Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

34

Markov had sweated through his clothes in the cramped back room at the Waldorf. It had nothing to do with the hotel’s ventilation, which worked fine. He always sweated when he concentrated and pushed and cajoled and manipulated and calculated until he had accomplished what he’d set out to do.

The acrid odor he exuded actually comforted him. It made him feel not only productive, but protected in a perverse way. The fact that he was repugnant empowered Markov. He extracted pleasure from it. He reveled in exercising his entitlement to cause discomfort in others. As if it were his right.

The people who dealt in selling weapons that could kill, that could create a chain of incalculable misery, almost always made some effort to rationalize it. As did thieves and exploiters of all types. The rationale ran along the usual line—if I don’t do it someone else will, so why not me? Markov never rationalized. He created misery and pain without a second thought. As if it were his natural right. And because it brought him power and privilege, which he deserved to have. Why did he deserve it? Markov didn’t need a reason why.

No one had the right to prevent Markov from getting whatever he wanted. And yet, at the moment, his will was being thwarted. His entitlement obstructed. He had not yet succeeded in overcoming his biggest challenge: obtaining end-user certificates for his arms shipment. In this case, he needed end-user certificates to get his shipment of arms someplace where they could be trucked into Syria. Flying directly into Syria was out of the question. There could be no trail connecting him and his masters to where the arms had been obtained, or to where they would end up in Syria. There had to be a destination in between that would allow plausible deniability.

He had planned on Beirut. But as so often happened, his suppliers knew the game, and knew the end-user certificates represented an opportunity for profit. In order to squeeze more money, they had to claim more difficulties. There was always a tipping point between the costs versus the trouble. And Markov never went into a negotiation without options.

So, he considered Turkey. Gazientep Airport was a good choice, but Markov knew from experience the bribes needed were astronomical. Not that U.S. Military Intelligence couldn’t afford it. He just had to calculate the cost of Redmond complaining about the rise in price.

Markov played chicken or egg for three hours, trying to work around the problem of end-user certificates. He finally realized his first plan was the only way possible and spent an additional half hour forcing his Albanian connection with a combination of threats and bribes to come up with the documents he needed.

Many would have given up, or at least taken a break, but not Markov. He thrived on the effort.

He began to strip off the sweaty clothes, until he was sitting on the upholstered desk chair in only his socks and underwear.

He checked his watch. Nearly eleven o’clock. He had been working since just before four. He retrieved the cell phone he used while in the United States and turned it on, having kept it off while he was working.

As the phone booted up, he absentmindedly fondled his penis, thinking about which escort service to call after he finished his work. He’d decided on negotiating for some desperate Russian girl that would keep doing whatever he asked as long as he kept handing her hundred-dollar bills.

He began to fantasize about how far he could take her. Which humiliations he could get her to agree to. He knew his body would disgust her. Fat, hairy, too many creases and crevices producing body odors that would sicken her. He pictured her—thin, bleached blond. Her pubic region shaved completely. The fun would be to see how far he could go. How long he could keep things hovering on the edge of fear and disgust and shame, giving her just enough additional money so she wouldn’t rebel.

Maybe take a half a Viagra. A few pulls of marijuana. Nothing too extreme. He’d rummage around in his laptop bag and see what he had.

And then a big dinner. Steak. Where? Smith & Wollensky? What restaurant would still be open when he was done?

In the middle of his musing, his cell phone began to signal the missed calls alert.

Three missed calls from Stepanovich.

Markov’s alarm instincts fired. He felt a pang of dread in his gut.

He dialed Gregor’s number. The call went directly to voice mail. He left a message. Waited. Waited.

“Fuck.”

He continued to wait.

Finally, Stepanovich returned his call. Markov’s face darkened the moment he heard Stepanovich say, “Trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“That asshole from this afternoon showed up again.”

“What! Where?”

“Near Crane’s apartment. He must have been waiting for him.”

“You sound strange.”

“He broke my fucking nose.”

Markov looked up, shaking his head. “Chyort voz’mi. What did he want with Alan?”

“He wanted Crane to tell him about us. He told Crane he would help him against us.”

“And what does Crane say he told him?”

“Crane says he told him to fuck off. Told him to leave him alone, and that we would crush him.”

“Do you believe Crane?”

“Yes. When I went to the restaurant to pick up Crane, the guy had roughed him up. Left him doubled over outside a restaurant.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to beat him down. Break his face. Bite his fucking nose off and kill him.”

