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.