Graff added, “What would worry me would be the loss of my pension rights.”
McNeal was dumbstruck. It was clear that Graff already knew about the conversation between Buckley and the NYPD commissioner about stripping McNeal of his police pension. Graff was showing how far his influence and connections extended. It was unnerving, to say the least.
“Anyway, I thought it only right to bring this to your attention.”
“Very good of you, Mr. Graff.”
“I hope you take this time to grieve properly. A time to reflect. Space to contemplate what you had together.”
“Thanks for the call, Mr. Graff.”
“Don’t hesitate to contact me if there’s anything you want to know. My door is always open.”
Thirty-Six
McNeal called his brother and relayed details of the surreal conversation with Graff.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Peter said. “That’s what Graff told you?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Why didn’t you tell him that you know about his links to Feinstein?”
“He probably knows that I know already.”
“Why didn’t you sock it to him?”
“For what purpose? I’m on sticky ground. I had the riot act read to me by my boss.” McNeal quickly outlined the conversation he’d had with Buckley.
“Bob Buckley said your pension might be at risk? Seriously?”
“I need to be careful.”
Peter sighed. “I think you do too.”
“Forgot to say, there was something else. When I got back here, the alarm had been deactivated and all the lights were on. Nothing taken. No sign of a break-in. I was starting to doubt myself. Maybe I forgot to put the alarm on and turn off the lights.”
“Easily done.”
“I’m fucking careful about stuff like that.”
“What do you think happened?”
McNeal sighed. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“And?”
“Someone is fucking with me. Playing mind games with me. They’ve got me starting to doubt myself.”
“Who exactly are you talking about?”
“Graff. Feinstein. I don’t know. People that work for them, more likely. Then the weird call from Graff.”
“This is starting to sound like a bit of a stretch.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you. I’ll always believe you. You’re my brother. But why would they do that? For what purpose?”
“Psychological warfare. Think about it. They want me to think that I’m not in control. That I’m losing it. They’re fucking with my head.”
“Slow down, man.”
“Don’t you get it? They’re doing this so I react, and by reacting, they hope I’ll make a bad decision.”
“You’re making it sound like a low-level war of attrition.”
“That’s exactly what it is. They want to unsettle me. Want me to know that they can get to me. It’s subtle. What am I going to do? Call the police and say someone has broken in and done this? No. Why? Because the police would think I’m nuts. By doing nothing, they exert pressure on me. Quietly.”
“Sounds like goddamn KGB tactics.”
“More like the CIA. Straight out of their playbook, right? That’s exactly where Graff or Feinstein comes in.”
“I’ve got to say, I’m worried about you, man.”
“Do you think I’m losing my mind?”
“No, I don’t. I’m just worried about you. I care about you.”
“Remember I told you about the break-in at Caroline’s psychologist’s office? And the prowler outside Caroline’s house in DC? Now this. It’s a pattern.”
“It ain’t good, I know that. I’m going to come up and spend a few days with you, if that’s okay.”
McNeal picked up his empty glass, swished around the melted ice. “Look, I’ll get through this. I’ll deal with this.”
“I know you will. But I want to be there for you now. I want to talk.”
“What about?”
“About how we’re going to deal with this.”
Thirty-Seven
The following morning, after a restless sleep, McNeal got a text from Peter saying he was on his way. He got up, showered, put on a fresh shirt and jeans, and headed downstairs. It wasn’t long before Peter rolled up in his Ford with his Labrador, Charlie, in the front seat.
McNeal hugged his brother tight. It felt good to have Peter with him.