In the center of the board was a color picture of Caroline and Jack enjoying a glass of wine in the Bar Room at the Beekman in downtown Manhattan. The photo had been taken by Peter’s wife. They had been celebrating their tenth anniversary. Eighteen months later and she would be gone from their marriage. The shocking death of their son had driven them apart. Maybe she just wanted a change of scenery. Maybe she had grown tired of his mundane job, or his mundane lifestyle. He wasn’t one for visiting museums or galleries. He grumbled about going to dinner parties.
He went back to the living room and noticed a landline he hadn’t known about. He picked up the bills on the table. He saw one for Verizon and opened the envelope.
The home number was printed there.
But it also showed itemized calls. Three were to the psychologist. Eighteen to the Washington Post.
McNeal wondered what she had wanted. Had she been looking for help? Advice? Was she reaching out, scared?
McNeal’s cell phone rang, snapping him out of his reverie. He saw the caller ID and recognized it immediately. “Jack McNeal speaking.”
A long sigh came down the line. “Jack, it’s Robert Buckley.”
“Sir?”
“Jack, we need to talk.”
“What about, Bob?”
“Are you still in DC?”
“For a little while longer.”
“Get yourself back to New York, Jack. I think you’ve got a problem.”
Thirty-Four
McNeal drove back from DC and headed straight for his apartment in New York. He dropped off his bags and took the short walk to Internal Affairs on Hudson. He knew what was coming. Was he interfering with police or FBI investigations? Maybe both.
McNeal was shown into Bob Buckley’s huge corner office on the third floor, overlooking the Hudson.
Buckley had dark shadows under his eyes. He stood up and shook McNeal’s hand before motioning for Jack to sit down. He leafed through some papers on his desk. “I just want to say once again how sorry I am about Caroline’s death. I think I speak for the whole department when I say that we are all mourning for not only her but you. I can only imagine what you’re going through.”
“Thank you. Means a lot.”
“Secondly, you and I go back a good few years, and it would be remiss of me not to speak frankly. I hope you understand that.”
McNeal shrugged. “Bob, I’d expect nothing less.”
“This is not official, and there is going to be no note of this, whatever our goddamn rules say.”
McNeal nodded.
“There are rules and there are rules, right?”
McNeal listened patiently.
“Jack, you are a great detective. You’re as straight and as honest a cop as I’ve ever met. You’re one of the good guys. I know you and I haven’t seen eye to eye in the last year or two. Basically, I know you’re pissed that we’ve had to put some bad seeds into dismissal probation. And I know what you think about keeping bad cops in their jobs, as long as they keep their noses clean for a year. I get that, and I sympathize with you.”
McNeal waited to see where his boss was going with this.
“I understand where you’re coming from. There are issues, no question. Serious issues that we need to work harder to address.”
“When you’ve got a cop—I’m talking Mulligan, who battered his wife unconscious—and he ends up on dismissal probation, then yeah, I guess I have a problem with that.”
“The rules are the rules. And I know you’ve written numerous memos about wanting to change those rules. Jack, that ain’t gonna happen. You know it. I know it. It’s politics. You know how it is. He was dealing with his son’s alcoholism.”
McNeal nodded. “That’s not why you called me here, though, is it?”
Buckley sighed and leaned back in his seat. “You’re on bereavement leave now, right?”
“I’m thinking about coming back next week.”
“Jack, you know it’s not my style to be a ballbuster, least of all when it comes to you. But do you know who called me?”
McNeal shrugged. He had a good idea.
“FBI Assistant Director John Gutierrez threatened to have you arrested with intent to interfere or impede an FBI investigation regarding the death of someone named Sophie Meyer.”
“Are you serious?”
“Do you have any idea how pissed he was? I’m telling you, this guy was citing every goddamn law up to national security.”
“Did Gutierrez say who the complaint originated from? I took documents to the FBI in Bridgeport. When I called back, the guy had been transferred to DC. I brought that all to them, then I ran into a brick wall.”