“That’s not how they’re reading it.”
“You want to know the real story? I handed over documents that my late wife’s lawyer passed to me. An investigation she was working on, into the death of Sophie Meyer. And I’m the bad guy?”
“Christ almighty. I know you’re grieving, God knows I do, but I have no idea what this is about. When the FBI calls my number, at home, it bothers me.”
McNeal knew he wasn’t going to win this particular argument. Best to just sit quiet and listen. He also knew that Buckley’s political ambitions required him to run a tight ship. He couldn’t be seen having rogue detectives carrying out private investigations. It didn’t look good.
“From what I know about this Sophie Meyer—party girl, socialite, and all the rest—it was a simple overdose. That was three goddamn years ago. But now I hear that you turn up and start hassling the bereaved husband? Are you nuts? You’re out of line.”
“I just wanted some answers.”
“That’s not the way to go about it. Grief does terrible things to a man. Now I have the fucking FBI on to me, busting my balls about you poking around about Sophie Meyer.”
“Did they tell you I was a person of interest for Caroline’s death for a day or two?”
Buckley closed his eyes, as if not wanting to hear any more. “From what I’ve been told, this Sophie Meyer was having affairs with a senator on the Intelligence Committee, among others.”
“Among others. Did you know that someone set a honey trap for me?”
“What?”
“I’m surprised the FBI left that out.”
“What are you talking about?”
McNeal told the story of how he had nearly been snared by Francesca Luca. “She’s a hooker. She’s been bailed out multiple times by a woman called Feinstein. An associate of Henry Graff, the guy I visited, former husband to Sophie Meyer. A friend of the President, apparently!”
“What the fuck has the President got to do with this, Jack? Are you having a breakdown? That’s why we referred you to the psychologist in the first place.”
“Yeah, thanks for that.”
“Snap out of it! You’re at a crossroads. Believe me when I tell you, when you’ve got the FBI and Secret Service breathing down your neck, it’s not nice. Not nice at all. If you continue down this path . . .”
“What?”
Buckley sighed. “Christ, this shouldn’t have gotten to this stage.”
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Well, if having the Feds breathing down my neck isn’t bad enough, I spoke to the police commissioner just over an hour ago. He says that if your conduct continues, you will be suspended, then fired and stripped of your pension if found guilty. Do you understand?”
McNeal detached, as if Buckley was talking to someone else. He didn’t know where he would be without his job. It defined him.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Will you give me your word this crazy behavior is at an end? Can I tell the Commissioner that?”
“Tell him it’s over. I’ve been under immense stress.” It was the sort of thing McNeal heard time and time again from bad cops. “It won’t happen again.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Take some time off. Go fishing. Get some rest. And sleep. Let’s forget all about this bullshit.”
Thirty-Five
The sky darkened as McNeal pulled up to his home in Westport. Inside the house, the lights were on. Upstairs and downstairs.
McNeal got out of his car and steeled himself for a trashed house. He opened the front door and realized right away the alarm had been deactivated. He always set the alarm. And he always turned the lights off.
He locked the front door behind him, took out his gun, and went from room to room. Every closet. Even the attic. But he found nothing.
The house was exactly as he’d left it, except the lights were on and the alarm deactivated.
“What the fuck?” He holstered his gun.
McNeal couldn’t understand it. It looked like nothing had been taken. He questioned if he had simply forgotten. But that wasn’t like him. He was sure he had turned all the lights off and set the alarm. McNeal always made sure everything was turned off. Someone had been inside. But who? If it had been a thief, the place would have been ransacked. Or at least shown evidence that people had been there.
He pushed those thoughts aside as he began to doubt himself.