That did it. Milstein sat up straight and yelled, “Who the hell do you think you are? Coming in here giving me orders. Giving Pearce orders. Running an account up here. I should have you arrested.”
Beck had to work hard to contain his fury. He picked up the Browning, racked a bullet into the chamber, and aimed it at Milstein’s head. Milstein flinched and put up a hand.
Markov grimaced and pushed back his chair a foot.
Beck spoke quietly, his voice constricted with rage and disgust. This pompous little man had caused him immeasurable trouble, starting with lying to him, setting him up to walk into an ambush at Crane’s, sending the cops after him and his men in an attempt to have them killed or sent back to jail. Through clenched teeth he uttered one word: “Leave.”
The gun paralyzed Milstein. Markov broke in, yelling, “Get out, Frederick. Now. Get out. Do nothing. Do you understand? Do nothing and wait in your office for me. Now.”
Milstein left.
As soon as they were alone, Beck put back the Browning on the table and said, “So, Mr. Markov, about your hundred and sixteen million dollars.”
“Yes.”
“Let me explain a few things to you, starting with the fact that I am not a thief.”
85
The alarm on Olivia’s iPhone had a gentle ringtone. Gentle, but insistent. It awakened her, but it took nearly thirty seconds of steady chiming to pull her out of the deep sleep she’d fallen into.
She felt around on the bed for the phone and managed to turn it off with her eyes closed. She made sure to sit up and get her feet on the floor so that she wouldn’t fall back to sleep.
She forced herself to stand and walk to the bathroom, her gait unsteady.
She rested both hands on the sink basin and let the water run, and rinsed her face with cold water. She felt groggy and numb, but the cold water helped clear her head. She took a deep breath, pushing herself into an alert state.
When she gazed up at the mirror over the bathroom sink, she muttered, “Shit.”
I’ll have time to put myself together when I get home. I’m not leaving New York looking like this.
She gathered her large purse, put on her shoes, and made her way down to the second floor. The entire floor was empty. It felt strange to her. There had been so much commotion, so many men moving around, arriving, leaving, and now nothing.
She really didn’t care. Where was Manny? She needed her car keys. And she had to convince him she was just going home to change and sleep and wait for whatever they wanted her to do.
She went down the back stairs looking for Manny, thinking about how to play it just right. What to say about the money. Something along the lines that she was glad she could help them stick it to Markov. Don’t even bring up the topic of how much of it they were going to give her. Let him think she didn’t care. That she trusted him and Beck to do the right thing by her. Yes, she’d caused them a huge amount of trouble, but in the end it had paid off.
She found Manny in the small bar kitchen, sitting at his old wooden table. He had a black coffee in front of him, two cubes of brown sugar on the table next to the coffee.
“Cousin Manny.”
“Novia. Sit.”
“I’m exhausted. I gotta get home. I gotta change, clean up, get some sleep.”
“Sit,” he repeated.
It was at that moment, the way he said that one word, that Olivia Sanchez knew he knew. Her plan of eight years, all her maneuvering, all her machinations had come down to this moment. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing was going to stop her now.
“Do you have my car keys?” she asked as she moved toward the table.
Manny motioned with his head toward a key rack next to the side door. She saw the keys to her Porsche. She took them off the rack, but made note of the fact that he didn’t tell her where the car was parked. It can’t be too far away, she thought. I’ll find it.
She dropped the keys into her purse, as she sat down across from Manny. She left the purse unzipped, resting in her lap.
Manny took a sip of the black coffee. Placing the cup down, warming his hands on the mug, he stared at Olivia, studying her face. His expression gave away very little, but Olivia knew.
“You can’t go, Olivia.”
“Why not?”
“James says you lied to me.”
She tried to look surprised. Confused. “About what?”
“About everything. He says you and Crane were after the money all along.”
“How can he say that?”
Manny answered with a shrug.
“Manny, that’s ridiculous. I don’t have the money. Crane doesn’t have the money. James has it. Where is he? Ask him. He has the money, not me.”
“Doesn’t matter. James says you and Crane were after the money.”
“And you believe him?”
“I don’t want to believe him,” said Manny.
“Then don’t. It’s not true.”
“So, when James gets back, you can explain it to him. And to me. Prove to him it’s not true. And to me.”
Her hand was in the purse now.
“When is he coming back?”
“Not too long.”
“So you want proof.”
“I want proof.”
“And you’re going to make me wait here.”
“Yes. I want to know for sure.”
Before he finished the sentence, Olivia pulled out a snub-nosed thirty-eight revolver and shot Manny Guzman dead center in his chest.
The smoke and flame and roar of the small pistol stunned her. But she pulled the trigger again. And again.
The sound of the gunshots faded. She sat blinking at the gun smoke surrounding her, confused, her heart beating, her ears ringing, unable to comprehend the fact that Manny Guzman sat across the table, unmoved, staring at her.
She had expected the bullets to knock him off his chair. She had expected blood. A cry of pain. But Manny continued to sit across from her, silent, staring at her, unmarked.
And then Olivia Sanchez saw something she never imagined. Manny Guzman was crying. There was little expression on his stolid face, but tears were slowly rolling down his craggy cheeks, dripping off his jaws.
He sniffed and wiped the tears away angrily.