Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

53

Demarco Jones spotted two men about a block away coming toward him on Van Brunt. He slipped into a neighborhood bar, not worrying if they had seen him. He knew the bartender, Jimmy, who stood behind the bar, bored, arms crossed. At this time of day, his only customers were two young guys sipping pints of beer and an old crone hunched over a white wine spritzer.

Demarco nodded at him and pantomimed a cup of coffee. He took a seat at the long shelf that ran along the bar’s front window. Jimmy placed the cup of coffee at Demarco’s elbow, just as two men appeared outside the bar.

Demarco lowered his head as he sipped the coffee and watched them with raised eyes as they passed by. The one closest to the bar turned to look inside, but didn’t seem to see anything of interest.

The coffee wasn’t very hot, so Demarco took a long swallow, laid down his cup, and stepped out of the bar. He didn’t pay for the coffee because he knew Jimmy wouldn’t charge him.

Demarco hung back in the doorway of the bar, letting the two men get out ahead of him. He pulled out his cell phone and called Beck.

*   *   *

Beck’s phone vibrated in his coat pocket. He answered, “Yeah.”

“Two of ’em just walked past Dikeman. On Van Brunt. My guess is they keep going then come around on Reed and get on the far side of our place.”

“Right. Manny and I are on Van Dyke. Manny’s making like he’s helping some guys unload a truck.”

“That would be worth seeing.”

“Yeah, I think he might actually pick up a box. I’m standing behind a van on the other side of the street. If the third guy comes this way, we’ll drop in behind him. You do the same with the pair.”

“All right.”

Beck slipped his phone back into his pocket and kept watch through the windows of the van. He saw a man that fit Willie Reese’s description walking with his hands in his coat pockets, slow and steady. Eyes watching straight ahead of him.

Beck crouched down below the windows and stayed out of sight until the intruder had passed. Then he looked out from behind the van, still low, and watched the man as he continued up Conover: beard, no hat, silver down jacket that looked like it had been worn a long time, still walking easy with his hands in the pockets of his coat.

Beck knew the man’s two partners were walking parallel one block over. He figured they were almost certainly going to meet in front of his bar.

Silver Jacket didn’t look like one of Kolenka’s Russians or Markov’s Bosnians. He appeared to be much more relaxed and comfortable on the streets of Red Hook. Relaxed, but at the same time alert. The man’s build, his size, demeanor, the beard, the confident way he moved convinced Beck he was military. Most likely Special Forces. Apparently, Markov had brought in mercenaries, most likely through his government connections. This could change everything. The three men would be armed, and very dangerous. They wouldn’t panic if shooting started. They would stand and fight with discipline. But Beck found it hard to believe they’d send just three men to take down his base.

Beck slipped out from the cover of the van and moved cautiously in the direction of the bar. The bearded leader in front of him continued walking like he belonged in the neighborhood. Nothing tentative about him. No glancing around. No looking for an address.

Beck was curious what he’d do when he arrived at the bar. There certainly weren’t any address numbers to confirm the location. He’d pulled them off the front door years ago. And from the building next door.

Beck instinctively dropped back a few paces, deciding that if they did attack, the right play would be to lay back and let Ciro and Joey B blast them from inside. Then move in from behind to finish them off. But how the hell was he going to explain that to Demarco and Manny in time?

The interloper crossed Van Dyke. Now there was no doubt he was headed for the bar. There was nothing on Reed, and Conover Street ended in a dead end.

Beck sensed movement from across the street. He turned to see Manny cross Conover to his side of the street, falling in about ten feet behind Beck. Good, thought Beck. He’ll be harder to spot and I have a better chance of holding him back if this goes off.

The bearded guy hadn’t looked back once. That didn’t mean he was unaware that he was being followed, but if he knew or suspected, he was showing a lot of discipline and control.

And then the other two turned onto Conover from Reed Street. One of them wearing a backpack.

