Among Thieves (5 page)

Beck hadn't bothered to picture Manny's cousin, but if he'd tried he wouldn't have come close to the woman who stood in front of him with a slight smile, her hand extended.

“Hello, I'm Olivia.”

Beck gripped her hand lightly and felt a firm grip in return.

She nodded. He stared. She waited, accustomed to the effect she had on men.

She was about five six. She had strong, but feminine features, an elegant nose, beautifully shaped full lips, large eyes, and a nearly fantasy figure: long-limbed and thin with a model's wide shoulders, but with full breasts and shapely hips. She wore little if any makeup. She didn't need it. Her smooth skin had a natural glow, the tone somewhere between olive and gold.

She took her hand from Beck's and stepped aside to let him enter. He walked past her into a long, narrow, comfortably furnished living room, but Beck didn't notice the room much. He turned back toward Olivia so he could look at her again. She wore jeans and a deep maroon turtleneck cashmere sweater.

“Can I take your coat?” she asked.

“Sure.”

He passed the heavy coat to Olivia. When she turned to put the coat in the closet, he saw that her thick shiny black hair was pulled back into a pony tail that reached just past her shoulders.

When she reached for a hanger a bit awkwardly, he noticed the cast on her left hand, encasing her little finger and ring finger. The plaster extended past her left wrist.

She closed the closet and turned to lead him into the living room. She moved easily, without any affectation, but it seemed like an extra life force animated her body.

Beck forced himself to stop staring at her and take in the room. Dark wood floors, crown molding, furniture in greens and beige, with prewar plaster walls painted in various delicate shades of green. It all served to make the room seem warm, comfortable, and inviting.

She led Beck to a couch flanking a wood-burning fireplace, where embers glowed and occasional flames licked the remains of a small log. She placed a piece of split hardwood onto the embers, and took a seat opposite him in a comfortable leather chair backlit by the late afternoon light coming through leaded windowpanes behind her.

A private, quiet retreat perched above the blustery Hudson River. Beck wondered how many men would have given how much to be alone in this apartment with a woman that looked like Olivia Sanchez. For Beck, however, it made things slightly uncomfortable and off-balance.

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”

Beck remembered he hadn't finished his morning coffee. He checked his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon.

“No, thanks.”

She sat back in the chair, waiting for Beck to start the conversation.

“This is a very interesting apartment. Quite a location.”

“Yes. People love this place. They built these apartments in nineteen twenty six. It's like nothing else. I love the river. I can walk to the train station in ten minutes. Twenty-two minutes to Grand Central.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Four years. I don't own. I rent from the owner, but someday I'll buy one of these places for myself. When the opportunity comes up. And if I can get the money.”

“It's a co-op?”

“Condo. They don't limit the amount of time an owner can rent out. Just the number of units.”

Beck nodded. “How'd you decide on this place?”

“Oh, kind of putting all my needs together. When I first moved here, my mother was living in Mott Haven, so I could just cut across the Bronx to visit. But she's gone now. Mainly it's the proximity to Manhattan. Like they say, location, location, location. And you, Mr. Beck, where did you grow up?”

“Manhattan. Hell's Kitchen. They call it Clinton now. My father worked on printing presses. There were a lot of them on the west side in those days.” Okay, Beck thought that should do it for the polite part. “So, Manny tells me you've been having some trouble.”

“Some trouble?” She emphasized the word
some.
“It's the worst trouble I've ever had in my life. How much did he tell you? I mean, he told me you'd be coming, and…”

“And what?”

“And he said I could trust you.”

Beck nodded.

“Manny never says much, but he did tell me you helped him with his parole. And after he got out. And that you do that for a lot of men coming out of prison.”

“No. Not a lot of men.”

“Well, Manny told me that you're smart and you can help me. I'm glad you're here.”

Beck nodded again, but didn't comment. He noted that Olivia spoke slowly, precisely as if she wanted to make sure she'd banished her Spanish accent. Beck thought he could pick up a trace of it. Maybe it was just a Bronx accent.

“So, what's going on? It's better if I hear it directly from you.”

“Right. Manny wasn't very interested in the details anyhow. I'm sort of worried I brought him into this.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know Manny. He's pretty black and white.”

Beck thought that was a euphemistic way of putting it. “Yes. He is black or white.” For or against. Dead or alive. “You're right to be worried about getting Manny involved.” Beck nodded toward her cast. “His first impulse is to kill the man who did that to you.”

Olivia's brows furrowed. “That's not at all what I want.”

“Good. But what do you want?”

Olivia looked at Beck for a few moments, maybe trying to decide if he was giving her a hard time or not. Or maybe thinking about her answer.

“Okay,” she said, repeating Beck's question as if asking herself. “What do I want?” She paused, as if she needed a moment to think it through. “I got hurt and threatened by somebody who's stronger and more powerful than me. So I reached out to somebody who I think is strong and powerful, too. In his own way. And now I've got you involved. And you don't look like a pushover either. So what do I want? I want help. But now you've got me worried about what Manny might do. I mean, that would just make everything worse, right?”

“Yes. It would. What exactly happened to you?”

She paused. Gathering her thoughts. “I work for an investment firm. One of the top traders there, a partner who runs a hedge fund for the firm, heard something about me that he didn't like.”

“Alan Crane?”

“Yes. Alan Crane. Manny told you his name?”

“Yes.”

“A couple of weeks ago, he walks into my cubicle about seven-thirty. There's a lot of meetings during the day, and a lot of times I stay to get work done. Anyhow, he starts yelling and screaming at me, and carrying on.”

“About what?”

“About me interfering with his business. Sticking my nose in where it doesn't belong. Stuff like that.”

“Okay.”

