Peter wiped the syrup from the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “Couple of things we have to go over.”
“The car. My car.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I know a guy. Five miles from here. Old friend of mine. He won’t ask questions.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t need to know. He runs a breaker’s yard. We put your car in. Pulp it. End of story.”
Jack realized he had slipped into murder and criminality with surprising ease. He wondered why he didn’t feel much. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe it was his way of dealing with it. “I want to talk about Nicoletti, the prowler.”
Peter sipped his coffee. “What about him?”
“I want to know what he knows. Graff said that Nicoletti was the link man.”
“Link man to who?”
“Someone close to the President. I want to know who that is.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Are you going to kill him too?”
“Maybe.”
Peter was quiet for a few minutes. His gaze skipped around the diner, as if seeking divine intervention.
“Please walk away,” McNeal begged.
“No can do. I’m not leaving your side until this is done. What do you want to do?”
McNeal took out Graff’s cell phone. It was using a virtual private network to preserve anonymity, and the location showed as Mexico, which clearly wasn’t the case. He scrolled through the contacts. He saw Nicoletti’s number. “I want to speak to this Nico. He’s the fucker who killed Caroline. He’s the one who was contacted by some serious people.”
“Do you realize this isn’t going to end well?”
“I’m way beyond caring.”
Peter bowed his head and sighed.
“We kill this guy, the chances of getting caught rise exponentially.”
Jack shook his head. He had already made up his mind. He was going to find the man who killed his wife. And find out exactly who was giving the orders. Where did it lead?
Peter leaned closer. “You’re going to send him a message pretending to be Graff?”
McNeal realized he was smiling. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. He lives in a place you might remember.”
“Where?”
“Warwick.”
“Warwick, New York?”
“Got it.”
Peter nodded. They both knew the town. They had visited their grandmother, who lived there. They had played in the fields outside the town.
“Think back.”
“I am.”
“Remember the place where we used to play?”
“I see where you’re going with this.”
McNeal could see his brother knew the very location he had in mind. “No one will ever find him there. It’s the perfect place to kill this guy.”
Fifty-One
It was past midday when Andrew Forbes got called into the office of White House Chief of Staff Blane Skinner. He knocked twice and walked in, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Pull up a seat, Andrew.”
Skinner sat behind a huge desk, neat piles of paper in front of him.
Forbes had been in there just once before, on his first day. He knew Skinner only by reputation. He was feared by nearly all staff at the White House. He shouted at staffers, interns. On occasion, even shouted at the Secret Service for standing too close to the President or getting in his way. He was known to harbor grudges that lasted months, sometimes years. He never forgot people who slighted him, or those who disappointed him in some way. Sometimes people were dismissed simply for giving off weird vibes, but the people who crossed him were invariably coldly dispatched. Skinner was supremely fit. He prided himself on working out three times a day, wherever in the world he was. Even on Air Force One, Skinner took up yoga positions. The guy was a machine. A maniac.
Forbes shrank in his seat. His gaze fixed on the chief of staff’s lifeless gray eyes. They seemed to match Skinner’s pallor.
Skinner adjusted the knot of his red silk tie. “How long have you been in this job, Andrew?”
“Three years, three months, and five days, sir.”
Skinner grimaced. “That’s a long time. The President is a demanding man. I know that better than most. It takes its toll, right?”
“I find him to be good company, sir.”
“He is good company; I’ll give you that.” Skinner picked up an envelope from his desk and handed it to Forbes. “You want to have a look inside?”
Forbes took the envelope. “What is it, sir?”