Now what? Beck pictured these three dropping into some sort of attack formation, shooting out his front window and lobbing a bomb-filled backpack into the bar.

Boom, mission accomplished.

54

Olivia Sanchez had noticed Beck’s fast exit. The one they called Ciro took up a position watching the street and told the huge guy to do the same. She decided to use the situation to her advantage.

She’d been sitting next to Alex for almost two hours, mostly watching Crane adjust conditional sell orders. Some of them executed, others didn’t as the market fluctuated. In many cases, Crane shifted them with a series of limit orders shaving the spread until he hit the prices he wanted. Or at least the prices he could live with. She knew what Crane was doing took enormous concentration. She wondered how long he could keep up the pace.

Alex, too, had been working nonstop for hours. He was a quick study, and his attention never flagged. But he could certainly do with a shower, a shave, and a set of clean clothes.

“Is there a bathroom on this floor?” she asked Alex. “I’ve had about a gallon of coffee.”

Without looking away from the screens, Alex pointed toward the kitchen. “Off the kitchen over on the left.”

“Thanks.”

She headed in that direction, making sure her cell phone was in her pocket. She made it to the bathroom without attracting any notice, locked the door, confident it would block the sound of her conversation.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Crane’s number from memory. She’d made sure not to store his number on her phone. And was going to be sure to erase the call from her phone log.

She waited anxiously for him to answer. She didn’t want to be in the bathroom for too long.

After five rings she heard Crane’s voice. “Finally. Talk fast, I’m tracking a ton of positions. What’s going on?”

“I’m at Beck’s place in Red Hook. As predicted, Beck is going after the money.”

“Good. What’s he doing about Markov?”

“Like we figured. He’s going to try and buy him off with his own money. Where’s Markov? Is he watching you?”

“No. I haven’t seen him since Wednesday noon. My bet, he’s busy trying to track down Beck.” Olivia didn’t mention anything about how close Markov had come to getting both her and Beck at the Four Seasons. “Beck had another run-in with Markov’s security goon. Beat the crap out of him. They want to kill Beck in the worst way. Your buddy better stay alive long enough to make his move on the money.”

“Well, I can tell you he’s got a lot of tough guys here with guns and rifles.”

“Good. You know how he’s going to go for the money?”

“Not exactly. But he has a first-rate computer guy who knows a lot about trading tracking all your moves. And I’ll help them over any bumps.”

“Yeah, that guy must be pretty good. I didn’t make it too easy so they wouldn’t get suspicious, but Beck’s guy made it through all my security. What’s he got on my computer?”

“I think he downloaded your entire hard drive, and put some sort of tracker program in. Then he tapped into your Internet connection somehow. Whatever he did, they see what you’re doing, so just keep going however you want. When do you intend to close out the last positions?”

“Exactly when we planned. What’s your cousin doing, by the way?”

“Whatever Beck tells him. Beck runs the show.”

“Okay. And you can make sure they stay with my moves?”

“Definitely. But why are you slowing down the transfers in the consolidated account?”

“No need to put things in there before Markov pushes me. I want as much time as I can to close out some of my options contracts. Every tick down on my puts cuts my losses. I’m still under fucking water on a lot of this. He’s not going to be very happy.”

“Wait until he sees Beck stole it.”

“You sure he’s going after the money?”

“Absolutely. Trust me, he figured this out himself. I didn’t even have to suggest it.”

Crane laughed. “The goddamn fox in the chicken coop. This is really something.”

“I wouldn’t play this so tight, Alan. There’s plenty of money. Just get it assembled.”

“Hey, every fucking dime I make is a dime we keep.”

“All right, all right. Just remember, it’s going to be me who has to make the last move here. Give me enough time.”

“Second to last move.”

“Right. Right. You’re set in Switzerland?”

“Yes. It’s not the most secret place anymore, but it’ll be fine for what we need to do. And it’s the most fucking civilized. A great jumping-off spot for us.”

