No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(5)

Three

It was nearly midnight when the phone rang.

McNeal ignored it as he stared down through his rain-streaked apartment windows onto West Third Street, gun in hand. It was a Glock 17. The latest model. He’d tested it at the NYPD firing range at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx. West Third was bathed in the red neon light from the window of a tattoo parlor. A motorbike pulled up outside. McNeal watched as rainwater poured down a curbside storm drain like rivulets of blood.

The radio played low, a Springsteen song from the Nebraska album. Down below, a cab sped past, spraying water onto girls leaving a bar. A few high-pitched screams. Then laughter.

McNeal felt empty. He contemplated heading out for a drink. A few beers. A scotch. A few shots of tequila. The session with the psychologist had brought back a lot of bad memories he had consigned to the darkest recesses of his mind.

The phone stopped ringing. He sighed and turned off the music. He put down his gun on the dresser beside the photo of his son. His flesh and blood. A picture of innocence.

McNeal allowed the silence to smother him for a few minutes. His emptiness returned. The terrible emptiness. The pain he carried. Five long years his son had been dead.

His mind flashed back to that stifling, dark night in a Staten Island backyard. He closed his eyes, and he was there again . . .

He faced his partner, Juan Gomez, who had a gun pointed at Caroline. In his other hand, Gomez held a half-empty bottle of vodka. Gomez wanted to die. He wanted Jack to kill him. He wanted suicide by cop. He saw it clearly. His partner had cracked. The high-pitched sound of screaming all around. The smell of smoke. He shouted at Gomez to put down the gun. Gomez sobbed. His partner waved the gun and aimed it at a wall. A gunshot rang out. Then Patrick collapsed, blood pouring from his neck. Ricochet bullet. Pandemonium. Suddenly Gomez was inconsolable and turned the gun toward McNeal. His pal. His partner.

The sound of more gunshots. Gomez was down. The bottle smashed. Blood congealed around his dead partner’s head. The screaming returned. Sirens in the distance. McNeal stood alone, looking down at his dead son. He cradled him in his arms. Stroked his blood-soaked hair.

Slow motion as Caroline began to shriek.

The phone rang again, snapping McNeal out of his dark thoughts from five years ago.

“Yeah. McNeal.”

“Jack, sorry for calling at this hour.” It was Bob Buckley. “Listen, we got a problem.”

McNeal closed his eyes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I know what goddamn time it is. I just got woken up myself. Some guys want to talk to you.”

“What guys?”

“They were kinda cagey. They just said they wanted to talk.”

McNeal wondered if this was blowback after his internal memo. His concerns focused on priorities. He had highlighted Buckley’s obsession with plugging up media leaks, the most common being officers emailing photos of crime scenes to reporters. These offenses showed terrible judgment and should be investigated. But McNeal thought the Bureau’s paranoia and relentless focus, combined with Buckley’s political ambitions, had come at the expense of the crimes committed by members of the NYPD—serious crimes, including an officer in the Bronx who alleged her partner had raped her and blackmailed her over her opioid addiction. “Is this from the Commissioner’s office? Is that what this is all about?”

“No, Jack. That’s coming, don’t worry. That’s a separate matter. And we’re going to have to talk about it.”

McNeal sighed.

“They want to talk to you in the office. Right now.”

“The office? At his time? Who the hell are they? Feds?”

“I asked them. They’re not from the FBI. They just asked me to get hold of you within the hour. They wouldn’t give further details.”

“Are they cops?”

“These guys aren’t cops.”

“Did you ask them?”

“Yeah, I asked them.”

“And they wouldn’t say where they were from?”

“Correct.”

“They didn’t identify themselves?”

“Correct.”

“Bob, tell them I’ll talk to them tomorrow.”

“Not an option.”

McNeal tried to stifle a yawn. It had been a long day. “What do you mean it’s not an option?”

“I mean these guys weren’t fooling around. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You need to come in.”





Four

It took McNeal half an hour to get showered, shaved, and changed into a fresh shirt and suit. He took a cab across to Hudson Yards on the West Side. He rode the elevator to the third floor and fixed himself a coffee.

“Hey, Jack, you working late?”

McNeal looked up and saw Lieutenant Dave Franzen carrying a report, drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. “Got some visitors.”

“At this time? Who?”

“No idea. Got a call from Buckley.”

“Christ. Commissioner’s office coming to bust your balls?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So, who the hell turns up at this time of night?”

McNeal knew whoever it was, it was not going to be good news.

“No idea. I’ll keep you posted.”