He heard his cell phone buzz in his jacket pocket. He reached over the back of the sofa and pulled it out. Jones. He clicked her on.
“They hit. We were off on the date, or they intentionally threw us off.”
“How bad?” Rick turned on the small kitchen TV and turned on CNN with the sound off. He could see all hell breaking loose.
“Bad. There’s more.”
“Hit me.”
“Vegas and NC. Just before the shooter shot up a strip club near Fort Bragg, he called Samadi to say goodbye, and then said, ‘Is for carriers of God that we will visit Lady Liberty.’ We think he has four guys already in the city.”
“Meet me at our operations center. I’ll have someone waiting for you. I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”
“There’s something else.”
“It can wait. Let’s move.” He speed-dialed Gallagher. “Tell the guys to get my car ready and pick me up in 20 minutes, and get hold of the first dep and chief. Have them start to secure all the cities’ soft targets, religious sites, government buildings, tourist locations, and anything else they can think of. Activate our Emergency Operations Center and monitor everything that went down in North Carolina and Vegas. And keep everything under wraps. We don’t want to set off a panic and tip these bastards that we’re on to them.”
“That it?”
“We are not going to let them hit this city again.”
“Got it,” Gallagher said.
“Let’s go.”
The Pink Pussy Dance Club is situated midway along Bragg Boulevard. It had a reputation among the soldiers as the place with the youngest and prettiest, and hottest, dancers, some pretty local girls, but the hottest ones were imported from other cities, playing a circuit that took them to all the best stops. The entrance to the Pink Pussy, as the soldiers called it, was from the rear, through the main parking lot, where it cost $10 to park and $20 to get your wrist stamped, a different color “V” with a new tail every night, to prevent freebies.
It was almost midnight, and, as always at the witching hour, the place was packed. Electrobeat was pounding from the 35 Bose 902s hung from the ceiling, while red lights swirled around the room, making it look like an overheated landing strip, or a prison break. Lollie, one of the headliners, was in the midst of her show. She had taken her top off by now and was about to slip out of her panties. The room had gotten noticeably quieter, as the young recruits studied her body like they were in the theater of a medical school. Lollie was in the middle of the stage, on her back, her legs straight up in the air, her thumbs hooked into the top of her panties, as she slowly wriggled them off. Dollar bills were being tossed at her like dice at a craps table, and the ice-cold bottles of beers were being drunk by the dozen.
No one noticed the young, average looking, swarthy man walk in, or the weapon strapped to the inside of his pants leg. Once inside the entrance doors, he reached down, pulled up the Kalashnikov, and opened fire. He hit the hefty black bouncers first, who were nearest to him and unarmed. They fell like bowling pins as they were cut in half by the force of the shooter’s weapon. As everybody turned toward the entrance, the shooter began mowing down soldiers. Bodies fell as he moved his weapon in a semicircle, back and forth. Lollie never knew what hit her, and it was hard to see how much of her blood spread across the stage floor because of those red lights.
Screams pierced the air as the music abruptly stopped and the house lights came up. Bodies continued to fall, making it even more difficult for those still alive to get to the front exits. There was pushing and shoving, and bodies continued to fall.
The shooter suddenly stopped firing and fell in a single motion as his gun went up in the air, flying out of his hands, floating for a few seconds like a loaded missile. A Cumberland County sheriff’s deputy had slipped in the back door, raised his Glock, put it on the back of the shooter’s head, and blew his brains out. His eyes and nose flew off the front of his face, and bits of his shattered teeth flew out of his mouth. He was dead before he hit the ground, never even having a chance to say Allahu Akbar. He’d have to get to those 72 virgins without saying please or thanks.
Dozens of Fayetteville police joined the deputy sheriff as they flooded into the nightclub, along with several U.S. Army MP investigators and federal agents, who tried to move out the survivors through the emergency exit door and make a path for the medics to get in. Ambulances began arriving, sirens screaming. The first body count was 12, but before the medics were finished, it had tripled, as bodies were moved and revealed more dead underneath.
