When Milstein entered the room, the dog lifted his head, stared at Milstein, waiting for an outburst that would send him scurrying out of the room.
Milstein ignored the dog, took another swallow of the expensive Scotch.
Take it easy, Milstein told himself. Again, his thoughts turned to Olivia Sanchez. Why am I surprised? A woman that good-looking could get plenty of men to help her. But that guy? Not her type. Way too rough. Too blue collar. But then again, maybe not. Maybe exactly her type. He wasn’t badly dressed. The coat looked expensive. He spoke well. Goddammit, who the fuck was he?
Milstein took another swig of the Scotch. All right, don’t let it rattle you, he told himself. You’ve got plenty of resources if this gets out of hand. Plenty of people who can handle someone like that. Walter already seems to be figuring out how to deal with him. Too bad that thug didn’t go after Crane. He’s the one who started this mess.
No, thought Milstein. Sanchez would have made it clear to whoever he was that he should go to the top. Although the guy did seem smart enough to figure that out for himself.
Milstein drained his glass and headed back to the kitchen. He looked at an indecipherable lump of food under plastic wrap inside the microwave.
“I’ll be goddamned if I eat that crap.”
He went back to the front hallway, got his coat, and set out to have a sit-down dinner and another Scotch. And think about exactly what he was going to tell Leonard Markov.
8
Even though Ciro Baldassare filled a good portion of the Mercury Marauder’s backseat, a passing pedestrian would be unlikely to notice him because he never moved. If Ciro did catch someone’s attention, they tended to look away quickly. He was that kind of guy.
Demarco Jones had parked the Mercury in the empty curbside space between the two ends of the half-circle driveway that led to and from the entrance of Milstein’s Park Avenue apartment building. Next to him in the passenger seat, Beck rummaged around in the glove box and pulled out a fake NYPD detective badge on a chain. He slipped the chain over his head and tucked the badge under his shirt.
He told Demarco and Ciro, “Sit tight. Let me see if I can arrange a visit with Mr. Milstein.”
The doorman stepped out to greet Beck before he had walked halfway along the driveway. He was a short, slight man, red-haired, boyish. A wide smile dominated his face. His doorman’s hat tilted back on his head, he seemed happy to see Beck even though he had never seen Beck in his life.
“Hello,” said the doorman. “Can I help you?”
Beck didn’t smile back. “Yeah, I want to ask you a few questions.” Beck pulled his detective badge out from under his shirt and held it up for a brief inspection, then let the badge remain on display hanging from his neck. “My name is Logan. I’m a detective with the nineteenth precinct.”
“Oh, okay,” said the doorman, still smiling. He saluted Beck. “What can I do for you?”
“What’s your name?”
“Owen.”
“Owen. So Owen, we got a report earlier tonight, a complaint from uh…” Beck pulled a scrap of paper out of his back pocket. It was the receipt from their dinner. He checked it. “… somebody named Frederick Milstein. We were hoping to talk to him tonight.”
“Oh, Mr. Milstein just went out.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“You know where?”
Still smiling, Owen answered, “No. I think he went out to eat.”
“Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he’ll be back by around ten.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“That’s when he walks the dog,” said Owen, still smiling.
“He walks his dog around ten?”
“Yes, sir. Most of our people have dog walkers. But Simpson on twelve and Milstein on fourteen, they take their dogs out for the night walk. Milstein likes to have a cigar at night, so that’s why he does it.” Owen smiled and laughed. “I don’t think he likes the dog all that much. But his wife won’t let him smoke in the house, so the night walk works out for him.”
“Where does he go?”
“Straight from here into the park, then over to Dog Hill.”
“Dog Hill? Where’s that?”
“Just a little south of the Seventy-ninth Street entrance.”
“He doesn’t mind walking around in the park at night?”
Owen laughed and said, “Oh, it’s not a problem. The dog is huge, and he goes with his driver. Big guy. Ex-cop.”
“I see. That sounds pretty good.” Beck shoved his badge back under his shirt. “All right, don’t bother telling him I was here. Don’t make him wonder about it. We’ll follow up tomorrow. My shift is going off.”
“Sure,” said Owen, still smiling, as if smiling were part of his job.
Beck looked Owen in the eye and pointed back and forth with his index finger. “Just between us for now. Got it?”
For once Owen’s smile vanished. “Got it.”
Beck walked back along the driveway and climbed into the Mercury, checked his watch.
“What’s the plan?” asked Ciro from the backseat.
“Oh, something for everybody. D gets to be the big scary black man. You get to be the guy with the gun. But you have to promise not to shoot or hit anyone unless I say so.”
“Promise.” said Ciro, “Unless someone deserves it. Who do you get to be?”
“I haven’t quite decided yet. Let’s find a parking spot around here somewhere. We got a little time to kill while I figure this out.”
9
At ten-fifteen, Beck slipped into the passenger seat of the Mercury parked on Fifth Avenue just past Seventy-eighth Street, Demarco at the wheel, Ciro sitting motionless in the backseat.
Beck used the palm of his hand like he was about to diagram a touch-football play.
“So, the asshole is sitting on a bench, right about here, opposite an open field. He let his hound off the leash to go take a shit somewhere while he smokes a cigar. The bodyguard is sitting on a bench on the other side of the pathway facing him.”
Beck quickly explained his plan.
*