As they approached Madison Avenue, Milstein broke the silence.

“I’m beginning to wonder what the hell I pay you for.”

This was his chance, thought Pearce. Tell him you agree. Cut loose from this prick. Nothing good will come of this. But then what?

“I understand your frustration. But I still think without me it would have been worse. And not to excuse anything, but I don’t see anyone else who could have done much; one guy against three of them.”

“Three?”

“That first one walking past us had to be with them. To distract me. Us. While we were watching him, the other two slipped into position.”

“He left. So it was two, not three. And only one with you.”

“The third guy was out of sight, but I guarantee he wasn’t gone. Look, Mr. Milstein, I don’t want to argue with you. If you don’t want me around on this, fine. But I’ll tell you, this is serious. This is not just one man. He has a crew. And they are good at what they do.”

Milstein frowned as he listened to Walter. “What do you suggest?”

“What did he say to you?”

Milstein thought carefully before he answered. The light changed on Madison. They headed across, a cold wind suddenly gusting into them as they reached the middle of the avenue.

“I think he’s going to turn his attention elsewhere for now.”

Walter responded, “I’m not sure I know what that means. There must have been more than that. You don’t have to tell me, of course.”

“It’s complicated. But we came to an agreement.”

“So you think it’s possible he’s done bothering you?”

“Perhaps. But I definitely want to know who that man is. Do you have any way of finding out?”

Walter saw a chance to earn back some of the status he had lost. “Absolutely. And I intend to find out as soon as I can.”

“How? How soon can you find out?”

“I can start with the one who had the gun on me. He had a neck tattoo that I could just make out under the collar of his coat.”

“What was it?”

“The number thirteen. Tattoos are very good leads for identifying someone. Hopefully, I find him, he’ll lead me to the other one.”

“That’s the one I want to know about.”

“You should know about both of them. But you realize I’m going to have to work through a contact on the police force. Unless you want to bring this to the police now. Which might be smart.”

Milstein had no intention of calling in the police.

“Look, I don’t see the point of bringing in the police. You can find out who those men are quicker than they can, can’t you?”

“Yes. Mostly because we don’t have to get anybody up to speed on this if I do it. I’m going to start right after I leave you. Best way is to go into the NYPD databases at the Real Time Crime Center. I might be able to make something happen tonight. If not, first thing tomorrow.”

Milstein quickly thought through the issues. The fact that he might know who that man was before noon changed things. Gave him options with Markov, and perhaps leverage with Crane. But Pearce couldn’t know anything about that.

“Okay, do it as fast as you can. Call and leave me a message on my cell if I don’t pick up. Whenever you have something. I don’t care what time. By mid-morning, latest. Don’t worry about driving me tomorrow. Just keep on this until you find out who those men are.”

They had reached the front of Milstein’s building.

“Okay. Good night,” said Milstein abruptly as he turned off the sidewalk and headed for his lobby.

Walter continued east.

Halfway to the lobby door, Milstein unhooked the dog. Owen, the smiling red-haired doorman opened the door and Tam romped into the lobby. Milstein followed hunched over, softly rubbing the front of his neck where Beck had squeezed his windpipe. He checked his watch. Time to call Markov back. This was going to be a much different phone call than five hours ago.

11

Milstein’s wife had arrived home while he was out walking the dog. She generally kept her distance from him when he returned because she disliked the smell of cigar smoke that lingered on his clothes and his breath.

Milstein heard her in the bathroom down the hall near their bedroom. The dog hurried on into the bedroom, clearly preferring the company of Milstein’s wife.

He checked his watch and continued into the living room, pulled out another disposable cell phone from the desk drawer, and hit the speed dial. He sat down in the plush upholstered chair near the window overlooking Seventy-ninth Street, still wearing his down coat, keeping it on to dispel the chill that seemed to have seeped into his bones.

Leonid Markov answered on the second ring, “Yes?”

“Leonard, it’s Frederick. We have a problem.”

Markov was riding in a 1989 S-Class Mercedes, driven by his regular driver, Vitaly. It was nearing midnight, but Markov was wide awake, heading toward an apartment building he owned in the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn.

He had cleaned himself, showering and soaping in the hotel bathroom, soaking under a hot shower for nearly a half hour, still enjoying the effects of the drugs and alcohol. He used every last towel, even the hand towels and washcloths; left everything wherever it fell; dressed in one of his custom-made Hong Kong suits, and walked out of the hotel room, leaving it a mess. Not even bothering to check out.

He had rented the room with a stolen credit card, bought from a Web site run by underground hackers working somewhere in Ukraine. Even though he wasn’t going to be paying for the room, beyond the fifty dollars he spent on the credit card, Markov had still booked the room through an online discount service, and only after having compared prices, entered low bids, and haggled for an upgrade when he arrived at the hotel.

Markov responded to Milstein, “A problem? Why does nobody call me with solutions instead of problems? You are using the right phone?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the problem, and why is it my problem?”

“Leonard, I said we have a problem. Not you.”

“Tell me what that means, and don’t bullshit me. Is it about my money?”

“No. I mean, indirectly, of course everything is connected, but your money is safe and there are no unexpected losses or anything.”

“What is the problem?”

“Alan Crane got rough with one of my employees…”

Markov interrupted. “Who? What do you mean rough?”

“A woman named Olivia Sanchez.”

“What is she to me?”

“Nothing. At least nothing much. She’s on the firm’s oversight committee. So, she did watch over your holdings. To a certain extent.”

“Did?”

“She’s no longer with us.”

“So what’s the goddamn problem? Was Alan fucking her? Why did he get rough with her? Why should I give a shit?”

“I doubt he was fucking her. Maybe he was, everyone else around the place wanted to, but I doubt it. He got rough with her because she was making noise about some of his methods.”

Markov watched the dark waters of the East River flow past on his left as the car moved downtown on the FDR. He realized that he had to listen to this. He had to concentrate. His internal alarms were going off. Someone was trying to prevent the man who was supposed to make him money from doing what he wanted to do. This could cost him.

“Okay, Freddy, tell me exactly what’s going on. Exactly.”

“This woman, Olivia Sanchez, she was … part of her job was to make sure all the firm’s investments are…”—Milstein paused, thinking of exactly how he wanted to put it—“… are within the regulatory parameters.”

“What? What does that word mean, parameters? Tell me without bullshit terms.”

“Her job was to make sure anyone trading or investing for the firm wasn’t doing anything illegal. Or at least anything that would attract too much attention from the regulators. And as you know, sometimes Alan’s methods push the line a bit. Sometimes more than a little bit.”