Across the country, in Las Vegas, it was a blistering night. The temperature had reached 110 degrees during the day, and it was still in the 90s as midnight approached. The Prospect Hotel was filled that weekend with young people, because Katy Kelly had performed earlier that night. The young girls were all tanned from hanging out at the pool, and the boys were wearing their best clubbing muscle outfits. Vegas was the easiest place in the West to score. Girls came there to get laid, and boys were all too willing to accommodate them, and nobody brought anything home with them.
When the show had ended at 9:30, the audience packed into the already full casino. Money was flowing, and so were the drinks, when the shooter came in. This was Vegas, and all anybody cared about was the money. Customers wanted to spend it; security wanted to make sure nobody left with what wasn’t theirs. In this desert town, everybody was welcome at every casino. Security was not obtrusive, but just outside the floor of the casino, in the stations concealed from the public, SWAT teams were at the ready. The shooter never made it through his first magazine. He was spotted on a monitor pulling up his weapon, and the team came out firing. The shooter managed to take five out—two female guests, two male, and a dealer—before they brought him down. As he fell, he detonated an explosive vest strapped to his body, and the entire casino exploded. Everything and everyone within 30 feet of the bomber shattered into bits and pieces as they funneled up in the death cloud. Ambulances arrived, and local cops and FBI pushed through the smoke, the flames, and the falling debris, weapons drawn, looking for survivors.
It was the second massacre of the night. Same day, same time, 2,031 miles apart.
Raymond rushed to 26 Federal Plaza. Jones was already there waiting for him in front of the building, and together the three of them, Jones, Raymond, and Gallagher, went up to the FBI’s operations center, while Archer and Shelby stayed downstairs in the Suburban. All the while, Jones’s cell phone had not stopped ringing, and when she got to her desk, she could see the landlines lit up. She told one of the agents to get to her assistant’s desk and field the calls.
“What’s it look like?” Raymond asked Jones.
Jones told him to sit down. “41 total, so far; 36 in NC and at least 5 in Vegas. The numbers will go higher in Vegas, for sure,” she said. She paused to answer the ringing of her cell phone, and 30 seconds into the call, she began asking the person on the other end, “Are you sure?” Her eyes were locked onto Raymond’s the whole time.
She appeared to get teary-eyed, cupped the phone, and excused herself, leaving Raymond sitting there alone. “Are you certain that it is him,” he heard her ask again as she disappeared into the next room. Three minutes later, she returned and looked straight at Raymond, her face twisted and wet. “Rick, I’ve got something I have to tell you,” she said. “We were hitting houses in NC and Vegas, searching for accomplices.”
“Good,” Raymond said.
Jones hesitated before continuing. “We just hit a house in NC. Two agents were killed, as well as one of your detectives.”
“My God,” Raymond said. “My nephew, Jimmy, he’s . . . he’s working with you guys in Fayetteville.”
“He’s dead,” Jones said, her voice flat and sad.
Raymond’s eyes widened; his mouth opened in shock. When he could speak again, he said, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure
, Rick. I’m so sorry.”
Raymond hung his head, covered his face with his hands, and wept, as Jones sat across from him and watched. Through his fingers, he said, “How am I going to tell my sister Linda?” More weeping. “I loved Jimmy. I took care of him after his father died . . . I made sure he got the best gig down there . . . he was so happy, so much to look forward to . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Jones said again. “He was part of the local police team that was with us hitting houses. One was booby-trapped, and as soon as they entered, all three, two agents and Jimmy, were killed instantly.”
“Samadi,” Raymond said slowly, as he took his hands away and stared at Jones, who could see murder in the commissioner’s eyes.
Tom Thomas, the NYPD’s deputy commissioner of public information, called Gallagher’s cell. “The phones are going fucking crazy,” he said. “CBS has suspended regular broadcasting, and they want to know if you can . . .”
