Among Thieves (7 page)

“Yes. The more I say to you about it, the more you know, the worse it could be for you. You get that, right?”

“I suppose, but I'm not sure where that leaves me.”

She suddenly moved over to the fire, picked up an iron poker, and stabbed at the charred log, sending sparks up the flue, taking her frustration out on the husk of burning wood.

She turned to Beck, “Are you going to help me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Is there anything I should do?”

“First, don't call Manny. There can't be any record of contact between you and him.”

“For how long?”

“Until I tell you.”

“Okay.”

“If we need to talk, I'll find a way to contact you. Next, and think about this before you answer, you have to assure me that no matter what happens, no matter who asks you, the police, the DA's office, whoever—you will swear to them that you never talked to Manny Guzman about any of this. On the outside chance they go after your phone records and find out you contacted him, you never said anything to him about Summit or Crane or any of it.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You answered that too quickly, Olivia.”

“I don't care. It's true. It's nobody's business who I talk to or what I said.”

Beck made a face. “Of course it is. The chances of this getting messy are very high. Do you understand? Can you stand up to cops grilling you about it? Pressing you?”

“Yes. If it means just keeping my mouth shut, yes. I'm not all that good at outright lying, but I can refuse anybody.”

I'll bet you can, Beck thought.

“Okay. And the same goes with regard to me. Anybody asks about me, you tell them nothing. Not, you don't know me. Not, you do know me. Nothing. If they arrest you, you tell them to talk to your lawyer.”

“Arrest me?”

“If … If … On the unlikely chance that happens, you tell them nothing except you want to talk to your lawyer.”

“I don't have a lawyer.”

“Well you will if it comes to that.”

“Christ, what are we talking about here?”

“We're talking about you and Manny Guzman. He is a known criminal. He still has years left on his parole. Anything he gets involved in, the assumption is going to be that a crime has been committed or soon will be. There's none of this innocent-until-proven-guilty shit with convicted felons. Once you're a felon in America, it's the opposite. That's how it works. So the first rule is, you don't tell anybody anything about this. Especially law enforcement. Not one fucking word, except your name and address and get me my lawyer. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Ever. Name and address and get me my lawyer.”

She raised her voice. “Okay.”

Beck could see he was unnerving her, but he didn't care. He didn't care how beautiful she was, or how unfairly she had been treated, she had to know what she was getting into.

He stood up from the couch, facing Olivia standing in front of the fire. Whether it was the glow of the fire against the fading twilight, or the intensity of her vulnerability and distress, Beck knew he had to force a distance between them.

“Okay. That's enough for now.”

She could see that Beck was about to leave. “What are you going to do?”

Beck hesitated, then said, “I'm going to try to get you what you want. And then I'm going to try to somehow convince Manny getting you what you want should end this.”

“All right,” was about all Olivia could muster.

“If I need your help, more information, whatever, I'm assuming you're prepared to see this through.”

“Of course.”

“Where can I find Milstein?”

“Why?”

The question annoyed Beck. He ignored it. “Where can I find him? What's he look like?”

Olivia walked to a desk in the far corner of the living room. She picked up her laptop and brought it over, sat back down, set the computer on her knees, and logged in to the Summit Web site. She clicked through to the page featuring Milstein's bio.

She turned the laptop around so Beck could see the screen.

“The picture is about five years old. He's a bit grayer, but that's him. He's a small man. Skinny. Always wears a suit and tie. A little hunched over. Not exactly the nicest guy in the world.”

Beck leaned toward her and took in the picture of Milstein.

“Summit is at Fifty-seventh and Lex?”

“Yes. The twenty-seventh and eighth floors. Milstein works on twenty-eight. Crane, too. But at separate ends of the floor.”

“How late does Milstein work?”

“Until six. Pretty much on the dot.”

“What about Crane?”

“It varies. He's one of those guys where things revolve around his schedule. He has a place in Miami, and he lives in a loft in Tribeca. Both residences are hooked in with the Summit computer system. He works from home quite a bit.”

