Among Thieves (40 page)

“I will. I have my charger.”

Beck turned to Ricky and spoke quietly.

“After you drop her off, get out to Coney Island Avenue. Watch that building Demarco told you about. It's important. We have to know when those guys are moving.”

“We're on it.”

“Thanks. You two are the best.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

Beck nodded once and slipped out of the van.

He stood in front of a rundown building that had obviously endured while the neighborhood around it had changed. It was part of a set of old Hell's Kitchen tenements squeezed in next to one another, five stories high, four windows across. They were depressing rent-controlled or rent-stabilized buildings that housed residents who had occupied the neighborhood for decades.

Beck pictured what Walter Pearce's apartment looked like.

A guy on a cop's pension, hanging on to a second-career job that wasn't much more than a glorified driver, living in that building in this neighborhood—Beck decided the ten thousand in his pocket might look pretty good to Walter Pearce.

He crossed the street and peered at the names listed next to the outside buzzers. Pearce's name was next to 3A.

There wasn't any intercom. Beck rang again. And waited. He rang again. Insistently, and waited. Finally, the buzzer sounded him in.

Beck trudged up the stairs to the third floor. The overheated air in the stairway redolent with cooking smells, Lysol, and the faint odor of cat spray reminded Beck of his youth. He'd grown up in a building like this not too many blocks away. The old round fluorescent ceiling fixtures, the glossy paint, and the smells were all familiar.

As Beck stepped around to the third-floor landing, Walter Pearce stood outside his apartment in slippers, a white T-shirt hanging over his pants, holding a Glock aimed at Beck.

Beck stopped.

“You.”

“Yeah. Me. Sorry if I woke you. It's important.”

Walter said, “Keep your hands where I can see them. What do you want?”

“To talk to you. It will be worth your while. Guaranteed.”

Pearce stood watching Beck. For a moment, Beck thought he might try to arrest him, but instead Pearce asked, “You armed?”

“Of course.”

“Don't bother taking anything out. Just move slow and keep your hands where I can see them. The second I see your hands move, I'll shoot you.”

“Fair enough.”

Walter motioned for Beck to come into his apartment.

The place was like Beck had pictured it. He stepped into a dark living room straight out of the fifties, filled with old, large furniture. A big couch with a coffee table in front of it. End tables. Two high-backed upholstered chairs with a standing ashtray in between. Dark green carpet covering most of the wood floor. Gray walls that needed a paint job to cover the decades of grime that had accumulated.

The two windows facing Fiftieth Street were covered by pull-down shades, flanked by heavy curtains with a floral pattern. Beck would have bet all the money in his pocket this was the apartment Pearce had grown up in.

Walter pointed to the couch. Beck sat, sinking into the worn-out cushions. Walter sat facing him in one of the upholstered chairs resting the Glock on his knee, pointed at Beck. The only light in the room was from a floor lamp next to Walter's chair.

“Talk,” said Walter.

Beck said, “I have ten thousand dollars I want to give you.”

“Why?”

“I'll explain.” Beck started to take out the money.

Walter barked, “Slowly.”

Beck picked out the wad of hundred-dollar bills with this thumb and forefinger and put it on the coffee table in front of him.

Beck said, “I had men tail you. I know you were at police headquarters. So apparently now you've got the cops on me.”

Walter didn't answer.

“Can I put my hands down?”

“Keep 'em where I can see 'em.”

“I presume Milstein used some of his leverage to get somebody high up to pull together the orders.”

Walter still said nothing.

Beck cocked his head as if to say, understandable. “Okay. Milstein is doing whatever the fuck he's doing. My guess is he wants to make sure he never sees me again, and I suppose he thinks it will endear him to his client. But I don't think he has any idea what Mr. Markov is capable of. The fact is, I'm his best chance to get this thing resolved in a way where he's not going to get hurt. Hurt badly. Or you for that matter.”

Still nothing from Pearce.

“But I can't do what I have to do if I'm locked up. Or if some cop gets nervous and shoots me. So I have an offer to make you.”

