He thought about what they would do to her as he picked the residue of the blintz from his back teeth. But then decided no, just get rid of her. Cleaner. He knew Gregor stopped being normal in Bosnia during the atrocities. Unleashing Gregor into certain activities was dangerous. He could become uncontrollable, like a mad dog junkie on drugs.
Markov pushed back from the table. He started planning how to refresh and revive himself. He wanted to be sharp for this day. There was much he needed to get done. In addition to this mess with Crane, he had two shipments that had to be taken care of by nine or ten o’clock tonight.
Okay, Markov told himself, step by step. He relished figuring out each single step in a plan, and then executing everything in a precise sequence.
First, call his driver, Vitaly. Then, back up to the apartment. Fill a garment bag with fresh clothes. He even pictured each piece of clothing. Blue shirt. Gray slacks. Brown jacket. Earth tones to go nicely with the blue. Then, his jewelry. Watch, ring, gold neck chain. Gold to set off the blue shirt. Socks, shoes, underwear. He pictured each piece. All of it custom-made to fit his large, flabby body. And a camel hair overcoat. Everything top of the line. Cut to make him look prosperous and respectable.
He’d have to make sure to stay far enough away so no blood spattered on him.
15
Beck sat in the Mercury Marauder, engine running, heat on, parked facing south at a fire hydrant on the corner of Greenwich and Hubert streets. This gave him a clear view of Alan Crane’s loft building a half-block west on Hubert.
He’d been sitting there since just before eleven, sipping a coffee now gone cold, listening to 1010 WINS, the New York twenty-four-hour news station.
Crane’s building appeared to be a typical renovated Tribeca loft building: six stories, not including the ground floor, arched windows, recently sandblasted brick. There was a commercial space on the ground floor empty at the moment.
He’d scoped out the building before finding his parking spot. Next to the entrance doors a stainless steel panel was set into the wall. On the panel were nameplates, buzzers, and a fish-eye camera lens. The front entrance opened onto a locked foyer with an identical panel, nameplates, buzzers, and another camera. Crane’s outside nameplate was labeled PH TOP FLOOR.
This was a secure building. The tenants most likely controlled access to their floors from their own apartments, for even more security.
From his vantage point on Greenwich, Beck watched people enter and leave the building.
A mother, or more likely a nanny, backed out the entrance pulling a stroller; a twentysomething man dressed in black jeans, a sport coat, a long red scarf, and a porkpie hat came out and shoved on a pair of sunglasses. A woman bundled against the cold in a red woolen coat emerged and immediately looked for a cab. She kept walking and looking until she flagged one steps from where Beck sat.
Shortly after the nanny exited, an old Mercedes S-class pulled up to Crane’s building. Beck figured the car for an eighty-six or -seven. Its pearl black finish gleamed in the sun. The car appeared to be in perfect shape. The man inside had to push himself out of the backseat with both arms. He was short, wide, wore no hat or gloves. A stubble of gray hair covered his round head. He wore a voluminous camel hair overcoat big enough to hide what Beck estimated to be about 250 pounds of bulk. He pushed a button on the outside panel and was promptly buzzed in.
Next, a cab pulled up on Greenwich kitty-corner from Beck. A tall man talking on a cell phone got out. He was bald, carrying a gym bag, wearing black sneakers, jeans, and a black leather coat. Beck figured him for a personal trainer. He hit a buzzer and was quickly given entrance to Crane’s building.
Beck checked his watch. Eleven thirty-two. The trainer was late for his eleven-thirty appointment.
Five minutes later, the woman with the baby and stroller returned. A bag of groceries hung from the arm of the stroller. She let herself in with a plastic key card she waved in front of the nameplate panel.
A few minutes later, a FreshDirect food truck pulled up in front of the building, blocking Beck’s view. A deliveryman got out of the truck and hauled out a bin of food.
Beck fired up the Mercury and drove around to the parking garage just north of Hubert. He hadn’t seen anything that piqued his interest or set off any alarms.
