Gallagher just stared at him. “I’ve got your phone; it was ringing and pinging all night long.”
“Who was it? Let me have it.”
“Listen,” Gallagher said, “I spoke to Jones about four times, as well as your sister, the mayor, the governor, and the president’s chief of staff. They all called to see how you were doing. There were a few dozen other calls that I didn’t entertain—you can get back to them later.”
“Okay, let me have it. Where is it?” Raymond said as he went to the counter in the kitchen to turn on the television.
Gallagher jumped up from the table and turned off the television before the picture could come on. He moved so quickly, he startled both Raymond and Archer, who was sitting there quietly feeling uncomfortable watching and listening to Gallagher handle his boss.
“No TV,” Gallagher said. “You really don’t need to see it. It’s on every fucking station—local, cable, international—everywhere. As for your phone, let me hold onto it. The Google alert you have on your name dumped more than 7,000 notifications to your phone in the past 12 hours. Besides headlining every U.S. newspaper, Sheilah’s death is on the front page of the Hong Kong Press, the London News, and the Australian Press, and you’re mentioned in just about every story.”
Raymond sat there staring at the table. His eyes filled with tears. Archer got up and signaled to Gallagher that he’d be outside in the SUV.
“Listen,” Gallagher said, “the next five or six days are going to be rough. Really rough! I’ve spoken to Sheilah’s family, and she will be laid out in St. Pat’s from 12 pm to 9 pm on Monday, and with the funeral on Tuesday at 10 am. Our ceremonial unit’s handling the entire thing. Jet Blue is flying her family in from around the country, and we expect every major prosecutor in the country up to the U.S. attorney general. Lastly, I took the liberty to tell the mayor that you’re going to be out for the next two weeks. After the funeral, you need to get out of here for a few days and decompress.”
Raymond sat there staring into space. “Okay,” he finally said. “You’re right. Let’s go down to the office. I need to see the mayor and speak to Jones.”
He threw some clothes on, and together they stepped outside. To Raymond’s surprise, a four-car motorcade was waiting outside. Instead of his SUV and a backup, there were lead and follow marked highway units, and the backup Suburban was switched out to an ESU truck with a counterterrorism team that would now be the backup vehicle, but unlike two detectives, these guys were armed to the teeth . . . looking like they were headed for Iraq.
“What’s this?” he said.
“The first dep has increased your detail until we get these fuckers.”
Archer met Raymond at his Suburban, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He got in, and off they rode. Gallagher jumped into his department car and followed the motorcade. Before he pulled out, he sent Archer a text message: “Do not let him out of your sight. I’m right behind you.”
Forty-five minutes later, they pulled into the garage at headquarters, and although they had been there only yesterday, Gallagher thought to himself, it seemed like a year.
Every 15 minutes, Gallagher came up with an excuse to walk into Raymond’s office. Just after 1 pm, he did it again, this time to ask Raymond if he wanted something to eat. He found Raymond sitting in his chair staring at the wall.
“Commissioner, you hungry?”
“I killed her,” Raymond said evenly, without moving.
“You didn’t kill her. ISIS killed her. This guy Samadi killed her; his guys killed her. You did not kill her.”
“Because of that stupid headline.” He looked up at Gallagher. “I did this.”
“No, you didn’t. They did. Now you have to concentrate on getting Samadi and his gang of thugs. Don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself. It won’t help you get them.”
“She’s gone. Jerry.”
“Yeah, she’s gone, but don’t let her death be in vain. You’ve got to focus on Samadi.”
Raymond said nothing for a long time, then stood up. “I need to get cleaned up.” As he headed for his private bathroom, he turned and looked at Gallagher. The fire had returned to Raymond’s eyes. “He’ll pay.”
