, after McNeal had packed his bag for the long journey back to Connecticut, when he decided to call his closest friend in Internal Affairs, Dave Franzen. He wanted an update on his latest case.
“Hi, Dave. Sorry to bother you. You got a minute?”
“Jack, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. Nicola and myself, all the people in Internal Affairs . . . we are all devastated for you. I know how much you’ve gone through in the past. If there’s anything I can do, just ask.”
“Appreciate that, Dave. Means a lot. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the bar.”
“You didn’t miss anything. We got drunk, we watched football, and we argued about Buckley.”
“Some things never change.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’ll be okay. It’s been hard. But we keep on going, right?”
Franzen sighed. “I don’t know what to say . . . Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I’m just looking for an update on the cop who knocked his kid unconscious.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ve got this.”
“I know. But I just want to make sure that we’re on top of that one.”
“You need to switch off, Jack.”
“I know.”
“Gimme a minute and I’ll pull up the file. Let me see . . . So, I had his attorney on the phone yesterday. The guy is pleading guilty, is full of remorse, undergoing counselling for alcohol addiction—you know, the usual bullshit. And we’re going to fire his ass.”
“So, we got him?”
“Damn right. He’ll be off the force.”
“What about his pension?”
“We’re going to try and take it, but the attorney threatened to sue us if we do.”
“What did Buckley say?”
“Not much. Here’s the thing . . . Guess where Buckley was when I caught up with him last night?”
“Mayor’s office?”
“The New York Times.”
“Last night? He turned up there?”
“Late. It’s not what it looked like.”
“What do you mean?”
“Buckley went there for a reason.”
“Spit it out.”
Franzen sighed. “I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“A young reporter on the Times called me and Buckley for an off-the-record chat just after lunch.”
“Chat about what?”
“To see if you had been contacted by the Secret Service in relation to the death of your wife.”
McNeal took a few moments to process the information. “How did they know about that?”
“That’s what Buckley was trying to find out. He was speaking to one of the editors. He headed right up there. It appears they got an anonymous tip-off saying the reporter should pursue this angle and that the Secret Service had been in touch with you about the death of your wife.”
“Dave, I really appreciate that information.”
“It didn’t come from me. You want the name of the reporter?”
“No. I’m assuming they just received the tip-off and were pursuing the angle. But it’s good to know.”