No Way Back (A Jack McNeal Thriller)

  ALSO BY J. B. TURNER

  Jon Reznick Series

  Hard Road

  Hard Kill

  Hard Wired

  Hard Way

  Hard Fall

  Hard Hit

  Hard Shot

  Hard Target

  Hard Vengeance

  American Ghost Series

  Rogue

  Reckoning

  Requiem

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2022 by J. B. Turner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542030052

  ISBN-10: 1542030056

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  To my mother

  Contents

  Start Reading

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  She felt her body being dragged through woods. The necrotic aroma of leaves. Bone-dry earth. Scorched grass. Branches scraping her skin. She realized she was breathing faster. And faster. Then she sensed she was in water. The Potomac. Cold water. Paralyzed with fear, she tried to open her eyes, but try as she might, she couldn’t. She attempted to scream. But no sound came, like in a bad dream.

  The screams echoed only in her head. She wanted her husband to hear her. The cold, dark water began to wash over her skin. Her body began to shake. She tried to struggle. Her mind implored her to move. To lash out. To fight. But there was nothing. She couldn’t move. She floated.

  The voice whispered in her head. Time for a long sleep. Don’t be afraid.

  She somehow opened her eyes one last time.

  The man wore a mask, assessing her; his eyes were cold, wide, and demonic. A whiff of strong cologne. She wanted to panic. Her body slipped under. Gulps of water. Lungs ready to burst. Throat compressed. Choking.

  He was holding her down.

  She tried to move her head but couldn’t. Frozen. Her mind willed her to move again. Then a dark screen slid over her eyes. Like a black curtain.

  Her lungs filled up. No air left.

  The man’s hands pressed down onto her chest.

  She looked up, saw tears in his eyes and slivers of silvery moonlight above the water.

  One

  Jack McNeal held up the photo of the swollen, bloodied face of the boy. “He was unconscious when they brought him in. Broken jaw. Detached retina. Lacerations. Psychological trauma. You got anything to say?”

  The cop sat curled into himself, shaking, his hands trembling in his lap. His attorney took copious notes. The cop said quietly, “I had a blackout. I can’t remember.”

  McNeal put down the photo. His colleague, Sergeant Aisha Williams, shifted in her seat as she scribbled new questions on NYPD Internal Affairs–headed notepaper.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit,” McNeal spat out. “You were drunk. Blind drunk. Your wife told us where you had been drinking. She’d been calling you. You didn’t want to come home. But she insisted, didn’t she?”

  “She never lets up. She never gives me a break.”

  “So, you reached your breaking point?”

  The cop glanced at his attorney, who didn’t look back. “We all have our breaking point,” he muttered.

  “She told me that you were having money worries. You were spending a lot of money on liquor. Gambling at the track. And, to top it all off, with your new lady friend. A fellow cop—a married cop, like yourself.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “I haven’t been myself. I can’t remember what I did yesterday.”

  McNeal gazed at the photo of the boy’s battered face. “I’m not buying it. I think it’s bullshit. You’re an animal. How very convenient that you can’t remember what happened.”

  “It’s true. I can’t.” The cop’s attorney scribbled on the legal pad, his face like stone. “I have episodes.”

  McNeal’s stomach knotted with fury, gnawing away at him. “Three fucking witnesses! Your wife, your sister-in-law, and your twelve-year-old son, Steve. You beat your son to within an inch of his life. The surgeon said it was the worst case of child battery he’d seen.”

  The cop shrugged as his gaze wandered around the windowless interview room.

  “You sent him to the hospital. You are responsible. How does that make you feel?”

  The cop blanched. “I’ve got a problem. I know that.”

  “Damn right you’ve got a fucking problem. You call yourself a father?”

  “I said I can’t fucking remember!”

  Williams intervened for the first time. “You can’t remember or won’t remember. Which is it?”

  The cop closed his eyes for a brief moment.

  “Let me jog your memory,” McNeal said. “You grabbed little Steve by the hair, and you smashed his face through a glass door, driving shards of glass into his eyes.”

  The cop scrunched up his face, not wanting to hear any more.

  “He was motionless. Instead of calling an ambulance, you punched his mother, pushed your sister-in-law to the ground, and lifted up your semiconscious son before proceeding to pummel him with your fists until he blacked out, breaking his jaw. A child. Your son.”

  The cop shook his head.

  McNeal held the picture up to the cop’s face. “This is what you did. We have witnesses.”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Can’t remember . . . Yeah, right. I’ll tell you someone who does remember: your son. Know what he said to me?”

