He needed time to decompress. Time to think about what had happened.
McNeal’s mind flashed images of Graff lying dead in the bean field, bullet in his head. He knew that if push came to shove, he would kill Nicoletti. The bastard had murdered Caroline, a woman who had single-handedly unearthed Graff’s involvement in killing his wife, Sophie Meyer. And Caroline had paid the price.
He remembered what Graff had said. About the ambush waiting for him. Was Graff behind that, or was it Feinstein’s people? What would they be thinking now that they couldn’t contact Henry Graff? No sign of him. At least no visible sign of him.
He imagined they wouldn’t go to the cops to report a missing person. Then he started thinking about Nicoletti. Would he try and contact Graff? Would Feinstein try and contact Nicoletti?
The more he learned, the more he wanted to expose the whole fucked-up operation.
The brothers walked to a nearby diner. Jack ordered a burger and fries while Peter ordered a pastrami sandwich.
They ate in silence. When they were finished, and on their third cup of coffee, Jack asked, “You think we can trust Luigi?”
Peter leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t trust many people, but I trust him. I use him as an informant. Very, very useful. I’ve gotten his father a couple of breaks over the years.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. The father is a big shot, as you know. But he also has dirt on other big shots. You know how it works.”
McNeal hunched over his coffee. “What a mess.”
“You’re right. But we roll with it. You still want to get that creep, Nico?”
“I’m all in.”
“So am I. Fuck it.”
McNeal grinned. “Fuck it.”
“We almost certainly left a trail. But that’s in the past. We move on.”
“We’ve done our best to minimize it, including the digital trail through cell phone towers.”
“Nothing is foolproof. But without a body, they have nothing.”
“I want to talk to Nicoletti. We need to get to him before Feinstein or any of her crew try and reach out to him or silence him.”
Peter tossed his napkin onto the table and leaned back. “You know how it’s going to play out if you do find him?”
Jack nodded.
Fifty-Three
Andrew Forbes ate pretzels on Air Force One, trying to appear nonchalant as he watched the President floss his teeth. The Commander in Chief was due to speak to the press corps at the back of the plane. The President was fanatical about his oral hygiene. But Forbes’s thoughts were mostly on Skinner, who sat farther back.
Skinner was barking instructions to some poor PR sap who was being berated for taking a call from the mayor of Washington, DC. I mean, who the fuck is she, anyway? Some self-important social worker. Wanting to save the world. She could start by losing fifty pounds off her ass, right? And you’re seriously going to waste the President’s time putting that on the agenda? Really? Get a fucking grip, son!
Forbes vibrated, a mixture of excitement and blind terror about what would soon unfold on the plane. He’d had no particular problem with Skinner until an hour ago. But the fucker was blackmailing him with compromising photos. It begged the question who had sent them in the first place. Who had even taken the photos? It sure as hell wasn’t him. It couldn’t be Feinstein. How would she benefit from this? Was it someone Feinstein worked with? He knew no newspaper would publish the photo. They couldn’t possibly authenticate that the photo hadn’t been digitally manipulated. Besides, he would sue their asses for millions, citing libel and invasion of privacy. He would say the photos were fake and a politically motivated hatchet job. But if the photos were leaked by someone in the New York Times to a political blogger, or maybe to a reporter at the National Enquirer, it would cause him a lot of trouble.
The more he thought about it, the less he understood. He wondered if they had been under surveillance all along. If so, by whom?
His blood ran cold. If Nicoletti was running a surveillance operation for Henry Graff, then they all had serious problems.
The President took a deep breath, his tongue moving slowly across his gleaming white teeth. “What do you think?”
“You look great, Mr. President. Fresh. Vital.”
The President handed over the used piece of dental floss, slivers of pizza still attached and dripping with presidential saliva.
Forbes remained impassive. He folded the dirty dental floss in a tissue and tossed it in a trash can. He straightened the President’s tie. “Hermès. You got to love a proper silk tie.”