16

They had put Alan Crane in a chair at the end of his beautiful cherrywood dining room table. Then they had firmly duct-taped his left arm to the table.

Markov watched while his man Gregor Stepanovich used yard after yard of tape, wrapping it all the way around the end of the rectangular table.

Crane hadn’t put up any resistance. He knew enough to avoid getting punched and kicked into submission. But as the tape wound around and around, more tightly securing his arm to the table, he tried to get some reaction from Markov.

“What are you doing, Leonard?”

“Be quiet and listen.”

Stepanovich’s gym bag sat on the dining room table. When he finished with the duct tape, he dropped the remaining roll in the bag and took out a 32-ounce. ball peen hammer. The head was high carbon steel. The handle fiberglass. A well-made, nearly indestructible tool about to be used as a weapon.

Crane had never seen a ball peen hammer that large. Stepanovich sat down on the other side of the table, hammer in hand, staring at Alan Crane.

Crane worked out four times a week with a personal trainer. He was scrupulous about what he ate. Took care of his skin. Got regular massages and the occasional facial. He visited his personal physician regularly. He cared for and pampered himself, was proud of his body, and the thought of that hammer being used on any part of it made him feel like he might lose control of his bowels.

He still couldn’t believe that Markov was going to do anything more than threaten him, but looking at Stepanovich he wasn’t so sure. Stepanovich leered at him as he slowly massaged the round end of the hammer in the palm of his left hand, as if he were deriving sexual pleasure from it. Crane could see him imagining and plotting out the damage he would do with the hammer.

What the fuck were these two planning? Was this going to be some sort of sick lesson because of Olivia Sanchez? He’d gotten Milstein’s voice mail, but hadn’t bothered to call him back. What was going on?

Crane started to sweat. He turned again to Markov, who sat at the head of the table. He started to speak, but Markov interrupted him.

“Open your hand,” he said to Crane.

“Leonard, what are you doing? This is crazy. Why are you…?”

Markov suddenly screamed at him, “Open your fucking hand flat on the table.”

Crane spread his left hand flat, but immediately started talking again.

“Leonard, hear me out. You owe me at least a minute to tell my side.”

Markov got up, walked around the dining table, grabbed the hammer from Gregor and smashed the round end onto the solid cherrywood, an inch from Crane’s hand.

Crane recoiled, gritting his teeth. There was an ugly dent in his precious table.

To his credit, Crane did not yell or scream, or struggle against the duct tape. He closed his eyes, calming himself. Gathering his resolve. Telling himself this wasn’t going to happen. He was too valuable to Markov.

Markov pulled out a dining chair and shoved it next to Crane. He sat, and without warning he slapped Crane across the face, hard. Harder than Crane had ever been hit in his life. The stinging pain made his eyes tear up. He squeezed them shut. Steeling himself.

Markov dropped the hammer on the table, not caring that he put another dent in the flawless cherrywood.

Stepanovich quickly picked up the hammer.

Markov leaned closer to Crane.

“Listen to me now.”

Crane, through clenched teeth, said, “I never touched her.”

Markov answered. “I don’t fucking care. It’s too late. You went after her. She accuses you. She alerts police. District attorney office. She calls in criminals. They make threats. They extort compensation. I should fucking kill you, but you know I can’t. You know I need you to get me my money.”

“Leonard…”

“I said for you to listen to me. Then you talk.”

Crane pursed his lips, forcing himself to remain quiet.

Markov continued. “First, you close out all my positions. You start transferring my money, in cash, to my accounts in Cayman. Understand?”

Crane said, “No. I don’t understand. What criminals? Are you talking about this guy supposedly coming at noon? What happened? And do you understand what you’re asking me to do? If I close out your positions now, you’ll lose money. A lot of money.”

“No. You know how to do it. You make sure any losses are small.”

“I can do that. I can. But I need time. And if you let your maniac hit me with that hammer, how much do you think I’ll be able to work?”

Markov patted Crane on the cheek. “You can work with your right hand. You make me money in the past. You going to make me more. But you have to learn a lesson here, Alan. You let things get out of hand. I don’t know what is going on, but I know someone comes to Milstein and demands money. You think I should leave my money where it is? Where some criminals can try to extort it?”

“I’m not letting Milstein take one penny of your money. Nobody is going to extort money from your funds.”

Markov shook his head, looking at Crane like he was making a huge, unfortunate mistake.

Crane immediately backpedaled. “No, no. You’re right. I understand. You don’t want to be anywhere near this. I understand. I’m sorry. If I’m the reason for this trouble, I’m sorry. I went overboard with that woman. But I never thought…”

“That’s the problem, Alan. You don’t think. But after today, you will.”

Markov looked at his watch.

“This fucking criminal she sets on us is coming here to talk to you.” Markov checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

Crane heard the elevator open, and thought it might be the man Markov was talking about, but it was Gregor’s men. Two of them. Markov watched them enter the apartment and motioned them over.

He turned back to Crane. “Listen to me. He comes here. I tell him there is no money in this for him, or this woman. Not a fucking dime. Not a penny. I tell him I never want to see him, or hear from him again. Or from the woman.”

Crane nodded.

Markov raised a finger. “I watch him. I see if he understands me. Then, I ask him who is behind him. I ask him questions. If he doesn’t answer me or if we think he is lying, then we tape him to the table and Gregor takes the hammer to him. And you watch and see what we do. Not just a hand. Gregor breaks as many bones as I need: hand, arm, knees, face. Every part of him until I learn who he is. Who is behind him?”

Crane swallowed and listened.

“Then, when I know everything, I have Gregor put a bullet through his head.” Markov put a fat finger on the top of Crane’s head pointing down. “Gregor has figured out to shoot down this way, so the bullet doesn’t come out of the head and make a mess. We chop him up and put him in garbage bags and take him out of here. And you, you clean up the mess, and you get me my money. And maybe, maybe if I see you have right attitude, I let you clean up with both hands.”

Crane nodded. This was a fucking nightmare. This had gone somewhere he couldn’t believe. Why had he had anything to do with Olivia Sanchez? He was beginning to wish he had never seen her.

And then the buzzer from the street pierced the silence.

17

As Beck pressed the buzzer for Crane’s apartment, he thought he saw a change in the fish-eye lens set into the panel, as if the camera were focusing on him. He expected a voice to ask his name or something, but he heard nothing other than an electronic click that released both the front door and the inside lobby door.

As he waited for the elevator, he slipped his Bucheimer sap into the back pocket of his black jeans, unbuttoned his shearling coat, rolled his neck.

Beck had been in a few of these loft apartments, so he wasn’t totally surprised that the elevator opened directly into the apartment rather than into a common hallway. That small bit of knowledge saved his life.