McNeal headed upstairs, showered, and changed into fresh clothes. He poured himself a strong whiskey and slumped into an easy chair, switched on the TV. Fox News. A reporter was covering a gang shooting in Los Angeles. Three dead, including a thirteen-year-old boy. Bad news only made good news.
He sipped the whiskey and stared at the screen, the volume down low. The liquor warmed his belly. It took the edge off. He finished the rest of the drink, put down his glass, and sighed.
McNeal closed his eyes. He drifted off to sleep. Suddenly he floated down a river, peering up at the night sky. Billions of stars overhead. The sound of garbled whispers. Incessant. Ominous voices bearing down on him.
The sound of ringing startled McNeal, and he awoke to his cell phone vibrating on the side table.
McNeal gathered his thoughts. He didn’t recognize the caller ID.
“Hi, I’m looking to speak to Jack McNeal.” The voice of Henry Graff.
McNeal sat up, phone pressed tight to his ear. “Mr. Graff, how can I help you?”
“Is it an okay time to talk?”
“Sure.”
“Jack, I hope you don’t mind me calling to say I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“I think we got off on the wrong foot. What you said, turning up out of the blue, and telling me all those things . . . it startled me. I was insensitive to your feelings. I want to apologize if I came across as unfeeling. To be honest, I was shocked to the core by what you said.”
McNeal wondered about the purpose of the call. Was it to fuck with him? Was Graff trying to ingratiate himself? Maybe throw him off the scent? Was this part of his mind games? Jack knew about Graff’s links with Feinstein. But did Graff know that McNeal knew? He assumed a guy like Graff would.
He considered how he should play it. Tell Graff what he knew? Maybe it would be better to conceal his knowledge. All these thoughts careened around his head.
“Are you still there, Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“I want to say again, and I mean this, that I’m so sorry for your loss. I can see clearly now how devastating that must have been for you. I appreciate your willingness to be open and share what you know. I’m sorry if I came across as slightly unfeeling. Uncaring. Angry, even.”
McNeal let him talk.
“I’m still grieving my wife. The news of her death was like a bolt from out of nowhere. So much regret. So much pain, wondering what if.”
McNeal sighed. Was this the same Graff who was the killing machine he had read about in the dossier? Or maybe it was just Graff trying to pull at his heartstrings, appear as if he was hurting, casting himself as the victim. McNeal had encountered more than his fair share of psychopathic cops, the sort of malignant individuals who used emotional influence for selfish reasons. The sort of people who could manipulate, turn things around, make you feel sorry for them.
“Anyway, it’s true I’ve had my share of trials and tribulations in life. Losing people that are dear to me. Close friends. But I thought it important to speak to you man-to-man about this . . . Are you still there, Jack?”
“I’m still here.”
“The other thing I wanted to talk to you about was the autopsy. You mentioned there were two.”
“Sure.”
“That really upset me. Probably more than I realized. But I checked with the medical examiner whose name appears on her death certificate. He gave me a letter outlining his findings, and it mirrors his original findings exactly. He couldn’t explain the second autopsy.”
“I believe the second one was carried out by a medical examiner from the UK.”
“Thankfully I can clarify that. I checked on that too. The guy’s name is Dr. Malcolm Robertson. But he has written to me confirming he knows nothing about this. He said he didn’t carry out a second autopsy on my wife. So, it’s all very upsetting and bizarre. I can’t for the life of me figure out how this confusion came about.”
“I know my wife was a meticulous journalist. She had many high-level sources. I trust that what she unearthed was true.”
Silence. Then, “I very much admire your loyalty to your late wife. It must be a terrible burden, especially when you’re under investigation by the NYPD and the FBI.”
McNeal’s gut clenched tight. He hated being patronized by fucks like Graff. He could see he was being tested. He wondered if Graff disclosed his knowledge of the investigations as a means to unsettle him. He suspected every aspect of his life was under the microscope. Was Graff going to leak the information to the media? Was he recording the conversation? Nothing would surprise him.