No. The right thing to do—the only thing to do—was to find out the truth. Could he really just forget everything that had happened? Was he going to rely on the FBI to find the truth and bring the culprits to justice? There had been no justice for Sophie Meyer. Why the hell would there be for Caroline McNeal?
McNeal’s rational mind began to kick in. He needed to think of his job. He would be fired if it was revealed he was pursuing a lone-wolf investigation. He could also face charges. The humiliation. Was that how his career and life would be defined?
All his life he’d played by the book. Adhered to the letter of the law. That was his way. But something, he didn’t know what, had pulled him into a deadly quagmire. Maybe it was love, maybe loyalty to his wife, maybe vengeance—whatever it was, it burned inside Jack McNeal.
He felt it in the very depths of his soul. The love, the rage, and the terrible sadness that had been reignited. It had lain dormant for five long years. The death of his son, Patrick. The son he grieved. The pain and guilt. The self-imposed isolation. But recently, the sense of desolation and the suicidal thoughts, something he had tried to keep at bay, had crept back into his psyche.
Tears spilled down his face. He had never felt more alone. The memory from that darkest night years earlier began to play out. His mind flashed images of Patrick’s last moments.
His thoughts switched back to his investigation. He sensed this was not the end but the beginning of the end.
He knew if he headed down the path of natural justice, it would end in tears. Blood. And death.
Peter cleared his throat and snapped Jack’s attention back to the call. “You’ve gone real quiet on me.”
“I don’t know. The smart thing to do would be to just forget it all. But here’s the thing: I can’t. I can’t let this go. Imagine if it was your wife, how would you feel?”
Peter sighed. “Point taken.”
“I need to pursue this. I have to pursue this.”
“You’re going to talk to Graff, aren’t you?”
Jack nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Twenty-Six
McNeal read the number scrawled on the piece of paper. He considered whether his father passing on the number was his way of prodding him to reach out and ask for help. Before he spoke to Graff, he needed to find out more about the man, and if anyone could find out about Henry Graff, it was someone like O’Brien.
Finn O’Brien was ex-NYPD. He had set up a successful private investigation firm in Boca Raton. He provided surveillance for ex-wives to help secure higher divorce settlements, background checks on government employees, bankruptcies, credit ratings . . . you name it, he did it. He was tough. Inscrutable. He had a ton of contacts in law enforcement and various New York and Florida Mafia hoods he was friendly with.
McNeal took a deep breath and dialed the number. It rang three times before it was picked up.
“O’Brien Investigations,” a voice answered, then the man cleared his throat. Finn was still a big smoker. From what his father had told him, Finn was also an even bigger drinker, especially after his wife died a decade earlier.
“Mr. O’Brien, my name is Jack McNeal. Hope you don’t mind me bothering you.”
“Danny’s son?”
“That’s right. I’m the eldest of Daniel’s children.”
O’Brien began to cough, which merged into a throaty laugh. “Christ almighty. I’ll be damned. How nice to hear your voice. I haven’t heard from your father for months. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
McNeal sighed. “Bottom line? I need some help.”
“The NYPD Internal Affairs Bureau needs my help?”
“This is personal. Off the books, so to speak.”
“I get you. Tell me, how’s your dad?”
“You know how he is. Pain in the ass.”
O’Brien let out a hacking cough and laughed hard. “He was always that. He’s a good man. He was always there for me when I joined the force. I’ll never forget that. Is he still living on Staten Island?”
“They’ll have to take him out in a box. He’ll never move.”
“Florida. That’s where it’s at. You can’t move for fucking New Yorkers. You can tell they’re New Yorkers because they talk louder than anyone else!”
McNeal laughed. “It’s true.”
“Fucking right it’s true. Big-mouthed sons of bitches. But hey, we are what we are, right?”
“Absolutely right.”