Anastasia’s main worry was the lack of pedestrian traffic. They’d passed pockets of black guys near a bodega. And hanging out near a park. But there were almost no people walking on the streets they could blend in with. He had no idea that this section of Red Hook was so industrial.

He’d told Harris and Williams to pair up, and walk together. That would attract less attention than a group of three.

He split off and moved out ahead of them by about a block as he made his way to the location on Conover Street where the target was located. Anastasia walked with purpose, without hesitating or looking around or trying to find a street sign, a sure tip-off that he was a stranger to the area.

*   *   *

Beck walked with Manny and Demarco, north along Conover. He walked slowly and talked softly.

“So our friend Willie Reese spotted some boys who don’t look like they belong around here. Supposed to be coming our way.”

Beck described them and what they were wearing. Both Demarco and Manny were already looking ahead, trying to spot them.

“I don’t want to take them out. I want to see what they’re here for. It’d be best if we got behind them. They should be crossing onto Van Brunt around now. D, you head over to Van Brunt and hang out by the pharmacy or a little south and see if any of them pass you by. Then fall in behind and see if they keep heading toward our place.”

Demarco drifted left on Coffey Street, while Manny and Beck continued up Conover.

Beck said, “Manolito, let’s split up. You take the other side of the street. If they show up, let ’em pass between us. Then I’ll figure out what to do from there.”

Manny nodded.

Under his peacoat Manny wore his apron and work clothes. Beck watched him slip his Charter Arms Bulldog into his right coat pocket. If it came down to it, he knew the gun’s short four-inch barrel would mean Manny would have to get close to make sure he hit his target. Beck also knew that Manny wouldn’t hesitate to do just that.

The heat of the kill fairly radiated off Manny. He’d been seething for days.

Beck blinked, tensing up. If the men Reese had spotted were here to attack Beck’s bar, he knew it would get very bloody, very fast. They’d walk into shotgun blasts from Joey B and a steady stream of rifle fire from Ciro. And if they tried to escape from that, Beck knew they’d be running into Demarco and Manny, and himself.

But that didn’t mean Beck and his men would escape unharmed. The last thing Beck needed was gunfire and dead bodies. That would bring cops. And cops would mean endless trouble.

He put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on finding out who these men were, and what they wanted.

52

Walter Pearce walked through the familiar doors of One Police Plaza. He’d been in the building enough times to know his way around. Other than promotion ceremonies, it wasn’t a place that any cop really wanted to be. One PP was the house of the bosses. And no cop in his right mind wanted to be around the brass. Not much good ever came from it.

He showed his identification, checked his gun, went through security, and got a visitor’s badge at the reception desk. He was four minutes early for his appointment, but as he turned from the desk, he noticed a young woman dressed in a conservative skirt, jacket, and white blouse waiting for him. A civilian.

She smiled and explained that the chief would be meeting him on the third floor.

Walter smiled back. They rode the elevator to the third floor and she escorted him to a small conference room.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

Walter could have used more coffee, but he was unaccustomed to being treated like a guest at One PP, so he declined.

She left him sitting in a small meeting room with space for a table and four chairs.

He patted his jacket pocket and pulled out the information he had on James Beck and Ciro Baldassare. He wondered how this was going to go. He told himself that he should stop worrying so much. This wasn’t his idea. He was just the messenger.

Bureau Chief Martin Waldron appeared suddenly at the doorway of the small room. An aide was right behind him, a young man in a brown suit who looked even younger than the woman who’d escorted him.

Chief Waldron had the look of a lifelong NYPD cop. He was stuffed into his dress white shirt and black tie, the shirt decorated with collar bars and a badge plate with all his decorations.

Waldron looked annoyed. Clearly, this meeting was not something he wanted to be doing.

He dropped a thin manila folder on the table and sat across from Walter. He turned to his aide and said, “Come back and get me in ten minutes, Ernie.”

The young man left without a word.

Waldron turned back to Pearce and said, “Why am I here?”

Walter suppressed the urge to say, If you don’t know, why the fuck should I? He dropped his paperwork on the table.

“I work for a man by the name of Frederick Milstein. He’s runs a small brokerage firm.” Walter pushed the paperwork he had for James Beck toward Waldron. “This is information on a man named James Beck. He assaulted Mr. Milstein in Central Park Tuesday night. He threatened him and tried to extort a large sum of money from him.”

“How large?”

“Over six hundred-thousand dollars.”

Waldron squinted at Pearce. “Who did you say did this?”

Walter pointed to the folder. “Name is James Beck.”

“How the fuck did he expect to get six hundred grand from, what’s his name?”

“Frederick Milstein. He claimed it was compensation for a woman that Milstein fired. He threatened to kill Milstein if he didn’t pay.”

“Who can corroborate that?”

“I was there, but they were too far away for me to hear the threat. Mr. Milstein will testify on the extortion, plus he’ll testify that the man choked him until he nearly passed out and threatened to kill him if he didn’t pay. You’ll note that James Beck was incarcerated for killing a police officer.”

That got Waldron’s attention. “What?” He grabbed Beck’s folder and started skimming through the pages.

“He was eventually found not guilty, but the fact remains, he killed one of ours.”

“Who the hell is this guy?”

“He’s someone associated with known felons.” Walter pushed the second folder across the desk. “Including this man. Name’s Ciro Baldassare. He’s organized crime. Record goes back to when he was a teenager. He held a gun on me while Beck threatened Milstein. Told me he’d blow off my head if I moved. He’s a convicted felon. Long record of assaults and weapons charges. He can go right back to jail just on possession of a firearm. I’ll testify to that.”

Waldron was still thinking about Beck.

“What the fuck is a cop killer doing out on the streets?”

Walter shrugged. “Like I said, his conviction was overturned. Brady due-process stuff. Apparently, not only did the DA’s office withhold exculpatory evidence, they actually suppressed a witness. Plus, the judge overreached on the jury instructions. It was a manslaughter charge. A bar fight. Beck didn’t know it was a cop. They took it to trial. Nailed him, but his lawyer got the conviction overturned. Beck did eight years of hard time before he was released.” Walter decided not to mention Beck’s successful lawsuit against the city.

Waldron squirmed in his chair. He frowned, stared at the documents on the table.

“We have warrants?”

“Milstein’s lawyers already got it done with Central Warrants.”

Waldron watched as Walter laid the arrest warrants on the room table as if playing his final cards.

“You know why I’m talking to you?”

Walter shrugged. “Milstein said somebody in his law firm is a friend of yours.”

“Not anymore he ain’t. Dumping this crap on me. All right, stop bullshitting me…” Waldron squinted at Walter’s visitor’s pass. “… Pearce. What the fuck is really going on here? And what’s your involvement? You retired as what, detective?”