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  The funeral director came to the rear of the hearse and opened the door. Six soldiers in Army dress blues slid JR’s coffin from the hearse and carried it to where Father Fred was standing with his altar boys. The priest made the sign of the cross over the casket, sprinkled holy water over it, and led the mourners in a short prayer. When he finished, he directed the altar boy holding the cross to lead the way back into the church. The soldiers followed, carrying JR’s casket and leading the solemn procession of family and mourners out of the raw weather.

  Inside the church, Father Fred began the mass.

  After reading the Gospel, Father Fred delivered his eulogy of JR. The priest spoke of the sudden violence that had cut short JR’s life. He spoke of how JR had devoted his life to the ideals of his mother — someone else who had been taken too soon by violence. The priest noted that JR lived his life with passion, and that JR made a positive difference in the world.

  “JR’s life had hardly begun,” the priest said, “yet he lived a worthy life.”

  As the priest concluded his eulogy, Governor Jamieson rose from his seat, walked into the sanctuary, and approached the microphone.

  “Good morning, everyone,” the Governor said. “Father Hoffman has been very gracious in allowing me to address you this morning, and I thank him for that.

  “I did not personally know JR Burton, but, in the last few days, I have learned a great deal about something that we have all come to know. Grief. It is about grief that I would like to speak with you today.

  “Like Frank Burton, I lost my only son this week. As parents, Frank and I experienced a special, agonizing grief that only parents can really come to know. All our lives, we celebrated our children’s accomplishments; we took pride in seeing them develop into good people; and we reveled in their promise of the future.

  “But then, that future is snuffed out – suddenly, violently – with the killing of our children. Our children no longer exist. They have no future. And, because of that, we realize that we too have no future, and we realize that our present has become a hell on earth.

  “Our life – Frank’s life and my life – has become an ordeal. For us, the joyful optimism of a few days ago has been replaced with debilitating despair. Every day we are confronted with the loss of hope. Every day we must fight against the crushing grief which the loss of JR and the loss of Trey have brought to us.

  “And yet we must all find a way to persevere, to get beyond this. JR and Trey would want us not to succumb but to endure through this.

  “We can all survive this loss with faith and love. We must have faith that God will reward the lives of good people, and we must believe that love will give us the strength to overcome this crushing grief.

  “Please remember to show your love for JR to his father in his time of his grief.

  “Thank you. God bless you all,” the Governor said as he left the podium.

  The mourners politely applauded him as he returned to his seat.

  Father Fred continued with the service. At the end of the mass, he and the altar boys led the procession of the casket, pallbearers, and mourners out of the church.

  In the vestibule of the church, Burton and Mike stood in line to receive the condolences of the mourners as they passed out of the church. Governor Jamieson came up to Frank and greeted him.

  “Thank you for your kind words, Governor,” Burton said.

  “I needed to say them, Frank. I needed to say them as much for myself as for you.”

  “Well, thank you, Sir. I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Frank, I wonder if I may ask you a favor.”

  “What is that, Sir?”

  “I realize that I need to talk with someone about Trey’s death. And I think that you may have the same need.”

  Burton simply nodded.

  “Frank, you and I have a bond in common. Neither you nor I wanted this bond, I am sure, but it is there nevertheless. I believe that you know the despair that I feel after Trey’s murder, and I think that I can understand your grief after JR’s death as well. I think it would be beneficial for us to spend more time together and to talk about how this affects us.”

  “I think it could be helpful, Governor.”

  “Good. In that case, I have a proposition for you, Frank. I know that you have had extensive experience in flying helicopters, both with the Army in the Gulf War and with the NJSP before 9/11. I understand that you have also kept up your certification. Is that right?”

  “You are right, Governor. I am still licensed and certified to fly them.”

  “Then I would like to offer you the position as my official pilot. We would be able to spend time with each other, time that we could use to talk about our boys and about how we are dealing with their loss. You would be able to get a break from the constant presence of death and the constant pressure of the murder investigations at the CSU. You would also receive an increase in pay and in grade. I would be able to promote you to the rank of captain with this change. Well, what do you say, Frank?”

  “Thank you, Governor. It seems like a needed change. I accept.”

  “Good. If you feel ready, you can start with Wednesday’s flight to New Hampshire, right after the Iowa Caucus.”

  “I will be ready. I will be with you on Wednesday. Thank you, Sir.” Burton and the Governor smiled at each other and shook hands.

  *****

  Ryan’s cell phone vibrated. He saw that it was Hazel from the CSU and he answered it.

  “Hazel, why are you calling me? I am about to get into the limo for the trip to Arlington.”

  “Well, that may not happen, Billy. You may decide not to do it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I have an NYPD detective on the line. He says he has a case that may be connected to your case.”

  “The Trey Jamieson case?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Detective Irv Goldberg. He is holding on the line to speak with you.”

  “Okay. Can you transfer it to my mobile?”

  “You know that I can, dear.”

  With that, she moved the call over to his mobile.

  “This is Sergeant William Ryan. How may I help you?”

  “Sergeant Ryan, Irv Goldberg here. I am a detective with the NYPD, and I came across your name in connection with a hit-and-run investigation.”

