Daniels listened closely, occasionally sipping his beer. He nodded a few times.
“You know DC better than me. I don’t know what Caroline got into. It appears the death of this socialite, Sophie Meyer, is propelling the whole thing.”
“Agreed. I read about Caroline’s death in the papers, the same as everyone else. But it didn’t mention anything about an investigation into Sophie Meyer.”
“This appears to be a carefully orchestrated cover-up. A conspiracy.”
Daniels stared into his glass of beer. “Jack, you don’t usually talk like this. You sure you’re not conflating events?”
“No, I’m not. Something is fucked up here. And I don’t know what it is.”
Daniels leaned in closer, staring at him across the booth. His voice was a whisper. “Listen to me. I have no idea what happened. But I know a lot about Sophie Meyer. What exactly do you know or what have you heard about her?”
“I googled her. She’s a socialite. Very well known.”
“You have no idea how well known she is.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sophie Meyer was a player.”
“Party girl?”
“Oh yeah. She had a very, very colorful lifestyle.”
“How colorful?”
“For starters, and this is not just idle gossip, she was wildly promiscuous.”
“What else?”
“She was unbalanced, according to people who worked the case. It happened a few months after I moved here. But she was a piece of work, let me tell you.”
“The official version is she overdosed at her home.”
“Meyer knew a lot of interesting people. You saw the Vanity Fair party pictures, the photos from Hamptons summer events, polo matches, all that stuff?”
“Yeah, I saw that. And I thought . . . well, actually, I thought, hanging around with that crowd—fast-living, wealthy, money no object—I thought drugs.”
“Yeah, dead on the money with that. Meyer went through the best part of two hundred thousand dollars of blow a year. At least from what I’ve heard.”
“I saw the autopsy. The official autopsy. It mentioned drugs, cocaine, in her system.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Here’s the thing, Sam. My wife—I mean my late wife—her autopsy showed she had barbiturates, booze, etc. in her blood when she was fished out of the Potomac.”
“Caroline? Bullshit. Come on, are you kidding me?”
McNeal shook his head. “That’s what it says.”
“Caroline was no drug user. She was clean.”
“Super clean. Fit. Very together. She enjoyed a glass of wine. That was it.”
Daniels said, “Drugs don’t fit her profile. Not one bit.”
“You see why I have concerns about the death of my wife and how it ties to Meyer?”
Daniels nodded.
“Here’s another interesting little fact to chew over. I went to the FBI in Bridgeport and met with Ryan Bone. Then I get told he got transferred to the Hoover Building three days after meeting with me. Something is seriously up. He gave me his card. He clearly didn’t think he was headed anywhere anytime soon.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think he passed on what he had, and he got called in. Maybe I’m not reading this right, but it’s strange. Then when I called him, he tells me someone else is dealing with it.”
“That by itself doesn’t necessarily point to a conspiracy. But taken together with the other things you mentioned, it appears, like you say, troubling, to say the least.”
McNeal took a sip of his beer. “What are you thinking?”
Daniels was quiet for a few moments, contemplating.
“You know something, don’t you? Whatever it is, tell me. I’m asking as a friend.”
“We go way back, Jack. I’m devastated for you.”
“I’ve got the rest of my life to grieve. I want answers. I want to know more about Sophie Meyer. She’s the key to this, I know it. If you know something, something more than you’ve already said, you gotta tell me.”
“Want a piece of advice?”
“Sure.”
“You need to be very, very careful.”
“You want to explain why?”
“Jack, you know how it is. Listen to me closely. Meyer’s husband is known to DC police. He was a person of interest three years ago.”
“Henry Graff, right?”
“Be careful with him.”
“What do you know about him?”