Outsourced

27

Dan’s mind raced as he played back the events at the cemetery. He tried to slow down his thoughts and concentrate on what was said, trying to detect any nuances from the way the cop had looked at him and any changes of inflection in his voice. He couldn’t help cringing every time he thought about Wendy telling that cop about Gordon’s community theater work. Of all the times for Wendy to have to open her big mouth…

The central air was on, but Dan had still sweated through the boxers and undershirt he wore to bed. He pushed himself up and squinted at the alarm clock. Four seventeen. At least two more hours before he’d have an excuse to get out of bed. He knew there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to get any sleep.

Carol was on her side with her back to him. She had been sleeping fitfully through most of the night. He knew the cop showing up at the cemetery had affected her too. Thank God Lombardo had been arrested! But even so she must still have her doubts. Not enough so she’d come right out and say anything, but they were there. During the ride back, he could feel her studying him. A few times he caught glimpses of her in the rearview mirror and saw the way she was biting her lip and how pale her skin had become. He knew she was beginning to wonder about that picture of Raymond Lombardo outside the bank with his ski mask off. They’d been married seventeen years and had known each other twenty. Maybe she’d seen something in that picture she’d been in denial about, at least until she had seen that cop at the cemetery. When they had gotten home he had buried himself in his office, claiming he had work to do to finish his contract.

He tried to think through everything that had happened and every conversation he had. Even if that cop did suspect something, there was no evidence against him. Nothing that could link him to the changes he’d made to the bank’s security software, or him breaking into their databases or really anything involved with the robbery. He’d made sure there were no records of him purchasing those drills, or the safety deposit boxes he and Shrini had practiced on, or the overalls and the ski masks. All of it had been hidden under a labyrinth of untraceable Internet transactions. There was nothing for that cop to find.

Of course he could be tied to Joel, and if Joel had been careless enough to keep those guns or not hide the money well enough…

Fuck it. He was making too much of this. What could that cop possibly know? That he and Gordon were friends? What did that prove? That Gordon used to do make up for a community theater? Knowing that was still a long way from suspecting that Dan had been made up to look like Raymond Lombardo. And even if the cop did suspect that, what could he prove? Dan’s mind buzzed as he wondered whether the FBI had any advanced imaging software that could identify him from the security tape. He would have to try to research that, but he doubted the security cameras could provide enough resolution for something like that to be feasible. Still…

Enough already! He had been worrying himself sick over this for hours now. Forget it. No more. There was nothing to tie him to the robbery. Hell, there was nothing to even tie Gordon to it. All they had was Gordon’s body being found outside the bank and… and that nobody knew what he was doing there. That still didn’t put him inside the bank. They had nothing, and more important, there was nothing for them to find.

Dan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. It was funny how the mind worked. After the robbery all he could think about were the victims and the damage that was done to them, now all he could think about was self-preservation. He decided that was normal. It didn’t make him a bad person. He never would’ve gone through with the robbery if he had any idea people were going to be hurt. How could he have expected Gordon to do what he did?

How could any rational person have expected that?

But all that was in the past. There was nothing he could do now except move forward and do what was best for him and his family. He had to somehow forgive himself, but for now he needed to empty his mind and relax, at least before the pressure inside his head exploded.

He looked over at Carol and studied the outline her hips made under the sheets. They were so slender, her waist seemingly thin enough for him to wrap both hands around. At forty-four she still had a better body than most thirty-year-olds – hell, forget that, most twenty-year-olds. He touched her hip lightly. He didn’t want to wake her. He just wanted to have some sort of physical connection to her, to somehow make himself feel like there was still a reason for hope.

He gently rested his hand on her hip. She made a grunting noise in her sleep and angrily pushed his hand away. He lay paralyzed for a moment, feeling as empty as he had ever felt. Then he just started laughing. He couldn’t help himself.

Par for the fucking course, he thought.

Later, when he heard the thud of the Sunday paper against his driveway, he decided he’d been in bed about as long as he could stand. Carol was tossing restlessly, but she was still mostly asleep. Moving quietly, he got out of bed, put on a robe and went outside to get the paper. When he saw the front page, he stood frozen for a long moment not knowing what to do next. Then, resigned to the situation, he headed back inside.

Petrenko let the phone ring six times before he picked up. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and listened silently.

“Hello, hello?”

