He thought about whether he should reach out to Sam Daniels again. But what he wanted meant Sam having to access DC police databases. If Sam didn’t have a good reason, he could easily be suspended or fired.
McNeal knew better than anyone that cops who crossed that line by trying to access confidential police databases about ex-wives or partners were routinely disciplined. Sometimes fired. He had investigated scores of such cases in the past couple of years.
McNeal knew one person who might be able to help. He pulled up O’Brien’s name from his cell phone. It rang five times before the familiar, gruff voice answered.
“Hello, Jack.”
McNeal explained the latest twist in his investigation. “So, I need another favor.”
“Call in as many as you like, son. It’s not a problem.”
“I’ve got a delicate situation I need handling.”
“I’m listening.”
“I need a cop in DC to access a police database. It’s risky.”
“I know people. What exactly do you want?”
“I want someone to access the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia files. I want to know what they have on the prowler incidents around the home of my late wife.”
“I know someone in Robbery there. A nephew of a friend.”
“I don’t want your guy to get collared for this.”
“You know as well as I do there are risks in everything. I pay well. Cops do this sort of stuff all the time. It’s only a problem if there’s an audit. Millions of inquiries every day through local and state databases, in addition to the FBI’s National Crime and Information Center.”
“I don’t want you trying to access the Fed stuff.”
“I understand.”
“I’m looking to see if the police had any reports of a prowler, and if so, what did they find out? I want a name.”
When McNeal had packed his bag once again, about to drive back north, he remembered that he meant to stop by Caroline’s house in the city. He had forgotten all about that in the craziness since her death. He could decide later what he was going to do with it.
McNeal had keys to the property. He had the four-digit access code to deactivate the alarm. He decided to head on over to what was now his Georgetown townhouse.
He left his hotel and walked the six blocks. He stood admiring the beautiful old colonial row house sitting in the oldest part of the city. It had existed since before DC even existed.
He stared at the black front door. He thought of how many times Caroline would have opened the door after a long day covering politics on Capitol Hill.
He took out the key and unlocked the door. He headed inside. A pile of mail lay strewn behind the door.
A few beeps warned him that he had just a few seconds before the alarm went off.
McNeal punched in the four-digit code to deactivate the alarm. He walked down the polished corridor and into the kitchen. Everything neat and clean, as she would have left it. It felt strange to be in her home. It wasn’t their home. It was hers. At least that’s how he thought of it.
He was humbled and so sad that she had left it to him. It was no use to him without her.
McNeal had too much on his mind to worry about owning such a prestigious property. He headed into the bedroom. There, he saw photos of himself and Caroline on their wedding day. Three small stones on top of each other, beside her bed. He ran his fingers over them, assuming they were stones from Compo Beach. Caroline had loved rock balancing with Patrick. He was touched that she had taken a small piece of the beach to her new home. Maybe as a reminder of what had been.
He opened the closets. Wall-to-wall nice clothes. The faint citrus scent of her. The French perfume she loved to wear. He looked down and saw the neat rows of shoes. Caroline loved shoes.
He made his way into the living room. It looked like a house owned by a leading American journalist. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Biographies of Kissinger, Nixon, Clinton, Bush, and Lincoln alongside mostly American classics like Henry James’s Washington Square and John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. He noticed a few copies of her books were on the shelves. He remembered her writing them on rare visits home to Westport. Sitting in the upstairs study, tapping away maniacally at her MacBook, a beautiful view over Compo Beach.
He headed through to the kitchen again. Yellow Post-it notes and scribbled reminders pinned to a cork board. A postcard from Seville. He unpinned it. It was from her colleague at the Post, Arlene Cortez.
Having a great time, honey. Wish you were here. Arlene.
xxx