He could hear Jones take a deep breath on the other end, before she spoke. “You sound like a fucking mad man.”
“You know what? Go fuck yourself.”
In what sounded like a quiet, stern, and suddenly, to Raymond, empathetic voice, Jones began talking softly. “Rick . . . we’ve been friends for a very long time. We’ve been through a lot together—good times and bad, but do not—I repeat—do not confuse my friendship for weakness. You are not above the law. You’ve been sworn to do a job, and you’re going to do it to the letter of the law, or I swear to you, I will fucking lock you up myself.” She paused to let all of that sink in. “I get that you’re pissed off, and I’m sorry about Jimmy, but if you continue talking stupid and jeopardizing your safety and the safety of those around you, and jeopardizing this investigation, I will go to the mayor myself and call for your job. Do you understand, Commissioner? I’ll see you at the Chambers Street Deli at ten for coffee, just as we had planned.” Somehow, the empathy had evaporated by the end of her dressing down.
Raymond hung up the phone and sat there. He felt like he was losing control.
Just then, Gallagher walked in and looked at him.
“You okay?” Gallagher asked.
Raymond looked up at him. “Yes, I’m okay. I need a shower.” He stood up and walked into his private office bathroom.
At 10 am, refreshed and with a new set of clothes, Raymond walked into the Chambers Street Deli, and went directly to the back where Jones was sitting at the far-end booth. He could smell her perfume, three booths earlier.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she said, sounding genuinely apologetic.
“Me too, but I’m trying to draw this guy out. I feel like he’s fucking running us in circles.”
“Listen to me, Rick. We’re close. Very close. I know you want to kill this guy yourself, but it’s going to be done right and by us. His trail went cold after Times Square, until we picked it up again, briefly, during Rock Center, then cold again until the last attacks. Between you and me, your cop collar, Hamadi, housed over at the Metropolitan Correctional Center, helped us get back on to Samadi. We need to stay on there now until we have a real ID, for him and every one of his sleepers. If he disappears and is replaced, we will lose them all. Our analysts believe they’re planning this thing here, and it has something to do with Wall Street, and something up around Park and 65th, but we’re not sure what.” She looked at Raymond, and, for the first time, was concerned about the way he looked. “You getting any sleep?”
“This weekend I did,” Raymond said. “I’ve cleared my schedule for this evening. I told Chief Allegra I’m shutting off my phone from 8 pm to 6 am, and not to bother me unless the world comes to an end.” They both laughed. He knew Sheilah had a dinner to go to and would be out late, so he was going to catch up on his sleep.
“Okay,” Jones said. “I’ve got a briefing this afternoon at three, so if we get something new, I’ll give you a buzz.”
“Good.” They both stood up to leave, with Raymond throwing down a five dollar bill to cover his coffee. “Let’s talk later.”
Jones left the deli, and Raymond walked over to Archer, who was standing at the restaurant door, talking into the sleeve microphone, calling Shelby to bring the car to the door.
Raymond stepped out onto the sidewalk and into the back seat of the Suburban. He felt tired already. “Back to the office,” he said. “I need a fucking nap.” As he leaned back and closed his eyes, he thought of Jimmy lying in that casket, replayed arriving at Linda’s home, and then thought of Sheilah. His mind was whirling, spinning everyone out of his thoughts but one. All that was left was Samadi. He picked up his phone and sent Breshill a text: “You’re the fucking man! Keep the pressure on! RR.”
That night, shortly after eleven, Sheilah let herself into her Brooklyn brownstone and switched on the living room light. When she and Raymond weren’t bunkered down at the Marcus, and she had the time, it was nice to get back home. She was dead tired, having attended a B’nai B’rith dinner, and she was thirsty. All that salty food made her want a bottle of cold water from the fridge. She had put on her public face for the event and wore her running-for-mayor-someday clothes. She knew the men at the event liked her; men always liked her wherever she went—that was easy. But so did the women, because she always came off charismatically smart and charming, never condescending. These perceptions would come in handy when she ran for mayor—whenever that might be.
She took off her gray Armani suit jacket and casually let it drop to the floor. She headed for the kitchen to get the water, and also put the kettle on for a late-night cup of chamomile, to help her fall asleep more quickly.
That’s when she noticed the odd smell.
Her first thought was that her housekeeper forgot to take out the garbage. She would have to talk to her about that, and other things. Lately there had been a lot of little . . .
The thick, hairy, sweaty arm that came around her neck from behind took her totally by surprise. She tried to scream, but the arm had effectively choked off her vocal cords; nothing came out. She stood, paralyzed and panicky, as she felt a canvas hood being placed roughly over her head. In one move, it completely covered her down to her neck. She screamed again, but the hood was so tight against her mouth, she sounded as if she were underwater. She could barely breathe at all, and when she did try to take a deep breath, the dust from the bag caused her to choke. She could feel the canvas now sticking to her face, which was already drenched with sweat.
She felt a set of hands pull her arms behind her and tightly bind her wrists, one crossed over the other, as she felt a stinging sensation around her wrists, the thick plastic zip ties cutting into her flesh.
