Among Thieves (32 page)

“We need to do this very soon,” said Kolenka.

“Yes.”

But even as he agreed, Markov began to calculate the time he would need. It was Thursday, a little before 6 a.m. Crane would certainly want Friday to trade. He imagined Kolenka would want to strike at night. So, earliest would be tonight, more likely early Friday morning.

For sure, there would be a massive police investigation. Markov could not be anywhere in New York when that happened. But if he closed out all his positions by the end of trading on Friday, assembled all the cash in his Cayman bank by the end of business Friday, he could fly out of New York Friday night. Meet in person with the Cayman bankers on Saturday to transfer the money someplace only he knew about. Set up the funds on the Isle of Wight, or maybe Andorra. Or Lichtenstein. Or maybe all three. No point leaving everything in one basket. The Syrian arms shipments should all be in place by then. Handle everything with the bank in Cayman and the transfer banks, leave Grand Cayman the same day to a place outside the U.S., but civilized. Disappear. Settle in Prague, perhaps. Perhaps Sicily. Just lay low. Stay out of circulation as he planned his next moves.

Beck would be eliminated once and for all. And in all likelihood, the woman was with Beck, so she, too, would die. But if not, if she was hiding somewhere else, he would find her and take care of her later. For now, Markov knew he had to gather his assets and disappear.

This was going to cost him. Certainly Kolenka would demand a large payment. Speculating with his investment would cost him millions. But there were always reversals in business. He told himself to never look back. Crane would preserve enough to meet his obligations, and be ready for the next deal. There was always another deal.

“Agreed,” said Markov. “Thursday night, early Friday morning.”

Kolenka asked Markov, “And how many men can you give me? Good men,”

“How many do you need? For what?”

“To wipe this Beck and all around him off the map of life.”

“I'll give you whatever you need. What is your plan?”

“I'll tell you after I send men in to look around. To see exactly what is where.”

Markov asked, “Do you have men that can do that? Without being spotted?”

Kolenka shrugged.

Markov said, “I have the best. Three men. Highly trained. They will be meeting me at JFK in a few hours. We can send them into Beck's neighborhood. Nobody will connect them to us. They know how to fit into any area. They are experts, I guarantee it. They'll get whatever intelligence you need.”

“Fine. Have them go in this afternoon. We'll see what we have to do. We make a plan. We end this, now.”

“Agreed.”

“Yes, and then you and I will agree on how much you will be paying me.”

 

47

Milstein and Walter Pearce were the only occupants in the Summit offices at 7:10 a.m. on a Wednesday morning.

They sat in Milstein's office, a surprisingly small space, situated in the southeast corner of the twenty-eighth floor. The building at that height was oddly shaped, so that Milstein's office didn't occupy a full corner, but rather a section of a triangle. Milstein liked the shape of his office because with him sitting behind his desk, anyone else in his office was relegated to the cramped and disorienting space on the other side of his desk.

Although it was a workday, Milstein wore casual weekend clothes. Brown corduroy pants, open-collar blue button-down shirt, a tan V-neck cashmere sweater, all of it about a size too big for his small frame.

Pearce sat uncomfortably at the side of Milstein's desk. His rumpled suit, white shirt, and blue-striped tie looked like he had been wearing them all day.

A large Styrofoam cup of coffee from the office kitchen sat on the floor next to his size fifteen shoes. He needed it. His frustration, anger, and Milstein's insulting phone call had kept him from sleeping soundly. He'd finally gotten out of bed at around four and stubbornly continued to work on finding James Beck.

He used a lawyer friend's subscription to LexisNexis and kept pounding away at legal and public records that had any connection to Phineas P. Dunleavy, his enmity at the lawyer's dirty trick fueling him. He tracked through one paper trail after another until he found the name of a James Beck listed as a managing partner buried in closing documents on one of the properties Dunleavy's law firm had acquired. Bingo. Pearce knew he would have to take a quick drive to the building to verify that Beck actually lived at that address, but his gut told him he had succeeded in finding out where James Beck lived.

