“I don’t know. My head would say leave it. My heart? Who the hell knows?”
McNeal stared over toward the White House and sighed. “I feel sick.”
“I understand. I would be too. If I was you, I’d come back home. Give yourself time to get over this.”
“There’s a guy I want to talk to, a guy I think knows what happened.”
“Jack, don’t start something unless you know how it’s going to end.”
“I need to do this. I’ll come home. But I need to talk to this guy first.”
“Who?”
“The guy whose wife overdosed three years ago.”
Thirty-One
It was a short drive from DC to Arlington, Virginia. A matter of minutes.
McNeal was apprehensive as he pulled up outside an anonymous-looking glass-fronted building. He wanted Graff to know that he was on to him. He wanted to shake him up. Show him he was not afraid. Maybe make him respond. Rile him up. But it was mostly to apply some psychological pressure.
He walked through the revolving doors and into a spacious lobby adorned on all sides by modern art.
A woman sat behind the granite counter. She smiled as he approached. He checked the names of the companies that were based in the building. He spotted the name of Graff & Associates on the sixth floor.
“I’m here to see Henry Graff,” he said.
“Is Mr. Graff expecting you?”
McNeal knew how he was going to play it. “I don’t believe he is. But it’s a matter of some importance.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Graff only allows meetings strictly by appointment.”
“Of course. I understand. Can you please let Mr. Graff know I’m here?”
The woman gave a pained smile. “I’m so sorry, sir, but that’s just not possible.”
“Is he in today?”
“He’s a very, very busy man.”
“I’m sure he is. Tell you what I’ll do, I’m going to sit and wait over there until he comes down.”
“That is not possible, sir. That area is only for people who have appointments with one of the companies based in this building.”
McNeal smiled and leaned on the counter. “Give him a quick call and say I’d like to talk to him. He’ll know who I am.”
“Sir,” she said, her tone growing slightly annoyed, “that is not possible, regrettably. If you want to leave your name, I will try and arrange an appointment that will suit you both.”
“Not possible. My name is Jack McNeal. If you can let Mr. Graff know I’m in the building, that would be very helpful.”
McNeal sat down on one of the mustard-colored sofas and checked his messages. A few emails from colleagues at the Internal Affairs Bureau. A nice one from his boss, Bob Buckley, telling him to take as much time as he needed before returning to work. The truth was that the days had flown by. He didn’t really even know what day it was anymore.
He looked up and watched a camera scan the lobby.
The receptionist’s face had turned to stone.
“A quick visit, that’s all,” McNeal said, putting on his best smile.
She picked up her phone and whispered, “Sorry to bother you. There’s a gentleman here to see Mr. Graff. His name is McNeal. I told him Mr. Graff wasn’t available. But he is quite insistent.” The receptionist nodded her head a few times. “I’ll hold, sure.”
McNeal pretended to nonchalantly scan his cell phone.
“Belinda, hi,” the receptionist said. Then, “That’s not a problem.” She ended the call and looked across at McNeal. “Sir, Mr. Graff has a spare slot. Quite rare, in my experience.” She pointed to the elevators. “Get off at floor six.”
“Thank you so much.” McNeal headed to the elevator.
He rode the elevator to the sixth floor before he stepped out into a carpeted lobby. Another receptionist, this one behind a glass desk, stood up.
“Follow me, Mr. McNeal,” she instructed. He followed her down a series of corridors before reaching an outer office. She pressed her thumb against the digital reader on the wall, and the glass doors slid open. “Go right in. He’s waiting for you.”
McNeal walked through the door into a sprawling corner office with views of downtown Arlington. At the far end of the office, a man sat behind a huge walnut desk, leaning back in his seat.
“That’ll be all, Belinda,” he called across the room.
The door was closed quietly behind McNeal.
The man smiled at McNeal. “I don’t think we’ve met. Henry Graff.”