The Grave Above the Grave

by Bernie B. Kerik

  Nobody said a word for the entire trip to Police Plaza.

  CHAPTER 32

  5:30 pm, Tuesday, 12 December

  Rick had settled in, looked at the pile of paperwork on his desk, and buzzed in Janey. She came in the office with her pearly white smile and bright blue eyes. “Yes, Commissioner?” There was a familiar note of anxiety in her voice.

  “Janey,” Raymond said, “have Jerry go through this crap, sign my name wherever it needs to go, and get it out of here.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and started to go.

  “Oh,” he added. She looked over her shoulder. “And hold all my calls. I don’t care if it’s Captain America; take a message.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind; just no calls.”

  He got up and brewed himself a triple espresso. He couldn’t get the smell of those carnations out of his nose. He drank the espresso down in one shot, then went back to his desk. He took out his cell and called Chernova. Her phone rang twice; then the automatic message picked up. He was about to hang up when he heard her breathless voice cut in. That alone gave him a sexual stir. “Rick,” she said, clean and crisp.”

  “How are you, babe?”

  “Good, good. Busy, I’m afraid. Lots going on here.”

  “Can you get away tonight?”

  “Oooh . . .”

  “The Marcus Hotel at 7:30? We’ll order in.”

  “The Marcus . . . Did you get a pay raise?”

  “You could say that,” he laughed.

  “So, we’re ordering in; then what?”

  “Then we’ll fuck our brains out.”

  “Well,” she said, “I may not be hungry, but I’m starving. See you then. Take your vitamins.”

  He laughed once to himself as he hung up the phone. He buzzed Gallagher. “Jerry, handle my meetings this afternoon. I’m going to do a little clothes shopping, and I’ve got to see the attorneys about selling my apartment in Riverdale and Sheilah’s brownstone in Brooklyn. Also, let’s set something up in the next week or so with the PBA president. I want to give him something for the Widows and Orphans Fund. I also want to start an endowment in Sheilah’s name for a scholarship fund for the families of the DA’s office.

  “Yes sir.”

  He arrived at the Marcus by seven, and told Shelby and Archer they could get something to eat and then call it a night. The two figured he was in for the evening. They decided to hang out at the bar, have dinner there before heading home.

  Raymond got to his suite, slipped into a hot bath, watched the steam rise above his submerged body, scrubbed every inch of his skin with the hotel’s sweet and smooth soap, got out, checked his face—no, he needn’t shave again, he thought; Mila liked the roughness of his stubble. He splashed a little of the Domenico Vacca scent on his neck. The hotel always stocked it in his suite for him. He liked the arch sweetness of the scent. Manly but not cloying.

  He came out with only a towel wrapped around him and went to pour himself a drink. There was a knock at the door. He opened it to see Chernova, dressed from head to toe in black and white—black pants suit, white ruffled shirt, high heels, white gloves, dark glasses with speckled black and white frames. The lenses were so dark he couldn’t see her eyes. “Come in, darling,” he said. As she stepped in, she smiled and took her glasses off.

  “You look and smell divine,” she murmured as he handed her a glass of Prosecco.

  “So do you. I’m so glad to see you,” he said and threw his arms around her, nearly spilling her drink. She giggled softly as she felt his hardness against her, through his towel.

  “Shall we eat first or get down to business and break for a late dinner?

  “What do you think,” he said, as he slipped open the tuck-knot of his towel and let it fall to the ground, exposing his erectness. Her eyes went to it and sparkled, as she leisurely pulled her gloves off her hands. She slowly took her clothes off, until her body was completely naked, except for her stockings and spike heels, her tattoos shining red and blue all over. He embraced her, then lifted her as if carrying her over the threshold into the bedroom, where they proceeded to shake the universe to its Milky Way roots.

  It was past eleven when they came up for air. Their bodies stayed stuck together until Raymond pried himself from her. “I hope that snake doesn’t bite me,” he said softly.

  “I think it did.”