Beck had tried to get more information about Crane’s hedge fund from Olivia before he’d left Red Hook, but she hadn’t had much to add. Then again, after they’d agreed on what Beck had negotiated with Milstein, they hadn’t had much time to talk about anything else. She’d shown up later than he had hoped, but he wasn’t surprised. Most people had a hard time finding his place.
Beck thought about whether or not he should have told Milstein to come to this meeting. Get everybody involved to agree. No, he thought. Milstein might get in the way or waffle in the presence of his head trader. Better to be alone with Alan Crane. Take his measure. Let him know the deal was already set. See if there was any defiance in him, and beat it out of him without any witnesses.
It would have been better to find out more about Crane, but what was there to find out? This was a Wall Street guy, who maybe had delusions because he thought his client had connections. Let’s see how tough he is after a fist in the face. Or maybe after a few broken fingers. Fuck it, thought Beck. Time to find out where this is going.
16
They had put Alan Crane in a chair at the end of his beautiful cherrywood dining room table. Then they had firmly duct-taped his left arm to the table.
Markov watched while his man Gregor Stepanovich used yard after yard of tape, wrapping it all the way around the end of the rectangular table.
Crane hadn’t put up any resistance. He knew enough to avoid getting punched and kicked into submission. But as the tape wound around and around, more tightly securing his arm to the table, he tried to get some reaction from Markov.
“What are you doing, Leonard?”
“Be quiet and listen.”
Stepanovich’s gym bag sat on the dining room table. When he finished with the duct tape, he dropped the remaining roll in the bag and took out a 32-ounce. ball peen hammer. The head was high carbon steel. The handle fiberglass. A well-made, nearly indestructible tool about to be used as a weapon.
Crane had never seen a ball peen hammer that large. Stepanovich sat down on the other side of the table, hammer in hand, staring at Alan Crane.
Crane worked out four times a week with a personal trainer. He was scrupulous about what he ate. Took care of his skin. Got regular massages and the occasional facial. He visited his personal physician regularly. He cared for and pampered himself, was proud of his body, and the thought of that hammer being used on any part of it made him feel like he might lose control of his bowels.
He still couldn’t believe that Markov was going to do anything more than threaten him, but looking at Stepanovich he wasn’t so sure. Stepanovich leered at him as he slowly massaged the round end of the hammer in the palm of his left hand, as if he were deriving sexual pleasure from it. Crane could see him imagining and plotting out the damage he would do with the hammer.
What the fuck were these two planning? Was this going to be some sort of sick lesson because of Olivia Sanchez? He’d gotten Milstein’s voice mail, but hadn’t bothered to call him back. What was going on?
Crane started to sweat. He turned again to Markov, who sat at the head of the table. He started to speak, but Markov interrupted him.
“Open your hand,” he said to Crane.
“Leonard, what are you doing? This is crazy. Why are you…?”
Markov suddenly screamed at him, “Open your fucking hand flat on the table.”
Crane spread his left hand flat, but immediately started talking again.
“Leonard, hear me out. You owe me at least a minute to tell my side.”
Markov got up, walked around the dining table, grabbed the hammer from Gregor and smashed the round end onto the solid cherrywood, an inch from Crane’s han
d.
Crane recoiled, gritting his teeth. There was an ugly dent in his precious table.
To his credit, Crane did not yell or scream, or struggle against the duct tape. He closed his eyes, calming himself. Gathering his resolve. Telling himself this wasn’t going to happen. He was too valuable to Markov.
Markov pulled out a dining chair and shoved it next to Crane. He sat, and without warning he slapped Crane across the face, hard. Harder than Crane had ever been hit in his life. The stinging pain made his eyes tear up. He squeezed them shut. Steeling himself.
Markov dropped the hammer on the table, not caring that he put another dent in the flawless cherrywood.
Stepanovich quickly picked up the hammer.
Markov leaned closer to Crane.
“Listen to me now.”