Her mind flashed on Rick playing one of their games, until she felt the cold rise from her legs straight up to her brain. She wiggled involuntarily to shake off the chill. She tried to move her wrists, but the more she moved, the more the plastic cut into them, and her fingers were starting to tingle.
One of them finally spoke. The voice was rough, her lawyer mind noted, and his accent meant that he was not American. “I remove your hood. Do not make sound.”
She shook her head up and down quickly. He grabbed the hood from the top and pulled it off in one swift motion. She felt like her head was going with it. In the dark of her apartment, she could see the shadows of three men, all wearing black masks and black clothing.
“Please,” she said. In response, a hand smacked her hard across her face. Her left cheek felt hot. She dropped her head in surrender, hoping whatever was coming would happen quickly and they would leave.
One of the men standing to her side grabbed her hair and yanked her head up and back; another one slapped duct tape across her mouth, and wound the tape twice around her head and under her hair. When she felt the one let go of her hair, she dropped her head down again. The men started talking to each other rapidly in a language she didn’t understand; it took her a few seconds to realize it was possibly Arabic. Her heart pounded like a hammer hitting an anvil.
No . . .
Standing at the far end of the living room, two of the men grabbed her arms, one man on each side of her, and forced her down to her knees, facing away from the kitchen. They let go of her, threatening what would happen if she dared to move. She could hear a lot of movement behind her, but could not tell what they were doing. Working methodically, one man placed a small chair at the other end of the room in front of a large bookshelf, and the other set up a tripod with a small camera on it, about five feet in front of the chair, facing it. The third man unfolded an ISIS black flag and hung it on the bookshelf directly behind the chair. Then two of the men went back to Sheilah, putting an arm on each side of her; they stood her up and turned her around toward the chair. For a few seconds she was confused, but then she realized what was happening, and her knees went limp, and she nearly fainted.
They dragged her over to the chair, sat her up straight, and turned on a lamp on the camera. The man with the sweaty arms stood to her right, holding a 16-inch scimitar. Moving in back of Sheilah so he was standing directly behind her, he waved the sword at the camera and shouted, “We are coming for you! You cannot avoid or resist us. We will show you no mercy!” He then moved out of camera range and came back with a towel. He wiped the sweat and tears off Sheilah’s face with it. He then held up the front page of the New York Herald with the headline “IT’S PERSONAL, SAYS COMMISSIONER” and taped it to her chest. The other two men stood on each side of her, holding her in place.
No, no. Please, no . . .
The man with the scimitar pulled her back against the chair, as she closed her eyes tight and held her breath. The last thing Sheilah felt was the blade start to slide across her neck.
The three men laughed when her upper torso lurched forward, causing a stream of blood to shoot across the room, while the sword-wielding murderer stood there holding her head. All three yelled “Allahu Akbar” several times; then one shut the camera off, took the SIM card out, turned off the lamp on the camera, and packed everything into a hard suitcase. With their mission accomplished, they left quietly through the front door of Sheilah’s brownstone, down the staircase to the dark Brooklyn street, and walked casually into the night, talking and laughing among themselves with what seemed like not a care in the world.
CHAPTER 21
7:15 am, Thursday, 26 October
Raymond got to the office just after seven. He loved getting there before everyone else got in . . . no headaches, calls, meetings, nothing except catching up on paperwork and reading at his own pace, usually without interruption. He was at his desk sipping the mug of coffee that he had just brewed from the coffeepot that Janey set up for him yesterday before she left for the day. He had not heard from Sheilah the night before, but knew she had an event to go to, and also knew she made a habit of staying off her phone at those events. She must have gotten home and crashed. Wanting to touch base with her this morning, he called her cell, and when it went right to voice mail, he called the landline in her brownstone; still no response. Then he called the Marcus, but nothing. Maybe she’s at the gym, he thought.
About 8:15, he tried calling her again, several times, but there was no answer. This wasn’t like Sheilah, he thought.
He took a sip of the hot black coffee, then checked his schedule for Monday. Meetings with several police officers, lunch with City Council, three o’clock appearance with the mayor in East Harlem to dedicate who the fuck knows what, cocktails at five with the governor and the mayor at Gracie Mansion . . . He closed his appointment book and rubbed his eyes and laughed out loud as he read through the reports in front of him. A male sergeant and female detective had gotten caught in flagrante delicto. When a duty captain on night watch rolled up on them, on a dead-end street, the sergeant jumped out of his car and, while fixing his pants, explained to the captain that the detective’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and he was actually consoling her. Raymond wondered how the captain kept a straight face while speaking to the sergeant. This will be interesting, he thought.
Suddenly, he could hear a lot of movement outside his door, and then he heard the sound of the buzzer for the outer corridor doors controlled by the detectives assigned to security for the commissioner’s office. He heard Gallagher’s door to the hallway open and close about five times . . . so much that he was now annoyed and stood up to see what the hell was going on. He was midway between his desk and the door when it burst open. Gallagher and Jones walked in, and Raymond could see a half-dozen suits behind them in the hallway.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked.
Gallagher, standing there looking like he was about to vomit, said, “Commissioner, please sit down.”
