The Grave Above the Grave
Page 1
THE
GRAVE
ABOVE THE
GRAVE
THE
GRAVE
ABOVE THE
GRAVE
Bernard Kerik
Humanix Books
The Grave Above the Grave
Copyright © 2018 by Humanix Books
All rights reserved.
Humanix Books, P.O. Box 20989, West Palm Beach, FL 33416, USA
www.humanixbooks.com | info@humanixbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any other information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Humanix Books is a division of Humanix Publishing, LLC. Its trademark, consisting of the word “Humanix,” is registered in the Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
ISBN: 978-1-63006-099-2 (Hardcover)
ISBN: 978-1-63006-100-5 (E-book)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Maverick Michael and Benjamin Matthew, and my mother, Clara Kerik
Acknowledgments
This book was made possible with the help and support of many, but first and foremost, my thanks goes to my good friend Christopher Ruddy, who came up with the idea and encouraged me to give it a shot. I also want to thank Mary Glenn and her team at Humanix Publishing for all their help and support; to Marc Eliot, a legendary writer and storyteller who constantly challenged me for more, and then had to clean up my scribble and grammatical errors once I gave it to him; and to Ken Chandler, for his editorial review and insights. To friends old and new, like Anthony Ambrose, Nathan Berman, Matt Bissonette, Simon Cohen, Daniel Del Valle, Howard Jonas, Shmuel Jones, Elie Katz, JM, Albert Manzo, and Sly Stallone—thank you for your friendship, support, and inspiration when I needed it most; and to my friends and former colleagues that have served, or still serve, in the military and in local, state, and federal law enforcement—thank you for your support, insight, ideas, and stories, and more so, your sacrifice and heroism . . . this country owes you a debt of gratitude that it can never justly repay. Last and most importantly, to Angelina, Celine, Jacqui, Joe, and Hala—thank you for your love, support, and inspiration during this project, even during some extremely difficult and trying times. I can only pray that better is yet to come.
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter.
Ernest Hemingway, “On the Blue Water,” Esquire, April 1936
CHAPTER 1
1:10 am, Wednesday, 4 October
For the third time in a week, the phone began screaming at just after one in the morning, sounding, in the bedroom, as loud as a three-alarmer. In the drawn-shade dark, Sheilah, who was sleeping on the side of the bed nearest to the landline’s nightstand, reached over, lifted the cordless receiver, and wordlessly, in one unbroken swoop, passed it over her otherwise sleeping body to the instantly awake Rick Raymond.
Without looking directly at her, he took the phone from her hand and placed it to his ear. The caller was Jerry Gallagher, his chief of staff, sounding, as always, calm, intense, urgent, and methodical. “Commissioner . . . two cops shot, one DOA, one likely.” Cop speak for one dead, one probably going to die. Raymond automatically cranked up the police band radio he kept on the night table closest to him, and the crackling voice confirmed the shooting. He knew original field input was wrong 95 percent of the time, but when Jerry said it, it was good as gold.
“Where,” Raymond said evenly. Then, without waiting for an answer, he added, “Has the mayor been notified?”
“Times Square, 44th and Broadway. The mayor’s detail has been notified.” His tone became more intimate. “Some fuckin’ lunatic walked right up to the police car and opened fire.”
“Christ.” Raymond took a hard breath. “See you at Bellevue.” He reached back over Sheilah, who was now wide-eyed and looking at him, and dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Then he stumbled over to the bathroom, took a shot of bitter green mouthwash, spit it into the sink when it started to sting, splashed cold water on his face, leaned in quickly to check his hair, brushed his thick bush back, rubbed his fingers across his stubbled chin, good enough for this hour, reached for the drip-dry suit hanging behind the door, slid into it quickly, like it was a one-zip circus costume, pulled on his black socks, and slipped into his laced shoes and headed out.
“Do I need to get up?” Sheilah said, from bed, sounding as if she had cotton in her mouth and was talking in her sleep.
“Not now, but you’re going to have a busy day. I’ve got two cops shot in Times Square; your office is probably on the way.”
He came over and kissed her warm face, then quietly slipped out the door and walked down the hall to the building’s elevator bank. He rode down the seven flights to the lobby of his Riverdale apartment, where he was met by Jonathan Archer, his bodyguard—“Eagle One.” Archer, a highly decorated African-American detective, who happened to look more like a model for GQ than an officer of the NYPD, was the head of Raymond’s security posse. Because of the way Archer and his team presented themselves, Sammy Breshill, writing in the New York Herald, had dubbed them “Raymond’s Fashion Force.” Now, as always, Archer never showed any visible sign of fatigue, even though 30 minutes earlier he had been fast asleep on a cot in the Five-0, the nearby precinct that covered the commissioner’s residence.