  “I thought you had info about Trey Jamieson. I haven’t been involved in any hit-and-runs. You have the wrong man, Detective.”

  “No. You got me wrong, Ryan. You are not a suspect. The victim of the hit-and-run was on his way to meet a friend, a William Ryan, when he was killed. I thought that maybe you were that friend.”

  “No. I do not have any friends in New York. Besides, there may be more than one William Ryan in New York. Why did you think that I was that William Ryan?”

  “It was a long shot, Sergeant. I saw you on television with Cooper last night. Your interview was very memorable.”

  Goldberg started laughing here, but Ryan did not reply, so Goldberg continued.

  “You seem like you really like to party, Sergeant. My vic liked to party too. That is why I thought that you could be that William Ryan — his friend.”

  “What was your victim’s name?”

  “Brandon Rush.”

  “I do not know him. I am not your guy, Detective.”

  “They were supposed to meet up at the victim’s club. I have it here in my notes.”

  Ryan could hear Goldberg riffling through the pages of his notebook.

  “Oh, here it is, Sergeant. The club’s name is La Femme Mystérieuse.”

  Chapter 22

  After excusing themselves from the remainder of JR’s funeral service, Ryan and Mueller drove directly to New York to meet with Detective Goldberg.

  The NYPD’s Midtown South Detectives was housed in a grim three-story building on 35th St., just east of Ninth Avenue. Ryan parked his squad car near the building’s front doo
r, and he and Mueller went inside to find Goldberg. They pushed through a glass double door into the precinct’s public anteroom and told the desk sergeant that Detective Goldberg was expecting them. The desk sergeant told them that Goldberg would be with them in a few minutes and to make themselves at home.

  Ryan and Mueller were examining a brass plaque commemorating the nineteen officers from the precinct who had lost their lives on 9/11 when they heard a booming voice behind them.

  “I lost my three closest friends on that day. There are a lot of days when it is hard to be a cop, but that day was the worst, the absolute worst.”

  They turned to see a tall, broad shouldered man with curly, salt-and-pepper hair coming toward them. He had a deep tan – not a resort or vacation tan, but a cop’s tan, one from working the streets every day. He had a large, hooked nose, but he had a smile that lit up his face.

  “Hiya, fellas. I’m Irv Goldberg,” he said. Ryan and Mueller introduce themselves to Goldberg, and he pumped their hands with a crushing handshake.

  “I am glad to finally find you, Ryan,” Goldberg said. “Between us, I hope that we can find an explanation for these two killings.”

  “Irv, you can call me Billy. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “It looks like your victim was the witness who was supposed to meet with me Saturday night,” Ryan said, “but I did not know his name at the time, and I do not know much about him now although his name does sound vaguely familiar to me.”

  “It should sound familiar,” Goldberg said. “Brandon Rush was a hero in this town. He lived the classic rags to riches story. He came to New York from a small town in rural Louisiana between ten and fifteen years ago. He started his Broadway career as a dancer. He was a damn good dancer, but he was really smart too.”

  “How do you mean, Irv?”

  “After just three or four shows, he started working as a choreographer. A few years after that, he wrote and directed his own musical. It was a smash hit. Since then, he has been producing his own shows as well.”

  “I guess he has earned tons of money from all this?”

  “Ha,” Goldberg replied, “he has been making money hand over fist for the last ten years. He has been working with Hollywood to turn his last three productions into major movie musicals. Do you know the last time that that has happened?”

  Ryan and Mueller did not have an answer for Goldberg.

  “That’s right, Baby!” Goldberg yelled. “It has never happened – at least not with one guy.”

  “A person with that much success usually makes enemies along the way,” Mueller said.

  “Not Brandon Rush. That guy ran so many productions that he employed everybody. And the success of his shows brought people to see other shows. Everybody on Broadway loved him. And even the regular people loved him too.”

  “What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

  “Whatever money he did not spend on his shows, he gave back to his communities. I guess he felt that it was his mission to give back – because of all the success that he had achieved. He funded musical programs and theater arts in the public schools, and food banks in rural Louisiana, Harlem, and the South Bronx. There was not anyone who did not love him in this city.”

  “Then why do you think that the hit-and-run wasn’t just a hit-and-run, just an accident?” Mueller asked.

  Goldberg made a grim laughing sound. “That is something that I would need to show you. You would not understand if I just told you. Come on,” he said.

  Goldberg led them to the rear of the building, to the evidence lockup. Goldberg talked to the police officer in charge of the lockup. Goldberg signed the officer’s sheet and told Ryan and Mueller that they would have to show their credentials and sign in as well.

  Once they were all signed in, the officer handed them each a pair of latex gloves and let them into the enclosure.

  Goldberg headed to the rear of the enclosure. He did not need anyone to show him the way. Goldberg rolled a cobalt blue Vespa from a secured area into the middle of the floor.

  “This is Brandon Rush’s Vespa. He was riding this when he was hit.”

  They took a close look at the scooter. The rear light and rear bumper were mashed. The paint was scraped on one side of the Vespa, but there was little other damage.