  The cop shook his head.

  “I just wanted my dad to stop beating my mom.
A child confronted you. Your son. He showed courage. Character. And yet still you sit there, saying you can’t remember. Let me tell you this: I will personally make it my mission to ensure not only that you lose your job, but that you go to prison. Think you’re a tough guy, huh?”

  The cop shook his head.

  “You like throwing your weight around? You think you’d like to do the same to me?”

  The cop remained silent.

  “You’re not a cop. You’re not a man. You’re a fucking coward. A psychopath. An alcoholic. And a bastard. Your son should have been safe in his home. Safe with his father. It’s your fucking job to keep him safe. This bullshit that you can’t remember a thing . . . I’m not buying it. No one is buying it. Your little game is over. You’re done. You’re a disgrace to the uniform. To the badge.”

  The cop blinked away tears.

  McNeal fixed his glare on the cop. He suppressed an urge to grab the fucker by the neck and beat the living daylights out of him. “We’re done for today.”

  When the interview had finished and the guy and his attorney left the building, McNeal headed back to his desk and slumped down in his seat. His gaze fixed on the TV. A Fox News reporter stood outside the White House. “The President just returned from a private memorial service for the wife of an old friend, Henry Graff. He has no further engagements today.”

  McNeal picked up the remote and turned off the TV. His thoughts turned to the boy terrorized by his cop father. He had read the reports of the boy’s bravery. It took some guts to stand up to such a monster.

  He had long since become desensitized to the stuff he heard. He found that was the best way to deal with it. He had a three-month backlog of cases: alcoholic cops, psychotic cops, womanizing cops, bad cops, good cops who had gone bad, veteran detectives watching porn instead of surveillance videos, cops illegally accessing the cell phone numbers of informants, cops punching out children on the subway, cops stomping on panhandlers . . . on and on. Most New York cops were good, hardworking, decent people. McNeal dealt with the small percentage of dregs. That’s what he did. That’s all he did.

  Aisha walked slowly up to McNeal’s desk, resting her manicured honey-brown hand on his computer monitor. “A quick word, Jack?”

  “Sure.”

  “You need to ease up on the gas. You were going at him pretty hard.”

  “Maybe.”

  Williams grimaced. “Definitely. I think you crossed the line. More than once.”

  McNeal sat and pondered. It was true. He had crossed a line in the interview.

  “Just try and ease up in the future. I’m just saying.”

  “I hear you.”

  “I don’t want you getting in trouble, Jack. Shit like that ain’t worth it.”

  McNeal smiled. “What can I say?”

  Williams shook her head and smiled. “Take it easy next time.”

  Aisha had only recently transferred to Internal Affairs from Robbery. McNeal knew she was right. His gaze lingered on the pile of manila folders and files on his desk. It had to be months of work before him. She turned and headed back to her desk.

  Lieutenant Dave Franzen waddled into view, munching on a doughnut and carrying a coffee. “Buckley was looking for you earlier.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Don’t know. Was just asking where you were.”

  McNeal shrugged. “I was here, interviewing. Where the hell is he? It’s been days since I’ve seen him.”

  “He’s around sometimes. I hear he was interviewed by the New York Times last week.”

  McNeal groaned. “Swear to God, he’d be a great politician.”

  “You know how he is.”

  McNeal shook his head. He knew only too well what Assistant Chief Bob Buckley, head of the NYPD Internal Affairs Bureau, was like. He had reported to him for four years. He was a good guy. A good detective. But in the last year, Buckley’s appearances at Internal Affairs on Hudson Street, over on Manhattan’s West Side, seemed to grow few and far between. It seemed to the team that Buckley enjoyed spending increasing amounts of time in the Commissioner’s office. He reveled in talking with journalists, on and off the record. Chatting with the mayor. He also appeared more and more on TV.

  McNeal understood why he was doing it. Buckley said that he wanted the Internal Affairs Bureau to have a higher profile in the city. It would attract more resources. More favorable headlines. That was all probably true. Buckley was also leading a “reorientation” of the Internal Affairs Bureau. He seemed to be talking more about the Internal Affairs Bureau “becoming a force for good.”

  It grated on McNeal and the other officers in the Bureau. McNeal always thought the point of the Internal Affairs Bureau was really simple: establish criminality among officers alleged to have committed crimes and then punish them, whether by disciplining them or firing them.

