No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(7)

“What the hell for?”

“Some people want to speak to you.”

“About what?”

“About your missing wife.”





Five

In the dead of night, the SUV headed across the Manhattan Bridge to downtown Brooklyn.

McNeal sat in the back with the two guys from Diplomatic Security. His ulcer burned. He popped a couple of Zantac washed down with a bottle of water the driver gave him.

“You okay?” the Diplomatic Security agent to his right said.

“No, I’m not okay. You’re not telling me the whole story.”

“This is a sensitive case. I can’t say much. I’m sorry.”

McNeal knew deep down in his bones that something had happened to his wife. The hard pass was not what this was about. It had to be the Feds. But why were they taking him to Brooklyn and not Lower Manhattan? The FBI were in Federal Plaza, close to Tribeca. On and on the questions mounted.

A few minutes later, the SUV edged through downtown Brooklyn, then turned into an underground parking garage.

“Jack, let’s move.”

McNeal followed the two Diplomatic Security guys to the elevator. They rode it in silence to the sixteenth floor of an office block. The bulkier agent showed him into an interview room.

Two men in suits sat behind a paper-strewn desk, waiting for him.

McNeal pulled up a seat without asking. “You mind telling me what the hell is going on? You cops?”

The older guy sighed. “Appreciate you seeing us at such short notice. Tom Clarkson, Secret Service. This is my colleague, Norman Finks.”

“Secret Service? You got ID?”

The men produced their IDs before putting them back in their wallets.

Clarkson leafed through a few papers before he fixed his gaze on McNeal. “I apologize for approaching you in this manner.”

“You mean using Diplomatic Security?”

“Precisely. That was a way to speak to you without arousing more fundamental concerns about our involvement. I hope you understand.”

McNeal nodded.

“Jack, earlier today, we, with help from Diplomatic Security, searched your wife’s house.”

McNeal could only hear the beating of his heart in Clarkson’s pauses.

“Her employer was concerned. She hadn’t turned up for work in days. Diplomatic Security were concerned about your wife’s hard pass. We didn’t find that pass there.”

“You want to just back the fuck up for a few moments? My wife doesn’t turn up for work. Her employer is worried. You guys are alerted. And you do a check? Wouldn’t that be a matter for DC police?”

Finks leaned forward and smiled. “You’re absolutely right, Jack. Ordinarily that’s what would have happened. Maybe FBI, I guess, in the extreme. But, you see, this is no ordinary case. Your wife is presumed missing.”

“Okay . . . What else?”

“Her cell phone isn’t responding. She seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.”

McNeal’s head swam as if he was daydreaming. A silence stretched between them for a few awkward moments as he wondered what had happened to Caroline. He sat completely still. They stared at him, as if trying to ascertain what he knew. “Have you tried the hospitals?”

“We have. Nothing. We were hoping you could help us.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You’re married to her.”

“We separated nearly eighteen months ago.”

Finks scribbled down some notes. “I understand. So, when was the last time you spoke to her?”

McNeal shook a thought from his head. “If what you’re saying is true, I don’t quite understand the involvement of the Secret Service for a missing woman. That makes no sense. If it was the wife of the President or Vice President, I would understand.”

“We have our reasons.”

“I see. You mind explaining?”

Clarkson rubbed his eyes. “Not at the moment. Getting back to the question. When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

“Five, maybe six days ago. I don’t know exactly.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Am I under arrest? Do I need a lawyer?”

“No, you’re not under arrest. And if you want a lawyer, you’re free to call any lawyer you want. But if you could answer the question, it would save us all a lot of time.”

McNeal’s brain felt foggy. “What was the question again?”

“The last time you spoke to her. What did you talk about?”

“The house.”

Finks scribbled, flicking through some papers. “The house in Westport?”

“We’re selling it. I live close to my work.”

“Which explains why no one answered the door in Westport. Where are you living now?”

“I moved into a one-bedroom apartment at 121 West Third Street. Second floor walk-up.”

Finks noted the address. “Let’s get back to your wife. She had access to government buildings, senators, the White House press briefing room.”

“That’s not the reason you’re involved, is it?”

“It is part of the reason.”

“Why are you really here?”