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.”
Pearce stood watching Beck. For a moment, Beck thought he might try to arrest him, but instead Pearce asked, “You armed?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t bother taking anything out. Just move slow and keep your hands where I can see them. The second I see your hands move, I’ll shoot you.”
“Fair enough.”
Walter motioned for Beck to come into his apartment.
The place was like Beck had pictured it. He stepped into a dark living room straight out of the fifties, filled with old, large furniture. A big couch with a coffee table in front of it. End tables. Two high-backed upholstered chairs with a standing ashtray in between. Dark green carpet covering most of the wood floor. Gray walls that needed a paint job to cover the decades of grime that had accumulated.
The two windows facing Fiftieth Street were covered by pull-down shades, flanked by heavy curtains with a floral pattern. Beck would have bet all the money in his pocket this was the apartment Pearce had grown up in.
Walter pointed to the couch. Beck sat, sinking into the worn-out cushions. Walter sat facing him in one of the upholstered chairs resting the Glock on his knee, pointed at Beck. The only light in the room was from a floor lamp next to Walter’s chair.
“Talk,” said Walter.
Beck said, “I have ten thousand dollars I want to give you.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain.” Beck started to take out the money.
Walter barked, “Slowly.”
Beck picked out the wad of hundred-dollar bills with this thumb and forefinger and put it on the coffee table in front of him.
Beck said, “I had men tail you. I know you were at police headquarters. So apparently now you’ve got the cops on me.”
Walter didn’t answer.
“Can I put my hands down?”
“Keep ’em where I can see ’em.”
“I presume Milstein used some of his leverage to get somebody high up to pull together the orders.”
Walter still said nothing.
Beck cocked his head as if to say, understandable. “Okay. Milstein is doing whatever the fuck he’s doing. My guess is he wants to make sure he never sees me again, and I suppose he thinks it will endear him to his client. But I don’t think he has any idea what Mr. Markov is capable of. The fact is, I’m his best chance to get this thing resolved in a way where he’s not going to get hurt. Hurt badly. Or you for that matter.”
Still nothing from Pearce.
“But I can’t do what I have to do if I’m locked up. Or if some cop gets nervous and shoots me. So I have an offer to make you.”
Finally, Walter spoke. “Go ahead.”
“Whatever you got going with Milstein, I figure you more than earned your keep. You found out who we are. You used your status as an NYPD detective to talk to the bosses at One PP about us. But what has he done for you? Has he really compensated you for something very few people could have done for him? I doubt it.”
“Go on.”
“And for what? So Milstein can go to Markov and say he’s taken care of me? He’s a moron. Even if the cops did manage to arrest me, I’d be out on bail right after they arraigned me. So what’s that buy him? Eight, ten hours?”
“What about your partner with that thirteen tattooed on his neck? He’ll be violated back to jail.”
“So what. It just means he’ll get out a little later. You think anybody at Rikers is going to fuck with him while he’s waiting for a grand jury to indict him? And trust me, they won’t because let me make something clear, Mr. Pearce—nobody, and I mean nobody is going to make a case that will stick against Ciro Baldassare, or me. Not you. Not Milstein. Not anybody. You understand what I’m saying?”
Beck saw that Pearce was not taking the implied threat very well. Beck waved a hand to change Pearce’s focus.
“Anyhow, who gives a shit about Ciro? Not Markov. Not Milstein. I’m the one they’re interested in. And I’m clean. I have no criminal record. Trust me, Milstein won’t ever make it to court.”
“What about me?”
“What about you? What’s in it for you to back Milstein? He’s not paying you enough. And you’re out there getting the NYPD brass at One PP all worked up for what? For that little fuck Milstein? How’s that gonna help you?”
Walter said nothing, but he shifted in his chair. “Hey, I was just the messenger.”
“Come on, Walter, if this thing blows up the fucking NYPD isn’t going to make life miserable for Milstein. But you, you they can fuck with. Close every door there is on you. And if they really want to get shitty they can mess with your PI license and maybe even your pension.”
“For what reason?”
Beck leaned forward, “Since when do they need a reason? But getting the higher-ups to mount a big operation against me for nothing might be reason enough.”