That Friday night around eight, Raymond met Sheilah at the Marcus. After a quick drink at the bar, they headed up to her suite and stayed there for the entire weekend. Raymond poured his heart out to her, as if she were his own personal shrink. He talked about losing his wife, Mary, on 9/11 and how that day had changed him. He talked about Jimmy as a child, and how, since he had no kids of his own, he always treated Jimmy as if he were his. Sheilah tried to comfort him as much as she could, but it was obvious that he was dealing with his own personal demons; what was also clear to both of them was that the bond between them was stronger than ever and that they loved each other deeply. Saturday, after a room service breakfast, Sheilah tried to bring him around, using champagne as the fuel poured into her chassis, but there was something wrong with his starter. They spent the rest of the afternoon watching CNN with the sound off, dozing, cuddling, and caressing.
Sunday, he spent most of the day sleeping across her. This was the most rest he had gotten in the past month, and Gallagher and the team knew he needed it and left him alone. A few emergencies had come up, but Gallagher passed them off to Chief Allegra and First Deputy Commissioner Nagle, and told them that unless there was something earth-shattering, the PC was not to be called. Gallagher had worked for him for close to 10 years in different positions and had become accustomed to his work ethic. Three to five hours sleep daily for two to three months, and then one weekend, he’d do nothing but sleep and relax, but on that following Monday, he was like a hungry bear coming out from his annual hibernation. Deadly.
CHAPTER 18
9:00 am, Monday, 23 October
A light and warm drizzle washed down on Manhattan as thousands of police and mourners filled the streets of Fifth Avenue. All the way north to Central Park and south as far as 46th Street, police formations marched inside the barriers that had been placed along the sidewalks as a further layer of protection in the event of a terrorist attack. Behind them, thousands of pedestrians stood, some with umbrellas, most bareheaded, to mourn the loss of Jimmy Kerrigan, a local boy no one had ever heard of until he was killed in Fayetteville. He became, to them, every victim who had died at the hands of terrorists, and one of their own, the nephew of the city’s police commissioner. How many times had they turned to him in the past, whenever the city had been under siege from terrorists, or experienced natural catastrophes? Now, they wanted to show their support, their love, for him and the city in which they all lived. Nothing, least of all a little rain, would keep them away.
Inside St. Patrick’s, white wreaths tied with black bows hung from the columns, and chrysanthemums graced the altar, behind Jimmy’s closed mahogany casket that was covered by the green, blue, and white flag of the NYPD. To the right of the casket, a giant photo of a smiling Jimmy in full-dress police uniform sat on a large brass easel, draped with a black ribbon. TV cameras were discreetly placed in platforms around the grand arena of the storied Catholic house of worship. The service was being broadcast nationwide, and picked up, via satellite, all around the world, for anyone who wanted to see it. In a remarkably short amount of time, the double attack had become a symbol of all victims of terror, and of the determination of Americans to defeat Islamic fundamentalist terrorism.
Raymond was seated in the first row of pews, on the right, with Linda and her estranged second husband, Kelly, and their younger son, Tommy, sitting next to him. Raymond felt a wave of regret wash over him, wishing that he had never assigned Jimmy to JTTF, lamenting that he didn’t protect him in some way. To his left were the mayor and his wife, the governor and his wife, and Sheilah Dannis; then Jones and then Gallagher. The second row, on both sides, was filled with FBI agents and NYPD security personnel with weapons hidden from view. After that, filling in the rest of the pews, Jimmy’s friends and other relatives, his unit, and anyone from the public able to get through the triple screening at the front doors, that, because it was an unusually warm fall day, were left open and guarded. From outside, the sound of bagpipes blowing “Amazing Grace” drifted through the open doors, as their procession marched on Fifth Avenue, headed south, until their mournful sound slowly faded away. St. Patrick’s enormous pipe organ then filled the church with its grand, ringing sound that signaled the formal beginning of the funeral ceremonies.