Over the next few days, Sheilah’s death and the investigation by the FBI and NYPD were front-page news all over the world. Raymond did everything in his power to be as invisible as he could, but the press was hot and heavy, one minute reflecting on the gruesome way Sheilah was murdered by the terrorists, Sheilah’s life in public serice, and the next minute raising questions about her relationship with Raymond. The only thing that kept the press from tipping the scale against Raymond was a constant barrage of articles put out by Breshill on Raymond and on his and the FBI’s hunt for Samadi, ISIS, and the guys that killed Sheilah.
On the morning of Sheilah’s funeral, more than 15,000 cops, prosecutors, and judges lined up on Fifth Avenue, with six helicopters hovering overhead, and with unparalleled security. The governor, mayor, and U.S. attorney general spoke. Raymond was asked, but just couldn’t do it. By that evening when they put her in the ground, Raymond felt like the day had lasted a year. He was glad it was over.
The next morning at 7:30, Raymond, Archer, and three detectives from the Intelligence Division boarded a jet for Denver. For the next two-and-a-half weeks, Raymond adopted the schedule of a world-class prize fighter in training. Daily workouts, runs, and hikes that would have killed most men half his age. He was on a mission, and he could hardly wait to get back to get started.
CHAPTER 23
8:15 pm, Monday, 20 November
Raymond walked into his office for the first time in three weeks, feeling like a different person. He had lost about 15 pounds and looked great. Although he spoke to his office and Jones daily, there was still a ton of catch-up to do, and he jumped right in.
Later in the following week, the U.S. attorney general, the FBI director, and Jones convened a two-day major intel briefing in Washington, D.C. All the key players were in attendance—the FBI, the CIA, the State Department, the D.C. police, and the NYPD, represented by Rick Raymond and a half-dozen New York City police executives. Normally, Raymond would not attend anything like this, but given that the AG and the FBI director were speaking, he didn’t have a choice. He knew that everyone was watching him, and that Gallagher thought he was losing it—that he was some sort of ticking time bomb. He also heard that the mayor had been asking his criminal justice coordinator how he was doing, and said he had concerns Rick may be obsessed with Sheilah’s death and lacked focus on managing the day-to-day operation of the NYPD—50,000 strong—not to mention the everyday problems of securing the city.
The purpose of this meeting was for everybody to compare notes, to review everything that had happened, to see if there was anything they might have missed.
They sat around a huge table, with giant screens hung above, for illustration. Jones sat at one end, behind a podium, as they went over the events of the attacks—Times Square, Rockefeller Center, North Carolina, Las Vegas. What had they had missed? What had they overlooked? Had any clue slipped by them unnoticed? Why, Jones had pondered for days, did they not see those attacks coming? Again she thought, what did they miss? And what could they learn from what happened? They had dusted Sheilah’s apartment for prints and come up with nothing. No bloody footprints, no hairs, no fibers from clothes. Nothing. They canvassed the neighbors. Nothing. In Las Vegas, they checked all the security cameras. Nothing had survived the blast. And the witnesses that survived gave them nothing usable. It all happened too fast. They had the body of the shooter in North Carolina; they identified him as an operative of a cell the FBI already had its eye on, and had hit during the raid that had killed Jimmy. But, in spite of everything, they had very little to go on about Samadi, other than he liked to work in twos—two cops shot in Times Square; two cities hit at the same time.
Jo
nes had led the review, and, when she was finished, said, “We’re now going to have a report by Mila Chernova, the supervising FBI agent assigned to the New York City Joint Terrorism Task Force. She has been working with us since we discovered Bakheer’s house in Paterson, New Jersey. She will tell us why she believes the next targets are Wall Street and a Hebrew school in Upper Manhattan. Agent Chernova?” Jones nodded for her to come to the podium.
Mila stood up, and as she walked to the podium, everyone made note of her commanding presence.