He sat waiting for the right moment to let Milstein know the information he had uncovered, which would be the moment when Milstein lodged his next complaint. Told him how incompetent he was, or threatened him.

Milstein shifted in his seat. Working himself up to something.

“So, Walter, I asked you up here so I could tell you face-to-face.”

Instead of waiting for it silently, Walter pushed it.

“Tell me what, Mr. Milstein? How disappointed you are in me?”

Walter's directness surprised Milstein. “Well … “

“Well, what?” pressed Walter.

“Well, uh, yes, actually. It's been days since I asked you to find out about those men and you seem to be completely stuck.”

Walter interrupted Milstein. “It's been about thirty hours since we walked out of Central Park and you told me to find those men, Mr. Milstein.”

“What? Oh, well, it certainly seems longer. You know, I hired you mainly as my driver and to watch out for me. But the reason you got the job was because you were a cop. A detective. Someone who could find things out for me if I needed it. I'm overpaying you as a driver, Walter.”

“And way underpaying me as an investigator, Mr. Milstein. Although I'm sure you figure to get the best end of it however it works out.”

Milstein squinted at Walter Pearce. This wasn't going as he expected. He started to respond, but Walter held up his hand to stop him.

“The fact is, Mr. Milstein, this fellow Beck and his associates have gone to a lot of trouble not to be found.”

“I don't like excuses.”

“Not an excuse. Just a fact. But I've been working on this nonstop and I've succeeded. I identified the one who held me at gunpoint in the park. I identified Beck. And now I know where we can find Beck. I doubt anybody else could have cracked this sooner than I have.”

“You cracked it?”

“Don't look so surprised.”

“You're sure?”

“Ninety-nine percent. I just have to drive out to the location and verify it.”

Milstein sat motionless. Walter watched him go through a calculation. And then it hit Walter. Milstein had called him up to his office not to complain, but to fire him. Son of a bitch.

“Well, that's good news, Walter. I'm glad to hear it.”

Goddamn this fucking Milstein. Walter had to force himself to stay in his chair. This little snake, cocksucker, just sitting there waiting to drop the hammer. He was tempted to get up and leave. No, no way. He'd put in too much work. Better to play this right, cash in, then walk out on this fucking asshole when it suited him.

“I would hope so,” Walter said. “Like I said, over thirty hours pretty much nonstop. Cashing in a lot of favors people owe me.”

“I see.”

Walter asked, “So, do you have an idea how you want to use this information?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. That's why it was so frustrating not to have what I need.”

“What's your plan?”

“I've been talking to someone at my law firm. A man I trust. A man with connections to the NYPD.”

“So you want to call in the police?”

Milstein leaned back. He had no intention of explaining his thinking to Walter Pearce. He had decided not to leave this up to Markov. A murder investigation into Olivia Sanchez or James Beck would surely implicate him. He had to get it on record that he had done the right thing. Reported his part of it to the proper authorities. And if the police took Beck out of the picture, Markov would thank him in the end.

“Yes,” he answered. “I think that's the best course of action now. Especially since you have solid information we can give them.”

Walter shrugged. “All right.”

Milstein tipped forward, put his elbows on the desk, assuming the role of a decisive C-suite executive.

“Here's what I want to do, Walter. I've spoken to a contact at my law firm. He knows a high-level police official that he says can help us. We've got solid information on who assaulted me. It was assault, right?”

“You said the man threatened you. And tried to extort money from you. That's felony assault.”

“Yes.”

“A known felon pulled a gun on me. That's a ticket back to prison right there. You have plenty to bust these guys on. Plus, when the cops hit them, I'll bet a dollar to a donut they'll find weapons and probably more.”

“Exactly. And all we have to do is give my contact at NYPD the information, and he'll take it from there.”

“And how much juice does your contact have?”

