“That’s all done.”
McNeal’s shoulders relaxed.
“I understand you were just trying to find out what happened to her. I get that, Jack. And I sympathize. God knows I do. But I think it put a few noses out of joint.”
“I should have just let it be.”
“You’re a great investigator. It’s what you do.”
McNeal was quiet for a few moments. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll just get back to my desk and try and sort out my backlog.”
“You okay to do that?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
“Good to have you back.”
“Like I’ve never been away.”
An hour later, McNeal sat at his desk. He sifted through the backlog of his files, prioritizing which one to focus on in the morning. Domestic assaults by cops on their wives, kids scared of their drunken cop dads, guns pointed at civilians on the subway for shouting—an endless list of stressed-out cops at their breaking points. Now, he knew exactly how they felt.
His desk phone rang.
“McNeal speaking.”
Silence.
McNeal sensed there was someone there. “Hello?”
He thought he heard breathing.
The line went dead.
Epilogue
A week later, Jack McNeal sat opposite Belinda Katz. He studied the modern art on the walls. “Are these originals?” he asked.
“Yes. They all belonged to my late husband. He was a collector. He used to drink with Willem de Kooning and all his pals. They’re pretty valuable, or so I’m told.”
McNeal’s gaze lingered on the colors, the shapes, and the lack of form. He didn’t know if it was random or if it was bullshit. “It’s nice on the white walls.”
Katz smiled. “You’re seeing beauty in art. That’s a big step forward.”
“I don’t know about art, but I know what I like.”
“Sounds like a song I once heard.”
McNeal smiled. “Quite possibly. Nice line.”
“So, tell me, Jack, that was quite a disappearing act you pulled. I seem to have lost track of time. You want to talk about that?”
“I needed space and time, as they say.”
Katz fixed her gaze on his. “You seem far more peaceful now.”
McNeal shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe I was just having a bad day when you saw me last.”
“I still have the scrap of paper you asked me to write a name on,” she said. “You remember that?”
McNeal’s mind flashed back to the conversation they’d had just a few weeks earlier.
“Do you remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“You gave me a name. You believed that you might be in danger. If something happened to you, the name on that piece of paper was responsible, you said.”
McNeal wondered where she was going with this.
“Do you feel that anyone is out to get you today?”
“No, I don’t.”
Katz smiled and scribbled down a few notes. “I’ve been looking over your psychological profile. NYPD. Your IQ and emotional intelligence set you apart. I can see that for myself.”
“What’s your point, Ms. Katz?”
“I was wondering if you were having a psychotic episode when you called me. Something out of character. Perhaps some sort of mental collapse.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t having a good day, that’s for sure.”
“The thing is, in my experience, a nervous breakdown, mental collapse, psychological breakdown, psychotic episode—call it what you will—isn’t usually rectified in a few days. You appear . . . reborn. More assured than when I met you at our first session.”
“I’ve had time to evaluate my priorities. What’s important in my life.”
“The name of the man, Henry Graff. I wrote down the name, as I said. Do you want this as a reminder of a dark episode in your life? Perhaps to serve as a reminder of how powerful the mind is?”
McNeal saw the smile on her face. It was almost as if she knew something.
“Would you like it back?”
“That would be nice.”
Katz took out the crumpled piece of paper and handed it over. He studied her handwriting. The name Henry Graff and the date and time when she had written it.
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t make a note of that name. I’ve decided that perhaps that painful episode is something for you to process.”
McNeal put the scrap of paper in an inside pocket of his jacket.
“Do you mind talking to me about Mr. Graff?”