Outsourced

25

“You sleeping in there? We’ve got laws in this city against public loitering.”

Maguire opened his eyes but didn’t bother looking out his driver’s-side window. It was one of those hot, muggy summer days. Not even ten o’clock yet and over ninety degrees. Maguire looked uncomfortable, his shirt collar soaked through, perspiration beading his neck and face. He said, “I saw you when you pulled up behind Petrenko.”

Resnick stood next to Maguire’s Ford Mustang, holding a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “I take it Brown’s inside.”

Maguire nodded. “He’s been in there since the bank opened.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “I never got a chance to thank you for recommending me for this assignment. Nothing I enjoy more during the summer than sitting for hours in a hot, stuffy car. It’s been a thrill a minute.”

Resnick took a sip of his coffee and burned the inside of his mouth. “Not my fault. I recommended someone watch Brown. Putting you on him was Hadley’s idea. He’s trying to keep us busy until the FBI wraps up their deal with Lombardo.”

“He’s got you on Petrenko?”

“Yeah.” Resnick blew on the coffee before taking another sip.

“Viktor had some business in the North End yesterday, probably meeting with one of Lombardo’s bosses.”

“Probably?”

“I lost him for an hour.”

“Tough luck. It would’ve been nice to know who he met with.”

“How about you, anything going on with Brown?”

“Sort of.” Maguire wiped a hand across his forehead, the sweat spiking up his hair. “Thursday night a van slowed down in front of his house and then drove off. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see inside, but my gut was they drove off only because they spotted me.”

“Did you get a license plate?”

“Yep. Van’s owned by a dry-cleaner on Forrest Street. The Russian owner looked scared when I talked to him. He claimed the van was stolen.”

Resnick shook his head. “They were going to try to snatch Brown.”

“Probably, but nothing we can prove.” Maguire raised an eyebrow. “Petrenko’s been in there over ten minutes. Do you think one of us should go in and check up on him?”

“Petrenko’s not going to do anything. He knows we’re both out here.” Resnick gave a thoughtful look as he took another sip of his coffee. “Unless he loses his temper.”

Maguire started to look nervous. He wiped his hand across his forehead again and up over his scalp, the sweat now matting down his hair. “I’m going to take a lot of shit if something happens to Brown. I better go in there.”

“Relax. Petrenko’s a bank customer, he’s got every right to be in there. And who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and be able to bring assault charges against him. Let’s give him another ten minutes.”

Maguire settled back in his seat. “Whatever you say. You’re the senior detective here.”

Resnick finished his coffee, crumpled the Styrofoam cup and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Any idea how long a drive it is to Greenwich, Connecticut?” he asked.

“Over three hours. Why?”

“I’m thinking of going to a funeral.”

Shrini’s foot hurt like hell. He took another codeine tablet – his fourth since he’d woken up, although with the drugs he’d been given he wasn’t so much sleeping as passing out.

As he had suspected, the bullet had broken his ankle and three bones in his foot. The story he gave at the emergency room was that he accidentally shot himself while hunting up in New Hampshire. The doctor seemed skeptical, but didn’t push him or get the police involved. Didn’t even question him as to why he drove back to Massachusetts before seeking medical attention. After cleaning out the wound and setting a cast from his shin to his toe, he was released. The doctor gave Shrini the name of a specialist for him to contact. If the bones weren’t setting right he would need surgery. Also, there was a chance he’d develop arthritis and end up with a limp.

He felt thirsty and wanted a Coke, but that meant he’d have to hobble over to the refrigerator. He had his leg propped up on the sofa, and while he sat staring at the fiberglass cast covering his foot, he thought up ways of getting even with that strutting peacock. One idea in particular struck him. As miserable as he felt, as much as the dull ache from his foot seemed to throb throughout his body, he couldn’t keep from smiling when he thought over that particular idea.