After the Latin prayers were completed, St. Pat’s Cardinal Dean went to the raised podium, off to the left of the coffin, his lectern lit with white spots hung high from the ceiling grid. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a lowered voice, his cheeks, as always, rosy and flushed, his robes shiny and reflective of the hundreds of candles lit throughout the cathedral. And as he began to speak, the low murmur throughout the church gave way to an unspoken hush. “Young Jimmy Kerrigan was blessed with many things, except, perhaps, the gift of long life. Now, he has been greeted into heaven by the Good Lord, where he will be taken into the family of good men. Jimmy looks down on us today, and we will always be able to look up and feel his spirit within us.” The cardinal paused, looked over the congregated faces, then continued. “As a member of our great New York City police force, young Jimmy gave his life in the service of his country . . .”
As the cardinal continued, Raymond looked over to Linda, whose eyes remained focused on the service. He stared at her for several seconds, but she never turned his way. He then looked the other way, to where Sheilah was sitting, dressed in black, but sitting tall and statuesque. She, too, never shifted her attention from the cardinal. Raymond sighed softly, imperceptibly, and looked back to the front.
“. . . and now I call up Jimmy’s brother, Tommy, to say a few words.”
Tommy rose and walked to the podium; the cardinal kissed him on both his cheeks, blessed him, then sat back on his chair, crosier in his hand. Tommy was tall, needing to hunch over a bit to be able to talk into the microphone. After a moment of feedback, he found the right distance from the mike head and began to recall, when they were both kids, how he and Jimmy had played cops and robbers. “I always wanted to be the bad guy,” Tommy said. “And Jimmy always wanted to be the cop, like his Uncle Rick.” Purses snapped open, and tissues were pulled from plastic packs; handkerchiefs were passed around; the sound of sniffles rippled quietly through the church, like a soft stone dropped into a warm calm pond. When Tommy finished, tears running down the sides of his cheeks, he went back to his seat, and the cardinal came back to the podium to finish the service.
The organ began playing as the mourners began to file out, row by row, like on a plane after a very rough flight.
Linda, Raymond, the rest of the family, and all the dignitaries filed out of the cathedral, and re-formed in a line outside. Once everyone was in place, the loudspeakers that were lined up and down Fifth Avenue broadcast the sound of a military-type command: “Present arms!” In unison, thousands of officers raised their right white-gloved hands in a military salute, while a sole bagpiper, standing on the front steps of the cathedral, began playing “Amazing Grace.” Jimmy Kerrigan’s body was lifted onto the shoulders of six uniformed New York City police officers, who walked it down the stairs of the cathedral. At the bottom of the stairs, the officers stopped in front of the cardinal, surrounded by six other priests, who lifted his aspergillum and sprinkled holy water on Jimmy’s casket. The bagpiper finished his mournful song as the cardinal stepped to the side, while the ceremonial team loaded the flag-draped casket into the hearse and closed the door.
Another order barked over the loud speakers: “Order arms!” and the white gloves dropped to their side.
The commander of the ceremonial unit walked over to the mayor and said, in a hushed but affirmative tone, “On behalf of the family, thank you for being here.” He looked at Raymond and Mrs. Kerrigan, Jimmy’s veiled mother; then he took the mother by the arm and escorted her to the first limousine behind the hearse, Raymond following her into the car. The remainder of the family filled a dozen vehicles that followed directly in line. Once everyone was settled, 100 motorcy
cles, 60 from the NYPD and 40 from other city departments, began the deliberate ride to the Queens cemetery. Raymond watched out his window at the thousands of uniformed cops. He reached over to take Linda’s hand.
He could feel his phone vibrating, and slipped it out of his jacket pocket. Sheilah had sent him a text: “Call me after six. I love you.” He slid the phone back into the jacket and said nothing.
They arrived at the cemetery quickly, as all traffic on the route had been cleared in advance by hundreds of cops assigned to the funeral detail. The simple and moving ceremony lasted all of 30 minutes, and when it ended, Linda and many in her family broke down, their hands covering their mouths, their bodies jerking up and down. They each laid a single white rose on top of the casket. The cardinal ended the ceremony and thanked all the nonfamily for being there, and then blessed everyone.