  “Not much to indicate that this was a fatal hit-and-run,” Ryan said.

  “No, but let me show you this. You had better put on your gloves,” Goldberg said. He pulled an evidence box off one of the shelves and set it near the bike. He lifted the cover on the box and extracted a leather jacket. The jacket was made of alligator leather in cobalt blue – the same color as the bike – but it was caked with dried blood.

  When Ryan and Mueller examined the jacket closely, they noticed there was a line of holes punching through the leather.

  “What are these, bullet holes?” Ryan asked.

  “There was only one witness to the hit-and-run,” Goldberg said. “She was standing in front of 314 Fifth Avenue, one intersection south of the Empire state building. When the light on 32nd St. changed, Brandon Rush started into the intersection on his Vespa. A large, black Mercedes sedan behind him revved at idle for a moment, and then it lurched forward and crashed into the back of Brandon’s Vespa. Brandon came down hard in the street, right in front of our witness. He was injured and could not stand up. The witness told us that the sedan stopped and backed up a few feet. Then it started to roll forward again, very deliberately, and it rolled very slowly over Brandon Rush’s legs and torso, crushing him under its weight.”

  “Damn,” Ryan said.

  “So, what you are looking at, fellas,” Goldberg said, “are no bullet holes. These holes are where Brandon Rush’s ribs punched through his leather jacket as the sedan rolled over him.”

  Neither Ryan nor Mueller said anything in reply. Their faces were quite gray.

  “There is one other thing,” Goldberg said. “Our witness took a photo of the sedan’s license plate. It is a diplomatic plate. It is the same plate that Cooper connected to your shooting incident from last Monday. The plate had been issued to the UN diplomatic mission for the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  “So you were able to tie it to the Iranians?” Ryan asked.

  “No. Of course not,” Goldberg replied. “The Iranians called the NYPD on Sunday morning to report that the plate had been stolen. But this plate links my hit-and-run with your case, Billy.”

  “And Brandon Rush’s appointment to meet me at La Femme Mystérieuse is another link,” Ryan said,“ but we still do not know why these cases are linked.”

  “We should follow the money,” Mueller said. “Irv, do you mind if we look into Brandon’s financials with you?”

  “No,” Goldberg said. “I don’t mind. In fact, that may be the best thing to do at this point. Brandon’s financials are still in my office. We can examine them there.”

  The three of them went to Goldberg’s office and poured over Brandon Rush’s financials until midnight, when Mueller asked Goldberg a question.

  “Rush has a credit card charge that recurs nearly every week for a Maison L’Hermitage. That sounds like a hotel. Do you know if it is, Irv?”

  “Yeah, it is a hotel. It is not very large, but it is very chic, very private, and very expensive. It is one of those trendy, artisan hotels on Greenwich Street in Tribeca.”

  “And where did Brandon live, Irv?”

  “Rush lived in Soho.”

  “That isn’t very far from the hotel, is it?”

  “No. Rush’s home and the hotel are less than seven streets apart.” Goldberg looked puzzled for a moment and then said, “We should visit the Maison L’Hermitage.”

  Goldberg drove Ryan and Mueller in his unmarked police car to the hotel. He found no place to park along Greenwich Street, so he pulled his car up onto the sidewalk and parked it there within a few feet of the hotel’s entrance. He slid a placard that read ‘NYPD Official Business’ onto his dashboard and got out of the ca
r with Ryan and Mueller.

  “Good to be a cop, now and then?” Ryan asked.

  Goldberg grinned at Ryan and said, “Yeah. This is one of the perks of the job, but there ain’t many others.”

  Goldberg had called ahead so that the night manager was already waiting for them when they walked into the hotel. They showed their credentials to the manager and introduced themselves. When they told him that they were investigating the death of one of the hotel’s patrons, he promised to be very cooperative as long as they could keep the investigation out of the press. The detectives agreed. They were very lucky really. If they had been forced to get a warrant, it would be another twelve hours before they could come back.

  “We noticed that Mr. Rush came here often,” Goldberg said.

  “Almost every week,” the manager replied.

  “Don’t you think that was unusual, since Mr. Rush’s home was so close to the hotel?”

  The manager gave Goldberg a half smile, really more of a smirk. “The hotel does not pay me to think, or to judge our guests, Detective. Mr. Rush met someone every week.”

  “He shared his room with the same person every week?”

  “Not exactly. Mr. Rush and his friend had adjoining suites every week. And they did not share them. The suites were billed to each guest individually. Mr. Rush’s friend was very insistent upon that.”

  “Then you have a credit card receipt for his friend?”

  “No. He paid for his suite in full, in cash, every week. But he did sign the register. Do you know one of the dates that Mr. Rush stayed here, Detective?”

  Mueller thumbed through the credit card records and said, “The last recorded charges were for December 22nd and December 23rd.”

  The manager walked over to a computer terminal and accessed the register. “Here it is,” he said. “Mr. Rush’s friend is listed as a Michael Caffrey.”

  Goldberg looked at Ryan and Mueller. “Do either of you know who this Michael Caffrey is?”