Craig Brown crossed one leg over the other, his face set in a smug frown as he talked in circles about why the bank wasn’t responsible for Petrenko’s losses. Petrenko had already heard one mealy-mouthed excuse after the next about why the security system had failed to work properly, and now this. When he first entered the bank manager’s office there was a small amount of fear in the man’s eyes. But as Brown mistook Petrenko’s seemingly patient, almost passive behavior for acquiescence, the fear dissolved, replaced by an air of superiority. The more he talked the more emboldened he became, thinking that Petrenko was here to play by the rules. This worm of a man actually believed he had the upper hand.

“It’s stated in the contract you signed that we can’t be held responsible for any items lost from a safety deposit box,” Brown explained. He stopped to search through a stack of papers before finding a copy of the contract. He held the paper out to Petrenko, who ignored it.

“The contract states clearly that it is your responsibility to insure the contents of your safety deposit box against theft,” he added.

“My boxes were the only ones broken into, correct?”

“I understand how that may seem-”

“How did they find out which boxes I owned?” Petrenko asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

Petrenko smiled thinly. “If I were you I would figure out a way that I could say.”

Brown frowned, clearing his throat. “I don’t appreciate threats-”

“No, please don’t mistake this for a threat. Somehow these criminals knew which boxes I owned. I would like to know how.”

“Maybe they received the information from you,” Brown answered stiffly.

“That is not possible. Who at this bank would have access to my box numbers?”

Brown’s color paled as he realized the information was stored in a database that almost any of the employees could access. “I don’t know,” he said.

Petrenko nodded to himself, understanding Brown’s reaction. In his pocket he had a hypodermic needle filled with enough digoxin to induce a fatal heart attack. When injected into a person’s gums, it is nearly impossible for a medical examiner to find the puncture mark and rule the death anything other than a heart attack. This was not new to him. He had used digoxin before in the Soviet Union on state prisoners, knew the effect it had on the victim, how much noise would be made and how long it would take before death. Of course, the two cops outside would find this man’s death suspicious, but let them prove otherwise. Petrenko stared at Brown and tried to decide whether to keep playing this game or use the necessary force to make this man talk. After he extracted the information he needed, the digoxin would be used.

“I don’t understand your complaint,” Brown added, his lips pulling his mouth into a haughty frown. “According to your statement to the police, your boxes were empty at the time of the robbery.”

Petrenko nodded visibly this time. His hand slid into his pocket, feeling the hypodermic needle. In a second he could be standing next to this bank manager, his hand against the man’s throat. He would let Brown know what would happen if he didn’t start telling the truth. Then, afterwards, he would apply just enough pressure to the man’s throat to make him start to scream. As soon as his mouth opened wide enough, the hypodermic needle would be used. Petrenko had little doubt that this man had worked with Raymond Lombardo, providing Lombardo with his box numbers and arranging for the security system to fail. While he knew that there was nothing Brown could tell him to help him get back his possessions, he needed to know if anyone else inside the bank was involved because one way or another they were all going to pay for it.

“This is a waste of my time,” Petrenko remarked. He stood up, started towards the door, stopped. “I want a copy of my contract.”

The time it took for Brown to turn towards the copy machine located behind him would be all Petrenko needed. He stood patiently, bracing himself, feeling the point of the hypodermic needle. Brown started to get out of his chair. There was a rap on the door, which simultaneously opened, and the zhid cop walked in.

“Craig, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I have a few more questions,” Resnick said, all the while looking impassively at Petrenko.

“That’s quite all right, Detective. I believe you know Viktor

Petrenko. He will be leaving right after I make him a copy of some paperwork.”

While Brown made the copy, Resnick noticed Petrenko remove a hand from his pants pocket, his fist clenching and unclenching. Petrenko took the paper from the bank manager, and when he turned to leave, Resnick nodded to him.

“Be seeing you around, Viktor.”

Petrenko nodded back, his eyes as dull as stone.

Dan sat up front with Peyton, Carol in the back with Wendy. At one time they had been close friends, but after Peyton struck it rich they drifted apart. Dan knew it was mostly because of his own pettiness. He had worked as hard as Peyton over the years and it pissed him off that Peyton had made it and he hadn’t. The last year and a half being out of work, he had ignored the occasional phone calls from Peyton until they stopped entirely. This was the first time Dan had seen him in over two years, but they were quickly settling into their old friendship. There was none of the usual awkwardness that comes with someone you haven’t seen in years. While they drove to Connecticut in Peyton’s new Lexus SUV, Dan told him about the book and articles he was intending to write and then his plan to start a business examining outsourced software for potential backdoors.

