The sound of more gunshots. Gomez was down. The bottle smashed. Blood congealed around his dead partner’s head. The screaming returned. Sirens in the distance. McNeal stood alone, looking down at his dead son. He cradled him in his arms. Stroked his blood-soaked hair.
Slow motion as Caroline began to shriek.
The phone rang again, snapping McNeal out of his dark thoughts from five years ago.
“Yeah. McNeal.”
“Jack, sorry for calling at this hour.” It was Bob Buckley. “Listen, we got a problem.”
McNeal closed his eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I know what goddamn time it is. I just got woken up myself. Some guys want to talk to you.”
“What guys?”
“They were kinda cagey. They just said they wanted to talk.”
McNeal wondered if this was blowback after his internal memo. His concerns focused on priorities. He had highlighted Buckley’s obsession with plugging up media leaks, the most common being officers emailing photos of crime scenes to reporters. These offenses showed terrible judgment and should be investigated. But McNeal thought the Bureau’s paranoia and relentless focus, combined with Buckley’s political ambitions, had come at the expense of the crimes committed by members of the NYPD—serious crimes, including an officer in the Bronx who alleged her partner had raped her and blackmailed her over her opioid addiction. “Is this from the Commissioner’s office? Is that what this is all about?”
“No, Jack. That’s coming, don’t worry. That’s a separate matter. And we’re going to have to talk about it.”
McNeal sighed.
“They want to talk to you in the office. Right now.”
“The office? At his time? Who the hell are they? Feds?”
“I asked them. They’re not from the FBI. They just asked me to get hold of you within the hour. They wouldn’t give further details.”
“Are they cops?”
“These guys aren’t cops.”
“Did you ask them?”
“Yeah, I asked them.”
“And they wouldn’t say where they were from?”
“Correct.”
“They didn’t identify themselves?”
“Correct.”
“Bob, tell them I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”
“Not an option.”
McNeal tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day. “What do you mean it’s not an option?”
“I mean these guys weren’t fooling around. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You need to come in.”
Four
It took McNeal half an hour to get showered, shaved, and changed into a fresh shirt and suit. He took a cab across to Hudson Yards on the West Side. He rode the elevator to the third floor and fixed himself a coffee.
“Hey, Jack, you working late?”
McNeal looked up and saw Lieutenant Dave Franzen carrying a report, drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. “Got some visitors.”
“At this time? Who?”
“No idea. Got a call from Buckley.”
“Christ. Commissioner’s office coming to bust your balls?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So, who the hell turns up at this time of night?”
McNeal knew whoever it was, it was not going to be good news.
“No idea. I’ll keep you posted.”
Thirty minutes later, McNeal watched two men wearing raincoats dash into the building. His instincts told him that these people were from the government. Franzen, eating a doughnut, escorted the men through the offices. He pointed them to McNeal’s desk.
The men approached, taking off their coats.
“Jack McNeal?” the heavyset man said.
“Yeah.”
The guy flashed a Diplomatic Security Service ID badge. He shook McNeal’s hand, as did his colleague. “We’ve got some questions, if you don’t mind.”
McNeal shrugged. “At this time of night? Must be serious.”
“It is. We’d prefer to talk in private.”
McNeal brought them to an empty conference room adjacent to the control room. Diplomatic Security Service specialized in protecting diplomats. It was the federal law enforcement and security arm of the State Department. They also investigated visa and passport fraud. Was this in connection to a case he was working on? Had a diplomat or his family had a run-in with a cop under investigation? In all his years on the force, he’d had no dealings with them.
He flicked on the lights as the two men pulled up a seat each. McNeal remained standing. “So, what’s this all about?”