Текст книги "Among thieves"

Автор книги: John Clarkson

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

8

Even though Ciro Baldassare filled a good portion of the Mercury Marauder’s backseat, a passing pedestrian would be unlikely to notice him because he never moved. If Ciro did catch someone’s attention, they tended to look away quickly. He was that kind of guy.

Demarco Jones had parked the Mercury in the empty curbside space between the two ends of the half-circle driveway that led to and from the entrance of Milstein’s Park Avenue apartment building. Next to him in the passenger seat, Beck rummaged around in the glove box and pulled out a fake NYPD detective badge on a chain. He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the badge under his shirt.

He told Demarco and Ciro, “Sit tight. Let me see if I can arrange a visit with Mr. Milstein.”

The doorman stepped out to greet Beck before he had walked halfway along the driveway. He was a short, slight man, red-haired, boyish. A wide smile dominated his face. His doorman’s hat tilted back on his head, he seemed happy to see Beck even though he had never seen Beck in his life.

“Hello,” said the doorman. “Can I help you?”

Beck didn’t smile back. “Yeah, I want to ask you a few questions.” Beck pulled his detective badge out from under his shirt and held it up for a brief inspection, then let the badge remain on display hanging from his neck. “My name is Logan. I’m a detective with the nineteenth precinct.”

“Oh, okay,” said the doorman, still smiling. He saluted Beck. “What can I do for you?”

“What’s your name?”

“Owen.”

“Owen. So Owen, we got a report earlier tonight, a complaint from uh…” Beck pulled a scrap of paper out of his back pocket. It was the receipt from their dinner. He checked it. “… somebody named Frederick Milstein. We were hoping to talk to him tonight.”

“Oh, Mr. Milstein just went out.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“You know where?”

Still smiling, Owen answered, “No. I think he went out to eat.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he’ll be back by around ten.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“That’s when he walks the dog,” said Owen, still smiling.

“He walks his dog around ten?”

“Yes, sir. Most of our people have dog walkers. But Simpson on twelve and Milstein on fourteen, they take their dogs out for the night walk. Milstein likes to have a cigar at night, so that’s why he does it.” Owen smiled and laughed. “I don’t think he likes the dog all that much. But his wife won’t let him smoke in the house, so the night walk works out for him.”

“Where does he go?”

“Straight from here into the park, then over to Dog Hill.”

“Dog Hill? Where’s that?”

“Just a little south of the Seventy-ninth Street entrance.”

“He doesn’t mind walking around in the park at night?”

Owen laughed and said, “Oh, it’s not a problem. The dog is huge, and he goes with his driver. Big guy. Ex-cop.”

“I see. That sounds pretty good.” Beck shoved his badge back under his shirt. “All right, don’t bother telling him I was here. Don’t make him wonder about it. We’ll follow up tomorrow. My shift is going off.”

“Sure,” said Owen, still smiling, as if smiling were part of his job.

Beck looked Owen in the eye and pointed back and forth with his index finger. “Just between us for now. Got it?”

For once Owen’s smile vanished. “Got it.”

Beck walked back along the driveway and climbed into the Mercury, checked his watch.

“What’s the plan?” asked Ciro from the backseat.

“Oh, something for everybody. D gets to be the big scary black man. You get to be the guy with the gun. But you have to promise not to shoot or hit anyone unless I say so.”

“Promise.” said Ciro, “Unless someone deserves it. Who do you get to be?”

“I haven’t quite decided yet. Let’s find a parking spot around here somewhere. We got a little time to kill while I figure this out.”

9

At ten-fifteen, Beck slipped into the passenger seat of the Mercury parked on Fifth Avenue just past Seventy-eighth Street, Demarco at the wheel, Ciro sitting motionless in the backseat.

Beck used the palm of his hand like he was about to diagram a touch-football play.

“So, the asshole is sitting on a bench, right about here, opposite an open field. He let his hound off the leash to go take a shit somewhere while he smokes a cigar. The bodyguard is sitting on a bench on the other side of the pathway facing him.”

Beck quickly explained his plan.

*   *   *

Milstein sat hunched against the cold February night, puffing on a Montecristo Double Corona, watching the dark open space in front of him, completely uninterested in anything his dog might be doing.

They weren’t far into the park, but other than the ambient light from Fifth Avenue, the only illumination came from decorative street lamps spaced along the park pathway that meandered from the Seventy-ninth Street entrance to where Milstein sat, just at the edge of a pool of light facing Dog Hill.

He and Walter heard someone approaching from the north. Both men turned in the direction of the sound. Walter slipped his police-issue Glock 17 out of his hip holster, laying the semiautomatic pistol on top of his thigh, ready just in case.

The figure came into view. A tall black man wearing a hooded sweatshirt that covered much of his face. He came toward them slowly, giving them the feeling that he was checking them out as much as they were him.

Shit, thought Milstein, this is all I need. But the sight of Walter watching the black man every step of the way with his gun at the ready made Milstein almost giddy.

The hooded man came nearly parallel to them. He seemed to be looking mostly at Milstein, who straightened up, ready to get up and break away if the man made any move toward him. But the menacing black man just kept walking, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Walter’s head swiveled to keep his eyes on the intruder as he passed them by.

Milstein watched, too, as Demarco Jones continued walking slowly south. Neither of them saw where Ciro Baldassare came from. He’d been standing in the dark, out in the field behind Walter. All he had to do was step out and take a seat next to the big bodyguard while Walter had his head turned watching Demarco Jones walk off around the bend on the park pathway.

Walter never even heard Ciro sit next to him, but when he turned from watching Demarco, Ciro’s Smith & Wesson .45 automatic was an inch from his face. The gun looked huge.