Finally, Walter spoke. “Go ahead.”

“Whatever you got going with Milstein, I figure you more than earned your keep. You found out who we are. You used your status as an NYPD detective to talk to the bosses at One PP about us. But what has he done for you? Has he really compensated you for something very few people could have done for him? I doubt it.”

“Go on.”

“And for what? So Milstein can go to Markov and say he's taken care of me? He's a moron. Even if the cops did manage to arrest me, I'd be out on bail right after they arraigned me. So what's that buy him? Eight, ten hours?”

“What about your partner with that thirteen tattooed on his neck? He'll be violated back to jail.”

“So what. It just means he'll get out a little later. You think anybody at Rikers is going to fuck with him while he's waiting for a grand jury to indict him? And trust me, they won't because let me make something clear, Mr. Pearce—nobody, and I mean nobody is going to make a case that will stick against Ciro Baldassare, or me. Not you. Not Milstein. Not anybody. You understand what I'm saying?”

Beck saw that Pearce was not taking the implied threat very well. Beck waved a hand to change Pearce's focus.

“Anyhow, who gives a shit about Ciro? Not Markov. Not Milstein. I'm the one they're interested in. And I'm clean. I have no criminal record. Trust me, Milstein won't ever make it to court.”

“What about me?”

“What about you? What's in it for you to back Milstein? He's not paying you enough. And you're out there getting the NYPD brass at One PP all worked up for what? For that little fuck Milstein? How's that gonna help you?”

Walter said nothing, but he shifted in his chair. “Hey, I was just the messenger.”

“Come on, Walter, if this thing blows up the fucking NYPD isn't going to make life miserable for Milstein. But you, you they can fuck with. Close every door there is on you. And if they really want to get shitty they can mess with your PI license and maybe even your pension.”

“For what reason?”

Beck leaned forward, “Since when do they need a reason? But getting the higher-ups to mount a big operation against me for nothing might be reason enough.”

“Hey, you're a fucking cop killer for chrissake. They're going to love having an excuse to come back at you.”

“Bullshit. Think it through. They fucked up before. Everything was dropped. Plus, the City and State had to pay me a shitload in the end. I'm fucking Kryptonite, man. You think they want to take me on for some asshole Wall Street prick? They're risking a lot of trouble, for what?”

Beck leaned forward again.

“Walter, I got the same crazy crusading lawyer ready to go back for round two, anytime, for any reason. Ten minutes after they arrest me, my lawyer will be suing everybody that had anything to do with this. He lives for that kind of an arrest. He'll find out all the brass that were involved. He'll turn over every fucking stone and trace back every meeting, every phone call. He'll connect every dot and name every one of those sons of bitches in an avalanche of complaints and lawsuits. And your name is going to be right in the middle of it.

“And guess what, when the shit goes down, the first fucking thing Milstein is going to do is fire you and forget your name. You'll be out on your ass, the department will blackball you, but he'll still have his business and his Park Avenue apartment and sit in Central Park smoking his fat cigar while his dog shits on the lawn. And you, you'll have nothing. No job and One PP telling everybody Walter Pearce is an asshole that caused them a ton of trouble.”

Walter snapped back, “All right, all right. I get your fucking point. But it's already done. What the hell can you do about it?'

Beck leaned back. “I can make everybody a hero, including you, except for Milstein. I can make all the shit fall on him. I can make you somebody the department will remember helped them.”

Walter screwed up his face in disbelief.

“Bullshit.”

“Try me.”

“How? How the hell you gonna make everybody a hero?”

Beck held his open hands in front of him. “All I need is for you to find out who they're sending after me. Find out who's in charge. Find out now. Tonight. And then tell that guy what I'm about to tell you.”

“Which is what?”

“Can you find who's in charge? Can you find that out? If you can, this will work. If not, you're right. There's probably nothing I can do.”

Walter wiped his face with his big hand. For the first time in the conversation, he let the Glock point away from Beck.