“That’s a fucking great idea,” Peyton said.

“What I like about it is it can be started with very little capital,” Dan said. “A hundred thousand, and I think I could get this going.”

“Maybe I can help you out. Let’s talk later, okay, man? Call me next week.”

“Sure.” Dan paused, added, “As long as you don’t string me along like you did with Gordon and his Texas open-pit barbecue.”

Dan had meant the comment as a joke, but as soon as it came out he knew it was more pettiness rearing its ugly head. He wanted to kick himself. Peyton gave a pained, almost apologetic smile.

“Yeah, well, I guess I deserved that.” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper he added, “I’ll explain about that later, okay, man?”

“Forget it. You don’t have to. Me, I don’t think I would’ve wanted to go into business with Gordon either.”

“It’s not that.” Peyton checked the rearview mirror, saw that Carol and Wendy were engaged in a heated conversation. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I would’ve given Gordon the money as a gift, but Wendy didn’t want me to. She was afraid Gordon would be over to the house all the time if we started a business together. As it was, she wanted me to wean him away from us. Shit, man, I wanted to help him out, but there was nothing I could do without pissing off the wife.”

“I was joking more than anything else.”

Peyton didn’t bother saying bullshit, but the look he gave Dan indicated as much. “Do you have any idea what Gordon was doing in Lynn?” he asked.

“No idea. All I can think of is he knew I had finished a contract with that bank. He must’ve gotten it in his head that if they hired me there was a chance they’d hire him.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Yeah, I know, but we’re talking about Gordon.”

As they drove, Peyton remarked how weird life was going to be without Gordon around. After all, he had known Gordon almost half his life. There was a note of remorse in Peyton’s voice. At one point he seemed to choke up. Dan felt nothing, but he played along and pretended to be equally affected by Gordon’s passing.

How in the world could he be expected to feel anything?

After what Gordon did to those two women?

The way Gordon screwed him?

And he did screw him. All he asked of the guy was to keep his mouth shut for ten minutes. Don’t do anything crazy for ten lousy minutes. He couldn’t do it, though. He had to turn the robbery into shit.

As much as he’d like to, Dan couldn’t blame Joel for the way he was acting. He couldn’t blame Shrini either. He knew trying to get Shrini’s cut from Joel was pointless, and he knew trying to talk Shrini out of it was just as pointless. The damn thing was going to end up with one or the other of them dead. All he could hope for was when the dust settled he’d somehow be left out of it. Thinking about that exhausted him. He closed his eyes, sat back and listened to Peyton reminisce about all the good times with Gordon.

The funeral service was scheduled to take place at the grave site. When they arrived at the grave, there were only a handful of people standing around. Aside from the minister and the cemetery workers, there were six mourners, all elderly. Although Dan had never met Gordon’s parents he had heard enough stories about them to be able to pick them out. Gordon’s father was a tall man in his eighties, his mother short, plump, exuding both a cheeriness and sadness at the same time. Even though Gordon was their only child, his father had written him out of his will years ago simply because he didn’t feel his son measured up. Gordon had told Dan that if his old man died first, he was sure his mom would write him back into the will, but he thought there was little chance of that happening. In fact, Gordon was convinced his old man would outlive him. Although Gordon never talked about it, Dan knew the reason he signed up for the Vietnam War was to try to win his father’s approval, since the senior Carmichael had been a decorated war hero during World War II. Likewise the reason he later went to Yale. Neither of them helped. According to his father, Yale wasn’t the same as Harvard and the Vietnam War was a national disgrace.

As they approached the grave, Gordon’s father stared at them disapprovingly before looking away, his face set in a harsh scowl. Peyton introduced himself. Gordon’s father stood silently, his scowl deepening.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” Peyton said.

The senior Carmichael nodded grimly. Dry-eyed, he commented that he never understood how a grown man could waste his life doing something as frivolous as playing with computers. Gordon’s mother touched Dan’s arm, her eyes moistening with tears. She thanked Dan for being there.

