She kept working him now. Pleasuring herself, pleased at knowing whatever she did, Beck would be swept up in it.

Beck let himself give in to her rhythm, timing soft thrusts into her, just to communicate that he was with her. She was clearly fucking him, clearly in charge, intent on gleaning every ounce of pleasure she could.

Olivia’s taking charge, being in control, made something deep in Beck give way. After the constant tension, maneuvering, calculating, he found himself immersed in mindless moments that left him with nothing to do but go along with her. Enjoy her.

She began to grunt softly. Her eyes closed, allowing Beck to watch her in his own private way. Beck felt captured. He had never felt that with a woman, ever. The freedom of it, the pleasure of it, the erotic force made his jaws clench. She was taking him away with her.

Suddenly, Olivia reached up with her right hand and caressed her breast, squeezing the nipple. And then she grabbed Beck’s right hand and forced him to do the same to her other breast and nipple.

Now she maneuvered herself so that she could stimulate her clitoris more. She held herself in position by placing both hands on his shoulders, one rough and chafing in the cast, the other soft and insistent, gripping his shoulder.

A light sheen of perspiration appeared on her chest. She was breathing harder now, giving out louder grunting sounds of pleasure. Beck squeezed her nipple, grabbed her ass.

“Harder,” she hissed. “Harder.”

He did. Doing whatever she told him. She slowed down, somehow grinding down even more on him, burying Beck as deep and as far as she could inside her.

And now she started to climax. In waves. Suddenly sitting up straight, grabbing her vagina with Beck inside. Forming a V around his cock between her middle and ring finger, stimulating herself and him, rocking now, finishing her orgasm, pulling every ounce of erotic pleasure out of her orgasm and pushing him to come. Beck thrust up into her and released. She reached around behind her and cupped his balls, helping him with quick caresses, draining him, finishing him.

Beck muttered a curse.

Olivia smiled. Accepting it as a sound of admiration.

She had captured him. Truly. Rightfully. Inevitably.

Beck knew that she knew it, and he didn’t care. Judgment and worry had already passed.

She slowly lifted off him, and lay down alongside him, rolling sideways to lie against him, now erotic in another way, giving off a palpable heat. Beck felt the fullness and length of her alongside him, felt her gently rise and fall as her breathing subsided.

Her left hand was back on his chest where it had started. The feel of the rough cast against his skin bringing him back to reality.

Beck tried to capture all the sensations, tried to inventory the whole experience, to store it away somewhere it wouldn’t be sullied or destroyed by what was to come next. But he only tried for a moment. What would happen this night, would happen.

60

Beck made it down to the ground floor bar at 10:30 p.m. Ricky and Jonas Bolo were sitting at the table nearest the front door.

Beck had showered, dressed his knife wound, taken more ibuprofen, drunk more coffee, and changed into fresh clothes. He entered the bar stuffing weapons and ammunition into various pockets. His Browning Hi-Power was fully loaded with thirteen rounds in the double-column magazine and in its usual place, shoved under his belt just over his right hip.

He had two more magazines in his right back pocket. He had a Gerber guardian boot knife strapped around his right ankle and a compact Glock 26 in a holster strapped to his left ankle, so he could draw it with his right hand. The Glock 26 held ten rounds of 9-mm ammunition in the magazine, plus one in the chamber. Finally, he’d replaced the Bucheimer sap with a midget sap nestled in his front left pocket.

He went behind the bar and took out ten thousand dollars from the safe under the cash register and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his shearling coat.

“Jeezus Christ,” said Ricky Bolo, “looks like this is going to be some night.”

Just then, Olivia Sanchez appeared in the bar. She stood with her coat open, holding her small overnight bag and purse, looking exactly like what she was—a beautiful woman who’d just had an intense orgasm, every pore of her pulsing with sexual energy.

For the first time since Beck had known Ricky Bolo, Ricky had nothing to say.

“Olivia, this is Ricky and Jonas. They’re going to give us a ride.”

“Us? You’re coming with me?”

“Partway. Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

The four of them left and settled into the Bolo brothers’ nondescript white van.

Beck sat next to Ricky in the front passenger seat. Jonas sat quietly all the way in the back of the van on a bench seat next to Olivia. The middle of the van was filled with racks and shelves and storage area, holding cases, cords, tools, and miscellaneous electronic equipment.

Nobody said much of anything on the ride into Manhattan and up the west side.

Ricky pulled off the West Side Highway at Fiftieth Street and drove to a five-story tenement building between Tenth and Eleventh avenues. He pulled over opposite the building.

“This is where he ended up,” he told Beck. “Matches the address you gave us. His name is on one of the outside doorbells.”

Beck turned to Olivia and said, “I’m getting out here. Ricky and Jonas will take you up to Nydia’s. She has a room ready for you.”

Olivia answered, “Okay. I’ll be fine. I have one more set of clean clothes.”

“Good. That should get you through what’s left. Grab some sleep. I’ll be in touch in the morning. If we’re right about things, and if Alex has it figured out, tomorrow shouldn’t be too hard. Keep your cell phone on.”

“I will. I have my charger.”

Beck turned to Ricky and spoke quietly.

“After you drop her off, get out to Coney Island Avenue. Watch that building Demarco told you about. It’s important. We have to know when those guys are moving.”

“We’re on it.”

“Thanks. You two are the best.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Beck nodded once and slipped out of the van.

He stood in front of a rundown building that had obviously endured while the neighborhood around it had changed. It was part of a set of old Hell’s Kitchen tenements squeezed in next to one another, five stories high, four windows across. They were depressing rent-controlled or rent-stabilized buildings that housed residents who had occupied the neighborhood for decades.

Beck pictured what Walter Pearce’s apartment looked like.

A guy on a cop’s pension, hanging on to a second-career job that wasn’t much more than a glorified driver, living in that building in this neighborhood—Beck decided the ten thousand in his pocket might look pretty good to Walter Pearce.

He crossed the street and peered at the names listed next to the outside buzzers. Pearce’s name was next to 3A.

There wasn’t any intercom. Beck rang again. And waited. He rang again. Insistently, and waited. Finally, the buzzer sounded him in.

Beck trudged up the stairs to the third floor. The overheated air in the stairway redolent with cooking smells, Lysol, and the faint odor of cat spray reminded Beck of his youth. He’d grown up in a building like this not too many blocks away. The old round fluorescent ceiling fixtures, the glossy paint, and the smells were all familiar.

As Beck stepped around to the third-floor landing, Walter Pearce stood outside his apartment in slippers, a white T-shirt hanging over his pants, holding a Glock aimed at Beck.

Beck stopped.

“You.”

“Yeah. Me. Sorry if I woke you. It’s important.”

Walter said, “Keep your hands where I can see them. What do you want?”

“To talk to you. It will be worth your while. Guaranteed.”