  He leaned up on one hand. “Hungry?”

  “Ravenous, darling. You took everything out of me. I need to be replenished!”

  “I’ll order up.”

  “Quickly,” she said, “so we can eat, then get back to business.”

  He got up and went to the phone in the living room, ordered two steaks, two small Caesars, a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé, and two bowls of ice cream he was sure would be drunk, rather than eaten, at two in the morning as post-priandal treat.

  For the first time since that attack on Times Square, Raymond experienced some measure of peace. Thank God, he thought, for Mila, as he sat down to wait for the food.

  CHAPTER 33

  11:45 pm, Tuesday, 12 December

  Raymond heard the knock on the door. He peeked into the bedroom and said, “Food is here,” then closed the door behind him. “Coming,” he said, grabbing the towel from the floor where it had fallen hours earlier and wrapping it around himself.

  He opened the door and the room service person rolled the cart in. Raymond immediately sensed something was wrong. He knew all the VIP staff that handled the penthouse and delivered to his suite. As the man wheeled the cart in, an iceberg shot up Raymond’s ass. He knew that face. He recognized the eyes from the video, those black, burning, angry eyes! It was Samadi! “You!” Raymond screamed, with the heat and fury of a fire-breathing dragon. But before he could do anything, Samadi flipped up the cart and threw it in Raymond’s direction, food flying everywhere, water, bits of salad, rolls, as if a bomb had exploded.

  “I kill you!” Samadi said as he pulled his scimitar out from beneath his apron.

  He survived, Raymond thought. The bastard got away! He lunged at Samadi, flying through the air, grabbing the hand with the scimitar as he did. But Samadi was strong, very strong, and he caught Raymond by the throat and heaved him against the wall. Raymond was stunned, and shook his head, his eyes clearing just enough to see Samadi, his scimitar held high, coming at him, curses spewing from his mouth. Samadi thrust his scimitar straight at Raymond’s neck, but Raymond managed to roll away just in time; and tangling a leg into his attacker, Raymond kicked up with everything he had and sent Samadi falling backward.

  Raymond stood up, wobbling, and went for Samadi. He grabbed him by his shirt, through his apron, and lifted him off the ground. “You bastard,” he said, holding him with his left hand as he swung a right in a semicircle, landing it squarely on Samadi’s face. He heard the sickening crack of bone as Samadi went down. Raymond then kicked him twice in his ribs. There was no way he wasn’t going to kill him now. He went down, grabbed Samadi by his hair, and began banging his head on the floor, not wanting to stop until the pieces of Samadi’s skull looked like scrabble letters scattered on a bridge table.

  He never saw the knife come around and cut into his side. The pain caused Raymond to jerk up, and involuntarily he let go of Samadi. The prick had a razor-sharp blade under his apron. Samadi kicked him off, and Raymond staggered to his feet, blood gushing from his side. He watched, unable to do anything, as Samadi pushed himself up and went for the scimitar. Raymond took a deep breath and dove for it as well. Their bodies collided against each other, as both men, bleeding and weakened, fought like the wounded wild animals they were, to get to the weapon, the loser knowing for sure he wouldn’t be allowed to live.

  With one last push, Samadi was able to shove Raymond off him. Raymond rolled onto his back, the force of the push having dug the knife deeper into his
side. He felt like a hot bag of rice as his blood continued to spurt around the blade in him. Samadi stumbled to the scimitar, grabbed it, and shouted “Allahu Akbar! God is great!” as he moved in for the kill. He was going to decapitate the commissioner, just as he had done to Sheilah. Raymond put his left hand up, as if to try to stop what was coming, then braced himself for the worst. He saw Samadi stand above him and raise the sword, and, with a slimy smile on his face, Samadi reached down and grabbed Raymond’s hair. “This is personal, you Christian scum.”

