“Please don’t talk like that.”
“Belinda, thanks for your time and help.”
McNeal ended the call and realized he was shaking. A few moments later, his cell phone rang again, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“It’s Peter.”
McNeal’s head was swimming. He checked his watch. His brother had been gone nearly an hour. “You must have nearly hit the city by now.”
“Not far. Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking. We’re going to do this together.”
“This is my fight. I’ll deal with it.”
“I’m going to head home, freshen up, and we can meet up and talk things through. I have a couple of things I need to pick up on my way home.”
“Peter, I love you, but you’ve got a family. Stay in New Jersey. I’ll deal with this.”
“I thought about this. It’s not an easy decision. But you’re my family too. I’m guessing you might be heading to DC?”
McNeal sighed. That was exactly what he had in mind. “I am going to head south.”
“And do what?”
“Whatever it takes. That’s what.”
“You want to meet up later tonight? Midnight snack?”
“The truck stop diner?”
“That’s the one.”
“You got it. See you then.”
“Take care, bro.”
Forty-One
It was just after midnight on the long drive south.
McNeal spotted the neon sign for the Deepwater Diner at a truck stop a few minutes from the Delaware Memorial Bridge. He walked in, past a couple tables of truckers, and sat down at a booth away from the front window. He had arrived before his brother. He scanned the menu and ordered crab cakes and fries with a coffee. Within ten minutes he had been served and had finished eating.
He was on his third refill of black coffee when his brother arrived, backpack slung over his shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late, had to make a slight detour,” Peter said as he sat. He put the backpack on the floor at his feet.
“You eat?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He indicated for the waitress to come over. “Strong black coffee, thank you.”
A few moments later, they were both nursing coffees, the diner all but deserted after the truckers had drifted out.
Satisfied there was no one in earshot, Peter leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “I think we got company,” he said.
“Outside?”
Peter nodded. “When I pulled up, I waited for five minutes. An SUV with tinted windows pulled up. Virginia plates.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“They were tailing me for forty miles, maybe more. But then they pulled away without getting out.”
“Interesting. Could just be some guys headed down 95.”
“I know what I saw. They were tailing me. I’ll bet they pick up that tail when we leave here. Perhaps in another vehicle.”
McNeal took a gulp of the hot coffee, feeling the jolt from the caffeine. “Here’s where I’m at. If we head to Graff’s tomorrow morning, he might just have his security goons throw us out.”
“We could turn up to his house in Arlington?”
“I thought of that. He’ll have cameras everywhere. And what will it look like? Two desperado cops, brothers, harassing him. He wins, we lose. And we’re fucked.”
Peter nodded. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I’ve got two plans.”
“What’s the first one?”
“We keep driving and driving. We want Graff, if he and his crazy gang are monitoring our movements, to assume we’re going after him. But he might think we’re headed to the FBI.”
“They might ambush you.”
“I’m expecting them to. And if they do, on a major highway, they’re increasing the odds that they’ll get caught. These people operate in the shadows.”
“It’s a high-risk strategy.”
“It’s a provocation. They tried it with us, and they’re getting a response. But my actions might very well initiate an overreaction.”
“You don’t know the end game.”
“The beauty of this is that neither do they. They will respond. I guarantee it. But plans have a way of unraveling.”
“You said you had two plans. What’s the second?”
“I’ve got Feinstein’s cell phone number. I have Graff’s cell phone number.”
“Okay . . .”
“This is a more proactive plan as opposed to the first, which is strictly reactive.”