“Where does Milstein live?”

“Seventy-ninth and Park. He has his driver pick him up and take him home, even though it's only a fifteen-minute walk. Always the same driver. A big guy. Ex-cop.”

Beck reacted immediately. “An ex-cop?”

“Yes. I guess he's sort of a bodyguard, too.”

“Why would Milstein need a bodyguard?”

“I don't think he does. He's mostly a driver, but Milstein thinks it's cool to keep a big guy with a gun around who people will assume is a bodyguard. Like a status symbol or something.”

Beck frowned. Armed ex-cops didn't exactly fit in with a Wall Street type.

“All right, let's leave it at that for now. If I need to, I'll be in touch. If we get lucky, you won't hear from me until this is over.”

“Right.”

Olivia stepped toward Beck and took hold of his forearm. He could smell her soap, or shampoo. Something fresh. Something that fit her exactly.

“Thank you,” she said.

She was holding his arm firmly. The contact unnerved him, which surprised Beck. The closeness of her, the touch, she had crossed the normal barrier that separated them.

Beck gave in to the desire to touch her back. He placed his hand on top of her hand, almost as if he were going to remove it. Her skin was incredibly smooth and warm. It seemed as if he could actually feel the sheen of it.

“Okay,” he said.

She let go of his forearm; he let her hand fall away from his immediately.

She turned away from Beck, leading him back to her front door. He took his coat from her, nodded once, and walked out the door, wanting to get outside quickly, to get away from Olivia Sanchez.

In a moment, he was making his way through the Escher-like maze of staircases and arches and walkways that connected the condo's units. He checked his watch. He'd been there nearly an hour.

He spotted the black Mercury parked at the fire hydrant about thirty feet down the block. He slid into the passenger seat. Settled back and exhaled.

Demarco looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Beck shook his head. “Christ.”

“Christ what?”

“Christ sake this isn't what I expected.”

“How so?”

Beck grimaced, scratched the back of his neck, ran his hand back and forth over the top of his head.

“That bad?”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don't know. Not good.”

“Why?”

“It sounds like there might be some nasty players behind this.”

“Like who?”

“Like a fucking Russian arms dealer for starters.”

Demarco frowned. “How'd that happen?”

“Money, man. A lot of fucking money.”

“So now what?”

“I gotta get a handle on this fast. Have to try and make things right for Manny's cousin, at least right enough so Manny will back off for now. And do it fast before too many snakes crawl out from under rocks.” Beck's voice faded out, lost in his thoughts. “And not leave any trail.” Beck shook his head, stared out the windshield. “Shit.”

Demarco didn't bother asking Beck what he was wrestling with. He just repeated, “So now what?”

Beck looked at his watch. Almost five o'clock. There was time.

“Fifty-seventh and Lex.”

 

5

Traveling against the rush hour traffic, Demarco and Beck reached Milstein's office building on the northwest corner of Fifty-seventh and Lexington Avenue at five minutes to six.

Unlike most of the buildings up and down Fifty-seventh Street, the south-facing side of the structure was scooped out in a gentle arc, leaving a large area for an open plaza.

Demarco parked on the south side of Fifty-seventh facing east, in a no-standing zone.

At exactly 6 p.m. a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up and slid to the far end of the bus stop just in front of Milstein's office building on the north side of Fifty-seventh. The Lincoln was a late model, cleaned and buffed to a high shine. There was no car service number displayed in the window. The driver filled most of the front seat. His head nearly touched the roof.

Beck jumped out of the Mercury Marauder, crossed Fifty-seventh, and blended in with the flow of pedestrians. He walked across the plaza and stepped through a revolving door into an opulent lobby that was surprisingly compact, about seventy-five feet wide from east to west, but only fifteen feet deep.

There was a small security desk just past the revolving door. Straight ahead six elevators emptied into a central corridor.

There were no turnstiles or security guards other than two men who sat behind the desk off to the right. A few people waved keycards at an electronic pad set into the west wall on their way out.