She was tall, with black hair pulled back tight against her head and swirled behind. She had dark eyes, flawless porcelain skin, and strong shoulders. She had a white shirt on that was buttoned to the top, and a pants suit that went all the way down to her black heels. Not an inch of skin besides her face and her long-fingered hands was visible but, clearly, her physique was powerful. She had worked on several important cases, and was known in the Bureau for her obsessiveness when she worked on them. It was not uncommon for her to put in 14-hour days in front of her computer, feeding in information and analyzing the results. She was methodical, dedicated, unrelenting; and all of that rolled up together produced an attention to detail that bordered on the scary. As far as Jones knew, she didn’t have much of a personal life; she didn’t do anything except work on cases and go to the gym, usually at five in the morning, for a full workout before she arrived at her office at seven.
Raymond was into her immediately, but not only for her feminine pulchritude. She was going to help him get Samadi.
Raymond stayed at the Fairmont in downtown D.C. with his two bodyguards, and the rest of the NYPD contingency were at the Melrose. The first night, after the conference session ended, Raymond had a drink with Gallagher at the hotel bar, then retreated to his room. This was an energized group of people, and they were ready to party hearty in D.C., where it was practically mandatory to get plastered until 3 am. Those who didn’t were considered to be wimps. For Rick, there were no parties, no horsing around. He ate alone in his room, was in bed by nine, and slept hard and deep, his body refueling for the big fight he knew was coming.
The second day was much like the first, with most of the talking done by Chernova. For close to two hours, she went over cell phone data, cell site/tower locations, and the correlation of cell phones they believed were used by Samadi and his crew. Tracking his communications bouncing back and forth from Detroit and New York, as well as tracking six other phones that were floating around in Manhattan’s Upper East Side, Wall Street, and Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. She passed out charts to everyone, and used projected maps to show why she thought which school was going to be hit, and when, and how the terrorists were going to try to blow up the stock exchange. Although it was quite technical and many in the room appeared lost, the NYPD officers were impressed as much by her presence as her presentation. Everyone listened, took notes, asked questions, and nothing happened.
Two hours into the presentation, although riveted by Mila’s presentation, Raymond knew he had to get back to New York City before the official ending of the briefing. The mayor’s going to kill me, he thought to himself. Right after lunch break, Raymond made his rounds to say his goodbyes to the people in the room. He got to Mila when she was talking to a few D.C. cops while having a cup of coffee. He shook her hand in thanks and handed her his business card. In response, she pulled hers out of a pocket in her short black blazer, took out a pen, and wrote her cell number on the back.
“Call me if you need anything,” she said.
“You do the same,” he said, trying to maintain his professionalism as he felt a sudden attraction.
Jones, Raymond, and his bodyguards, luggage in tow, walked together to Union Station and boarded an Amtrak Acela at noon. At 3:15 that Friday afternoon, Raymond stepped off the elevator on the 14th floor of One Police Plaza and walked into his office . . . back to the real world.
Eight o’clock that evening, Archer dropped Raymond off at Gallagher’s home. Raymond joined Gallagher down in the family room for a drink, and the two discussed a number of department issues that Gallagher had been dealing with over the last two days. He also mentioned that he received a call from the mayor’s chief of staff asking how Raymond was doing. They both agreed that in the morning Raymond should spend some time with the mayor to ensure him all was good. Hey, Saturday morning would be perfect. No one around, no prayers at City Hall, no rumors, no BS. Gallagher immediately called the sergeant in charge of the mayor’s security detail and told him that the sooner the police commissioner could see the mayor the better. Ten minutes later, the sergeant called back.
The meeting was set for the following day, 9:00 am, at Gracie Mansion.
CHAPTER 24
5:00 pm, Monday, 4 December
Jones and Raymond, accompanied by Archer and driven by Shelby in Raymond’s black Suburban, arrived at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, the federal detention center otherwise known as the MCC. A few minutes from NYPD police headquarters, the MCC remained one of the most tightly guarded federal holding facilities in the United States. Shelby pulled into the private driveway, and Archer got out first. Jones and Raymond jumped out of the back and walked toward the lobby.
“You gonna tell me what we’re doing here?” Raymond asked Jones.
“Mila will tell you,” she said, adding, “It was her idea.”