“But…”

“But I fucking didn’t. He got away.”

Markov cursed silently, thinking, Again he gets away.

“What’s Crane doing now?”

“He’s in his apartment. Said he had to work. Shouted at me to keep that guy away from him. I have men with me. We have to find him and kill him.”

Markov paused. “Forget it.”

“What are you talking about? Why?”

“No. You failed twice. I need more information on who he is. How many men he has. Exactly where to find him.”

“We have to move. Fast. Now.”

Markov began shouting. “Don’t fucking tell me what we have to do. You fucked up twice already. I tell you what to do. I tell you what I want you to do, or you can take your crew of idiots and go fuck yourselves off back to fucking Bosnia. What’s the matter with you?”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry, sorry. What fucking good does sorry do me? What else? Is that it?”

“No. He had other men with him. They took one of ours. Ahmet.”

“God Christ fuck.”

“They took Ahmet while I was with Crane, near the restaurant.”

“Why? What for?”

“I don’t know. So what. Let them kill him. What does he know that can hurt us? Nothing. Ahmet won’t say anything anyhow. It’s just another reason to get to Beck fast.”

“How many men did Beck have?”

“I don’t know. I was with Crane. What does it matter? I can get more. Ask Kolenka for men.”

Markov lapsed into silence. After a few moments he said, “All right, Gregor, listen to me. Right now my thinking is, go for the woman first.”

“The woman?”

Markov spoke more calmly. “I know what you want to do, Gregor. You want to go after Beck. But he escaped you twice. How many times do you want to make the same mistake? Be patient. Do this my way. You’ll have your time with him, I promise you. I’ll call you back and let you know what to do. Where to go.”

Markov broke off the call and dialed Milstein’s number. When he answered, Markov got right to the point.

“Do you know where I can find the woman?”

“I’m working on it. I’ve called her home number, her cell phone. She doesn’t answer.”

“She’s not at home. She’s hiding somewhere by now. All right, listen. Get me all the information you have for her. Addresses. Social Security number. Bank information. If she has a company credit card, the numbers. Financials. Everything. Check your personnel records. I want it now. E-mail to me.”

He hung up before Milstein could protest about the late hour.

Yes, Markov said to himself. Find the woman. She is the key to Beck.

He’d heard from Crane more than once how astounding the woman was. He would find her, strip her naked, do things to her she had never imagined, then turn her over to Gregor and his Bosnians. They would destroy her and take their time doing it. Then they would see how good Mr. Beck is at this game.

As soon as Milstein supplied the information, he would call Redmond. Redmond would have more resources to find her than anybody. Plan it right. Move fast. No mistakes this time.

Markov spat toward the wastebasket near the small desk in his room. No whore for him tonight. But maybe something better before the night was over. Or, at least different.

35

Nydia Lopez was an attractive young woman. She was small, but she had a great figure, was strong, and moved with a natural grace. She also had an impressive collection of tattoos, including the burst of stars and lines that extended up the right side of her neck and the back of her head, made visible by the fact that her hair in back was cropped short enough to reveal the ink.

Adding to her style was a red bandana tied into a do-rag under a New York Yankees ball cap with a hologram seal, camouflage pants, boots, leather jacket, and a permanent scowl.

And, then, there was the brutal presence of her Smith & Wesson M&P .40 Compact automatic that she held in her left hand resting on her left thigh.

Nydia took pride in her knowledge of weapons and ammunition. Of all her guns, she loved her Smith & Wesson most. It looked badass. All black and tough looking. Top of the line. Small. Only a 3.5-inch barrel, but it held ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, with lots of features to accommodate left-handed shooters like Nydia.

Olivia wasn’t sure if the tough young woman really believed she had to keep the gun in her hand while they were alone in the room, or if she just liked holding it all the time.

Olivia sat on the hotel room bed, her legs drawn up under her as she read through the stack of newspapers and magazines she had ordered up from the concierge downstairs.

Nydia sat about as far away from Olivia as she could get, slouched in an upholstered armchair, roaming through the TV channels with the sound turned down. She surfed from a show about being locked up in the Indiana State Prison, to a fishing show, to CNN news, to snippets of movies.

It seemed to Olivia that the TV screen soothed her almost as much as the gun.

Olivia wondered what her bodyguard would do after she turned off the lights and went to sleep. Probably sleep on the couch or the floor. Holding the gun?

