Milstein grimaced, looked away from Beck at the empty model boat pond in front of him.
“I understand what you are saying. Either way, I repeat, what am I supposed to do about it?”
Beck turned to Milstein and stared at him. Milstein started to speak, but Beck interrupted him. “You asked me a question.” Milstein started to speak again, but Beck held up a hand. “Now I’m going to give you the answer. Listen very carefully.”
Milstein closed his mouth.
“Here’s what you’re supposed to do. First, you pay her a severance of two months current salary for every year she worked. How long did she work for you?”
“What?”
Beck turned to Milstein and just stared at him again until he answered.
“I don’t know how long she’s worked for us. I can’t remember.”
“Eleven years. That’s twenty-two months.”
“She never worked eleven years.”
“I thought you didn’t know.”
“I know it wasn’t eleven years.”
“All right, nine. Eighteen months salary.”
Milstein grimaced. How had this thug outwitted him? They both knew she worked for him for a little more than seven years.
“Plus all her hospital bills. And if that fucking asshole Crane even thinks about suing her, it’s on you. Lawyers’ fees, court costs, whatever.”
Milstein stared straight ahead, not saying a word. How the fuck did this guy think he would go for this nonsense? But if he didn’t play along, how the hell was he going to get out of the park in one piece?
Beck pushed. “Agreed?”
After a short pause, Milstein said, “Yes.”
“Then there’s pain and suffering. She has very nice hands, Mr. Milstein. One of them is disfigured now. There’s arthritis looming in her future. Fingers are never the same after a break like that. Physical therapy can only do so much.”
Milstein tensed. How far was this maniac going to push this?
“I’ll be reasonable,” Beck said. “Two hundred thousand.”
“What!?”
Beck didn’t hesitate. “Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Hold it, hold it, whoever you are, I can’t agree to…”
“Three hundred thousand. Keep fucking talking and it will be a million, or I swear I will break your neck and throw you in that boat pond. And I will shoot that lummox who’s supposed to guard you so there’s no witness.”
Milstein forced himself to shut up.
Beck repeated, “Three hundred thousand for her pain.”
Milstein couldn’t speak. He forced himself to nod.
“How much did she make last year. Including bonus. Don’t lie about it. You know I’ll verify it.”
Milstein grimaced. “Her salary is one-hundred eighty thousand. And a fifty thousand bonus if memory serves me right.”
“That’s nineteen and change a month. So make it twenty even, times eighteen months that’s three hundred sixty thousand. Plus the three hundred pain and suffering. Six hundred and sixty thousand. Christ, that’s nothing for a firm like yours. Make it in one payment. After you get done writing that check, you are going to pick up a phone and start calling people until you get her a new job. An equivalent job. This shit about Crane blackballing her is over. Now.”
Milstein didn’t say a word.
“And remember what I said about Crane trying to sue her.”
Milstein nodded again.
Beck forced him to speak.
“Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Get this done. Fast. End it now, before it gets too far out of hand. There are people upset about this you do not want coming after you, Mr. Milstein. Trust me, they will kill you. And Alan Crane. Do not for one second think you can walk out of here and renege on this deal. You messenger a check to her tomorrow, or I fucking guarantee you, you will suffer much more than broken fingers. Do you understand?”
It was at that moment that Frederick Milstein realized he might actually have to come up with over six hundred thousand dollars to end this problem.
Beck sensed he was thinking it through, realizing that this was not a ridiculous price to pay. But Milstein hesitated. Beck was not sure why.
Finally, Milstein said, “All right. I’ll figure out the money. It might take me more than one day to pull together that amount. But if it does, I’ll wire the money to her day after tomorrow. That’s as soon as a check in that amount would clear.”
Beck considered Milstein’s answer. “I’ll give you one day.”
“And I’ll make some phone calls. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get Olivia placed. It just might take some time.”
“How much time?”
“A couple of weeks or so.”
“Don’t let it be any longer than that.”
“All right. But there’s just so much I can do.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t guarantee what Alan Crane will do. I can’t sit here and tell you I can control him. I can’t make sure he’ll stand down and drop this.”
Beck turned to Milstein. “Why not?”
“I just can’t. I’d be lying to you if I said I could.”
Beck turned to Milstein. “No, you wouldn’t want to lie to me, would you?”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“Tell me where I can find him.”
“What are you going to say to him?”
“Stop asking me questions.”
“You might want to hear his side of the story.”
“Yeah. And I might not. Where do I find this prick who hits women? Tomorrow. At noon. Where will he be?”
Milstein recited an address on Hubert Street in Tribeca and a cell phone number. Beck wrote the information on the back of his receipt from the burger place he and Ciro and Demarco had eaten dinner.
“Make sure he doesn’t duck me.”
“I’ll tell him you’re coming.” Milstein paused a moment and then politely said, “Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“What are you going to do to Alan Crane?”
“I don’t know,” said Beck.
“Well, all I’ll say is that he’s important to my firm.”
“I don’t care,” said Beck.
“But if he convinces you he didn’t do what he’s been accused of, don’t you think he should be…?