  That’s when the shots rang out. Samadi looked up, surprised and quizzical, not understanding what had happened. In the doorway, nude and angry, Mila had held her Glock with her two hands, and after the first shot hit Samadi in his chest, she watched his eyes as he stood shakily, let go of Raymond, and took a step toward her. She fired seven more rounds into his body, until he fell. She walked over to him, kicked him once with her foot. He was twitching and gurgling, with blood spurting out from several wounds, and somehow still alive. Chernova took perfect aim with the red laser from her weapon, watched it for a few seconds as it crazily bounded around Samadi’s mouth and teeth, and with one final shot, sent brain matter all over the walls and rugs of the room. “Yes, personal, scumbag,” she said between her clenched teeth.

  She stood there, her weapon in her hands, as she watched the smoke pour out from what was left of Samadi’s head, then realized Raymond was trying to call her but was too weak to shout. She ran over to him, dropped her emptied Glock, and kneeled over him, placing her hands gently on both sides of his face. “How bad?” she said. Then she saw the knife. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wrapped it carefully around the still embedded knife to help stop the bleeding, knowing that if she pulled it out, he would bleed to death right there. She knelt over him, kissed his lips, and said softly, “Stay with me, darling. Stay with me.” She ran to get her cell phone, returned, knelt beside him as she called Archer in the bar, telling him what happened and that they needed an ambulance. Archer screamed into his radio as he ran to the elevator. “Code black central, code black—the PC’s down. I need a bus forthwith at the Marcus. Code black, the Marcus hotel!”

  Gallagher, Chief Allegra, and what sounded like every cop in the city was heading to the Marcus. Not 90 seconds after Chernova had called, Archer burst through the door, stepping over Samadi to get to Raymond. When he saw the blood-soaked towel and the knife embedded in Raymond, he shouted for Chernova to get another towel. She ran to the bathroom and brought him one. He wrapped it around the blade again and held it in place. Two minutes later, paramedics rushed a gurney through the suite’s open door, with Archer waving them in. One pushed Mila away from the body and went to work on Raymond, while another covered his face with an oxygen mask. “We need to get him to the emergency room,” the second paramedic said to Archer.

  “Bellevue,” Archer replied.

  “He won’t make it that far. New York is the closest. Let’s move!” The rest of the emergency team lifted Raymond onto the gurney and rushed him into the hallway, to the service elevator they had brought up to the floor, large enough to get the rolling stretcher in. Gallagher followed, as did Archer, pistol out and pointed up.

  “Wait,” Mila said, and rushed to the bathroom to grab her robe. She got to the elevator just as it was starting to close. One paramedic already had an IV working. Mila bent over Rick’s face and tried to rub it under the mask. “Rick,” she said, “Rick, goddamn you, answer me! Answer me!”

  There was no focus left in his eyes. She turned to one of the paramedics. “Is he going to make it?”

  “Out of my way,” he said, pushing her away as the elevator hit the lower level. There, an ambulance was waiting. They wheeled the gurney up to the back entrance, collapsing the legs as they pushed it in. Archer jumped in. Mila tried to follow.

  “No,” the paramedic said.

  “Fuck you,” she said, and pushed her way in. “Now move this thing out of here. Now!”

  She held Rick’s hand, afraid of how cold it seemed.

  CHAPTER 34

  2:35 pm, Wednesday, 13 December

  Chernova was sitting in a private room of New York Hospital, surrounded by FBI agents from OPR, the Officer of Professional Responsibility, as well as people from the NYPD’s Internal Affairs, The U.S. Attorney’s Office was methodically quizzing her about the attack, the stabbing, the shooting. Mayor Brown, Gallagher, Archer, Chief Allegra, and FBI agent Jones were sitting across the hall in a VIP reception room. Raymond had not regained consciousness since the attack. He was breathing with the help of a respirator. He had lost a great deal of blood, and his body had been broken in several places, including most of his ribs and one arm, the one he had used to punch Samadi. The prognosis had been less than 50-50 he would make it, time being of the essence. If he came out of it in the next day or two, he might recover. If he didn’t, well, he didn’t.

