“What is it?”
“You heard of SMS spoofing?”
“Like text messages?”
“Exactly. The plan is I send a message as if it’s coming from Feinstein, and I tell Graff that she wants to meet him somewhere. She has something for him.”
“I’m with you. Whereabouts?”
“Graff was born and raised in Maryland. I think I could send a spoof text from Feinstein telling Graff Jack McNeal’s been intercepted in Maryland after he got off the freeway.”
“What if he doesn’t take the bait?”
“Then we go with the first plan.”
Peter pushed the backpack to Jack’s feet. “Since it’s high risk . . . thought you might like that.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t take it out here. This is going to go bad at some point. You’re going to make contact with Graff, or whoever the fuck Graff has tasked with this.”
“Possibly.”
“Inside the backpack is an untraceable 9mm Glock.”
“I’ve got a Glock.”
“What happens if you have to use your gun? Do you really want to try and explain to Internal Affairs how a registered personal handgun, or even worse, your NYPD gun, killed someone, and you weren’t in New York? This one is untraceable. No serial number. My militia guy also gave me an earpiece so I can communicate with you. State-of-the-art two-way radio, in case of bad cell phone reception. I’ve also got a sniper rifle.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to cover your ass. If you manage to get Graff or one of his guys in your sights, I’ll have him in my sights too. I’ll cover you. I can take the fucker out, if need be. It’s a backup.”
McNeal shook his head. “Holy fuck.”
Peter made a fist. “This is not going to end well.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to Jersey.”
“Work?”
“Took a week’s vacation time I’m owed. Doing renovations.”
“What about the wife and kids?”
“With her mother. Until this blows over, I don’t want them anywhere near the situation. Anyway, I might be able to take the heat off you by heading north, but I’ll double back when I can. Where you planning for this to go down? Just so I know.”
“Just outside Frederick. The Frederick Diner, three miles south of the town.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You run into problems, you just need to holler.” Peter got up from his seat. “Take care, bro.”
McNeal watched his brother leave the diner. He sat alone for fifteen minutes. He left a twenty-dollar tip. Then he gathered up the backpack, got back in his car, and headed south in the dead of night.
Forty-Two
Graff was prowling his Arlington penthouse, unable to sleep, when his cell phone rang. He had been told that McNeal was headed south on I-95. It looked like the cop was going to take matters into his own hands. McNeal knew too much. And he posed a huge threat to Graff and the whole operation.
He let the cell ring.
The provocation of killing the dog had worked. The question was, what was the guy planning? Was McNeal going to try and ambush him? Kidnap him and take him to the cops? Maybe he just wanted to stay away from Westport, aware now that he was being watched? Maybe he was on his way to the Hoover Building with the information he had.
The cell phone kept on ringing. Eventually he answered, thinking it would be Feinstein with an update. “Yeah.”
“Henry?” It was Nico, his most trusted lieutenant. A man he’d known since the invasion of Iraq. The black sites in Poland, Romania, Iraq—they had been in the same places.
“I thought you were going to call in the morning.”
“I was. But something’s coming up. Something that requires your attention.”
“I’m listening.”
“You asked me to keep an eye on Karen.”
Graff anticipated what Nico was going to say. “I need to know if I can really trust her.”
“Well, that’s for you to judge.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But you’ve got a problem with her.”
Graff swallowed hard, a sickness deep in his stomach. His head swam, and now he felt nauseous. He had pictured Feinstein as his wife. She fit the bill, and he had long admired her. But he had started having feelings for her. Feelings that had grown since his wife’s death.
Feinstein was that rare find—a woman as cold as ice who he enjoyed being with. A woman who understood him. A woman he found bearable. But he remembered what his father always said: Trust no one. Friends are enemies in waiting. Love is death.