“Sit down, Rick,” Jones repeated. Raymond slowly sat at his desk, staring at the two of them, realizing that something was very seriously wrong. The first thing he thought of was his sister Linda, or maybe it was another attack.
He watched Jones open the small yellow envelope she was holding, take a SIM card from it, and slip it into the side of Raymond’s computer. The two came around and stood behind the commissioner. The movie app popped onto the screen, and Jones hit the play button. Gallagher put his hands on Raymond’s shoulders as the video began.
Nobody said anything as the video played until the assassin grabbed Sheilah’s head and brought the scimitar up to her neck. Gallagher reached down and punched the eject button. Raymond looked up at Gallagher, noticeably shaking.
“She’s dead, Rick,” Gallagher said. Jones looked at Gallagher and waved her hands for him to stop talking.
Raymond slid off the chair and fell to his knees, and then stood up, holding onto the desk for support, his face like a wounded bear’s.
“Commissioner,” Gallagher said. “Commissioner,” he repeated, as Raymond just stood there, as if he didn’t even see Jones or him. Jones’s eyes filled with tears . . . she could feel his pain.
“I’ll be right back,” Raymond said. Jones and Gallagher tried to stop him, but he shook them off like they were rain on a twisting umbrella. “I’ll be right back,” he said again.
Raymond went into his private bathroom. Gallagher and Jones looked at each other for a few seconds as they heard him puking as if he had been on a three-day drunk. He was in there for close to 15 minutes. When he walked out, his face was red, and his eyes were swollen like he had been crying for days.
Almost as if he had been hypnotized, not hearing anything they were saying, Raymond walked right by them, to Archer in the hallway, said, “Let’s go,” and started walking to the elevator. Gallagher went up to him. “Listen, Commissioner,” he urged, “why don’t you sit down for a minute.”
Raymond just stared at him, then continued walking and got on the elevator with Archer; as the doors closed, Gallagher locked eyes with Archer, put his hand up to his right ear, like he was holding a phone, and mouthed, “Call me.”
Shelby was sitting in the Suburban as Archer held the door open and Raymond got in. Shelby looked back at the commissioner and said, “Where to, Boss?”
“To the Marcus,” Raymond said, just staring ahead.
Archer started to panic . . . what the fuck is he going to do, he thought to himself. Without picking up the phone so Raymond could see it, he texted Gallagher, telling him where they were going. Gallagher wrote back, “Do not leave him alone.”
When they arrived at the Marcus, Raymond sat in the car in front of the entrance, just staring at the hotel through the black-tinted glass of the SUV for several minutes, while Shelby and Archer sat in the front, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. After about 10 minutes, Archer got up enough courage to speak, “Boss, you okay?”
“Yeah. Head down to 51st and Madison.”
Shelby put the vehicle in drive and slowly pulled away. Archer then sent Gallagher another text message: “We’re on the way to 51st and Madison. I think he’s going to St. Pat’s.”
Gallagher replied, “Is he okay?”
“Not sure. He hasn’t said a word. We just sat in front of the Marcus. I’ll let you know when we get to 51 and Mad.”
“Received,” Gallagher wrote.
Twenty minutes later, Shelby pulled up to 51st and Madison, behind St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and put the Suburban in park. He looked back at Raymond, sleeping, his head leaning against the window. Archer put his finger up to his mouth, motioning for Shelby not to say anything. They sat there for about 15 minutes, until all of a sudden, Raymond was out of the car. Archer jumped out and walked about one step to the right and behind as Raymond turned left on 51st Street, toward the cardinal’s residency at the rectory. He walked up to the door and rang the bell. In a few minutes a priest answered, looking surprised that the police commissioner was standing there. The priest invited him in. Raymond thanked h
im and said, “I don’t need to see the cardinal; I just need some time to pray.” The priest felt a little uncomfortable. He could see that Raymond was upset. He escorted him to one of the first side pews in the front of the cathedral. On a Monday morning, the church wasn’t packed, but this area was always roped up for security reasons. Raymond sat by himself, and Archer stood about 20 feet behind him.
Forty-five minutes went by, with Raymond deep in prayer. Finally, Gallagher and Jones entered the cathedral, walked toward him, got to his row, and sat on either side of him. Gallagher spotted a pistol in Raymond’s hand that he was holding out of sight. It was his off-duty weapon that he usually carried in an ankle holster. Gallagher reached down slowly and took it out of Raymond’s hand. Raymond offered no resistance. Without looking at either man, he put his head down and sobbed.
CHAPTER 22
6:15 pm, Thursday, 26 October
Gallagher and Archer arrived with Raymond back at his apartment in Riverdale. He and Archer then stayed there for the evening. The next morning, Raymond was up early and joined Gallagher and Archer, already in the kitchen having coffee. Raymond was trained to sleep lightly, and the slightest sound automatically made him sit up and reach for his gun in one motion, but when his head hit the pillow that night, he didn’t move until he got out of bed the next morning.
Gallagher said, “How are you feeling, Boss? Shelby’s in the Suburban outside.”
He ignored the question. “I can’t find my fucking phone,” he said. “I need to get to the office. I need to get my head straight, and catch up on all kinds of paperwork shit.”
The Grave Above the Grave Page 11