Crane, through clenched teeth, said, “I never touched her.”
Markov answered. “I don’t fucking care. It’s too late. You went after her. She accuses you. She alerts police. District attorney office. She calls in criminals. They make threats. They extort compensation. I should fucking kill you, but you know I can’t. You know I need you to get me my money.”
“Leonard…”
“I said for you to listen to me. Then you talk.”
Crane pursed his lips, forcing himself to remain quiet.
Markov continued. “First, you close out all my positions. You start transferring my money, in cash, to my accounts in Cayman. Understand?”
Crane said, “No. I don’t understand. What criminals? Are you talking about this guy supposedly coming at noon? What happened? And do you understand what you’re asking me to do? If I close out your positions now, you’ll lose money. A lot of money.”
“No. You know how to do it. You make sure any losses are small.”
“I can do that. I can. But I need time. And if you let your maniac hit me with that hammer, how much do you think I’ll be able to work?”
Markov patted Crane on the cheek. “You can work with your right hand. You make me money in the past. You going to make me more. But you have to learn a lesson here, Alan. You let things get out of hand. I don’t know what is going on, but I know someone comes to Milstein and demands money. You think I should leave my money where it is? Where some criminals can try to extort it?”
“I’m not letting Milstein take one penny of your money. Nobody is going to extort money from your funds.”
Markov shook his head, looking at Crane like he was making a huge, unfortunate mistake.
Crane immediately backpedaled. “No, no. You’re right. I understand. You don’t want to be anywhere near this. I understand. I’m sorry. If I’m the reason for this trouble, I’m sorry. I went overboard with that woman. But I never thought…”
“That’s the problem, Alan. You don’t think. But after today, you will.”
Markov looked at his watch.
“This fucking criminal she sets on us is coming here to talk to you.” Markov checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
Crane heard the elevator open, and thought it might be the man Markov was talking about, but it was Gregor’s men. Two of them. Markov watched them enter the apartment and motioned them over.
He turned back to Crane. “Listen to me. He comes here. I tell him there is no money in this for him, or this woman. Not a fucking dime. Not a penny. I tell him I never want to see him, or hear from him again. Or from the woman.”
Crane nodded.
Markov raised a finger. “I watch him. I see if he understands me. Then, I ask him who is behind him. I ask him questions. If he doesn’t answer me or if we think he is lying, then we tape him to the table and Gregor takes the hammer to him. And you watch and see what we do. Not just a hand. Gregor breaks as many bones as I need: hand, arm, knees, face. Every part of him until I learn who he is. Who is behind him?”
Crane swallowed and listened.
“Then, when I know everything, I have Gregor put a bullet through his head.” Markov put a fat finger on the top of Crane’s head pointing down. “Gregor has figured out to shoot down this way, so the bullet doesn’t come out of the head and make a mess. We chop him up and put him in garbage bags and take him out of here. And you, you clean up the mess, and you get me my money. And maybe, maybe if I see you have right attitude, I let you clean up with both hands.”
Crane nodded. This was a fucking nightmare. This had gone somewhere he couldn’t believe. Why had he had anything to do with Olivia Sanchez? He was beginning to wish he had never seen her.
And then the buzzer from the street pierced the silence.
17
As Beck pressed the buzzer for Crane’s apartment, he thought he saw a change in the fish-eye lens set into the panel, as if the camera were focusing on him. He expected a voice to ask his name or something, but he heard nothing other than an electronic click that released both the front door and the inside lobby door.
As he waited for the elevator, he slipped his Bucheimer sap into the back pocket of his black jeans, unbuttoned his shearling coat, rolled his neck.
Beck had been in a few of these loft apartments, so he wasn’t totally surprised that the elevator opened directly into the apartment rather than into a common hallway. That small bit of knowledge saved his life.
Because he expected to be entering directly into the loft apartment, Beck had his head up ready to see what was inside.
It took him less than two seconds to see everything:
The tall bald guy Beck had thought was a personal trainer, pointing a gun at him.