Over the past week, Jones and FBI agent Chernova had been speaking to Raymond daily about their attempts to figure out what Samadi and his crew were up to next, and how to ID and stop them.
Late in the evening the night before, Chernova had called and told him she had an idea that she was going to run by Jones and the assistant U.S. attorney who was overseeing the federal investigation. Raymond asked what it was, but Chernova had said she couldn’t tell him until she’d gotten approval.
“Don’t you know I’m the New York City police commissioner?” Raymond said, more joking than challenging, to which Chernova responded, without missing a beat, “So, Commissioner, you’re going to tie me down and torture it out of me?” Raymond laughed and said, “No comment,” as his mind raced: was she referring to police brutality or was she flirting? He chose to keep it professional.
Now, stepping into the lobby, Raymond saw her, and his mind raced back to the “no-go” zone. She looked fantastic in her fitted beige pants suit. A federal corrections lieutenant told them to go back outside and leave their firearms in their vehicles. Jones and Raymond did as they were asked.
“Crack the gate,” the lieutenant barked into a radio, and the huge metal gates slid from left to right. The three of them walked through the first floor, into an elevator that took them to the ninth floor, where former New York City police officer Hamadi was being held, along with the most deadly and violent prisoners. When the doors opened, they were met by four corrections officers that looked like linemen for the New York Giants.
The lieutenant led the way, and the four COs followed the group down an airless gray hallway, into an area marked “Attorney/Client Visits” that had a number of cubicles enclosed by two-inch bulletproof glass. The internal speakers in the booth allowed visitors to speak to someone on the other side.
The lieutenant unlocked one of the large cubicles and told them to have a seat. Once they were inside, the door was locked behind them. Even with all his time in the business, the sound of metal against metal felt uncomfortable to Raymond.
The lieutenant told them Hamadi would be there soon.
Almost two minutes passed before they heard a loud bang in the distance, the sound of a prison door slamming open and then being slammed shut. All of a sudden, this massive metal wall slid open left to right, and there was Hamadi. He was surrounded by five uniformed officers, one on each side, three behind him. He was handcuffed to a chain that was wrapped around his waist, from which another chain was locked onto the shackles on both his feet. He was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit wit
h “DOC” in thick black letters written across the back. He was unshaven, his hair covered by a hairnet that reached all the way to underneath his chin, which Raymond realized was a spit mask that prevented him from spritzing bodily fluids on anyone. He looked emaciated; either they weren’t feeding him, or, more likely, he was refusing to eat. The three of them watched Hamadi take baby steps, his legs restricted by his shackles, toward the adjoining cubicle. His cuffs were removed, and he was waist-chained to his chair.
Hamadi removed the spit mask from his face and said hello.
Chernova did the speaking as Jones and Raymond sat there listening and studying Hamadi. Jones thought to herself, there’s no way I could live like this for the rest of my life. I would kill myself.
Chernova began: “I’m Mila Chernova, special agent for the FBI.” She could see him studying her face, and then his eyes going down her body. She knew he hadn’t seen a woman since the day he was arrested.
Hamadi nodded.
“How are you doing?” she said.
Again, he nodded.
“Look, I want to talk to you. I know what it’s like in there. You’re in special isolation 23 hours a day, no radio, no TV, no newspapers, no nothing. You measure your days by the crap they serve you for food.”
“It’s not food. It’s dog shit,” he muttered.
That’s what she wanted, to engage him, to get him to start talking.
“I’m sorry.” She leaned forward, making sure he could see the outline of her breasts. She watched his eyes go to them, then back to her. He was hungry, all right. “Look, Victor . . . Is it okay if I call you Victor?” She let her voice get a little huskier. He nodded his head yes.
“You’re going to live like this until the day you die; you know that, right?”
He shook his head up and down.
“I need some information from you. If you cooperate, I’ve been given the authority to offer you a deal, and that deal would allow you to be deported to Egypt. You’d get to go home.”
The Grave Above the Grave Page 12