As Raymond approached, Archer began to speak in his familiar force-field staccato: “Both families were taken to Bellevue. One is from Nassau; one is from Westchester. Both cops were on the job for about two years—same academy class; the DOA was married just four months ago; the other not married. The suspect, Hispanic or light-skinned black male, ran from the scene and we believe got on a northbound A Train at 43rd and Broadway; he hasn’t been seen since.”
Outside, in front of Raymond’s apartment building, the commissioner’s black Suburban sat gleaming in the streetlights, the SUV’s colored emergency lights rotating, the vehicle looking like a four-wheel Chevy spaceship from Mars. Two marked NYPD highway unit cars were also there, one in front, one behind
the commissioner’s SUV. Raymond slid into the back seat of the Suburban and nodded to his personal driver, Taylor Shelby, “Eagle Two.” Shelby was a longtime member of the “Fashion Force,” having worked with Raymond since years before, when both were in narcotics. He had earned his place on Raymond’s elite team, which meant he was on call 24/7. As soon as Archer got in the front seat, all three vehicles took off—sirens screaming and lights spinning, lighting up the Bronx like some dipsy midnight street fair. The three-car motorcade drove to the Henry Hudson Parkway southbound, en route to Manhattan’s Bellevue Hospital. As they sped downtown, additional highway units fell in behind.
The phone in the SUV rang; Archer answered. It was “Eagle Three,” Mike Tonaka, “Tokyo Mike” for short, Raymond’s advance man. It was Tonaka’s job to already be wherever the commissioner was headed, and to know everything there Raymond needed to know. He was calling from the hospital to inform Archer that New York City’s mayor, Joseph Brown, was 15 minutes away from arrival. Archer relayed the information over his shoulder to the commissioner. Raymond leaned forward and told Shelby to step on it. He wanted to be there before Brown. The phone rang again. Archer picked up, listened, and then asked into the phone, “Do they have the shooter?”
“Negative,” a duty captain from headquarters operations said. “Apparently, he disappeared into the subway; we have a few witnesses telling us that he may have jumped on a northbound A Train, but that’s all we have.” Archer repeated the information to Raymond.
Fuck, the commissioner thought to himself. There are so many live cameras in Times Square, with lenses so tight and sharp they can read the time off a perp’s watch. They’ll figure it out as soon as they examine the footage in the cameras.
Archer repeated the question to the captain, “Do they have the shooter?,” listened, and then said back to Raymond, “Suspect ran into the subway entrance on 43rd and Broadway.” Raymond blew an angry breath of air through his puffed cheeks as he shook his head back and forth. He looked at his watch: 2:30. It was going to be an even longer night now.
The ’cade turned left onto 34th Street, joined by two more police vehicles, and they all sped east like an iron and steel parade across the island to Bellevue’s emergency room entrance at the east end of 34th, just before it bleeds into the East River Drive. When they arrived, dozens of cops had already gathered in front of and around the hospital’s emergency room section. Everybody and his fuckin’ brother, Raymond thought to himself, and of course a shitload circus of pool reporters that the highway cops had corralled behind hastily erected barricades about 25 feet from the emergency room door. As he exited the Suburban, they thrust their microphones and cameras in his direction. He brushed past them, escorted by a number of uniformed officers, and said nothing as he pushed through the double doors and entered the emergency room area, where an entire section had been cordoned off, entry allowed only for medical personnel, police, and immediate family.
He could feel his fingers of both hands tighten into balls as he approached the first set of curtains and heard a woman wailing at the top of her lungs. As the cops pulled back the curtain, he saw the dead cop’s bereft parents and new bride standing in a small circle as they were being consoled by a Catholic priest and an NYPD chaplain. The mother was bent over, weeping into a handkerchief, her husband’s left arm around her, holding her up. The bride’s intermittent screams echoed down the hall, as if she were being continually stabbed. Raymond went over to them and hugged the mother. It was his rule to always go to the mother first. He whispered in her ear and assured her the entire force was there for her, and gave her his solemn word that her son’s killer would be caught. He then moved to the bride, who was now rocking back and forth, her mouth open, her screams now a garbled choke, her face tracked with tears, her thick and curly brown hair shocked into a disheveled web. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You have to be strong for them,” he said, nodding to the dead cop’s parents. That was like pulling the plug on the ocean. She burst into loud, groaning sobs and buried her face in his chest; her body began jerking uncontrollably. He held her for as long as he could, until he heard a commotion in the hallway, and passed her off to the professionally calm chaplain.
Before he could get there, the hallway’s wide double doors slammed against the wall as they were pushed open by an entourage of suits, followed by Mayor Joseph Brown. He strode in, jaw first, his Florsheim shoes clacking loudly against the hard hospital floor. His black suit shone nearly white under the hospital’s neon lighting. His comb-over was in disarray as a result of Brown’s nervous habit of running his fingers along his scalp during a time of crisis, the carefully set strands pushed nearly all the way back now, revealing just how little hair he really had. He was surrounded by a small army of his security team and hospital personnel.
