Milstein closed his eyes, seeing what he was up against. “Anything else?”

Walter continued. “My guess is Mister Beck made some nasty friends during those eight years in prison, including Ciro Baldassare. It must have been a really tough stretch. You go into prison labeled a cop killer, life is not going to be easy. On the other hand, he certainly would have had some status with other prisoners. Kind of a good-news, bad-news thing.”

“Okay, Walter. Good work. What are your conclusions?”

Walter Pearce paused before he spoke, gathering his thoughts. He wanted to tell Milstein to get as far away from these people as fast as he could, but he knew it was too late for that.

“Like I said before, Mr. Milstein, these fellows are not your usual bad guys. They’re more sophisticated. Certainly Beck is. He’s clearly got a lot of enemies in law enforcement after what he pulled off, but he obviously has resources on the other side. I need to find out a hell of a lot more about him. Where’d he come from? What he was doing before he went to prison. Anything I can get on his prison record. But frankly, I don’t know that it will make much of a difference.”

Walter paused and then continued. “There are a lot of questions to answer, Mr. Milstein. What’s this man’s connection to Olivia Sanchez? How does she know Beck? Why did she send him after you? What exactly does she want? And if she gets it, does he go away? Or is it just the beginning of a long extortion that goes on and on until he gets everything he can? For sure, you don’t want to go up against this man until you know more about who he has behind him.

“I’m not saying these guys aren’t vulnerable. They have prison records. We could get this Baldassare fellow arrested for assault with a deadly weapon. He pulled a gun on me for chrissake. But then what? How many more are behind him?

“As for Beck, did he do any real damage to you? We can get him arrested, too, but proving something might be awful hard.”

Milstein thought about it. Beck hadn’t done anything that would show. There were no witneses. But maybe he could still file a complaint. Have him arrested.

Walter interrupted Milstein’s thoughts. “I’ll answer my question. The answer is no. Beck has resources. Access to a good lawyer, for one. And remember, he’s in a weird category. As far as the legal system is concerned, he doesn’t even have a traffic ticket. He had no criminal record before the bar fight, and the conviction was overturned. Expunged. They paid him damages. It’s like the crime never happened. It’s like he never served time. You can’t even use anything he might have done in prison.”

Milstein looked out at the dark night. Dawn hadn’t even begun to lighten the sky.

“Shit.”

Milstein wasn’t about to discuss Olivia Sanchez with Walter. What Walter had said was logical. Find out the connection, see what she wanted and all that. None of this was good news, but Walter had no real proof Beck was working for organized crime. Nevertheless, he had to find out more and hope Markov could convince Beck to take the payoff and leave.

“Okay, Walter. That’s very helpful.”

“Thanks.”

“I want you to messenger what you have to my building. Leave it at the concierge desk.”

Walter shook his head in dismay. Where the hell did Milstein think he was going to get a messenger at five o’clock in the morning from a diner in downtown Manhattan?

“I’ll drop it off myself. Then I’m going home to sleep.”

“Right. Okay. Fine. Listen, after you sleep, I want you to stay on this. See what else you can come up with on Beck. I want to know where he lives, how to find him. Anything else you can find out about his associates. Anything you can uncover.”

“All right,” said Walter. “I did some preliminary work. There’s no trace of Beck in any of the five boroughs looking through the usual resources. But I haven’t done a deep dive. I’m sure I can find him.”

“Good.”

“By the way, there are some expenses I’ll want you to cover, Mr. Milstein. Cash outlays. I’m not comfortable with waiting until my end-of-the-month bill.”

Milstein automatically wanted to argue about it, but was too tired. “How much?”

“Five hundred for the cop I hired to go into the department databases. And about seventy-five bucks for cabs I’m taking to get all this done.”

“Five seventy-five. I’ll leave an envelope for you with the concierge. When will you be back at this?”

“Sometime after two.”

“Fine.”

Milstein ended the cell phone connection. He looked at his watch. Laid his head back and closed his eyes. No question he had to unleash Markov. Olivia had gone way overboard. She couldn’t be allowed to get away with this. Beck had to be handled. Made to forget about threatening anybody, or demanding compensation. But would Markov see this his way?

And it wasn’t just Beck. What about that other guy? The ties to organized crime. Christ, that’s all I need, thought Milstein. Well, this Beck character seems to be the leader. Take care of him and maybe this mess could be put behind them.

Great, thought Milstein, all this shit and I’ll still be left with that maniac Crane. He’ll be worse than ever after this.

14

Markov dozed in his car after talking to Milstein. He woke as Vitaly pulled up to an old five-story apartment building on Brighton 4th Street that housed a Russian restaurant on the ground floor.

The south side of the building faced the ocean. The restaurant, however, had no view of the boardwalk. It was blocked by a decrepit one-story structure.

Markov owned several apartments in the building and held a long-term lease on the restaurant. He rented the restaurant space to a Ukrainian family he didn’t particularly like, but the family accommodated him whenever he wanted to come downstairs for a meal. Even at six o’clock in the morning when he felt like having blintzes and coffee.

He’d slept a few more hours on the living room couch in one of the apartments he owned, but wasn’t occupied at the moment. Now he sat downstairs in the restaurant eating cheese blintzes and slurping black coffee, thinking about the plan he had formed.

Stupid fucking Milstein, thought Markov.

As soon as Milstein had finished telling him about what Crane had done and the trouble the woman was making, he knew what he had to do. He didn’t need any more details about who did what to who.

He knew as sure as he knew his heart was beating that the fucking jackals were always lurking. Watching, circling, ready to tear off a bite for themselves. And another and another until you had nothing left. Now they were getting ready to tear into him and his money.

Alan knew it. He had seen it. Why else go after that woman? This fucking bitch, whoever she was, circling around, trying to make a name for herself, trying to get ahead using my money to do it. To justify her existence. Goddamn selfish cunt.

Crane was right to come down hard on her. To fend her off. But what an idiot, breaking her fingers. There were so many better, easier ways to take care of a nosey bitch before she went out and got some criminals to help her. Markov pictured this damn woman in a business suit mincing around trying to show everybody how smart she was. How diligent. With somebody else’s money, the arrogant fucking piece of shit opportunist cunt.

And now this evil bitch gets some mafia, some set of criminals to come after Milstein and Crane and his money.

What? Did Milstein think for a second that criminals live to perform some noble act to save the honor of a woman? Idiot. No, this was an attack on the money. My fucking money. The woman was just an excuse. An opportunity. A way in.

Like all fucking jackals they start with a negotiation. Come at Milstein like it was a business discussion. And Milstein believing it. Negotiating.