“Appreciate your time.”
The man shrugged. He exuded a quiet menace. He didn’t stand up to greet him. But that was fine. “And you are Mr. Jack McNeal? Where are you from, Jack?”
“New York.”
“You’ve come a long way. Can I get you a coffee? A drink of any kind?”
McNeal shook his head.
“How can I help? It’s something that couldn’t wait, right?”
McNeal pulled up a chair. “You mind?”
“Not at all. What’s this all about? It’s unusual for clients or potential clients to turn up without a prior appointment.”
McNeal looked around the minimalistic office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows. “I’m not a potential client . . . you probably know who I am.”
“As I said, I don’t believe we’ve met. Certainly your name’s not one I’m familiar with. To be fair, I have a long list of clients and prospective clients.”
“You’ll get to know my name.”
Graff sat up in his seat and gave a tight smile. “Are you here on business, Mr. McNeal?”
“I’m here to talk about the death of your wife, Mr. Graff.”
Graff shifted forward. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
“My name is Jack McNeal. We’ve got something in common. Both our wives died in DC.”
Graff was quiet for a few moments, his face impassive. “I’m sorry to hear that. How did your wife die?”
“She drowned in the Potomac, apparently.”
“I’m so sorry. Can you tell me more about her?”
“My wife was Caroline McNeal. She worked for the Washington Post.”
“That was your wife?”
McNeal nodded. “That was my wife.”
“I read about that. I’m with you now. She drowned?”
“Floating in the Potomac. Three years after your wife’s death.”
“You seem to know a lot about this. Do you mind if I call you Jack?”
“Jack is fine.”
“This is all a bit sudden and out of the blue. Beyond the manner of their deaths, I’m not sure I can see the connection.”
“My late wife was, by all accounts, rather interested in your late wife. And how she died.”
Graff steepled his fingers. “Why would she be interested in my wife’s tragic death? That strikes me as rather bizarre. Cruel, even.”
“She was a journalist. Her joy was to pursue stories.”
“Real or imagined?”
“Caroline believed your wife’s death was suspicious.”
“Journalists, from my experience, live in a fantasy world most of the time. Barely credible, many of them. Live off the scraps given by sources, sometimes real, sometimes imagined.”
McNeal smiled, feeling himself burrowing underneath Graff’s skin.
Graff cleared his throat. “What exactly is the purpose of your visit?”
“Just to introduce myself and explain some background. I was hoping you might be able to provide me with some answers about either my wife’s death or your wife’s death.”
“You’re wearing my patience very thin, Mr. McNeal.” His tone became slightly sinister. “What do you know about my wife?”
“I know your wife was very well known in Washington social circles. I remember there was a private memorial service that the President attended very recently on the third anniversary of her death. You’re well connected. As was your wife.”
Graff sighed, as if disappointed by a recalcitrant child. “Mr. McNeal, without wishing to appear rude, my wife’s death has nothing to do with you. It was a deeply personal and private tragedy for my family. I’m at a loss to understand why you have come here at all.”
“With respect, Mr. Graff, I have to disagree. My wife was investigating your wife’s death.”
Graff stared at McNeal for what seemed an eternity, as if letting the words sink in. “We seem to be going around in circles, Mr. McNeal.”
“Do we?”
“What’s your background, Mr. McNeal?”
“I grew up on Staten Island.”
“No, I mean, what do you do for a living?”
“Internal Affairs Bureau, NYPD.”
Graff summoned a wry smile. “So, you investigate corrupt cops, right?”
“Among other things.”
“How fascinating. Does the NYPD know that you are conducting a personal investigation way down here in DC?”
“I’m on bereavement leave, and this is not a personal investigation.”