Among Thieves (10 page)

“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.

 

10

Neither Milstein nor Walter Pearce said a word as they walked out of Central Park. Walter lumbered along next to Milstein, silent, expressionless. Twice now he had been rendered useless. Once was bad enough. The fact that it happened again after he should have been on the alert, made Walter even more worried.

He ignored the seething Milstein and tried to sort out the questions running through his mind. How had they found out about Milstein's nightly dog walk? How had the leader pulled together a crew so quickly? Who was he working for? Who had the juice or the connections to send someone like that after Milstein? He knew there had been some trouble between one of Milstein's female employees and his man Crane. But would some woman corporate type be able to pull together people like that? No way. So then who was behind this?

Walter couldn't get rid of the image of that man pointing the big Smith & Wesson at him. He knew without any doubt that whoever he was, he would have pulled the trigger without hesitation. The barrel of that gun never wavered. He didn't say or do anything after the first threat. He displayed absolutely no nervousness. None.

Walter had been so worried he might make a wrong move that he finally had to turn away and look down at the ground.

And the indignity of losing his gun so easily. Walter didn't know which was worse: losing the gun, or the pity they'd shown him by giving it back.

The whole thing had happened so fast. The time between the two incidents was only a matter of hours. Things moved so much more slowly when he was a cop. A case could take days, weeks. Worse, Walter was accustomed to failing without suffering too many consequences. Nothing much happened if you failed to solve a crime. But not with this situation.

Part of him wanted to get as far away from Milstein as possible, as fast as he could. Part of him wanted to redeem himself. Had to redeem himself.

Walter had been smart enough to plan a life after the NYPD. He'd seen so many cops talk big about cutting loose from all the bureaucratic bullshit. Crow about how they'd go work for a private security outfit or go out on their own. And then months later, Walter would see them sitting in a cop bar, drunker than ever, getting fatter and angrier than ever, heading toward a future of wet-brain irrelevance.