Walter continued east.
Halfway to the lobby door, Milstein unhooked the dog. Owen, the smiling red-haired doorman opened the door and Tam romped into the lobby. Milstein followed hunched over, softly rubbing the front of his neck where Beck had squeezed his windpipe. He checked his watch. Time to call Markov back. This was going to be a much different phone call than five hours ago.
11
Milstein’s wife had arrived home while he was out walking the dog. She generally kept her distance from him when he returned because she disliked the smell of cigar smoke that lingered on his clothes and his breath.
Milstein heard her in the bathroom down the hall near their bedroom. The dog hurried on into the bedroom, clearly preferring the company of Milstein’s wife.
He checked his watch and continued into the living room, pulled out another disposable cell phone from the desk drawer, and hit the speed dial. He sat down in the plush upholstered chair near the window overlooking Seventy-ninth Street, still wearing his down coat, keeping it on to dispel the chill that seemed to have seeped into his bones.
Leonid Markov answered on the second ring, “Yes?”
“Leonard, it’s Frederick. We have a problem.”
Markov was riding in a 1989 S-Class Mercedes, driven by his regular driver, Vitaly. It was nearing midnight, but Markov was wide awake, heading toward an apartment building he owned in the Brighton Beach area of Brooklyn.
He had cleaned himself, showering and soaping in the hotel bathroom, soaking under a hot shower for nearly a half hour, still enjoying the effects of the drugs and alcohol. He used every last towel, even the hand towels and washcloths; left everything wherever it fell; dressed in one of his custom-made Hong Kong suits, and walked out of the hotel room, leaving it a mess. Not even bothering to check out.
He had rented the room with a stolen credit card, bought from a Web site run by underground hackers working somewhere in Ukraine. Even though he wasn’t going to be paying for the room, beyond the fifty dollars he spent on the credit card, Markov had still booked the room through an online discount service, and only after having compared prices, entered low bids, and haggled for an upgrade when he arrived at the hotel.
Markov responded to Milstein, “A problem? Why does nobody call me with solutions instead of problems? You are using the right phone?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the problem, and why is it my problem?”
“Leonard, I said we have a problem. Not you.”
“Tell me what that means, and don’t bullshit me. Is it about my money?”
“No. I mean, indirectly, of course everything is connected, but your money is safe and there are no unexpected losses or anything.”
“What is the problem?”
“Alan Crane got rough with one of my employees…”
Markov interrupted. “Who? What do you mean rough?”
“A woman named Olivia Sanchez.”
“What is she to me?”
“Nothing. At least nothing much. She’s on the firm’s oversight committee. So, she did watch over your holdings. To a certain extent.”
“Did?”
“She’s no longer with us.”
“So what’s the goddamn problem? Was Alan fucking her? Why did he get rough with her? Why should I give a shit?”
“I doubt he was fucking her. Maybe he was, everyone else around the place wanted to, but I doubt it. He got rough with her because she was making noise about some of his methods.”
Markov watched the dark waters of the East River flow past on his left as the car moved downtown on the FDR. He realized that he had to listen to this. He had to concentrate. His internal alarms were going off. Someone was trying to prevent the man who was supposed to make him money from doing what he wanted to do. This could cost him.
“Okay, Freddy, tell me exactly what’s going on. Exactly.”
“This woman, Olivia Sanchez, she was … part of her job was to make sure all the firm’s investments are…”—Milstein paused, thinking of exactly how he wanted to put it—“… are within the regulatory parameters.”
“What? What does that word mean, parameters? Tell me without bullshit terms.”
“Her job was to make sure anyone trading or investing for the firm wasn’t doing anything illegal. Or at least anything that would attract too much attention from the regulators. And as you know, sometimes Alan’s methods push the line a bit. Sometimes more than a little bit.”
“What did she do?”
“Nothing crazy. Just poking her nose in. Maybe looking to make a name for herself. Use her job to get some leverage. It’s what people do. But Alan heard about it and went overboard. Way overboard.”
“Overboard? What’s overboard? You’re supposed to watch that fucking guy.”
Milstein told it in one burst of words. “She claims he got rough with her and broke two fingers on her hand while he was yelling and pounding on her desk.”
Markov barked, “What?”
Milstein repeated everything he’d said more slowly.
“He does that to a woman? Idiot.”
“Alan says it’s not true. Says she started hitting him, and he fended her off. Says he can’t believe that would break her fingers. Says it’s bullshit. Either way, she tried to make a lot of trouble for us. Went to the police. Filed complaints. So we had to push back. We countersued. Lodged our own complaints. Came down on her very hard. Got rid of her.”
“So if you got rid of her why are you calling me?”
“Somehow she’s managed to get some strong-arm types to confront me and demand compensation.”
“What do you mean strong arm?”
“Tough guys. With guns.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Freddy?”
“Three men surrounded me and my bodyguard in the park tonight. One man held a gun on my guard. The other one roughed me up. He told me if I didn’t pay off this woman, he would kill me. And Alan.”
Markov did not respond for a moment. And then he said, “You believed him?”
“Yes.”
“How much did he ask for?”
“Six hundred thousand.”