Raymond went directly to the mayor, who continued his stride as they shook hands, hard and quick, then huddled for a few minutes, pit-of-the-stomach stuff, after which Raymond led him over to the family of the dead cop. Brown tried his best, and failed, to look warm.
Raymond then took the mayor behind another curtain so they could meet the family of the surviving 24-year-old officer who was in surgery. He had taken a bullet to his left shoulder, and one in the face that had passed from the right side of his jaw to the left. The mayor offered his best wishes and prayers to the family and assured them that the city was going to do everything possible to get the shooter.
After, the mayor and Raymond reconnoitered with the chief of department, Joe Allegra; the first deputy commissioner, Joe Nagle, technically the number two in command of the department; and the deputy commissioner of public information, Tom Thomas, whose job it was to be Raymond’s eyes and ears with the media—to make sure Raymond knew what they knew, what they would ask, and what they would be looking for, and to make sure there were no surprises coming when Raymond and the mayor met the press. The four reviewed everything that had happened so far that night—what they had, which wasn’t much; what they wanted, which was a lot; and what they were going to do next. Raymond said it was incredible to him that the shooter had managed to slip down the rabbit hole of a New York City subway station in the midst of the panic that he had created, somehow managing to avoid running into any on-duty or even off-duty cops. “He’s either very lucky or very smart,” he said, and then told his chief of staff, Jerry Gallagher, to make sure they were reviewing all security footage immediately pulled from every northbound station on the entire Eighth Avenue line, north and southbound. “I want every frame of that video examined under a fuckin’ microscope until I know what this guy ate yesterday.”
“One last thing,” Chief of Department Allegra said to Raymond. “According to a half-dozen eyewitnesses close enough to the car when the shooter opened fire, they all say they heard him scream, “Allahu Akbar! God is great!’”
Raymond felt the back of his neck ice up. His lips folded into themselves. An act of terror was the last thing he wanted this to be. In the 16 years after 9/11, the day the NYPD lost 23 good cops and he lost his wife, he had risen through the ranks of the NYPD and continually swore that this would never again happen on his watch, not to his officers and not to the citizens of New York City they were sworn to protect. He had been able to keep that vow, until now. He immediately told Allegra to increase the public threat level and to enhance security on all the city’s soft targets—churches, synagogues, and any other potential religious targets.
Outside the door of the emergency room, the press pool had grown to about 20 reporters, who were becoming increasingly impatient for an update, something that could make the morning headlines or lead a live break-in on TV. Raymond and the mayor walked out the ER door, and the instantaneous flashes of so many cameras created a momentary strobe effect on the rear entrance of the building.
Together they walked to the bank of microphones that had been set up, and waited for the buzzing and the photos to stop. As per protocol, the may
or spoke first. He cleared his throat, nervously ran a hand over his scalp, adjusted his glasses with the other, and began: “This is a very sad day for our people, and the men and women of the New York City Police Department.” He thanked the hospital staff for their fine work, reassured the public everything was under control, and reminded them that if they saw anything that would be of help they should immediately call the police. He ended his comments with a moment of silent prayer, then turned the microphones over to Raymond, who read from his own hurriedly scribbled notes as he summarized what had taken place: “. . . deceased . . . critical, likely to live . . . Times Square . . . subway . . . got away . . .” He then politely but firmly fielded a rush of questions for which he had no answers, and ended by promising to get the latest developments to them as soon as he had anything new.
As the press pool began to break down, with Raymond still at the microphone bank, the reporter Sammy Breshill darted up to him, stuck a small digital recorder in his face, and asked, “Is it true, Commissioner, that the perp was yelling ‘Allahu Akbar’ as he shot into the car?”
Raymond wanted to punch him, for this and for a lot of things Breshill had written about Raymond through the years. Instead, keeping his balled fists by his side, he brushed past him. Raymond’s rule for talking to the press never varied: Don’t answer a question that you don’t want to answer, because it will inevitably lead to another question that you don’t want to answer, and then you can’t stop, deny, or control the outflow of information. By saying nothing you don’t confirm any part of a story, and likely nothing will run. He was joined by Archer, who turned and said to Breshill, “The press conference is over. Don’t sandbag the commissioner, Breshill.”
“Just doing my job, Jon,” Breshill said. “Yours is to protect Raymond. Mine is to get the story and inform the public of it.”
“You’re a dick,” Archer said.
He and Raymond then walked through the emergency room parking lot to where the Suburban was idling, its front and back passenger doors already opened by Shelby. Raymond slid in the back, and Archer slammed the door, then got in the front. Shelby gunned it, swirling around a dozen other marked and unmarked police cars and out onto the street.