“Okay. Gotta go.”

She broke the connection, but sat in the bathroom, running over everything one more time. She was sure that Alan Crane wanted her with him, just like every man she’d ever gotten close to. In fact, not only did Crane want her, he actually thought he deserved her.

She finished up in the bathroom and went back to her seat next to Alex Liebowitz. She sat down, wondering how she might convince him to let her track Crane’s transactions while he took a shower. Then again, she thought, if this geek doesn’t have any clean clothes, it’s not going to make much of a difference.

Thursday trading would close soon. Then one more day, Friday. Thirty hours or so and she’d be set for the rest of her life.

If they weren’t all dead by then.

55

Beck slipped out of sight behind a panel truck a little less than a block away from his building.

He watched the bearded mercenary meet his two partners right in front of the bar. Manny slipped in next to Beck behind the truck. He already had his Charter Arms in his hand. There was no sign of Demarco.

The bearded leader motioned for the others to spread out. He sent one across the street and one back to the corner of Reed Street. They took up positions so that they could spot anyone approaching on any of the streets leading to Beck’s building. Beck’s tension dropped several notches knowing that backpack wasn’t near his bar anymore.

It seemed obvious to Beck that they weren’t here for an attack. They were here to plan one.

Okay, let them plan.

Beck pulled out his cell phone and dialed Ciro as he watched the bearded leader shield his eyes and try to look into the bar through the front window. Willie had painted the bottom third of the new front window. There was no way he could get a quick view inside, unless he stretched his full height to see over the black paint.

Ciro answered. “Three guys, right?”

“Yeah. Listen, I don’t think they’re here to start anything. So what I want you to do is let them see people inside. I want these fuckers to think they’re finding shit out.”

“You sure? Why not take them out now? Less trouble later.”

“No. You stay upstairs. If they make any noise or knock on the door, you peer out from behind the curtain. Everyone stays inside. Don’t open the door. Just let them see that you’re watching.”

“Okay.”

“If they take out their guns or make a move, I’ll let you know. Put your phone on speaker and keep it near you, but don’t let them see you talking.”

“All right.”

“Make sure Joey B has a good shooting angle in case I’m wrong, and they decide to rush the place. Tell Alex to go downstairs and move around behind the bar like he’s looking for something, then go back upstairs.”

“Got it.”

“Keep your rifle ready, Ciro, just in case.”

Beck’s phone started signaling another call coming through.

“Shit.” Beck had never figured out how to keep one call on hold and take the incoming call, so he just pressed talk on his cell phone.

“Yeah.”

“Interesting news, James.”

“Jeezus, now what Ricky?”

“We tracked that big dude from Lexington and Fifty-seventh. Guess where he went?”

“I’m not in the mood for guesses. We got armed visitors in front of the bar.”

“Fuuuuuck. Sorry. Okay, big boy went to One Police Plaza. Was inside about an hour. Came out. Now he’s walking downtown. Jonas is trailing him on foot.”

“Shit, fuck.”

“Yeah, shit fuck.”

“Okay, I’ll call you back. Stay on him.”

Christ, thought Beck, that’s all I need: the fucking NYPD joining forces with everybody else. Had to be that asshole Milstein. He couldn’t worry about it now.

Beck tried to see if Ciro was still on the line, but the phone was dead. He shoved it into his pocket.

“What’s up?” said Manny.

“More fucking trouble. I’ll tell you later.”

Beck watched as the bearded leader checked out the industrial buildings on either side of his building. Then the empty lot across the street. He peered out into the harbor. Clearly getting the lay of the land.

*   *   *

Anastasia motioned for his men to follow across the street into an empty lot. The three disappeared off Conover Street and hunkered down behind a pile of derelict shipping skids.

Anastasia pulled out a small but powerful set of binoculars and focused on Beck’s building. It seemed to be locked up tight and empty. He peered at each window, looking for any movement at all, and then just as he was about to look away, he saw a curtain move on the second floor. Somebody was checking him out.