It was the same voice from the answering machine. Petrenko didn’t bother saying anything.

The pitch of the caller’s voice rose in confusion as he tried again. “Hello, is anybody there?”

Petrenko answered softly, “You have items that belong to me, correct?”

“I don’t have them.” There was a hesitation, then, “But I know who does.”

“And why should I believe you?”

The caller told him the numbers of his safety deposit boxes. “You had mostly packets of hundred-dollar bills rubber-banded together. Also videotapes and computer disks. Will you pay me a hundred thousand dollars or do I hang up?”

“Of course I will pay you. What time?”

“Tomorrow-”

“That is not convenient for me. Why not today?”

“Because I said tomorrow. Be at the Middlesex Diner in Burlington at eleven-thirty. If you are not there on time I will leave, and believe me, you will not hear from me ever again. Wait by the cashier and make sure you have the money with you.”

“How will I know you?”

“You won’t. But I know you and that is all that matters.”

The caller hung up. Petrenko, feeling more relaxed than he had felt in days, placed the phone down. He stood for a long moment rubbing his thumb over the hard calluses that had built up over his knuckles.

If the caller hadn’t known about the safety deposit box numbers, Petrenko could’ve considered paying him off – or, if not paying him off, at least letting him live. But now that was impossible. The caller’s knowledge, both about the safety deposit box numbers and what was taken from them, meant that he must have been part of the robbery. Which meant he had to be paid back by means other than money.

Petrenko couldn’t keep from smiling, thinking that this person must have been double-crossed after the robbery. Well, if he was double-crossed once, he could be double-crossed again.

Resnick was surprised to see that it was after ten o’clock. This was the first morning since he was told about Brian needing a new heart valve that he had been able to stay in bed past six. That was over ten years ago. Now he found himself lounging around, partly thinking about the robbery and what his next steps with Dan Wilson were going to be and partly drifting into daydreams about Kathleen Liciano. He kept thinking of how she looked sitting in the bar: the expression in her almond-shaped eyes, the way her hair fell past her shoulders, the softness of her lips and the way they parted slightly when she smiled. Thinking of her, he found himself longing to see her again. Then, clenching his teeth hard enough to hurt his jaw, he made a decision. She was too young to have all his emotional baggage dumped on her. He’d call her later and let her know that he was afraid things were never going to get less complicated for him.

He pushed himself out of bed, put on running shorts and a T-shirt, did his ten minutes of stretching and went out for a five-mile run to try to clear his head. When he got back he took a quick shower and then made some salami and scrambled eggs for lunch. It was almost twelve before he headed out to the hospital. On his way, he stopped off at a drug store for a newspaper. When he spotted the single-word headline, ‘Framed?’, on the front page, it took a moment for it to register. Scanning down the page, he saw the two pictures side by side: Raymond Lombardo outside the bank with his ski mask off, and at a golf course clean-shaven with his hair cut short and dyed yellow.

According to the accompanying article, the photographer who took the golf course picture swore it was taken at the same time that the bank robbery had happened. The article also stated that there were over two dozen people who supported the photographer’s claim, all of them filling out affidavits saying they had seen Lombardo at the golf course with one of the affidavits coming from a Massachusetts Superior Court judge. The gist of the article was that the videotape was a fake and that Lombardo was being framed, possibly by the FBI.

Resnick put down the paper and first tried calling Hadley at his home before reaching him at the station.

“What do you want?” Hadley asked brusquely.

“Nothing really. I thought maybe you’d want me to come in.”

“Didn’t I assign you to watch Viktor Petrenko?”

“Yeah, you did, but after what was in the paper-”

“Look, I’m with the district attorney right now. If you want to put in any overtime today, keep watching Petrenko.”

Hadley hung up. Resnick stared at his cell phone, wondering what the hell was going on. Shaking his head, he slipped the phone back into his pocket, paid for the paper and headed off to the hospital.

When Mary O’Donnell’s eyes closed, Resnick couldn’t help thinking she had passed on. Holding her hand and feeling the coldness of her skin, that was all he could think of though logically he realised this was the effect of the morphine. She reminded him of the way his mom had been during her last few hours. His mom was only fifty-two when she died. She had been brought to the hospital after her stroke and had the same shrunken look to her face. The same heaviness in her eyelids. The same frailness.

“Mrs. O’Donnell,” Resnick said. “Are you awake?”

