“How you holding up?”
“I just need some time and space to get everything straight.”
“If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to call. Day or night.”
“You got it.”
McNeal hung up and went numb. He wondered if this was someone’s way of turning the spotlight on him. He assumed it might have been part of an operation to put psychological pressure on him. He wondered how long it would be until a story appeared in the New York Times. And if it hit the Times, the Post and the rest of the papers and media would be clambering all over the story.
He imagined a feeding frenzy. The rogue cop. The bad cop. The cop who once killed his partner. The distraught New York cop who killed his wife for leaving him.
He began to imagine all these scenarios playing out.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized the scale of the threat that Caroline had been facing. Insidious, subversive ways to destroy him without actually pulling the trigger. He didn’t know who he could trust. He was in the middle of a waking nightmare. He felt himself getting sucked deeper into a quagmire, a shadowy world of invisible people pulling the strings.
The phone on the bedside table rang, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Hi, Mr. McNeal. This is the front desk. We have a call for you.”
“Who from?”
“A Mr. Finks. He didn’t say where he was calling from.”
“Put him through.”
A couple of seconds passed. “Mr. McNeal, I didn’t realize you were in Washington,” the Secret Service agent said.
“I didn’t realize it was widely known.”
“I just wanted you to know that we just got the toxicology report back from the medical examiner. I’m pleased—relieved, even—to say that you are no longer a person of interest. The toxicology points clearly to an overdose.”
“What kind of overdose?”
“I don’t have the full report in front of me. I read barbiturates, cannabis, and alcohol. And some ketamine. A lethal combination.”
“Caroline took ketamine? That’s a goddamn horse tranquilizer. Are you seriously saying she took these drugs and just walked into the Potomac?”
“No one can know the exact manner of her death.”
“What do the DC police say about it? What are their conclusions?”
“Same as us. They’ve ruled it a suicide.”
Twenty
It was dark when Andrew Forbes left his apartment in DC, a bag slung over his shoulder and one in his hand. He had a rare night off. But this was a special appointment.
He had been instructed to take a few countersurveillance measures. He had to cover his tracks. The first part of the measures was walking to the nearby Sofitel. He jittered, excited at what was to come, but it was also good to take some time out from the hothouse atmosphere of the White House, attending to the President’s every whim.
He loved the big guy. He would do anything for him. But at times, even Forbes’s good humor and patience were stretched to the limit by the President’s foibles.
Forbes had been up late the previous night and into the early hours. He’d had to listen to every gripe under the sun. Poor-quality air-conditioning at the White House, the grass was a strange shade of green on the North Lawn, Air Force One always seemed to run out of cashews. He made a mental note of the complaints and random observations, not knowing whether to laugh out loud or cry. On and on, a catalogue of pettiness. Are there too many Hispanic Secret Service agents on duty in the West Wing? Did the pilot of Air Force One fly in Vietnam? Would Yankee Stadium be big enough for one of his rallies in New York? Would the Rolling Stones allow him to take the stage before a gig in New Jersey? Does anyone know if Mick Jagger is a communist? Where the hell is my wife?
Forbes did what a good body man did. He listened. He nodded. He agreed. He said he’d try and find out from someone who might know. Would you like some more candy, Mr. President?
At times it seemed as if the President had consumed speedballs, he was so fucking wired. Did the big guy ever sleep? He had too much energy. It was unnatural.
Tonight, Forbes got away from all that. At least for a while. A time to catch up on something he knew was vitally important. A side project of his.
Forbes arrived at the plush Sofitel and checked in under his middle name, Charles. He needed to ensure he left no trail. It struck him as odd when someone carried his bags for him. He was usually the one doing the lifting for others.
Forbes’s overnight bags were taken to his room. He showered and changed into a button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He checked himself in the mirror. He looked like any college kid. His cheeks were puffier than when he had started his job. Not as much basketball. More sitting on long plane rides and sitting at his desk, waiting for the President to call him. He needed to start working out more.