From his seated position behind the skids, Harris asked, “What do you think?”

“There’s no number on the door. None on the buildings on either side, but GPS says this is the place and the building outlines match the 3-D map. It looks empty, but it’s not. There are people in there. They don’t want anybody to think there is, but they’re watching the street.”

Harris said, “Yeah, I saw those drapes move up on the second floor. At least I think I did.”

“You did. Notice anything else?”

Williams answered in his clipped South African accent. “There was a black man behind us for a block or two as we walked over here, but he turned into a pharmacy before we came this way. I doubt if he was trailing us. Don’t think he took any notice.”

Anastasia looked around one more time. “Well, I got that eyes-on-us feeling. My money says they’re in there, which is most of what we need to know. Let’s hang out here for a bit and see what happens.”

*   *   *

Beck stayed on the west side of Conover behind a panel truck, down on his knees, the cold and wet penetrating though his jeans, watching the three mercenaries disappear into the lot across from his building.

Beck pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Demarco.

“Where are you, D?”

‘I’m sittin’ in the Merc. In the garage. Got a feeling you might need the car. At least more’n you need me walking all the way around and letting those fellows see me again so they know they’ve been made.”

Beck smiled at Demarco’s smarts.

“You think they spotted you?”

“Of course. They haven’t seen someone as good-looking as me maybe ever.”

He told Demarco, “Okay, D, I want to keep track of these fuckers. If you try to follow them they might spot you. Certainly if you try to trail them back to their car. Willie said they parked over by the ballfield just past the projects. Those three have to be connected to Markov. Markov is connected to Kolenka. So roll out ahead of them. Drive back to the area around that building on Coney Island Avenue where we met Kolenka. Just park around there and see if they show up in the neighborhood and follow them to wherever they land.”

“Will do. Even if they don’t show up, I’ll see what’s doing around there.”

“Good.”

“Can you get a description of their car?”

“I’ll call Willie now. Head out whenever you want. I’ll have it for you before you reach the area.”

Beck cut off the call and thought through the situation. Clearly Markov and Kolenka were getting ready to attack. Beck decided to make sure they did.

He called Ciro.

“You see where those guys ended up?”

“Across the street behind some skids.”

“Okay. I’m coming in. If it looks like they might take a shot at me, try to shoot ’em first.”

Beck got up off his knee.

Manny reached for his arm.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

56

Detective First Grade Jeffrey Esposito had planned on using the last part of his shift to catch up on his paperwork. He’d set up at his desk in the Brooklyn South 76th Precinct with all his case files, assorted memos, and papers piled on the left side of his desk, and various reporting forms, logbooks, and notebooks on the right side.

He figured he would put in two or three solid hours and get it all done. Until one of the civilian clerks came up to his desk and said the precinct captain wanted to see him in his office.

Not good, thought Esposito. He checked his watch. Nearly four o’clock. He asked the clerk, “He’s still here? He’s doing seven-to-three shifts these days, isn’t he?”

“He came back.”

Uh-oh. Definitely not good. What the hell was going on?

As the head investigator for the precinct, Esposito ran a detective squad of six men. The Seven-Six offered a good mix of crimes and very few homicides. Esposito liked the precinct. He didn’t like surprises. Whatever this was about, it had already been kicked all the way up to the top guy, and Esposito knew from experience that rarely meant anything good.

Captain Peter McManus was young for his rank. He’d earned it with a bachelor’s degree from John Jay, a master’s from Fordham, and from being a whiz on the civil service exams.

Thin, tall, angular, short hair, the captain sat at his desk dressed in his civilian clothes. McManus had a look on his face that Esposito couldn’t quite interpret. Is he pissed off or merely annoyed? Or is it a fake expression of concern to cover what he’s about to dump on me?

The captain nodded for Esposito to sit. He had both hands on top of a thin manila folder.