“He was out of control. He just kept at it, getting more and more wound up.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“No. I never had a chance. I thought he was going to hit me. And then, without warning, he slammed his fist down on my hand.” She grimaced at the memory of it. “It was completely shocking. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. He kept yelling at me. Threatened to kill me.”

“He threatened to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“How exactly did he threaten you?”

Olivia imitated Alan Crane. “You get in my fucking way, you fuck with my business I'll fucking kill you. I'll have you wiped off the earth. You won't even be a shit stain on the ground when I'm done with you. You'll be gone. Disappeared. Dead.” Screaming them. She returned to her normal voice. “A string of disgusting threats like that.”

Beck frowned.

“A hedge fund guy?”

“Yes.”

“Threatening to kill you.”

“Yes. I mean, I don't know if he was serious. He was crazy. Out of control.”

“When he smashed his fist down on you, was that intentional? Did he mean to do it? Did he aim, or was he just banging his fist on your desk and your hand was in the way?”

Olivia shook her head slightly, thinking back. “It didn't seem like an accident.” She looked away, recalling the moment. “I don't know. I was typing on my computer, facing away from the opening to my cubicle. I turned toward him. One hand on my desk, the other on the arm of my chair. Then the yelling and screaming while he was leaning over me and wham. Maybe he wasn't aiming. I don't know. All I know is it hurt so much, I was so shocked—I just couldn't believe it happened. But it did.”

“You were sitting.”

“Yes.”

“He was standing over you?”

“Yes. But more like leaning over me. His face down in front of mine. Well, yeah, I guess he wasn't really looking at my hand. He was pounding on my desk, yelling at me, and…”—Olivia made a hammer fist motion with her right hand—“… he slammed his fist down. Does it matter if he was aiming?”

“Everything matters.”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “I don't know. It all happened so fast.”

“All right. I understand. So, now—why did he do that? You said it was about you interfering with his business. What the hell could you have done that would make him do that to you—show up out of nowhere, smash your hand, threaten to kill you?”

Olivia leaned toward Beck, as if she had prepared for the question and was ready to give her answer. “Okay, how much do you know about small dealer brokers? About hedge funds?”

“Some. Not much.”

“Well, I'm sure more than Manny knows. Anyhow, Summit is a small company. Started by a man named Frederick Milstein. He opened the place with family money and investments from a few clients about twenty years ago.

“He kept Summit private from day one. Never got acquired, never merged. At his peak he had maybe fifty people working for the company. Financial advisors, traders, support staff. The place ran pretty clean for a long time. Maybe a little trading stuff back and forth inside the firm among the top guys for their better clients, fees and commissions not exactly transparent, but nothing really off the charts.”

Beck wasn't exactly sure why she was telling him all this, but he nodded and said, “Go on.”

“Anyhow, over these last few years it's been harder and harder for smaller companies to stay profitable. Regulatory costs are crushing them. Competition is insane. Everything's tougher. Clients are less patient.”

“Uh huh.”

“So more and more small firms are setting up internal trading groups to try and generate profits. That's where it gets sticky. They set up hedge funds to get the leeway they need. Black box backroom stuff.” Olivia waggled her hand. “Some are legit quants thinking they have a system to rule the markets. Some of it's flash trading, but that's way too expensive for an outfit like Summit to set up. Others, not so legit. I'm licensed as a broker and financial advisor, but I don't really run money. I don't trade. I mostly monitor other money managers. And administrate. Part of the risk and compliance group.”

“So you know what's going on.”

“Yes. Although someone at Crane's level, he doesn't really report to anyone but Milstein. We're supposed to monitor every trade, but if they want to intentionally keep stuff from the risk group, we can't really stop them. But I've been with the company for eight years, and I'm close to Milstein. I know who does what, who earns what. Everybody talks to me. So, I pick up stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Like trades that are moving outside the risk parameters.”

“Whose trades? Crane's?”

“Yes.”

“Anybody else?”

“No. Mostly just the money Crane was running.”

“And Milstein knows about it?”

“Yes. I mean, Milstein makes sure the right firewalls are in place. But he lets Crane run his operation. He knows if something blows up really big, it can take us all down, but he needs the profits Crane generates.”

“And how likely is Crane to blow up?”

“Over the long run, it's pretty much inevitable. But short term? Who knows? If he's lucky, it could go on for quite some time.”

“What's he doing?”

Olivia shook her head. “It's not just one thing. It's a series of things. A lot of it connected to short selling. Do you know what short selling is?”

“It's something you do when you think a stock is going down in value.”

“Right.”

Beck said, “You borrow shares of a stock, own it at a given price. If the stock goes down, you decide at what point you will pay for it, plus the cost of borrowing. The difference in price is your profit. If the stocks go up, you lose. You have to cover the difference. But I admit, the mechanics of it are a little murky to me.”

“I'm impressed. What about naked short selling?”

“Not as clear on that. Isn't it illegal?”

“It's not completely illegal. You can do it in foreign markets and in the United States if you follow SEC regulations, but those regulations pretty much eliminate the advantages, so the guys who do it often skirt the legalities. It amounts to short selling, but never actually taking ownership of the stock. Never delivering it back.”

“I'm not going to bother asking how you do that. But what's the point? You save borrowing costs?”

“For starters. But the main advantage is the leverage. If you don't plan on delivering the stocks anytime soon, if ever, you can leverage the whole thing by buying up tons of shares. Some guys ratchet up the leverage with options. Crane's been known to do that, too.

“Anyhow, you don't take true ownership. Of course, eventually you have to complete the transaction. You can delay delivery for some time, but not forever. If you cover the short, you get creamed, but traders who don't care about the rules”—Olivia raised her good hand and made a quote sign as she said the word—”
buy
, huge amounts of stock because they don't tie up capital to cover it. And then they do all sorts of shady stuff to ensure the stock price goes lower.”