The service was short. The minister didn’t have much to say about Gordon, mostly talked about how his death would affect his parents. Near the end of the service, Dan could feel someone staring at him. He turned and spotted a man sitting in a late-model Buick. The guy was definitely staring at him and, as Dan stared back, he couldn’t help feeling that he had seen this man before. Then he remembered where.

Somehow he kept himself under control and nodded to the detective who returned his nod. He forced himself to face forward. The minister’s words blurred together into a monotonous hum. As he swallowed, he could feel a fuzziness coating his throat, then a coldness pushing hard into his skull. A shadow fell over his eyes and the world started to slip sideways on him.

I’m going to pass out right here, Dan thought. Well, fuck it, let them think I was overcome with grief.

But he knew the cop wouldn’t think that.

The moment passed. Gripping the seat of his chair with both hands, he kept himself upright. While his heart was beating wildly, he knew he was no longer going to pass out. He just had to think this through. It made perfect sense for that cop to come here. Why should he have expected anything different? And as far as that cop now connecting him to Gordon, so what? It didn’t matter. They had already pinned the robbery and shootings on Raymond Lombardo. So now he just had to stay calm…

“Are you okay?”

He turned to Carol. “I don’t know, I was just thinking about Gordon,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”

Carol took hold of his hand and squeezed it.

The service ended. He didn’t want to walk back to Peyton’s SUV and have to pass that cop. Instead, he wandered over to the minister and engaged him in small talk. He was trying to steel himself for what was coming when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Dan Wilson?”

Dan turned, forcing a confused smile as he looked back at the cop. “I thought you looked familiar. Detective…?”

“Alex Resnick.”

“That’s right.”

Carol was looking on. Dan introduced her to Resnick and told her he had met Resnick the other day when he met with Brown, that the detective was investigating the bank robbery.

“Anything I can help you with?” he asked.

“This is quite a coincidence,” Resnick said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Small world, huh? Gordon and I were good friends. We worked off and on together for almost twenty years.”

“I saw his obituary had him as an engineer. So he was a computer programmer like you?”

“Software engineer, that’s right.”

Resnick glanced around. “Doesn’t look like he had many other friends.”

“Connecticut is a fair hike from Boston.”

“I’m sure plenty of people from his community theater would’ve come if the funeral were closer,” Peyton’s wife, Wendy, volunteered.

Resnick raised an eyebrow as he turned to her. “Community theater? Was Gordon an actor?”

“No, nothing like that. He was some sort of makeup guru.”

“No kidding?”

“He’s been doing community theater for years.”

“I saw on the news you caught the guy behind the robbery,” Dan said.

“It looks that way.”

“That’s a relief. At least the guy will pay for what he did.” Dan paused. “Did he tell you yet how he broke the security system?”

Resnick shook his head.

“I’m still studying the software and I think I’m close to figuring it out,” Dan said. “As I thought, a backdoor was added. A pretty clever one, actually. I need a little more time to finish things up. Maybe another day. With some luck I’ll be able to meet with Craig Brown again on Monday.”

Resnick smiled thinly. “That was quick.”

“Not really. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

Peyton put a hand around Dan’s shoulder. “This guy’s being modest. He’s one of the best.”

Resnick looked past them towards Gordon’s parents. “I don’t want to hold you guys up,” he said. Looking at Carol, he asked if he could reach her at the same number Dan had given him.

“I’d hope so since I’m living at home with my husband.” Carol moved closer to Dan, her grip tightening on his arm.

Resnick took a notepad and pen from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Peyton, asking if he could write down his and his wife’s names, along with a phone number and address in case he needed to contact them. After Peyton handed him back the notepad, Resnick excused himself, telling them he needed to have a few words with Gordon’s parents.

On their way back to the SUV, Peyton and Wendy commented on the police showing up at the funeral. Dan couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying. All he could think about was the glint in Resnick’s eyes when Wendy mentioned that Gordon used to do makeup for a community theater. The way Carol gripped his arm, he had a sick feeling she had noticed that glint also.