“What’s up, skip?” Esposito asked.

“Detective Esposito, I’m sure you have heard the technical expression, shit rolls downhill.”

Here it comes.

He answered, “I have, sir.”

McManus continued. “Subparagraph one says the higher the shit rolls from, the faster and harder it lands.”

Esposito frowned, saying nothing, the best course of action at this point.

He looked at the folder under McManus’s hands. Clearly, the answer was in that folder. Although it couldn’t be much of an answer. The folder wasn’t very thick.

“How high up are we talking about?”

“You want to know how high up?”

“Sure.”

“Borough Command.”

“That’s high.”

“It is. And I got the feeling that Borough Command is just one stop on the way down from even higher.”

“Shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

McManus slid the folder toward Esposito. Esposito didn’t look at it. Didn’t touch it.

“I don’t know who called who or what or why. All I know is that somebody with a good amount of juice wants us to arrest two bad guys.”

“For what?”

“Assault.”

“Of who?”

“Of somebody with a lot of juice.”

“What’d they do to him?”

“Don’t have the details. Something bad enough so that the brass wants these guys brought in.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get organized. Like now.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

“We know where to find them?”

“We know where to start. Someplace on the ass end of Red Hook.”

“So they gave it to the Seven-Six and not some regular Warrant Squad.”

“Correct.”

“And after we arrest them?”

“We get them into Central Booking and the higher-ups will take care of the arraignments, or whatever they want to do from there. Presumably burying these guys in a very deep place which will take a very long time to crawl out of.”

Esposito opened the folder.

There were two warrants. One for Ciro Baldassare. One for James Beck. Behind the warrants were a few pages of arrest records for both men and prison records. Baldassare had six pages. Beck, two.

This was a shit assignment. Outside of his normal duties. Way outside the normal chain of command. He had very little background on the assailants, and apparently he wasn’t going to get any. Plus, it looked like the whole thing had to be done on the quiet. But with all the brass connected to this, if he fucked up, things would get loud and angry very fast. This was all risk and no reward.

“What’s the story on these guys?”

“Assume they are armed and dangerous. Assume there may be others at this location also armed and dangerous.”

“Great.”

“Do they know we are coming for them?”

“Assume they know. How quickly can you get organized?”

“To do this right?” asked Esposito.

“I sure as hell don’t want you to do it wrong.”

“It feels like we should pull together some decent backup. Come in hard.”

“I don’t think you have time to get a lot of backup or tactical guys. Go in fast. Get out fast. Don’t make a big deal out of it. But don’t get caught with your pants down.”

Typical command bullshit. McManus wanted it done right, but he wanted it done fast. The two rarely went together.

Esposito knew he would have to organize a decent-size show of force. You didn’t go to an unknown location where there could be unknown firepower without as many bodies as you could muster.

But he’d have to do it within the precinct. He didn’t have enough time to liaise with other divisions for personnel. Nor was he going to get the command backup to pull that off.

McManus sat staring at him. Esposito sat thinking it through. Start with the precinct sergeants to get squads organized. Get the patrol guys to provide bodies. Gather up as many from his detective detail as possible. Then get everything coordinated and go hither and yon out to Red Hook to arrest two guys on chickenshit warrants who were clearly way more dangerous than the charges made them seem.

Esposito picked up the folder.

“I want to do this right.”

McManus gave Esposito a look that said, don’t fuck with me, and asked, “How much time?”

Esposito checked his watch. “It’s going to take me a few hours to find the bodies. Get everybody organized. Coordinate shifts. Absolute soonest I can do it is tonight, late. Actually, early Friday morning. You know the drill. Two, three in the morning. Go in hard and fast, put guns on people, haul these guys out, and get the fuck away as fast as possible.”

“Sounds good,” said McManus. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Esposito didn’t even want to think about the list of things he needed or would like. He stood up, picked up the folder, and left.