Thomas Ganelli, the police officer who was shot during the raid on the Bronx apartment building and who succumbed to his injuries a few days later, was buried at the Astoria Park Cemetery in Queens. The American flag was laid out on his casket, which was carried by his colleagues from the Forty-First Precinct. Accompanied by their spouses, rows of police officers wearing splendid dress uniforms were sweating in the sweltering heat of this July afternoon; they were in a state of shock and anger at the senseless death of their comrade. Of course, Police Commissioner Jerome Harding was also in attendance at this highly publicized funeral. Furthermore, officials from the Department of State, high-ranking officers of the NYPD, and the mayor of New York City were there. Harding delivered an emotional half-hour speech at the open grave, in which he demanded even tougher measures against every criminal. Nick Kostidis kept his speech short. He knew that Harding’s tone was inappropriate in this situation, and therefore limited himself to words of consolation for the family and the colleagues of the deceased. In addition, he thanked all the police officers for their dangerous and important work.
Frank Cohen stood in the very back and once again admired his boss’s talent to spontaneously find the right words in every situation. Frank was sincerely moved, even though he didn’t know this young police officer. When the funeral was over, Nick gave his condolences to the parents and the young widow and promised genuine assistance on behalf of the city administration, not just empty gestures. Then the two men walked back to the waiting limousine in silence.
“It’s a goddamn shame that so many young people must die,” Nick said as they were on their way back to Manhattan. He stared gloomily at the passing apartment blocks. “It’s completely senseless.”
“Ganelli’s parents were really consoled by your words,” Frank remarked. “The people could feel that you honestly mean it.”
“I wish that I could have said some honest words at his medal of valor ceremony instead of his funeral.” Nick leaned back in fatigue.
The past weeks had been exhausting. The terrorist had disappeared, and the FBI couldn’t figure out whether anthrax cultures had ever been stolen from a laboratory. There was a temporary cease-fire in the mutual mudslinging between Nick and Sergio Vitali. After Cesare Vitali’s autopsy clearly confirmed suicide by hanging with a belt as the cause of death, the press turned to other topics. No evidence suggested foul play was involved in the young man’s death.
Despite the superficial easing of the situation, it seemed like new threatening storm clouds were forming on the horizon. That very morning, Nick found a letter with no return address on his desk. This happened frequently, but this letter was neither postmarked nor did it have a postage stamp. Inside was a threat. You will die if you don’t shut up. It was written on a simple white sheet—a normal piece of copy paper. The script was apparently from a laser printer. No one in the office had a clue how the letter had found its way to the mayor’s desk. Nick had crumpled it up and thrown it into the wastepaper basket, shaking his head. But Frank had fished out the letter and put it in his pocket.
“Nick,” he started carefully after they left the Midtown tunnel behind them and arrived in Manhattan, “I know that you don’t want to hear it, but I’m very concerned about that letter.”
“Good grief.” Nick smiled indulgently. “You know how many threatening letters I’ve received in my life. That’s just the way it is when you’re holding political office. You’re always unpopular with some people.”
“No,” Frank objected, “it’s different this time. Especially in light of what has happened over the past weeks. I have the feeling that this is a serious threat. Maybe it’s this terrorist; maybe Vitali is behind it. You’ve pushed him into a corner pretty hard with your public statements.”
“Anonymous letters aren’t really Vitali’s style.”
“Please, Nick. You need extra personal protection—at least until this whole fuss about Vitali has settled down a bit.”
“I don’t want strangers following me into the restroom,” Nick said, warding off the idea. “Nothing will happen.”
“I’d still prefer if at least your wife had—”
“Mary doesn’t need to know about this,” Nick replied. “It would only upset her. Anyway, she’s going to her sister’s in Montauk with Christopher and his fiancée in a few days to prepare for the wedding. I hope that this whole mess blows over by then.”
Nick smiled at Frank reassuringly.
“Your nerves are overstrained, Frank. You haven’t been getting enough sleep lately. Why don’t you take a weekend off for a change?”
“Because I’m worried about you,” Frank answered. “At least promise me that you’ll stop riding the subway through the city by yourself?”
“Only if you don’t force any bodyguards on me in return.”
Nick closed the issue with a smile, but Frank didn’t give up.
“How did this letter get on your desk? That’s what gives me a headache.”
“I don’t want to hear another word about this ridiculous letter.” Nick shook his head. “Anyone from the cleaning crew could have put it there!”
“Let’s hope so,” Frank sighed, shaking his head.
Raymond Howard was on the phone, preparing for the Fourth of July fireworks show in lower Manhattan. He sat in his office with a phone to each ear, and was trying to simultaneously calm down both the head of the festival, who was close to a nervous breakdown, and the raging chairman of the Veterans Association, when he saw Frank standing in the door. He signaled his colleague to wait and ended both conversations.
“For God’s sake, these idiots,” he fumed. “I can’t take this annual jockeying anymore.”
One of the telephones rang, but he ignored it.
“Good you’re here,” he said to Frank. “You could help me set the seating plan for the official gallery. The president’s daughter is coming, and she’s bringing a friend.”
Then he noticed Frank’s worried expression.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know.” Frank pulled the crumpled note out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Howard. “What do you think about this?”
Howard took the sheet and read the line with raised eyebrows. The second telephone started to ring.
“Hmm,” he said and looked up, “sounds quite determined. What does Nick say about it?”
“He won’t take it seriously,” Frank said in a depressed voice, “as usual.”
“And you?”
“I have this strange feeling. I’ve seen a few threatening letters addressed to him over the past years, but they never threatened to kill him.”
Howard shrugged his shoulders.
“At least he promised not to take the subway for the next few weeks.” Frank folded the sheet and put it into his pocket. “Lhota should earn his wages for a change.”
“Well, that seems like a pretty good idea to me.” Raymond Howard nodded and put his hand on the telephone receiver.
“I hope you’re right.” Frank managed a forced smile. He wondered whether he was the only one who thought that this letter was threatening enough to take seriously.
Just as Alex stepped out of the shower, she heard the telephone ring. The answering machine was turned on as usual, but she listened to hear whose voice would speak after the tone. She hadn’t contacted Sergio since his proposal and was happy that he wasn’t calling to ask for her answer.