Clearly. Manny wanted Nydia there as much to keep Olivia in the room as to keep everybody else out. Olivia flipped through the latest issue of Vogue, but couldn’t concentrate on anything. She kept thinking about how much events seemed to be spinning out of control.

The phone call to Nydia had been a welcome relief, even if all it did was break the monotony.

Nydia ended the call and said to Olivia, “Manny says a dude named Beck is coming up. You know him?”

“Yes. When is he coming?”

“Like, right now. I asked Manny what he looks like, but all Manny said was he looks like a guy you don’t want to fuck with.”

“Well, that’s one way of putting it. He’s maybe six, six one. Solid. You know, strong looking. Good head of hair. Dark hair.”

“Okay.”

“Do you know why he’s coming?”

“No. Alls Manny said was to let him in.”

Just then, there was a light knock on the door. Followed by another. Just two.

Nydia moved quickly toward the door, the Smith & Wesson held against the side of her left thigh.

She stood in front of the door. There was no peephole. She slid the security lock into place.

“Yeah, who is it?”

“Beck.”

“Step back from the door, and don’t move when I open it, or I’ll shoot you.”

“Okay. Is Olivia in there with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Have her ID me.”

Nydia motioned for Olivia to come to the door. She turned the knob and opened the door as far as the security lock would allow. Olivia leaned around to see if it was Beck.

“It’s him.”

Nydia closed the door, unfastened the security lock, and let Beck in as she quickly stepped back, her gun aimed at the center of his chest.

Beck took one step into the room and let the door shut by itself with a thunk.

Nydia looked back and forth between Beck and Olivia, lowered the gun, and took her seat in front of the television, satisfied she had let the right man in, and content to ignore them both.

Beck looked at Nydia for a moment, then at Olivia, who tipped her head and widened her eyes as if to say, I didn’t tell her to do that.

Beck scanned the hotel room. It was a bit smaller than he had expected, decorated in warm wood tones, browns and beige, with a queen-size bed, two armchairs, an ottoman, a round table desk with chair, and a 36" flat-screen TV.

The room occupied a corner and featured a large square window on the south wall, and a floor-to-ceiling set of windows on the west wall. Only the inner curtains were drawn, adding a gossamer layer over the lights outside and the traffic moving on Fifty-seventh Street. Beck could hear the faint hum of the city through the double-paned windows. It seemed a comforting sound.

Olivia returned to her perch on the queen-size bed. Beck kicked the ottoman toward the side of the bed and dragged the desk chair over so he could sit next to the bed and talk to Olivia.

For a few moments, Beck said nothing. Olivia waited. Beck’s demeanor did nothing to comfort her.

Beck noticed that Olivia wore the same clothes he had seen her in earlier, white shirt and jeans. She still looked stunningly attractive. Beck wasn’t getting accustomed to it at all.

“So,” he said.

“Yes?”

Beck sat back in the chair and put his feet on the ottoman and looked at Olivia again. She looked back at him without expression. She sat with her back against the headboard, her encased hand in her lap, watching Beck, waiting.

Finally Beck said, “The situation isn’t getting any better.”

“Why? How?”

Beck waved off her questions. “I’m not sure how to stop this, and that makes me very uncomfortable.” Beck scowled for a moment. Shifted in his chair. “Worse, I don’t know how to stop this without risking Manny and my friends ending up back in jail.”

“I’m … I don’t know…”

Beck interrupted Olivia. “And just so you’re clear, that cannot happen.”

Just as Olivia was about to respond, Beck’s cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Brandon Wright.

He told Olivia, “I’ve got to take this.” He answered the call by saying, “Hang on.” He walked into the bathroom, closed the heavy door behind him, and sat on the closed toilet seat.

“What’s up?”

“I obtained that information on the woman’s injury.”

“Yes?”

“How did you say the injury occurred?”

“Somebody standing over her slammed a fist down on her hand.”

“I see.”

“See what?”

“I think this news I’m about to share is going to upset you, James.”

As he listened to the doctor, Beck noticed that Olivia had washed her bra and panties and hung them on the shower rod to dry. The bra was black, made out of a sheer lacy material. The panties were black, too, a string and a lacy triangle piece, nothing more. The lingerie seemed incredibly erotic to Beck. His mind alternated between picturing her in the sheer underwear and thinking about her sitting on the bed a few feet away naked under her white shirt and jeans. It was enough to give Beck the beginning of an erection.

“Why?”

“Are you calm, James? Seriously. Are you calm? Are you someplace where you can…?”