“Don’t move, fella,” said Ciro. “Not even a twitch.”

Ciro deftly slipped the Glock out of Walter’s hand, slid down the bench a bit, rested his right arm on the back of the bench, and pointed the muzzle of the Smith & Wesson at Walter’s face.

Milstein hadn’t seen where Ciro had come from either, but he saw him now, pointing a very large gun at Walter, saying nothing, not moving, completely calm as if this was something he did all the time.

And then the last piece of Beck’s plan fell into place as he stepped out from the darkness behind Milstein, and sat down next to the small man.

Milstein reared back. “Jeezus Christ, you again.”

“Yes, me again,” said Beck. “And trust me, Mr. Milstein, you do not want to see me a third time, so let’s finish our conversation. How about we take a little walk?”

Milstein looked over at Walter and then back at Beck.

“I know,” said Beck. “How the fuck did this just happen? Don’t worry about it. You’ll both be all right if neither of you does anything stupid. Come on.”

Beck grabbed a handful of Milstein’s coat and lifted him to his feet. Any thought of resisting vanished when he realized whoever this was, he had enough strength to lift him with one arm.

Beck pointed down the path toward the model boat basin, and released Milstein with a slight push in that direction. They arrived at a bench around a bend where the bodyguard couldn’t see them or hear them. Beck indicated that Milstein should sit. He settled in next to him, close enough to make Milstein uncomfortable.

“So,” said Beck. “Olivia Sanchez.”

Milstein puffed on his cigar, grimaced, annoyed, shot back, “What about her? What is it with you and Olivia Sanchez?”

There was a pause before Beck reacted. Just about two seconds before he backhanded the cigar out of Milstein’s mouth and grabbed Milstein by the side of his neck. Beck pressed his right thumb into Milstein’s throat.

He spoke very quietly, very intensely. “Are you fucking crazy? You think you can use that tone with me? You want to end up in that boat basin with your throat crushed?”

Beck squeezed Milstein’s windpipe. He stood up off the bench and faced Milstein. Milstein grabbed Beck’s wrist and forearm with both hands, trying to pull Beck’s hand off his neck and throat. It only made Beck squeeze harder.

Just as blackness was about to envelope Milstein, Beck released him. He stood in front of Milstein, waiting for him to come around.

As Milstein’s head cleared, Beck leaned closer and said to him, “I don’t know what it is with assholes like you. You think because you have some money nobody will fuck with you? Or is it because you’re such a little shit you think somebody would be embarrassed to beat the hell out of you? Have you lost all sense of reality?”

Milstein rasped air into his lungs.

Beck slapped his cheek, gently, more to focus his attention. “Answer me.”

“No. No, I haven’t lost sense of reality.”

Beck spoke quietly now. “So you understand if you don’t answer my questions, you won’t leave this park alive. Nor will your pathetic bodyguard. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Beck sat down next to Milstein and asked quietly, “I hope you don’t have any doubts about what I just said?”

Milstein paused. “No.” But as he answered he was thinking furiously about what to do.

“Good,” said Beck. “Let’s start again. Olivia Sanchez.”

Milstein cleared his throat, thinking before he said anything. “I’m listening.”

“Tell me what you’re going to do about this idiot who works for you breaking her fingers, tossing her out of a job, and blackballing her from any other employment.”

Milstein cleared his throat again, hesitating. Beck asked, “Well?”

“That’s not…”

Beck interrupted him. “You’re not going to tell me that’s not what happened are you?”

“All I can tell you is that’s her side of it. There’s another side.”

“Which is?”

Milstein spoke very carefully. “She has made claims against one of my partners, Alan Crane. Crane has his own side of the story. He says he confronted her. She got hysterical. She attacked him. He grabbed her hand and twisted it away so she couldn’t hit him.

“He says he can’t believe he broke her fingers. But the point is, Crane says he was defending himself. She’s trying to bring charges against him. He’s already talked to the police. He says she’s lying. She says he’s lying. So now it’s with the lawyers. His lawyers. And the firm’s lawyers, who are very clear about this. They’ve told me to have no further contact with her.”

“What about with Crane?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have your lawyers told you not to have any contact with him?”

“No. But we’ve all been instructed not to discuss the case.”

“That’s your answer?”

Milstein looked quickly at Beck, who sat next to him staring straight ahead.

He didn’t know what to say, so he continued to look at Beck. They sat far from one of the park lamp lights, but the sky was cloudless and the moon bright enough to cast shadows from the trees around them and illuminate Beck’s rough features.

Beck breathed in the cold night air, calming himself, keeping his anger in check. He inhaled the rather pleasant scent of the cigar still burning on the ground near the bench where it had landed.

Milstein finally said, “I don’t understand the question.”

“You’ll talk to Crane, but you won’t talk to Olivia Sanchez.”

“Yes.”

“Why? They both work for you. Why Crane and not her?”

“Well…”

“We both know why. Crane makes more money for you.”

“That’s not the only reason. She’s the one making accusations.”

“Crane is the one waging lawsuits.”

“Look,” said Milstein, “I’ve known Alan Crane for years. He’s not the calmest person. He’s under a lot of pressure. He admits he confronted her. He admits he gave her hell; he admits it got out of hand. But he says she attacked him. Tried to slap him and hit him. I’ve never had any reason to believe Alan would do something like attack a woman. So what am I supposed to do? Olivia has her story. Crane has his.”

“I see,” said Beck. “But she ends up in an emergency room with two broken fingers. And the asshole who did it gets her fired and blackballed. How’s that figure?”

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 address 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.