Milstein shuffled folders and papers on his desk and uncovered a legal pad. “He's a bureau chief.”

“Do you know which bureau?”

Milstein looked at his notes. “Patrol.”

Walter nodded, relieved. Milstein had no idea how the NYPD was organized. There were dozens of senior police officials in divisions that wouldn't be able to do much for them. But someone high up in Patrol, that would work.

“Okay,” Walter said. “He'll have to run it through borough command in Brooklyn, but that shouldn't be a problem if he wants to help us.”

“Good. Good. So I'll arrange a meeting with him. Today.”

“If you can.”

“Oh, trust me. I can make this happen.”

Walter looked at his watch. It was an old digital Casio that showed the time and date. “What is it, not even eight? Still early in the day. I'd say the sooner I meet with him, the better.”

“I'll set it up. How soon do you think they can arrest these men and put them away?”

“Well, if I talk to your bureau chief today and he kicks it into gear, late tonight, early Friday morning sometime. But you have to file a complaint, and get a court to issue an arrest warrant.”

“Don't worry about that. My lawyer said he can get that done in a matter of hours.”

“Good. You want me to drive out to the location, verify that Beck is there?”

“No. We don't have time for that. As soon as I get the warrants I want you to meet with this bureau chief.”

“What's his name?”

Milstein looked at a legal pad near his phone. “Waldron. I want the cops to take over now.”

Walter figured he'd teed up Milstein just enough.

“Well, that's all fine, Mr. Milstein, but you and I have to come to an agreement.”

Milstein's brow creased. It took him a nanosecond to know that Walter was about to put the squeeze on him.

“What do you mean?”

Walter laid his big arm on Milstein's desk and leaned toward. “Let's not bullshit each other. You were about to drop the hammer on me, Mr. Milstein. You've never brought me up here before. You were about to fire me.”

Milstein frowned. He had underestimated Walter Pearce. He'd grown accustomed to seeing him as a big slow plodder. He'd made a mistake. Walter might be a lummox physically, but there was nothing slow about his brain.

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes.”

Milstein narrowed his eyes. If Walter was going to walk, he would have already done it. So now it was just a matter of negotiating.

“I see.”

“Apparently there's not a lot of job security around here.”

Milstein settled into his negotiating stance.

“You have an employee contract with us, don't you?”

“And it says I can be let go with two weeks' notice. And vice versa.”

Milstein nodded. Might as well get right to it.

“So what are you saying here, Walter? You saying you're not going to give me the information I need until we come to some sort of agreement? The information that I paid you to get. The information obtained while you were drawing a salary from me.”

Walter didn't hesitate. “That's what I'm saying.”

Milstein said, “Are you looking to get sued for breach of contract, Walter?”

“Sure, why not.” Walter laughed. “Sue me. That'll get you what you need.”

Milstein let out a slow breath. “All right, Walter, before this gets any more acrimonious, tell me what you want.”

“Everything I can get,” he replied.

“Oh come on, Walter. Don't play the tough guy asshole. It doesn't suit you.”

“I always heard, whoever says the first number is the loser.”

“Not when the first number is the last and final number. You really want to play this game with me?”

Now Walter leaned back.

“All right. Here's where I stand. First, I've got information that cost me a lot. A lot of time and wear and tear. But it also cost me putting myself at risk. Getting information out of NYPD databases is a risk I don't need in my life. I get caught at that, I could lose my PI license. Maybe even my pension.

“As far as getting a high-up bureau chief to help you, you might like it, but I don't. The minute he sees what I have, he'll suspect I tapped into inside information. Maybe this chief won't have any cause or chance to do anything to me about that. Maybe he will. Bottom line, it doesn't help me.”

“So then I'll meet with him,” said Milstein.

“We both know that's ridiculous. You won't know where to start. You won't know if he's just bullshitting you. And he'll know you didn't do the legwork. Which means he won't trust you, and he'll do nothing for you. Certainly not until he vets everything you tell him, and you want this taken care of now.