As he walked back to his car, Raymond took Linda’s hand once more, this time to lead her to the vehicle. In all his years in the New York City Police Department, and all the funerals that he had attended, this was the first time he felt shallow and empty. All the power his office held, all the strength he had, could do nothing for Linda and the family. It was only the second time in his career that he felt completely helpless, the other being September 11, 2001, the day when he lost his wife to a terrorist attack and when he watched dozens of people jump to their death, and there was nothing to do to help them. And yet as terrible as that day had been, this was now the worst day in his entire career.
CHAPTER 19
6:30 am, Tuesday, 24 October
Tuesday morning, before 6:30, he was back at his office. He made a cup of pod coffee for himself, with the machine he kept in his office for when Janey wasn’t there. She brewed fresh in a real coffeepot she kept full and fresh all day.
He had changed there into one of several spare suits he kept in his closet. He would have his advance man head up to his apartment later that day to get some fresh clothes for the office.
The phone rang. He was expecting Jones, but it was Breshill on the other end. “Commissioner,” he said into the phone.
“Yeah. What’s up?” Raymond said. “It’s still morning, isn’t it? The bars close early last night?”
“I want to express my condolences for . . .”
Raymond cut him off. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”
“Can we meet?” Breshill asked.
Oh Jesus, Raymond thought. What now? Then he said, “Where—and when?
“Lunch at noon at the bar in the Palace.”
Raymond frowned to himself, took a deep breath, let the air out through his pursed lips, and said, “Okay. The Palace for lunch. I can use a drink. See you at 12.” Raymond hung up the phone.
Breshill was already there, sitting in a corner of the softly lit bar that erased whatever time of day it was. It wasn’t really a lunch place, which was why the room was mostly empty. The day bartender was busy setting up for the cocktail hour, at which time the Marcus bar would turn into Grand Central Terminal, only busier. When Raymond arrived, he slid into his side of the booth and waved off the waitress. “What’s up?” he said to Breshill.
“First, let me express my condolences—”
“Thanks, but I know you didn’t drag me up here for that. What’s on your mind?”
“Commissioner, I mean it.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Look, let me be straight with you. You’ve cut off my stream of sources, and there isn’t a single cop in the NYPD who will talk to me, out of fear of being fired. My bosses are really pissed at me. I’m headed for the rapids.”
“My heart’s breaking.”
“I need your help.”
Raymond sighed. He waved the waitress back. He was ready for that drink. “Dewars,” he said. “Neat. Soda back. What do you want?” he said to Breshill.
“Coffee, cream, two sugars.”
She nodded her head and put a napkin down in front of Breshill, took away the half-empty bowl of cashew nuts that he had been working on, and replaced it with a fresh one.
“Listen carefully,” the commissioner said. “You want my help? You do something for me. I want the head of the cell that’s responsible for all these fucking attacks, the bastards who are responsible for my cops being shot in Times Square and Rock Center, and for the simultaneous attacks in North Carolina and Vegas.”
Breshill had his spiral notebook out and clicked his Paper Mate, flipping pages back over themselves as he wrote everything down, grunting “uh-huh” every few seconds, as the waitress returned with their order. “I need to draw him out,” Raymond began. “Into the open, to create a reason for him to move, or communicate, or pop his head out of his hole, and we believe that something’s being planned for the city, but we have no fucking clue what it is.”
“How do you know?” Breshill said as he took a loud sip of his coffee.
“I know,” Raymond said. “We know. The FBI is sure, but neither of us knows when, how, or who.”
Raymond’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it as he walked away from the table. When he returned, his demeanor had changed. “Scratch all that. I think we know who. That was Jones. She just gave me a name, Ibrahim Samadi. The Bureau believes he is the cell leader, out of Detroit.”
“Is this on the record?”
“Not from me. Hell no! However, if you get the name from one of the Feds, it’s all yours.”
