Anastasia pulled out a small but powerful set of binoculars and focused on Beck’s building. It seemed to be locked up tight and empty. He peered at each window, looking for any movement at all, and then just as he was about to look away, he saw a curtain move on the second floor. Somebody was checking him out.

From his seated position behind the skids, Harris asked, “What do you think?”

“There’s no number on the door. None on the buildings on either side, but GPS says this is the place and the building outlines match the 3-D map. It looks empty, but it’s not. There are people in there. They don’t want anybody to think there is, but they’re watching the street.”

Harris said, “Yeah, I saw those drapes move up on the second floor. At least I think I did.”

“You did. Notice anything else?”

Williams answered in his clipped South African accent. “There was a black man behind us for a block or two as we walked over here, but he turned into a pharmacy before we came this way. I doubt if he was trailing us. Don’t think he took any notice.”

Anastasia looked around one more time. “Well, I got that eyes-on-us feeling. My money says they’re in there, which is most of what we need to know. Let’s hang out here for a bit and see what happens.”

*   *   *

Beck stayed on the west side of Conover behind a panel truck, down on his knees, the cold and wet penetrating though his jeans, watching the three mercenaries disappear into the lot across from his building.

Beck pulled out his phone and speed-dialed Demarco.

“Where are you, D?”

‘I’m sittin’ in the Merc. In the garage. Got a feeling you might need the car. At least more’n you need me walking all the way around and letting those fellows see me again so they know they’ve been made.”

Beck smiled at Demarco’s smarts.

“You think they spotted you?”

“Of course. They haven’t seen someone as good-looking as me maybe ever.”

He told Demarco, “Okay, D, I want to keep track of these fuckers. If you try to follow them they might spot you. Certainly if you try to trail them back to their car. Willie said they parked over by the ballfield just past the projects. Those three have to be connected to Markov. Markov is connected to Kolenka. So roll out ahead of them. Drive back to the area around that building on Coney Island Avenue where we met Kolenka. Just park around there and see if they show up in the neighborhood and follow them to wherever they land.”

“Will do. Even if they don’t show up, I’ll see what’s doing around there.”

“Good.”

“Can you get a description of their car?”

“I’ll call Willie now. Head out whenever you want. I’ll have it for you before you reach the area.”

Beck cut off the call and thought through the situation. Clearly Markov and Kolenka were getting ready to attack. Beck decided to make sure they did.

He called Ciro.

“You see where those guys ended up?”

“Across the street behind some skids.”

“Okay. I’m coming in. If it looks like they might take a shot at me, try to shoot ’em first.”

Beck got up off his knee.

Manny reached for his arm.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

56

Detective First Grade Jeffrey Esposito had planned on using the last part of his shift to catch up on his paperwork. He’d set up at his desk in the Brooklyn South 76th Precinct with all his case files, assorted memos, and papers piled on the left side of his desk, and various reporting forms, logbooks, and notebooks on the right side.

He figured he would put in two or three solid hours and get it all done. Until one of the civilian clerks came up to his desk and said the precinct captain wanted to see him in his office.

Not good, thought Esposito. He checked his watch. Nearly four o’clock. He asked the clerk, “He’s still here? He’s doing seven-to-three shifts these days, isn’t he?”

“He came back.”

Uh-oh. Definitely not good. What the hell was going on?

As the head investigator for the precinct, Esposito ran a detective squad of six men. The Seven-Six offered a good mix of crimes and very few homicides. Esposito liked the precinct. He didn’t like surprises. Whatever this was about, it had already been kicked all the way up to the top guy, and Esposito knew from experience that rarely meant anything good.

Captain Peter McManus was young for his rank. He’d earned it with a bachelor’s degree from John Jay, a master’s from Fordham, and from being a whiz on the civil service exams.

Thin, tall, angular, short hair, the captain sat at his desk dressed in his civilian clothes. McManus had a look on his face that Esposito couldn’t quite interpret. Is he pissed off or merely annoyed? Or is it a fake expression of concern to cover what he’s about to dump on me?

The captain nodded for Esposito to sit. He had both hands on top of a thin manila folder.

“What’s up, skip?” Esposito asked.

“Detective Esposito, I’m sure you have heard the technical expression, shit rolls downhill.”

Here it comes.

He answered, “I have, sir.”

McManus continued. “Subparagraph one says the higher the shit rolls from, the faster and harder it lands.”

Esposito frowned, saying nothing, the best course of action at this point.

He looked at the folder under McManus’s hands. Clearly, the answer was in that folder. Although it couldn’t be much of an answer. The folder wasn’t very thick.

“How high up are we talking about?”

“You want to know how high up?”

“Sure.”

“Borough Command.”

“That’s high.”

“It is. And I got the feeling that Borough Command is just one stop on the way down from even higher.”

“Shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

McManus slid the folder toward Esposito. Esposito didn’t look at it. Didn’t touch it.

“I don’t know who called who or what or why. All I know is that somebody with a good amount of juice wants us to arrest two bad guys.”

“For what?”

“Assault.”

“Of who?”

“Of somebody with a lot of juice.”

“What’d they do to him?”

“Don’t have the details. Something bad enough so that the brass wants these guys brought in.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can get organized. Like now.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

“We know where to find them?”

“We know where to start. Someplace on the ass end of Red Hook.”

“So they gave it to the Seven-Six and not some regular Warrant Squad.”

“Correct.”

“And after we arrest them?”

“We get them into Central Booking and the higher-ups will take care of the arraignments, or whatever they want to do from there. Presumably burying these guys in a very deep place which will take a very long time to crawl out of.”

Esposito opened the folder.

There were two warrants. One for Ciro Baldassare. One for James Beck. Behind the warrants were a few pages of arrest records for both men and prison records. Baldassare had six pages. Beck, two.

This was a shit assignment. Outside of his normal duties. Way outside the normal chain of command. He had very little background on the assailants, and apparently he wasn’t going to get any. Plus, it looked like the whole thing had to be done on the quiet. But with all the brass connected to this, if he fucked up, things would get loud and angry very fast. This was all risk and no reward.

“What’s the story on these guys?”

“Assume they are armed and dangerous. Assume there may be others at this location also armed and dangerous.”

“Great.”

“Do they know we are coming for them?”

“Assume they know. How quickly can you get organized?”

“To do this right?” asked Esposito.

“I sure as hell don’t want you to do it wrong.”

“It feels like we should pull together some decent backup. Come in hard.”

“I don’t think you have time to get a lot of backup or tactical guys. Go in fast. Get out fast. Don’t make a big deal out of it. But don’t get caught with your pants down.”