  McNeal didn’t have any problem reaching out to minorities to attract the best candidates to work in the Internal Affairs Bureau. None at all. He wanted the best investigators. Who could argue with that? But McNeal and other officers, some he would call old-school cops, believed Buckley was also using his agenda for his own political aims. It was clear that was the purpose of the “reorientation.” It was all about currying favor. His face was known throughout the city, more than any of his predecessors.

  The New York Post and New York Times had both speculated that Buckley was a favorite to become the next commissioner. It seemed like every week he was having lunch with the mayor at Cipriani Downtown, hanging around city hall, or pressing the flesh at business breakfasts and luncheons with “influencers.” Which was all fine. But it seemed to be taking precedence over the record number of cases, cutbacks, and low-level disgruntlement in the ranks of Internal Affairs.

  McNeal looked at Franzen enviously. “So, when are you headed down to Florida, Dave?”

  “Three weeks, three days. Can’t wait.”

  Franzen and his wife, Nicola, an ICU nurse, were both retiring to Boca Raton. They had already sold their house in Queens and were renting a property in Brooklyn. “You’re not going to miss us?”

  “You kidding? Twenty years, ten in Internal Affairs, is enough for any man.”

  “What about the weather? You’re going to miss that for sure, right?”

  Franzen laughed. “Yeah, right. My car wouldn’t start this morning. Had to call a tow truck.”

  McNeal’s cell phone rang, and he winced. He looked over at the phone and checked the caller ID. “Speak of the devil. Have to take this.”

  “You headed for a drink after work?”

  “Not tonight. I’m saving myself for your retirement party.”

  Franzen laughed. “You better show up, man.”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “Catch you later.”

  McNeal picked up his cell phone.

  “Jack, how did it go with that animal?” The voice of Bob Buckley.

  McNeal leaned back in his seat. “Says he can’t remember.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I know. But we’ve got him where we want him. Where are you now?”

  “Commissioner’s office.”

  McNeal smiled. “Tell him from me that we need more resources.”

  “I know, Jack. But I can’t go rushing in, demanding the earth. It’s all politics.”

  “That’s all I keep hearing. We need some help down here. You saw my backlog?”

  “I’m working on it. You remember your appointment this afternoon?”

  McNeal closed his eyes for a moment. He had forgotten all about it.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Gimme a break, Bob. I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through on this case. I’m not going to allow this slimeball’s attorney to get this fucker off on a technicality.”

  “Paperwork will still be there in the morning. This appointment is important.”

  McNeal resented having to take an hour out of his day just because his boss “insisted.”
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  “Jack, do you hear me?”

  “I don’t understand why I have to go. It’s bullshit. I need to do my job.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before. You need to go.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “It’s nonnegotiable. Don’t be late.”

  Two

  It was nearly dark.

  Jack McNeal walked along East Tenth Street, cold rain slashing at his face. He headed toward a classic prewar building at the corner of University Place, prime Greenwich Village. It was home to a smattering of wealthy New Yorkers. An A-list actor, a record producer who had worked on a Rolling Stones album back in the day, a sci-fi author, a celebrity chef, the ex-wife of a billionaire hedge fund exec, an entertainment attorney who represented some hip-hop guys, and a few other newsworthy celebrities. The building dated from 1928, but it had been redeveloped in 2009 to stunning, high-end specifications. A world-famous interior designer had been flown in from Marseille to oversee the transformation. It boasted a twenty-four-hour doorman to go with ultra-tight security. It reeked of money. And privilege.

  McNeal didn’t give a shit about any of that. He would much rather be doing what he was paid to do.

  He signed in at the desk, showed his ID, and the doorman escorted him to the elevator.

  McNeal rode alone to the ninth floor. He walked along a carpeted corridor. The apartment he was looking for sat at the end. He checked his watch. He was one minute late. He knocked and the door opened.

  The woman wore black. “Nice to meet you, Jack,” she said. “Belinda Katz.”

  McNeal shook her hand and followed her down a hallway. He couldn’t help admiring the lacquered herringbone flooring. He considered how much per square yard that had set her back.

  He was shown into a huge drawing room. A few large lamps added extra warmth.

  She motioned for him to sit in a dark-brown leather armchair. “Glad you could make it.”

  Jack McNeal slumped down. His gaze wandered around the room. It was painted white, with large pieces of modern art adorning the walls. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf held everything from Freud to books on Eastern philosophy. Outside, rain lashed against the window.

  The woman sat down in an Eames chair opposite him and put on her glasses. She began flicking through some papers on her lap before looking up and smiling. Her nails were painted dark red, matching her lipstick. “So, let’s try and ease ourselves into this, Jack,” she said. “Firstly, I don’t come cheap.”