“How the fuck am I going to get it from them?” Breshill smirked.
“Jones doesn’t know I’m talking to you. Call her right now and tell her that you heard from someone in the FBI wire room that they’re looking for an Ibrahim Samadi. Tell her you’re off the record, and when she admits it, you now have an anonymous senior FBI source.”
Raymond went on, “He was in Detroit, but I think he might be here now. Where, exactly, we don’t know yet, but we’re closing the net around him.”
Breshill looked at Raymond. “This is great. But why are you telling me?”
Raymond waited until the waitress put his drink down. “Because I want to send a message to Samadi and his fuckers that have done this. They killed my nephew. Now it’s personal between him and me.”
“Got it.”
“It’s fucking personal,” Raymond repeated. “And, I cannot be your source for that name. But I want Samadi, dead or alive. I want to drag him through the streets of New York City by his dress.”
Breshill was furiously scribbling into his notebook again, until Raymond put his hand on Breshill’s and stopped him. “Don’t print that dress thing. The rest of it you can have.”
“I won’t,” Breshill said as he sipped the rest of his now cold and bitter coffee and took one more handful of cashews. “I can use the ‘It’s personal’ statement, right?”
“Have a ball.” Raymond downed his drink in one shot and got up to leave. “I’ll pay for my drink; you pay for yours. Never want someone saying I was bought by a fucking reporter.”
“Thanks Rick . . . Commissioner. Really, thank you!”
Not long after Raymond was back at the office, Janey buzzed his desk. When he answered her call, she said, “Agent Jones is on the phone, and she said it’s important.” He clicked over to Jones.
“We’ve got a fucking problem,” she said crisply. Someone leaked Samadi’s name to Breshill. He’s got his name!”
Raymond tried to sound surprised. “How did he get it? What exactly does he have?”
“Samadi’s name and that he’s the cell leader operating in Detroit.”
“Where do you think he got it?”
“He said the wire room, from one of ours, and since I couldn’t lie and deny, I told him to just use an anonymous FBI source.”
Perfect, Raymond thought.
“You know,” Rick said, “He called and left a message for me to call him, saying it was important. He
was probably looking for more intel. I’ll return and see what he wants, and get back to you.”
Raymond waited 15 minutes and called Jones back. “That’s what he wanted,” Raymond said. “I didn’t confirm or deny either. Let’s see what he prints.”
Ten minutes later Breshill called Raymond’s cell phone. When Raymond saw the call, he figured he was looking for something else. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“Just wanted to say congratulations.”
“For what? Did I hit the lottery or something?” Raymond said sarcastically.
“No sir, not the lottery. The grand jury’s back. It’s justifiable homicide.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“Don’t worry about that, but you didn’t get it from me,” and with that, Breshill hung up.
CHAPTER 20
6:50 am, Wednesday, 25 October
Raymond was awakened by his cell phone ringing on the table behind him. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, from sleeping on the couch in his private office.
“Yeah?”
“Boss, did you see the fucking news?” Gallagher said.
“No, what? Never mind, All the papers are on Janey’s desk.” He hung up, walked through his office, opened the door to Janey’s, and grabbed Breshill’s paper off her desk.
Fuck, he thought, as he picked it up and saw the front page:
IT’S PERSONAL, SAYS COMMISH
Story by Sammy Breshill starts on page 3
His cell started ringing again.
“You want to get yourself killed, is that it?” Jones said, sounding angry. “These guys aren’t fucking around!”
“Listen to me,” Raymond said, trying to hold on to the end of his short fuse, to keep it from going off. “He killed one of my cops. He tried to take out Rock Center, killed two of your guys, and my nephew, for fuck’s sake. These fucking bastards attacked this city, destroyed the World Trade Center, and fucking killed my wife. They’re like fucking chameleons, infiltrating our cities and communities. Look what they’re doing to London, Paris, Germany for fuck’s sake. What do you want me to do? Send Samadi a congratulatory telegram?”
The Grave Above the Grave Page 10