“Brandon, for fuck’s sake, you know I’m not going to be calm. But have you ever known me to do something stupid because I’m pissed?”

“That depends on how you define stupid.”

“Come on.”

Beck was already standing, the cell phone pressed to his ear, the images of Olivia in black lingerie instantly dispelled.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

Beck spoke more calmly. “Brandon, believe me, this isn’t the time for you to second-guess me. What’s going on?”

Another pause, and then Doctor Brandon began to speak.

“All right, here are the facts. Because you got me her signature I was able to get copies of the Lenox Hill records. The admission records, ER notes, X-ray report, all of it.

“James, your friend didn’t sustain those fractures the way you described it.”

A cold, sick sensation hit Beck in his gut.

“Are you sure?”

There was a pause and Wright answered, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“First, the notes from the triage nurse. Olivia Sanchez’s hand came in with scrapes on the palm of her hand, embedded dirt that the ER nurse took pains to wash and sterilize. Second, the X-rays showed all the damage was done to the proximal phalanges, indicating that the fingers broke because they were pushed backward. If they had been broken like you described there would have been more damage to the metacarpal bones. The fractures were above the knuckles. It didn’t happen from a blow landing down on the hand.”

“So how do you think it happened?”

“According to the notes, she told both the nurse and the surgeon that she fell on the street. Tripped on a curb or something. She fell, put her hand out, landed hard on it, bent back the fingers. She broke the little finger just above the knuckle, broke it completely, and cracked the finger next to it, the same bone, proximal phalange.”

Beck muttered a curse.

“James, I…”

Beck spoke softly. “No, Brandon, you don’t have to say anything more. Thank you. I’ll deal with it. I had to find out the truth.”

“Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m not going to ask you what this all means now.”

“I’m not sure I can tell you, but…” Beck’s voice trailed off. “I have to go. I’ll be in touch. Thank you.”

Beck ended the call and sat back on the toilet seat, phone in hand, thinking it through. Going back over the time frame. Trying to figure out how she worked it. Roughing it out. Thinking of the angles, the motives, the possibilities.

He slowly raised his phone and speed-dialed Manny. Beck found it difficult to focus. The anger and tension nagged at him. He felt it in his neck and jaw, in the involuntary movements in his face and mouth.

The phone answered.

“Yeah.”

“Manny, what’s going on?”

“Same. Nothing.”

“No sign of anybody coming into the neighborhood?”

“No. Don’t worry, we got our eyes open.”

“Okay, do me a favor. I need to talk to your cousin in private. This lady you got up here, I have a feeling if I tell her to do something she doesn’t want to do, she’ll shoot me.”

“Yeah, that’s Nydia.”

“Well, the room’s too fucking small for me to talk to Olivia in private, so call Nydia and tell her to take a break for a while. Go downstairs and get a drink or something to eat. Or take a walk around the block. Tell her she should wait for me to call her back to the room.”

“What’s going on, James?”

“I don’t know yet. Not all of it. I have to talk to Olivia.”

“James…”

Beck interrupted the wariness he heard in Manny’s voice.

“Manny, just let me do what I have to do. Okay? We got our fucking backs against the wall here. I have to figure this out. I just don’t have time to tell you everything now. You have to trust me, partner.”

There was silence. And then Manny Guzman spoke slowly and carefully. “She’s my family, James.”

“And you’re mine. Call your girl with the gun, and tell her I need some time here.”

Beck ended the connection before Manny could ask him anything more. He shoved the cell phone in his pocket, put both hands on the sink, concentrating on letting his anger recede. Brandon Wright knew him well, but Beck knew himself. He ran the water and rinsed his face, first feeling the cold water, then feeling the water when it had heated up, soothing him, calming him.

As he dried off with the plush hand towel, he heard a cell phone ring outside in the room.

He stepped out of the bathroom and stood waiting as Nydia finished her call. She looked up at Beck. He said, “Dial my cell number so I have yours.”

He recited the number. Nydia dialed it without comment. Beck answered the call, stored the number, and said, “I’ll call you when it’s time to come back.”

Olivia watched the exchange. Something had changed Beck’s mood. She wondered what had happened in that bathroom.

Beck walked over to the window overlooking Fifty-seventh Street and stood with his back to Olivia while Nydia gathered herself, shoved the Smith & Wesson in the back of her camouflage pants, and left the room.