Beck stepped to his left, away from the security desk, out of the flow of people leaving the building. He watched carefully for a short man amidst the groups of people getting off the various elevators.

Beck checked his watch. Three minutes after six. And here he came, head down, slightly bent over, just as Olivia had described him. He was hatless—making it easier to spot his nearly white hair.

He wore a dark overcoat, tie and suit. Dress shoes.

Beck stepped in front of him before Milstein reached the revolving door, calling his name so that he would look up.

“Mr. Milstein.”

Milstein stopped, squinted up at Beck. “Who are you?”

“I'm a friend of Olivia Sanchez. I'd like to speak to you about her.”

Milstein continued staring at Beck. “Are you a process server?” Before Beck could answer, Milstein answered for him. “No, or you'd have already served me. I don't know you and I'm not interested in talking to you about Olivia Sanchez, or anything else.”

Milstein tried to step around Beck to get into the revolving door, but Beck blocked his path, saying, “It would be better if you talked to me.”

Even though Beck was much bigger than Milstein, the smaller man tried to shove Beck aside. He snarled, “Get out of my way.” Beck hardly moved, but Milstein quickly stepped around Beck and ducked into one of the revolving door sections. Despite his size Beck was just as quick as Milstein. As Milstein began to push the revolving door, Beck slipped into the section behind him, grabbed the door bar, and pulled back hard.

Milstein banged into the glass. Furious, he pushed hard to get out, but found himself trapped. He turned and yelled an obscenity at Beck. Beck shoved the revolving door forward, smacking Milstein with the heavy slab of glass, sending Milstein sprawling out onto the plaza. Beck followed quickly and lifted Milstein up by his right arm, pulling the smaller man nearly off his feet. He spun and pinned Milstein against the wall next to the revolving door.

He'd done it so swiftly that it almost looked as if Beck had helped a fallen man back to his feet. But the flurry of motion caught the eye of Milstein's driver. When he saw Milstein fall, he quickly got out of the car to see what was going on with his boss.

Beck pinned Milstein firmly against the wall with his forearm and elbow.

“I asked you nicely, now I'm telling you. I'm going to talk to you about Olivia Sanchez. It won't take much time. I suggest you answer my questions. It'll be much easier than the alternative.”

Milstein ignored Beck, looking past him. Beck guessed that Milstein's bodyguard was heading his way, because the smaller man threatened him, “Take your goddamn hands off me or I'll have you arrested. My driver is an ex-cop and he's…”

Beck cut him off, “If you're smart, you'll tell him to get back in the car.”

Instead, Milstein yelled over Beck's shoulder, “Walter. Walter, get over here and get this son of a bitch off me.”

Beck turned, let go of Milstein and stepped forward a few paces to meet the bodyguard, a big man, pear-shaped, wide-hipped, with long arms and plenty of bulk. Beck figured him to be close to six foot six, at least two hundred fifty pounds. He came straight at Beck.

Beck pointed at him and said, “If you touch me I'll put you down. If you pull your gun, I'll kill you.”

For a moment the threats confused the big man, but quickly angered him enough so that he came at Beck with surprising speed, rearing back his right fist aimed at Beck's face.

Beck didn't duck or even blink. He leaned to his right and let the punch move past his cheek, then pivoted, grabbed the big man's right wrist with his right hand, and punched him hard on the back of his arm just above the elbow, hitting a bundle of nerves that paralyzed the bodyguard's arm and caused sharp, intense pain.

Beck turned the paralyzed arm at the wrist, shoved at the back of the man's shoulder and swept the bodyguard's right leg out from under him. The ex-cop went down hard onto his left knee.

Beck kept his grip on the arm and could have twisted the man's shoulder out of the socket, but instead he kept the arm levered high, leaned close, and spoke into the bodyguard's ear.

“You're lucky you still have an arm you can use. I should have you arrested for assault and end your fucking career, but you're just doing your job for this asshole, so we'll let this one go. Don't make this mistake again. Don't ever come at me again, you understand?”