“Tell your father to come down here and take a week or two to unwind. Winter’s hell up north.”
“Tell me about it.”
McNeal exhaled long and hard. He felt as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
“You said this was something personal. What happened?”
McNeal recounted the events that had led up to his wife’s death, then the aftermath.
“Christ, son, I’m so sorry.”
“We’re all really torn up about it.”
“You don’t think this was an accident or drowning or suicide. Would I be correct in that assumption?”
“It’s a possibility. We can’t rule it out.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
“No, I do not.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I believe she was killed. Murdered. But I don’t know by who. I intend to find out. I want some information on a certain guy.”
“You’ve come to the right place. We specialize in certain guys. I need to know, though, that you’re not going to use that information to cause harm to a person.”
“My only interest is in finding out more about him. If I find out anything untoward, it will be passed on to law enforcement.”
“That’s all I need to know, son.”
“It’s got to be done very quietly. No trace back to me.”
“Whatever we talk about, it’s confidential. Very discreet. No comeback on you. End of story. What do you need?”
“I want to know everything you can get your hands on about a guy called Henry Graff.”
“G-r-a-f-f ?”
“Two f’s, that’s right. I believe he’s based in and around DC. Heard he might have links with a security company. His wife overdosed in DC three years ago.”
“In the name of God.”
“I believe he’s also old friends with the President.”
O’Brien cleared his throat. “Interesting. My firm is very thorough. When do you need this?”
“As soon as you can. Whatever it costs.”
“That won’t be necessary, Jack. I knew you when you were knee-high. What’s the best way to contact you?”
McNeal gave him his private email address.
“Henry Graff . . . Name doesn’t ring a bell. I’ll see what we can find.”
McNeal knew he had crossed a line. He asked himself if he had done the right thing by reaching out to O’Brien and setting off down a path of no return.
The more he thought about it, the more he worried. What the hell was he doing? It was the kind of thing he investigated in Internal Affairs. Cops who took it upon themselves to start poking their noses into matters that didn’t concern them. Crossing boundaries.
No one was above the law. That was his mantra. He was not above the law. But he was acutely aware that he was allowing his love for his wife to erode his judgment. Bit by bit, he felt himself being consumed by it all.
McNeal pushed his negative thoughts to one side. Hunger gnawed at his gut. He needed to eat. He freshened up, putting on a change of clothes before he headed down to the hotel’s restaurant. He ate alone. His mind wandered. Had Caroline ever eaten here? She almost certainly had. It was a prestigious hotel in the heart of DC. She would have eaten lunch here with colleagues. Friends. He thought of her, alone, carving out a new single life in Washington, DC. It made him sad. He thought back to their wedding day. The dress she had worn. The church on Staten Island. It had been a blazing-hot day. To honor. To love. Till death do us part.
He remembered her friends at the wedding reception afterward. Prominent American journalists, writers, some intellectuals. His side of the family was all cops, truck drivers, and homemakers. The first dance was a Sinatra number they both loved: “Summer Wind.” He remembered her smiling face, dazzling eyes. Everyone watching them. The music played. It was intoxicating.
McNeal left a twenty-dollar bill as a tip and put the check on his room tab. He headed through to the bar. He pulled up a stool and ordered a beer. Then another.
He let the emptiness return. Not in his belly this time. But in his heart.
He drank a third beer, then followed it up with a single malt. He looked around. The bar was starting to fill up. Mostly couples. A few singles. A couple of girls. Guys on business trips with colleagues. A family from the Midwest talking about visiting the Smithsonian and talking loudly about how dirty the Metro was. They’ve never been on the New York subway, he thought.
“Jack? Is that you?” A woman’s voice from the other side of the bar.