Gallagher stopped him. “Jimmy, the PC’s nephew at JTTF was killed down in North Carolina.”
“Jesus, no,” Thomas said. “How?”
“They were hitting a house that was booby-trapped.”
“Oh my God. Does the boss know yet?
“Yes. I’m over at 26 Fed Plaza with him. He just found out.”
Raymond walked out of Jones’s office in a daze, followed by Jones and Gallagher, who called Archer and told him they were coming out, that Jimmy had been killed and they were heading to the commissioner’s sister Linda’s house in Queens. Gallagher then called Chief Allegra and First Deputy Nagle and told them about Jimmy; he ordered them to get ahold of the ceremonial unit and the chaplain’s office and have the chief chaplain meet them at Linda’s house, and also call the department CARE unit that takes care of the families of members of the service killed in the line of duty.
Raymond got into the back of the Suburban, with Gallagher next to him.
He looked at Jones, who was standing outside the SUV. “I’ll call you later. I want to get his body back here as soon as possible.”
“Call me when you can,” Jones said. “I’ll work on the logistics now; just go do what you’ve got to do.”
“Thanks. We’ll talk,” he said. Then he looked at Archer and said, “Get to my sister Linda’s house ASAP. I can’t let her hear from anyone else first.”
“I’ve got the chaplain meeting us there,” Gallagher said.
“Tell him to wait for us to get there, before he goes to the door,” Raymond said, then lowered his head. “Please God, don’t let her find out from someone else,” he said again, this time in a low voice. He looked at his watch; it was 4:45 am, and he had not slept yet. “Jerry, get the mayor’s guys to call me the second he wakes up.”
“You should call him now. He’d want to know this.”
“You’re right; dial his cell.” Gallagher did, then handed Raymond the phone.
The mayor looked at the clock and saw the time and then answered the phone: “Hello. Everything okay?” Raymond went to speak, but nothing came out. It was like something knocked the breath out of him. The mayor said, “Are you okay?”
“Jimmy, my nephew, Linda’s son, is dead.” Crying almost uncontrollably, “They killed my nephew.”
CHAPTER 17
6:00 am, Wednesday, 18 October
They arrived at Linda’s house just after six in the morning. About six vehicles in total, but Raymond ordered them not to approach the house until the lights came on and they knew his sister was awake. At 6:45 am, the front hall light went on and then the kitchen light. Raymond, the chaplain, and a few uniformed chiefs approached the front door. Linda was in her robe when she answered the door, and at the sight of the chaplain, collapsed. She was hysterical in the living room, and when Raymond went to hold her, she pounded his chest with her fists, “How could you let him become a cop,” she screamed, before her eyes rolled back and she collapsed again on the floor.
As the group tried to console her, the entire block outside her house filled up with marked and unmarked police cars as friends, colleagues, and cops assigned to assist the family began to arrive. Soon enough, the house inside and out was like a fortress, completely taken over by members of the department and a few FBI agents that Jimmy worked with. In the middle of all this commotion, Raymond’s cell phone starting ringing. He looked down at it. Sheilah. He quietly excused himself, explaining it was police headquarters, and walked out the heavy front door of Linda’s home to take it.
“Rick,” Sheilah said. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
“Thanks,” he said, not knowing what else to say.
“Jones called and told me. That poor boy.” She paused. “Can I see you later?”
“I’ll call you later today. Right now I have to deal with Linda. She’s a mess.”
“I want to hold you. Now.”
“I know,” he said. “I gotta go.” He ended the call and walked back into the house. He was met by the dead stare of Linda, who was surrounded by about 100 cops looking at him, wishing that he could make it all go away. He walked over to her, got on his knees, placed his hands in hers in her lap, and whispered, “Listen to me. Jimmy was the best of the best. That’s why he was in the unit. That’s exactly where he wanted to be and what he wanted to be doing. He died living his lifelong dream. Remember when he was a little boy . . . at six years old he wanted to be a cop, and he never wavered. He lived out his dream, and died doing exactly what he wanted.” She leaned into him, their heads touching, as she sobbed quietly. He kissed her on the cheek, and then he said he was sorry he had to go downtown and he would call as soon as he could. Outside, as he got into the car, he said to Archer, “Let’s get to headquarters. Tell the chief and first dep we’re on the way, and to meet us there.”