Beck interrupted Milstein. “Where’s your dog?”
Milstein turned to Beck, surprised at the question. He motioned with his head back up the path where they had come from. “He’s over on Dog Hill. I let him off the leash this time of night.”
“How big a dog is he?”
“Big. Over a hundred pounds.”
“Who picks up his shit? Dog that size must drop at least a couple of pounds every time he squats.”
Milstein frowned. “Nobody walks out there in the winter.”
“That’s your answer?”
Milstein remained silent.
“You know, assholes like you and Crane actually think that because it’s in the dark and no one sees it, you can do whatever you want. Dump your dog shit wherever you want. Fuck around with your in-house hedge fund. Scream and yell at a woman and break her fingers.”
Milstein stared straight ahead, trying not to move, trying not to shiver in the cold night air.
“Is it dawning on you, Mr. Milstein, that this particular case is different?”
After a few moments, Milstein answered, “Yes.”
“You figure money will settle this?”
“It’s what I have.”
“No, there’s lots more you have. Lot’s more.”
Milstein spoke slowly. “You don’t need to threaten me any further.”
“Threaten you? That time has long past, Mr. Milstein.”
Milstein had no response to that.
“Tell Mr. Crane I’m coming at noon to see him. Tell him this is the right thing to do. Tell him to make sure and be at the addres
s you gave me. You know what happens to people who try to avoid talking to me, right?”
“Who should I say is coming to talk to him?”
“Tell him Mr. Smith and tell him why.”
Beck stood up and turned toward Milstein, who remained seated. “Have you got a cell phone?”
“Yes.” Milstein rummaged around in the pocket of his down coat and pulled out an iPhone.
“Just the one?”
“Yes.”
Beck took the phone from him and put it in his pocket.
“Let’s go see how your driver is doing.”
They started walking back to the first bench.
“I didn’t hear any gunshots, so he should be available if you want to cry on his shoulder.”
When they arrived back where Milstein had been sitting, Beck pointed to the bench. Milstein sat. He walked over to Ciro and Walter. He asked the bodyguard. “Got a phone?”
He handed Beck an old clamshell-style phone.
“So, your name is Walter, right? That’s what your boss over there called you.”
“Yes. Walter. Walter Pearce.”
“Well, Walter, I’ll tell you what. You’ve been cooperative this time. Not throwing punches at people. I’m going to walk back over to Seventy-ninth. Tell your asshole boss to get his dog, take a few minutes, then you two can go home. If I don’t hear any yelling or bullshit, I’ll put your gun and phones in the trash basket near the exit on Fifth. Okay?”
Pearce nodded.
Ciro handed Walter’s Glock to Beck. Beck pointed the gun at Walter as Ciro stood up and joined Beck on the path. Both men turned together and walked into the darkness beyond the lamp light. As they walked, Beck took out the magazine from the Glock and made sure there was no bullet in the chamber.
By the time they were out of sight, they heard Milstein yelling for his dog. Two minutes later, Beck dumped the cell phones and Walter’s empty gun into the park’s wire wastebasket.
Two minutes after that, they were back in the Mercury heading for Red Hook.
10
Neither Milstein nor Walter Pearce said a word as they walked out of Central Park. Walter lumbered along next to Milstein, silent, expressionless. Twice now he had been rendered useless. Once was bad enough. The fact that it happened again after he should have been on the alert, made Walter even more worried.
He ignored the seething Milstein and tried to sort out the questions running through his mind. How had they found out about Milstein’s nightly dog walk? How had the leader pulled together a crew so quickly? Who was he working for? Who had the juice or the connections to send someone like that after Milstein? He knew there had been some trouble between one of Milstein’s female employees and his man Crane. But would some woman corporate type be able to pull together people like that? No way. So then who was behind this?
Walter couldn’t get rid of the image of that man pointing the big Smith & Wesson at him. He knew without any doubt that whoever he was, he would have pulled the trigger without hesitation. The barrel of that gun never wavered. He didn’t say or do anything after the first threat. He displayed absolutely no nervousness. None.
Walter had been so worried he might make a wrong move that he finally had to turn away and look down at the ground.
And the indignity of losing his gun so easily. Walter didn’t know which was worse: losing the gun, or the pity they’d shown him by giving it back.
The whole thing had happened so fast. The time between the two incidents was only a matter of hours. Things moved so much more slowly when he was a cop. A case could take days, weeks. Worse, Walter was accustomed to failing without suffering too many consequences. Nothing much happened if you failed to solve a crime. But not with this situation.
Part of him wanted to get as far away from Milstein as possible, as fast as he could. Part of him wanted to redeem himself. Had to redeem himself.
Walter had been smart enough to plan a life after the NYPD. He’d seen so many cops talk big about cutting loose from all the bureaucratic bullshit. Crow about how they’d go work for a private security outfit or go out on their own. And then months later, Walter would see them sitting in a cop bar, drunker than ever, getting fatter and angrier than ever, heading toward a future of wet-brain irrelevance.