As the door shut, he turned to face Olivia, staying near the windows at the other end of the room.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Beck stared at her for a moment. Amazed that part of him was actually thinking about the fact that she was sitting on that bed with no underwear on. A rueful smile crossed his face. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, he thought. If I completely terrify this woman, it probably won’t do me much good.

He watched her for a moment, wondering if there was any way he could see the true part of her underneath everything on the surface.

She was wary, confused by Beck, but so accustomed to controlling men that she still seemed relaxed and confident.

Beck said, “So, I was telling you about things getting worse.”

“Yes?”

“Did you understand what I was saying?”

“I think so.”

“Just to be clear, it’s important that you realize any one of us could be dead now: Manny, Demarco, me. Ciro. You understand that, right?”

“Yes, if you say so. Of course.”

“Or on our way back to jail.”

Olivia continued to give Beck her attention, but said nothing.

Beck motioned toward the door with his head, “I like that tough little chick Manny has looking after you. But she wouldn’t be much more than a small bump between Markov’s men and you. You get that, right?”

“His men?”

“Yes. You have to understand who Markov has working with him. War criminals. Rapists. Killers of women and children and old people. Mass murderers. One of them, the one who seems to be their leader, is clearly insane.”

Olivia stared at him, but didn’t answer.

“There are others, too. A group of hardcore gangsters. Russian. Not the crazy loose-knit crews who flail around with dumb shit. Hardcore. Old, old school.” He shook his head, thinking about it. “From out of the gulags. Beyond anything you know about.”

He moved away from the window overlooking Fifty-seventh Street and sat in the chair where Nydia had been, keeping his distance from Olivia, but his gaze unwavering.

“So,” said Beck, “you and I have to talk about a few things.”

“All right.”

“And there can’t be anything less that the truth. In whatever you say. So help you God.”

Olivia stared back at Beck.

“You understand, right?”

Olivia nodded.

“Let me talk you through it. You’re at Summit. You’ve worked your way to a position of responsibility. You find out Alan Crane is being reckless. Investing money for, as you say, bad people. And he’s pushing it, taking big risks. Naked shorts and all that. Manipulating stocks, whatever unscrupulous shit guys like that do.

“Milstein isn’t comfortable with it. He’s made a deal with the devil, but you know he’s worried. Crane’s too reckless. But Milstein is between a rock and a hard place because he needs the fees and the twenty percent of profits.”

Beck paused, waiting to see if Olivia wanted to say anything. Correct anything. She just continued to stare at him, composed, unmoving. He continued.

“You go to Milstein. You encourage him to put a stop to Crane’s high-risk behavior. Nothing more than that. Basically pushing him in the direction he wants to go anyhow.”

Beck waited. Olivia said nothing.

“Okay. Crane gets wind of it. He goes nuts. Comes down on you. Threatens you. Bangs on your desk. Breaks your hand. Yells. Tells you he’s going to kill you. Have I got it right so far, Olivia?”

“That’s what I told you.”

“I know that’s what you told me. Is that what happened?”

“Yes.”

“All of it? All of that is what happened?”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

Beck leaned forward and spoke softly, but his intensity sent a chill through Olivia.

“This is not the time to ask me questions, Olivia. This is the time to tell me the truth. That’s the only way this will work. So don’t ask me questions. Just tell me the truth.”

Beck leaned back. “It makes no sense that Crane would go off the way you described just because you gently pushed Milstein in the direction he was thinking of going. No, the truth is—you and Milstein conspired to get rid of Crane, and he found out about it. You and Milstein joined forces to shut Crane down.

“But you had to do it in a way that wouldn’t upset Markov. Milstein couldn’t afford to lose him. So you and Milstein came up with a plan. Milstein would drop the hammer on Crane to make him stop taking so much risk. You would step forward to monitor his trades. Why? Because you convinced Milstein you could handle Markov. There isn’t a man alive you don’t think you can handle, Olivia.”

For the first time, Olivia looked down, staring at her lap, looking at her broken fingers in their cast, no longer maintaining eye contact with Beck.

“You saw all that money. You saw Crane screwing it up. You knew you could twist that fat guy around your finger. So why not? Why shouldn’t you get your fair share? Earn a nice bonus. Hey, Wall Street jerks a fraction as good as you are taking home multimillion-dollar bonuses like it’s nothing.

“You were willing to work for it. Hell, a measly two, three million and you’d own that nice little place up in Riverdale. All you needed was a chance to make your mark. To get your wings. You could save the day. Crane was looking at huge losses. You could keep the account from blowing up.”