“Can you find out who's coming after me, Walter?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

“And one last thing, Walter.”

“What?”

“I don't like Milstein. He's a supercilious little fuck who let this whole stinking mess unroll. I don't like the fact that he thinks he can come after me. And I don't particularly like that he's going to use you and spit you out. If this works like I hope it will, I'll put another twenty thousand in cash on top of that ten. So, you'll not only be squared away with the department, you'll have a little cushion to tide you over until you get your next job.”

“So now you're my friend? Fuck you. I'm no charity case.”

“I'm not your friend. And it isn't charity. Trust me, you'll earn it.”

Walter pointed his gun at Beck again, this time with the butt resting on the arm of the chair to steady his aim. They were less than six-feet apart. He couldn't miss. Beck watched the anger well up in Pearce. He realized he might have gone too far. Demeaned Walter too much.

“What if I just shoot you now? You're armed. I put your gun in your hand, say I got the drop on you. Then I'm a hero for sure. Call the brass and tell them they don't have to go arrest you. Nobody gets tangled up with your lawyer. Milstein will kiss my ass. I pick up the ten thousand on the table. And I don't have to worry about your bullshit coming back at me.”

Beck nodded. “You could do that. Yeah. Definitely. Shoot me. Take my gun and put it in my hand. Fire it off in your direction. You might make it work.”

“That's what I figure.”

“But let me ask you something.”

“What?”

“What do you think the guy with that thirteen tattooed on his neck is going to do if you shoot me? Or the other guys you never saw and don't know about? Shoot me, Walter, and you might as well put the next bullet in your head and get it over quick, because you're a dead man.”

“Oh right—your gang. Let me tell you the biggest gang in New York. The fucking NYPD.”

Beck tipped his head, conceding the point. “Yeah, I've heard that one. Trouble is, Walter, you're not in that gang anymore. You're retired. Nobody is going to avenge Walter Pearce.”

Beck leaned forward a bit more, his hands now hanging down between his knees, his right hand inches away from the Glock 26 strapped to his left ankle. He watched Walter Pearce very carefully, spoke softly. “Think it through, Walter. You got no chance of this working out if you shoot me.”

Beck knew it would be a very tough move to get his gun out from under the cuff of his jeans. If he moved fast, right now, he had a chance to win the shoot-out. But it would be a Pyrrhic victory. He needed Walter Pearce. He moved his hand away from his ankle and sat back.

“What the hell, Walter, why not just hear me out? You can still take your chances and shoot me. And pick up the ten grand.”

Walter Pearce stared at Beck, his Glock pointed at the center of Beck's chest.

Beck crossed his left ankle over his right knee. He rested his right hand on his left ankle, inches from the Glock, sitting back on the couch, trying to appear totally relaxed. His hand was as close to his gun as he was going to get it. He figured if it came down to it, he might win a shoot-out. It would be a mess, but as much as he needed Walter Pearce, he wasn't going to let the big, morose, angry man shoot him.

“Come on, detective. Listen to the rest of it. Then decide.”

Finally, Walter nodded, laid his gun flat on his knee, and said, “Say what you have to say.”

Beck looked at his watch. He didn't have a lot of time. He started talking. Fast.

 

61

As soon as Beck got out, Jonas Bolo took Beck's place in the passenger seat, leaving Olivia to herself in the rear of the van.

Olivia laid her head back and closed her eyes. They were nearing the end. Crane was going to be moving fast now, and she didn't need to watch his trades. She knew what was left to do. Tonight he would be trading on the twenty-four-hour futures market. Some of his biggest positions were options on the S&P index. He'd be taking them down throughout the night. He also had big hedges in the currency markets which he could also trade overnight. In the morning, he'd start closing out whatever was left on the U.S. exchanges. It would easily be wrapped up by end of trading on Friday, if not before. Alan couldn't keep going much longer. And Markov wouldn't wait any longer.

Once she got out of this horrible van, she would call him. They had to make final arrangements. She was sure it would be no problem. Nydia would probably be sleeping or staring at a television screen.