Beck checked his watch. Eleven thirty-two. The trainer was late for his eleven-thirty appointment.
Five minutes later, the woman with the baby and stroller returned. A bag of groceries hung from the arm of the stroller. She let herself in with a plastic key card she waved in front of the nameplate panel.
A few minutes later, a FreshDirect food truck pulled up in front of the building, blocking Beck’s view. A deliveryman got out of the truck and hauled out a bin of food.
Beck fired up the Mercury and drove around to the parking garage just north of Hubert. He hadn’t seen anything that piqued his interest or set off any alarms.
Beck had tried to get more information about Crane’s hedge fund from Olivia before he’d left Red Hook, but she hadn’t had much to add. Then again, after they’d agreed on what Beck had negotiated with Milstein, they hadn’t had much time to talk about anything else. She’d shown up later than he had hoped, but he wasn’t surprised. Most people had a hard time finding his place.
Beck thought about whether or not he should have told Milstein to come to this meeting. Get everybody involved to agree. No, he thought. Milstein might get in the way or waffle in the presence of his head trader. Better to be alone with Alan Crane. Take his measure. Let him know the deal was already set. See if there was any defiance in him, and beat it out of him without any witnesses.
It would have been better to find out more about Crane, but what was there to find out? This was a Wall Street guy, who maybe had delusions because he thought his client had connections. Let’s see how tough he is after a fist in the face. Or maybe after a few broken fingers. Fuck it, thought Beck. Time to find out where this is going.
16
They had put Alan Crane in a chair at the end of his beautiful cherrywood dining room table. Then they had firmly duct-taped his left arm to the table.
Markov watched while his man Gregor Stepanovich used yard after yard of tape, wrapping it all the way around the end of the rectangular table.
Crane hadn’t put up any resistance. He knew enough to avoid getting punched and kicked into submission. But as the tape wound around and around, more tightly securing his arm to the table, he tried to get some reaction from Markov.
“What are you doing, Leonard?”
“Be quiet and listen.”
Stepanovich’s gym bag sat on the dining room table. When he finished with the duct tape, he dropped the remaining roll in the bag and took out a 32-ounce. ball peen hammer. The head was high carbon steel. The handle fiberglass. A well-made, nearly indestructible tool about to be used as a weapon.
Crane had never seen a ball peen hammer that large. Stepanovich sat down on the other side of the table, hammer in hand, staring at Alan Crane.
Crane worked out four times a week with a personal trainer. He was scrupulous about what he ate. Took care of his skin. Got regular massages and the occasional facial. He visited his personal physician regularly. He cared for and pampered himself, was proud of his body, and the thought of that hammer being used on any part of it made him feel like he might lose control of his bowels.
He still couldn’t believe that Markov was going to do anything more than threaten him, but looking at Stepanovich he wasn’t so sure. Stepanovich leered at him as he slowly massaged the round end of the hammer in the palm of his left hand, as if he were deriving sexual pleasure from it. Crane could see him imagining and plotting out the damage he would do with the hammer.
What the fuck were these two planning? Was this going to be some sort of sick lesson because of Olivia Sanchez? He’d gotten Milstein’s voice mail, but hadn’t bothered to call him back. What was going on?
Crane started to sweat. He turned again to Markov, who sat at the head of the table. He started to speak, but Markov interrupted him.
“Open your hand,” he said to Crane.
“Leonard, what are you doing? This is crazy. Why are you…?”
Markov suddenly screamed at him, “Open your fucking hand flat on the table.”
Crane spread his left hand flat, but immediately started talking again.
“Leonard, hear me out. You owe me at least a minute to tell my side.”
Markov got up, walked around the dining table, grabbed the hammer from Gregor and smashed the round end onto the solid cherrywood, an inch from Crane’s hand.
Crane recoiled, gritting his teeth. There was an ugly dent in his precious table.
To his credit, Crane did not yell or scream, or struggle against the duct tape. He closed his eyes, calming himself. Gathering his resolve. Telling himself this wasn’t going to happen. He was too valuable to Markov.
Markov pulled out a dining chair and shoved it next to Crane. He sat, and without warning he slapped Crane across the face, hard. Harder than Crane had ever been hit in his life. The stinging pain made his eyes tear up. He squeezed them shut. Steeling himself.
Markov dropped the hammer on the table, not caring that he put another dent in the flawless cherrywood.
Stepanovich quickly picked up the hammer.
Markov leaned closer to Crane.
“Listen to me now.”
Crane, through clenched teeth, said, “I never touched her.”
Markov answered. “I don’t fucking care. It’s too late. You went after her. She accuses you. She alerts police. District attorney office. She calls in criminals. They make threats. They extort compensation. I should fucking kill you, but you know I can’t. You know I need you to get me my money.”
“Leonard…”
“I said for you to listen to me. Then you talk.”
Crane pursed his lips, forcing himself to remain quiet.
Markov continued. “First, you close out all my positions. You start transferring my money, in cash, to my accounts in Cayman. Understand?”
Crane said, “No. I don’t understand. What criminals? Are you talking about this guy supposedly coming at noon? What happened? And do you understand what you’re asking me to do? If I close out your positions now, you’ll lose money. A lot of money.”