Beck sat forward, talking faster. Now Olivia looked up and watched him.

“But you both knew Crane wouldn’t go quietly. Hell, Markov was his client. He brought him in. No way he would give up control. But you had that figured out, too.” He stopped and turned to face Olivia. “You had Manny. What did you tell Milstein about Manny? Did you tell him you could have Crane killed?”

Olivia answered quickly. “No. No. Absolutely not.”

Beck continued looking at her. “No?”

“No. No way.”

“You’re lying.”

Olivia’s voice rose. “No. I’m not. All right, I admit we talked about Manny. Milstein told me how volatile Crane was. I told him I wasn’t worried. I told Milstein that my cousin was a man people feared. I told him that one conversation with him and Alan would fold. He would back off and let us do what needed to be done.”

“How were you going to arrange that? How were you going to get Manny involved? The truth.”

“I was going to tell Manny that a man at work was trying to intimidate me. Giving me a hard time. Bullying me. If I had to, I was going to tell Manny he threatened me.”

Beck looked at Olivia, nodded, thinking it over.

“Call in Manny against the bully.”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that? There’s no like that with Manny Guzman, Olivia. No middle ground. No gray. He’s not the kind of man who slaps someone in the head and says be nice to my cousin. He fucking kills them. Makes them disappear.”

Olivia shook her head. “No. I mean, why would I think that? I never believed it would get to that. Milstein was too smart. He never planned on getting rid of Crane completely. We were fine with him staying around to front the business and handle Markov. We just needed him to step back, stop being so reckless, and let us cut back on his high-risk trading. It meant he had to cut me in for a share, but I was going to earn it.”

“And you were going to leave Markov to Crane?”

“No. Not completely. Sure, he was Crane’s client, but I was going to be involved. I had no problem with turning on the charm to keep Markov happy.”

“So what went wrong? Why did Crane get so crazy?”

“Because he got wind of what we were planning before Milstein could pitch him. Crane heard what Milstein and me were up to and he went nuts.”

“Meaning the attack. The yelling and screaming, threatening to kill you. Breaking your hand.”

Olivia stopped. She sensed something. She watched Beck looking at her. She knew. Maybe she had known from the moment Beck started going over it all again. She looked down, than back up at Beck. She spoke slowly and softly. “It didn’t happen exactly that way.”

Beck sat back in Nydia’s chair. “What way did it happen?”

She couldn’t look at Beck. She stared past him, gazing at the glow of the city lights coming in through the transparent inner drape drawn over the window.

“Everything I told you is true. Crane came in. Yelling, screaming, threatening. Pounding the desk. He really got to me. I really believed my life was at risk. I realized I may have underestimated the whole thing. Crane truly sounded like he actually could have me killed.

“I hadn’t really thought about who Markov was until that moment. What he might be capable of doing. When Crane threatened to kill me, I was terrified. Then I suddenly got paranoid. Maybe Milstein had set the whole thing up knowing Crane would do this. Maybe he tipped off Crane. Was he using me as a stalking horse to see what Crane would do? Did he blow up everything so I would go to Manny?

“My head was reeling.” Now she turned her gaze to Beck. “I never experienced anything like that.”

“Go on.”

“I was numb. I kept thinking, what the hell have I done? I left the office in a daze. I usually get the train on Fifty-ninth, but I couldn’t. I needed to move. I decided to walk to Grand Central. It was cold out, but there were still a lot of people on the streets. People heading home. I was kind of like walking at my own pace, you know. Dazed, not like all the people walking past me.

“It was dark, I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t even know exactly how it happened. Or where. I was in the middle of a crosswalk. Maybe there was a little ice, a manhole, and uneven part, I don’t know. I just slipped. Fell sort of to the side. Landed on my hand.”

She lifted her left hand, wrapped in the cast as if it were an exhibit. Remembering how it had actually happened. She closed her eyes. The tears were coming, silently moving down her cheeks as if something separate and apart from her.

Beck watched her. Picturing it. Listening for the truth in her words.

“I don’t think anything ever hurt me as much as that did. I didn’t even have gloves on. It was horrible. Horrible. I swear it seemed to be all part of what Crane had done to me. He put me in that state. He drove me out of there. It was as if he’d done it to me. Made it happen.”

She took a slow deep breath, shook her head, distancing herself from the memory. Beck sat unmoving, watching her, listening closely.