Mary O’Donnell’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m so tired,” she forced out, her voice barely above a whisper. The whole middle of her body was thickly bandaged. Even with the morphine drip, Resnick knew she was in a great deal of pain.

“I know,” Resnick said. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Do you remember anything about the man who shot you?”

“He talked about Brazil.”

“What was that?”

“He was talking stuff about Brazil. I couldn’t understand him. Also something about the New Jersey Shore.” She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. “One of the beaches there.”

“Which beach?”

“Asb-” She coughed weakly. The effort seemed to wipe her out. When she could, she whispered, “Asbury Park.”

“Did you see anything that could help us identify him?”

She closed her eyes again. Resnick thought she had drifted off. He was about to leave when she whispered something too low for him to make out.

“What was that?” he asked. He moved closer to her.

“His sneaker…”

“We know, he was wearing Converse basketball sneakers.”

“Not that. Green paint on the bottom.”

That seemed to take all the strength she had. Resnick lowered her hand, placing it gently to her side.

“You’ve been a great help,” he told her. He was about to say more, but realized she was drifting off, her breathing growing shallower.

“Don’t worry,” he said, more to himself that to her. “They’re not getting away with this.”

Later, when he was walking across the parking lot to his car, his cell phone rang. It was Hadley.

“Alex,” Hadley said, his voice sounding so tired that Resnick could picture his pale blue unhappy eyes drooping with exhaustion. “Why don’t you come in after all.”

Dan knew there was no getting around Carol seeing the newspaper and reading about Raymond Lombardo. If she didn’t read it in the paper she’d see it later on the news. All he could do was prepare himself for what was coming and to try to act as oblivious as possible when she called him on it.

From the corner of his eye he saw her picking up the front section. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking his coffee and pretending to read the sports page. Carol stood by the refrigerator, holding the paper in one hand while pouring a glass of orange juice with the other. All at once her body went rigid. While reading the front page, her eyes narrowed into thin slits and her mouth compressed into a small tight circle. Muscles clenching along her jaw formed hard lines above and below her lips. She looked worn out, almost like she had aged twenty years.

In an odd, barely recognizable voice, she asked, “Did you read this?”

He peered at the paper, feigning mild interest in what she was showing him. “Yeah, pretty wild, huh?” he said. “Sounds kind of far-fetched to me.”

“Far-fetched? What do you mean far-fetched?”

“That he wasn’t the guy who robbed that bank.”

“How can you say that? With all of those people claiming they saw him at the golf course? And that picture?”

“The guy’s mafia. I’m sure he knows how to buy witnesses.”

“A judge?”

“Why not? They can be bought like anyone else.”

“What about the picture?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Patiently, as if talking to a child, he explained how with digital cameras any picture can be faked.

“Why are you so interested in this?”

Dan had asked the question with such naivety that it stunned Carol. She stepped back like she’d been slapped, her jaw dropping open.

“D-Do you think Gordon was involved?” she asked.

“Involved in what?”

“What happened in that bank.”

“Gordon? Come on.”

“Why else would he be there?” She looked away from him, almost as if she were afraid he would answer. Or worse, that she’d see the answer in his face. She said, “Maybe he made someone up to look like that mafia person.”

She was so damned intuitive. Why’d she have to be so fucking intuitive?

He rolled his eyes to emphasise that she was talking nonsense. It took every ounce of control he had to sit there and act as if this were a joke. As if she were pulling his leg or something. Inside he was dying.

“If Gordon was that good he would’ve been working on Broadway,” he said, praying that his tone sounded as unconcerned as he wanted it to.

Yeah, you’re right, darling, Gordon should’ve been doing makeup at the Schubert and I should be up there right now on the same fucking stage doing Hamlet with the performance I’m giving.

Jesus, is she buying it?

*

“Dan, if there’s anything you need to…”

The question died in her throat. Her mouth moved silently as if she were chewing gum, but she couldn’t finish the question. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t ask whether he was involved. Oh God, he was grateful for that. He knew she was desperately trying to convince herself that she was being crazy. His insides felt like they’d been turned into an icy sludge, but he sat there trying to give the impression that he had no idea what she was really asking, all the while feeling he’d go insane if he had to sit there another minute.

Susie wandered into the kitchen. She seemed to sense something was wrong. As she looked from Carol to Dan, her features became pinched.