So Walter had made efforts to stay in the game. He’d arranged the job with Milstein even before he drew his last check from the NYPD. He’d refused to be unemployed. To be irrelevant. But it wasn’t supposed to involve hard men and a gun in his face.
As they approached Madison Avenue, Milstein broke the silence.
“I’m beginning to wonder what the hell I pay you for.”
This was his chance, thought Pearce. Tell him you agree. Cut loose from this prick. Nothing good will come of this. But then what?
“I understand your frustration. But I still think without me it would have been worse. And not to excuse anything, but I don’t see anyone else who could have done much; one guy against three of them.”
“Three?”
“That first one walking past us had to be with them. To distract me. Us. While we were watching him, the other two slipped into position.”
“He left. So it was two, not three. And only one with you.”
“The third guy was out of sight, but I guarantee he wasn’t gone. Look, Mr. Milstein, I don’t want to argue with you. If you don’t want me around on this, fine. But I’ll tell you, this is serious. This is not just one man. He has a crew. And they are good at what they do.”
Milstein frowned as he listened to Walter. “What do you suggest?”
“What did he say to you?”
Milstein thought carefully before he answered. The light changed on Madison. They headed across, a cold wind suddenly gusting into them as they reached the middle of the avenue.
“I think he’s going to turn his attention elsewhere for now.”
Walter responded, “I’m not sure I know what that means. There must have been more than that. You don’t have to tell me, of course.”
“It’s complicated. But we came to an agreement.”
“So you think it’s possible he’s done bothering you?”
“Perhaps. But I definitely want to know who that man is. Do you have any way of finding out?”
Walter saw a chance to earn back some of the status he had lost. “Absolutely. And I intend to find out as soon as I can.”
“How? How soon can you find out?”
“I can start with the one who had the gun on me. He had a neck tattoo that I could just make out under the collar of his coat.”
“What was it?”
“The number thirteen. Tattoos are very good leads for identifying someone. Hopefully, I find him, he’ll lead me to the other one.”
“That’s the one I want to know about.”
“You should know about both of them. But you realize I’m going to have to work through a contact on the police force. Unless you want to bring this to the police now. Which might be smart.”
Milstein had no intention of calling in the police.
“Look, I don’t see the point of bringing in the police. You can find out who those men are quicker than they can, can’t you?”
“Yes. Mostly because we don’t have to get anybody up to speed on this if I do it. I’m going to start right after I leave you. Best way is to go into the NYPD databases at the Real Time Crime Center. I might be able to make something happen tonight. If not, first thing tomorrow.”
Milstein quickly thought through the issues. The fact that he might know who that man was before noon changed things. Gave him options with Markov, and perhaps leverage with Crane. But Pearce couldn’t know anything about that.
“Okay, do it as fast as you can. Call and leave me a message on my cell if I don’t pick up. Whenever you have something. I don’t care what time. By mid-morning, latest. Don’t worry about driving me tomorrow. Just keep on this until you find out who those men are.”
They had reached the front of
Milstein’s building.
“Okay. Good night,” said Milstein abruptly as he turned off the sidewalk and headed for his lobby.
Walter continued east.
Halfway to the lobby door, Milstein unhooked the dog. Owen, the smiling red-haired doorman opened the door and Tam romped into the lobby. Milstein followed hunched over, softly rubbing the front of his neck where Beck had squeezed his windpipe. He checked his watch. Time to call Markov back. This was going to be a much different phone call than five hours ago.
11
Milstein’s wife had arrived home while he was out walking the dog. She generally kept her distance from him when he returned because she disliked the smell of cigar smoke that lingered on his clothes and his breath.
Milstein heard her in the bathroom down the hall near their bedroom. The dog hurried on into the bedroom, clearly preferring the company of Milstein’s wife.
He checked his watch and continued into the living room, pulled out another disposable cell phone from the desk drawer, and hit the speed dial. He sat down in the plush upholstered chair near the window overlooking Seventy-ninth Street, still wearing his down coat, keeping it on to dispel the chill that seemed to have seeped into his bones.
Leonid Markov answered on the second ring, “Yes?”
“Leonard, it’s Frederick. We have a problem.”
Markov was riding in a 1989 S-Class Mercedes, driven by his regular driver, Vitaly. It was nearing midnight, but Markov was wide awake, heading toward an apartment building he owned in the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn.
He had cleaned himself, showering and soaping in the hotel bathroom, soaking under a hot shower for nearly a half hour, still enjoying the effects of the drugs and alcohol. He used every last towel, even the hand towels and washcloths; left everything wherever it fell; dressed in one of his custom-made Hong Kong suits, and walked out of the hotel room, leaving it a mess. Not even bothering to check out.
He had rented the room with a stolen credit card, bought from a Web site run by underground hackers working somewhere in Ukraine. Even though he wasn’t going to be paying for the room, beyond the fifty dollars he spent on the credit card, Markov had still booked the room through an online discount service, and only after having compared prices, entered low bids, and haggled for an upgrade when he arrived at the hotel.
Among Thieves Page 8