There was chaos inside Police Plaza. A bank of microphones was up live in the big room, and Raymond and the mayor were scheduled for a 9 am joint press conference. In his office, Raymond sipped his second cup of coffee and told Janey to hold his calls. He leaned back in his chair and went over in his mind what had happened after he’d gotten home.
His phone was lit up like the Rockefeller Center tree at Christmas. He took a few calls from reporters—those he liked—and answered all their questions and accepted their sympathies.
Then there was Jones. “I’m going to North Carolina for the bodies. Do you want to come with me? You can claim Jimmy’s body and bring it back for burial.”
“Yes. When?”
“I’m on the way to you, for the press conference. Right after, we’ll head to the airport. The Bureau is sending a jet. See you in a few.”
They took off from LaGuardia at 11 am and were on the ground in Fayetteville by 12:15. As they deplaned, a gentle southern breeze caressed Raymond’s face. At the bottom of the ramp, dozens of FBI agents and local cops escorted them to a private area of Regional/Grannis Field Airport reserved for military personnel and FBI operations. There, an agent and a U.S. Army captain from the 18th Airborne Corps stationed at Fort Bragg escorted them to an enormous refrigerator in the private area where coffins were stored. Both Jones and Raymond declined to have any of them opened for inspection. Raymond did not want to see Jimmy this way, and he would not let anyone else. Jones then took Raymond to a private dining room to have coffee, and, if he wanted, a bite to eat, while the coffins were loaded onto several planes, to be dispersed at various hubs, according to where the military and male and female agents were from. Jimmy’s would be going back on the same plane Raymond and Jones came down on and would return to New York City in.
They found a table in the back, Jones put her bag down, and a server came over to ask what they wanted. They ordered two coffees, black, no food. She nodded and left.
Jones spoke first. “Rick, so sorry for you and your family.”
“Thanks,” Raymond said as the coffee came.
He stirred his with the stick
, added nothing, instead taking a sip. It was scalding. “Military hot,” Jones said.
“I want the people behind this . . . I need to have that.”
“I know . . . we’ll get them, but it’s got to be done and done right. We’ll get them.”
Raymond looked at her and thought to himself, not the way I’d like to.
“Will there be anything else?” the waitress said.
“No,” Jones said. Then she turned to Rick. “Let’s go. The planes are probably loaded by now.”
Raymond was back in his office by four that afternoon, greeted by a pile of messages stacked like an unruly deck of cards. He flipped through them, saw the mayor’s name, and had Janey call him back.
Janey buzzed when she had him on the phone, Raymond picked up. “Mayor.”
“Rick. Sorry about all of this.”
“Thanks.”
“Cardinal Dean called. He wants to know if you want Jimmy’s funeral at St. Patrick’s.”
“Yes, but I need to check with Linda about when. I would imagine it should be Monday. Tell Cardinal Dean thanks from the family. Once I get word from Linda, I’ll have the ceremonial unit start making arrangements.”
“Are you doing okay?” the mayor asked.
“Yeah.” Raymond paused, took a breath, and continued, “I just want the fuckers that did this. They’ve killed two of ours in the past month. I want them, and I want them dead.”
“I’m sure . . . Let’s get through this first. If you, Linda, or anyone in the family needs anything, or any help with the arrangements for the funeral, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“Thanks,” Raymond said and hung up the phone. He stared out the window from his desk seat, his lips twitching as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “I want them dead,” he repeated out loud, to nobody but himself.
The Grave Above the Grave Page 9