  Chernova patiently answered their questions, but all she could think of was Raymond lying in the ER unit. She just wanted him to live. She had known almost from the first minute they met she would fall in love with him. Her first motivation was to help him get over the death of Sheilah. Now, all she wanted was for him to live, for himself, for her.

  It was almost three in the afternoon of the third day, when the machine attached to Raymond blipped. A nurse came running out of his room. “Doctor, please, right away!” The resident on the floor ran into the room. Everyone jumped up, and Chernova followed. Try to stop me, she thought to herself as they entered the ER.

  The doctor, a young man who looked to Chernova like a college sophomore, was leaning over Raymond. “Can you hear me, sir? Can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me, Commissioner.”

  Chernova pushed everyone else out of the way as she tried to get a better look at Raymond. Everyone’s eyes were glued to Raymond’s as they waited.

  And waited.

  “I’m afraid he’s not . . . ,” the doctor started to say, when Raymond’s eyes fluttered. “Rick,” Chernova screamed, and kept pushing her way up, stopped in her tracks by Gallagher, who held her firmly but not roughly.

  “Let the doctor work,” he said softly.

  “Ummnnuuuhhh,” Raymond said through his oxygen mask. The doctor lifted it off. “Where . . . where am I?” Raymond said, his raspy voice barely above a whisper.

  “You’re at New York Hospital,” the doctor said.

  “Rick,” Chernova said, and Gallagher slowly let go of her as she leaned over the bed. “Darling,” she said, “I’m here. I’m right here.”

  Raymond turned his head slowly. “Mila,” he said, and smiled as much as he could. “Room service is ready . . .” Then he fell back asleep.

  “He’s going to make it,” the doctor said. “He needs rest. A lot of rest.”

  “I’m staying here with him,” Chernova said.

  “Try not to disturb him. He’s got a long way to go.”

  “I’ll sit in a chair by his side. I just want to be there when he opens his eyes again.”

  Jones shook hands with the doctor and thanked him. Brown did as well, then turned to the others: “Jerry, you stay here, and no visits until the doctors says it’s all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gallagher said. “We’ve got men on every floor, armed with everything but nuclear bombs. No one will get near him, I guarantee it.” He smiled and said to the mayor, “He’s a tough guy. A fighter. A good fucking man, Sir.”

  The mayor put one hand on Gallagher’s shoulder. “I know he is, Jerry.”

  Outside the room, Jones was talking with the resident. “How long do you think he’ll have to be here?”

  “Depends,” the doctor said. “If his brain is working, and it appears to be, and his body heals, it could be as little as three weeks before we can move him out of IC, and then, I don’t know, maybe three to four weeks. I think he’ll make it. He’s through the hardest part. Knife woun
ds to the torso are deadly and difficult to treat, because the wounds are so insidious. His doctor will be by in a while and give you a better assessment.” He paused and then said, “That lady in there—she’s as tough as he is.”

  Gallagher laughed. “Tougher.”

  CHAPTER 35

  10:15 am, Monday, 22 January

  It was a day of victory, if not celebration, for Raymond. He was returning to work for the first time since the night at the hotel. He had since learned from Jones how Samadi had gotten into the hotel. He had disguised himself as a food deliverer; then, once inside the hotel kitchen, he hid in cabinets and closets, curled up like a rat, avoiding light, making no noise, waiting for when he knew was the right time to strike. He had with him a computer that he used to hack into the hotel’s kitchen. He checked every hour to see who was getting room service, waiting for the time that Raymond returned to the hotel he had read about in the Herald as the one he preferred. On the night of his attempt to kill Raymond, he slit the throat of the delivery person, quickly and quietly, dragged him into the meat refrigerator, put on his uniform, and helped to fill the order; he counted on no one paying any attention—nobody in hotel kitchens, he knew, cared about anything except cigarette breaks, free beers from the bar, and the racing sheet; he simply brought the cart up to the room, ready to create new carnage. Jones had described him as bloodthirsty, a political vampire who lived off the blood of his victims.