Again, Beck didn’t answer.

20

Gregor Stepanovich stood waiting for the elevator to return to Crane’s floor holding up the bleeding, dying Igor, while Markov held the other man. And waited. And waited.

Finally, he had to lay Igor onto the floor and walk down six flights of stairs to find out what was wrong with the elevator.

When he saw the knit cap Beck had wedged into the elevator door, Stepanovich cursed and pulled it out.

On the ride back up to Crane’s apartment, Stepanovich held the knit cap in his hand and pictured punching Beck’s face again and again and again until bones broke under the skin and teeth cracked, until skin split and blood flowed.

He kept control of his rage until he and Markov got their wounded men into the car and sent them off, knowing he would most likely never see them again.

As he walked back to Crane’s building, Stepanovich vowed to himself that he was going to kill that bastard who had done this to him and his men. Slowly, if he could. Quickly, if he had to. But he would find out who he was and kill him. That was it. Markov’s orders no longer mattered.

When they came out of the elevator, the rank metallic odor of putrefying blood and acrid gun smoke filled Crane’s loft. The stench did nothing to improve their moods.

Stepanovich looked over at Crane who sat on his couch, his shirt torn from removing the duct tape, massaging his left shoulder, staring at his ruined fifteen-thousand-dollar dining table.

Markov walked to the couch, pulled out his cell phone, and began dialing.

When Markov finished the call, Gregor asked him, “Tell me, Leo, who was that fucking balija?”

“Criminal.” Markov answered. He turned to Crane. “Tell us. What do you know about that son of a bitch?”

“Me? Absolutely nothing. No idea. Ask fucking Olivia Sanchez. Or Milstein. Milstein told him to come here, right? Go ask him.”

Markov held up his cell phone. “I already ask him. He tells me he finds out this morning that he’s a bad guy. Convict. His name is James Beck. He tried to extort money from Milstein for the bitch. I told Milstein to send him up here. Milstein told him he should talk to you. What do you think he does to you, we’re not here?”

Crane looked at Markov like he was speaking a foreign language. “How do I fucking know what he would have done? What did he do to Milstein? Obviously not much. Maybe if your attack dog hadn’t stuck a gun in his face he wouldn’t have done anything. How much do you want to blame me for, Leonard? All I’m trying to do is protect your investments. And make you money. I haven’t done a fucking thing wrong, and you come in here…”

Markov snarled, “Stop being ridiculous, Alan.”

Crane changed the subject.

“Leonard, why are we arguing? I’m on your side. What’s going on? Are you really serious about cashing out? You’re going to lose a good deal of money.”

“What? You ask me this after a fucking criminal shoots my man? Comes up here to do who knows what? Are you fucking crazy? You think I leave my money with Milstein’s business, with this bitch causing trouble? Talking to police? Bringing in convicts? Thugs? You ask me this?”

“All right, all right. Forget it. Whatever you want. You want your money, fine. But if I’m going to do this, I have to start as soon as I can. I have dozens of positions I’ve got to start moving on. I have index hedges, options that aren’t close to being where I expect, currency contracts.”

Markov pointed a thick finger at Crane. “You don’t have time. You get it done. Now. Fast.”

Crane mustered his courage. “I’ll get it done as quickly as I can. But I’m not going to let you get reamed, Leonard. I’ll need a few days. You should trust me when I tell you this. How long have we worked together?”

Markov waived a hand and stood up, walking away from the dining area. “Aaach. What does it matter how long we work together? Three years and two months, and now the jackals come after everything, so what good does it do me?”

“Nobody is going to take your money. And I’ve made you plenty. Well over forty percent year over year. You know anybody who’s even come close to that?”

“Fine.” Markov turned and faced Crane. “But what about now? Now you bring this shit down on me. Stop talking. Get it done. I have work to do. I have two fucking shipments going out of Albania tonight. I still don’t have the right certificates. And now I have this mess. So, do we understand each other?”

Crane had been distracted. He said, “What?”

Markov pushed himself off the couch and stepped toward Crane. “Are you not listening to me? Did you say ‘what’? What? You fucking motherfucker. You answer me like that? Maybe I should have Gregor take his anger out on you for an hour or so, you worthless piece of shit.”

Crane raised a hand. “Jeezus Christ, Leonard, take it easy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m trying to figure out … Christ, I don’t even know what the fuck is going on.”

Stepanovich had moved closer to Crane, drawn to the possibility of violence, hoping Markov would unleash him.

Crane dropped his head and said to Markov, “I’m sorry this happened. I’ll start closing down your positions. What else do you want me to do, Leonard?”

“I need to find the woman. Milstein gave me her home address. You think she might be there?”

“I don’t know. Why not?”

“Why not? Because that guy who got away from us will be warning her, that’s why. You know anywhere else she might be?”

“I have no idea.”

“Get an idea.”

“Well, I think she has a mother in the Bronx somewhere. I can try to find out.”

“Good. And I need to know the connection between the criminal and the woman. I need to know that by end of day today.”

Crane answered without knowing at all how he could find that information for Markov. “I’ll get everything I can for you. By end of day.”

What was Markov going to do with Olivia Sanchez? If they hurt, or worse, killed her, that could be a problem. The police had already talked to him about her. About her accusations. As did an assistant district attorney. If something happened to her, he would be a suspect. Not good, he thought. And he wasn’t going anywhere until he had unwound Markov’s complex portfolio and delivered the proceeds, so he wouldn’t be around anyone who could give him an alibi.

Worst of all, the last three months of trading had been bad. Not crazy bad, but his ratio of losers to winners had shifted against him. And he’d chased after his losses. A stupid move. He wasn’t out of the game by any means. One, two big hits could bring him within reach. But he needed time to unwind his positions, which he didn’t have. He’d already warned Markov he would lose money, but how much of a loss could he incur before his body would be in the pile with everyone else Markov was going after?

Crane realized that Markov and Gregor were still staring at him. He lifted his head and asked, “Is there anything else, Leonard?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Get me my money.”

And with that Markov turned and Gregor Stepanovich followed him out of the loft, leaving the blood and the stench and the mess behind for Alan Crane to clean up.

21

The new stitches in his left leg pulled as Beck walked down the back stairs of his building.

The blows from the steel baton were making his upper back and left shoulder stiffen with pain. The knuckles on both hands throbbed.

But surprisingly, the worst pain was in his right wrist. Whenever he pushed against something that bent back his wrist, like using the handrail as he walked down the stairs, a searing pain shot through his hand, making it nearly impossible to use that hand for five or six seconds. He wondered how long that was going to last. He hadn’t bothered to ask the doctor about it.

At Beck’s large desk sat a tall man, thin to the point of looking nearly gaunt. He was in his early forties, with unruly black hair, three days’ worth of dark beard, wearing glasses in thick black frames that dominated his face. He wore a wrinkled red-and-white-checked shirt that didn’t reach his wrists. He sat bent over Beck’s keyboard, checking two twenty-four-inch computer monitors, intent on a task Beck didn’t bother to guess at.