Behind the gunman, two others.
To his left, a large open kitchen, granite counters, gleaming appliances, bright white overhead accent lighting.
To his right, a living room/dining area. A man whose left arm was taped to the dining table, and the fat guy from the Mercedes splayed on a couch.
Beck saw all of it, but didn’t process any of it. Didn’t analyze. Maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he realized the tall guy had positioned himself near the elevator so the gun would be pointed right at his face, terrorizing him, intimidating him. But the man had made two mistakes. First, Beck wasn’t at all intimidated. And second, he was way too close to Beck.
Beck went for the gun, fast. Springing forward, both hands rising up, left hand slapping the inside of the gunman’s right wrist, right hand grabbing the barrel of the automatic, lifting it, twisting it out of the shooter’s hand. Then he pivoted, slammed the back of his head into the gunman’s face, stunning him, pulling away, taking the gun with him.
Beck never stopped moving. He turned spinning into a crouch, bringing the gun up in a two-hand grip, finger on the trigger, pulling the trigger back past the safety pull, firing at the first body closing in on him.
Two shots. Fast. Deafening. The body coming at him flew back away from Beck.
Beck continued turning to find the third attacker, but he was too late. He slammed into Beck’s left side, knocking Beck off his feet, getting his arms around Beck, locking onto him.
Beck held onto the gun, a Glock, managed to twist to his right in midair, just before he landed. He hit the floor sideways, crashing down on the arm of his attacker. Beck heard a grunt, but the grip around him didn’t break.
The bald one was already back on his feet, his nose bleeding, a small cut just over his right eye. He had a weird grin on his face, as if he were both pleased and surprised that this had turned into a fight.
He ran three steps to where Beck was trapped on the floor and launched a fast sweeping sidekick at Beck’s hands.
The instep of his foot caught Beck’s wrist. The Glock flew across the floor, skidding and spinning toward the living room area of the loft.
Christ, thought Beck. He came right at the gun. Never hesitated.
The tall one reversed the circle of his kick and aimed his heel at Beck’s solar plexus.
Beck managed to twist right, pulling the left elbow of the attacker over to block the bald guy’s stomp kick—which hit the elbow of the ma
n holding Beck—a blow so hard that Beck felt the impact. The man under him grunted in pain. The bear hug around him loosened, but he still held on.
Beck’s legs were free, so he pistoned a kick at the bald attacker’s shins, grabbed the middle finger of the man holding on to him, pulled it back until the finger broke with a crack. The man under him finally let go.
Beck rolled to his feet, turned toward the tall one, shaking his right hand, trying to dispel the stinging pain from the kick that had sent the Glock flying.
He crouched over and backed away.
Gregor Stepanovich, nodding and grinning even more now, spread his long arms wide as if to both welcome Beck and corral him.
Stepanovich slid one step toward Beck, forcing Beck to step back, herding him toward the wall behind him.
Stepanovich was patient. No rush. He pictured his first move once he had Beck positioned. Fist to his face, hard so that the head would bang into the wall, stunning him enough so that he could grab the head and slam it into the wall, hard and fast, again and again until he heard the sound of the skull cracking. He pictured the blood on the wall, the feel of the back of a human head turning to pulp.
Beck kept his eye on the bald one, but also on the man who had grabbed him in the bear hug. He’d managed to get up and began closing in on Beck’s left. He held his right hand open, unable to close it into a fist because of the finger Beck had broken. He also bent his left arm back and forth, still numb from Stepanovich’s heel kick landing on his elbow.
The two of them worked together, forcing Beck backward.
The taller one smiled at Beck, as if to say, checkmate. Two against one. It’s over.
Beck took a long, slow breath. Off to his right, he could hear the man he’d shot struggling for breaths in painful gasps, but he didn’t dare look over at him.
Everything had slowed down. Nobody in a hurry now. Gregor and his partner would get this done, but carefully.
Among Thieves Page 11