“Hi, Princess,” Dan said.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice flattening into a monotone.

“Nothing, Princess. Your mom saw something in the paper that she found interesting, that’s all.”

The look Carol gave him was damning, but she didn’t say anything. She walked over to Susie and kissed her on the forehead.

“Darling, what can I make you for breakfast? French toast? Pancakes? Eggs?” she asked while using her daughter to shield her eyes from her husband. How he ever managed to just sit there smiling and pretending nothing was wrong was beyond him. Somehow he did it, but God only knew how.

“I just want cereal,” Susie said, peeking suspiciously at her father as she tried to figure out what was going on.

“I better get some work done,” Dan said, excusing himself.

When he got to his study he collapsed into his chair. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding as if it were going to break. He had an image of all the lies he had been telling Carol, one piled on top of another, each larger than the one before, each making the tower more and more unstable as it leaned on the verge of collapse. If any more were added, they would come crashing down on him. Somehow he had to get out from under their shadow. He had to stop the lies.

How?

In a couple of days this would blow over. Carol would bury her suspicions and sooner or later forget about them. The cops had no real reason to suspect him. Or Gordon for that matter. There was no reason for this to change anything. He just had to stay calm. Focus on his articles, his book proposal, his business idea…

But how was he going to survive the next couple of days?

Sitting there realizing the futility of the situation, he lowered his face into his hands and wept like a baby.

Kenneth Hadley sat upright behind his desk with his doughy hands folded in front of him, his pale blue eyes looking miserable. Agent Donald Spitzer sat to his side and for once his long face looked more grim than dour. Resnick pulled up a chair.

Hadley said, “The district attorney wants us to drop all charges against Raymond Lombardo and release him.”

“That’s about what I would’ve expected-”

“That son of a bitch manufactured those witnesses,” Spitzer interrupted through clenched teeth. “Same with that picture.”

“I don’t think so,” Resnick said.

“You don’t think so? What kind of bullshit is that? Of course he did!”

“Alex, we’re still going with the theory that Lombardo is behind the bank robbery,” Hadley said. “Today’s newspaper article hasn’t changed that. Agent Spitzer, along with Stillwall and Hollings, are going to look into Lombardo’s witnesses, also that photographer, and see what type of connection they might have with him. If we can get the court’s assistance, we’ll also check their bank accounts and see if we can spot any unexplained transfers.”

“What did you have me come in for?”

Hadley’s round face seemed to deflate as he stared at his detective. Sighing, he said, “I was wondering if you have any other theories?”

“Possibly one.”

Hadley’s face tinged pink. “Would you care to share it?” he asked, barely keeping his annoyance in check.

“Not without a chance to dig into it more.”

“Do you have anything to make it more than a theory?”

“Not at this point.”

“Was your following of Viktor Petrenko at all productive?”

“Not really.”

“Why don’t you spend the next few days exploring your theory then.”

“A complete waste of time,” Spitzer offered, his mouth settling into something bitter.

“What about Walt?” Resnick asked, ignoring the FBI agent.

“I was just about to suggest he help you with this.”

Resnick nodded, told Hadley he’d let him know if his theory developed into anything more substantive and left. Without Hadley mentioning it, he understood that the district attorney must be pressuring him to investigate other alternatives to the bank robbery.

If Spitzer hadn’t been sitting there, Resnick might have let on that he had Carmichael made as the shooter. Before going to Hadley’s office, he had stopped off at the evidence room and examined Carmichael’s sneakers. Sure enough, there were spots of green paint on the bottom of them. If he checked Carmichael’s apartment he’d probably find that one of the rooms had been painted the same shade of green.

The problem was he didn’t trust Spitzer. He had no doubt the guy would screw things up with Dan Wilson. There was more to it than that, though. He didn’t even have a circumstantial case yet against Wilson. No real evidence of any kind. He had to find something concrete first, something he could use to force Wilson to hand over the items that were stolen. He couldn’t risk Wilson’s name showing up in the papers before that. Resnick knew full well what Petrenko would do to Wilson’s family if that happened. He pictured the way Wilson’s wife looked at the cemetery. At the time he sensed that she suspected something, but that was about it. She wasn’t involved in this, and shit, they probably had kids. Petrenko would take care of all of them. No, he had to try to nail Petrenko first.

He thought over what his next steps were going to be. All he knew for sure was that tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day.