Outsourced

18

Stillwall and Hollings showed up at the station minutes after Resnick had played the surveillance tape showing Raymond Lombardo.

“You lose our FBI friend?” Resnick asked.

“At five o’clock on the dot he was gone,” Stillwall said, scratching his chin. “Joys of being a federal employee.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve got a few things I’d like to show him.”

Resnick showed them instead, first playing the tape of the robbery and then the one of Lombardo taking his ski mask off. Stillwall’s large face dropped into a hangdog expression when the tape froze on Raymond Lombardo’s profile. “You got to be kidding me,” he complained. “We waste all this time questioning witnesses when we had this tape all along?”

“Them’s the breaks,” Hollings said, shaking his head in awe. “This is huge, my friends.”

Resnick knew he should’ve felt better than he did, but there was something about the tape that bugged him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was replaying it frame by frame when Maguire walked in.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Maguire said.

“We’re going to be here all goddamn night,” Stillwall moaned. “Not even a chance now of catching the last few innings.”

Hadley was brought in. After a flurry of phone calls with the district attorney, FBI, and Lombardo’s lawyer, an arrangement was made for Lombardo to surrender at ten the next morning. No one seemed happy at that.

“A double murder and another woman in intensive care, and we’re going to let him waltz in here at his convenience?” Stillwall asked.

Hadley’s soft face looked worn out. “It’s out of my hands. There’s more to this, Tom. We’ve got to work with the organized crime task force, an ongoing federal prosecution-”

“This still sucks. Ah well, tomorrow morning then.”

“Not here, though. Raymond Lombardo will be surrendering at the FBI building, downtown Boston.”

“They better not make a deal with that murdering son of a bitch.” Stillwall’s voice trailed off, anger flushing his face. “You should see how those two women were shot,” he said when he could. “Alex, maybe you should play the captain that tape.”

“I don’t need to see the tape.”

“Any leads yet on the dead guy?” Hollings asked.

Hadley’s round face deflated. He shook his head. “Nothing yet,” he said, a weariness edging into his voice.

Resnick hung around for another few hours, ran out of things to do, and headed out after waiting to see if the eleven o’clock news would draw any leads on the dead man. It didn’t. On his way home he stopped off for some Chinese takeout.

He got back to his apartment a little before twelve and stuck the food in the microwave oven to reheat it. After the oven’s buzzer went off, he dumped the food on to a plate and brought it over to a small dark wooden table that used to belong to his parents. When Brian was alive he couldn’t wait to get home each day so he could have dinner with Carrie and his boy. Now this was the part of the day he dreaded most.

He tried to eat quickly before memories of the past could seep in, but his mind drifted. Before he could help it, he started thinking of Carrie and how happy she used to be. She had the most beautiful smile when she was happy; she could almost stop his heart with it.

It had been over ten years since he had seen that smile. With a start, he realized it had been almost five years since he had last heard from her. She called once to check on how he was doing and then swore she would never do that again. So far she had kept her word.

Thinking of that call made him uncomfortable. The last thing she told him was she couldn’t deal with ‘his constant running from Brian’s death’. Absent-mindedly, he moved his thumb along the edge of the table until he felt a small groove in the wood. Brian had made that when he was four. Resnick remembered the mischievous look Brian gave him after he carved out the groove with his fork. His boy was so proud of himself as he waited for some sort of reaction from his dad. As much as Resnick tried to give Brian his stern look, he couldn’t do it, not with the way his boy was looking back at him. He ended up breaking out laughing which made Brian giggle like crazy.

Resnick jumped out of his chair and started pacing the apartment. He had to move. He had to keep moving. As he paced the studio apartment, there was nothing but blank walls for him to look at. He had no photographs or personal effects anywhere in his apartment. There was nothing, outside of a few books, that could identify him as living there.

The tightness in his chest eased up. He could breathe again. The urge to go out for a few drinks overwhelmed him, but he fought it. He’d drink occasionally after work, but he knew if he went out for drinks every time he felt this way, he’d be out every night. And he also knew there was a real risk of him developing into an alcoholic. He couldn’t afford to let that happen. Working as a detective kept him busy. Almost every week he’d work the full seven days, usually staying on the job until he was exhausted. Then he’d be able to go home and fall asleep without having to think.

Without having to worry about absent-mindedly thinking of Brian…

Petrenko had been hitting the heavy bag for over three hours, trying to release the restless energy pent up inside him. It didn’t help. But what else was he going to do? Sit still and wait? So even though his arms felt heavier than cement, he repeated the same combinations over and over again. Jab, jab, hook. Jab, jab, uppercut. He tried to empty his mind and focus solely on his foot work and body movement, but flashes of rage kept breaking up his concentration. The eleven o’clock news had reported that witnesses inside the bank thought men of Middle Eastern descent were involved in the robbery. Hearing that was like adding gasoline to the fire. What was he, stupid? Nothing but an idiot mudack? When Resnick told him about the robbery, he knew instantly that those Arabs were behind it. It was no accident that they had come to him. Sell him diamonds one day and rob him the next. And have a long hard laugh at his expense.

He had to get his hands on those Arabs. But for that to happen, he had to hope they were dumb enough to keep the briefcase he had given them and not realize there was a tracking device planted in it. While he had other holdings outside of what was in those safety deposit boxes, he had nothing that was liquid, nothing that he could quickly convert to cash. More important, he had documents in those boxes that he couldn’t afford to let fall into the hands of the FBI. If they did, he would be going away to prison for a long time – if he wasn’t taken care of first. He knew the only reason he was alive was because certain powerful people couldn’t afford to let those documents go public. If he didn’t quickly recover what was stolen from him he would have to disappear, maybe slip back into Eastern Europe, and he’d have to do it without the funds needed to sustain the lifestyle that he had grown accustomed to.

The bank manager also needed to pay. Someone gave those Arabs his box numbers and that little nothing of a man was as good a bet as any. Petrenko hit the bag harder as he thought about conversations he had with the bank manager, how Brown told him straight-faced that their new security system was foolproof and would make the bank safer than Fort Knox. And Petrenko, the idiot that he was, believed him and bought six more boxes, consolidating his cash and private documents at that bank. He never would’ve thought it possible that Brown would dare try something like this, but then again, even the most gutless hyena can be emboldened to snap at a lion if it believes the beast is helpless.

A knock on the door interrupted Petrenko’s thoughts. He lowered his arms and barked out in Russian for the person to enter. When Yuri walked into the room carrying a briefcase, Petrenko felt a wave of relief wash over him. Moving stiffly, he took the leather wraps off his hands and noticed with indifference how bloody and raw his knuckles were.

“These were very stupid men,” Yuri said.

“All of the money still there?”

“Almost. Ninety-six thousand dollars.”

“And the Arabs?”

“We found two of them – the ones that were in charge. They were surprised to see us. Right now we have them waiting at the warehouse.”

Petrenko picked up a gold Rolex and saw that it was two-forty in the morning. While he was anxious to take care of the matter, he knew it made more sense to go into it rested and with a clear head. A few hours wouldn’t make any difference.

“They can wait for us,” Petrenko said. “All of us should get some sleep. They’ll keep.” He hesitated as he rubbed his knuckles. “Did you find anything?”

“Not yet.”

Petrenko tried to appear unperturbed by that bit of news. He picked up a towel and wiped off his arms and neck, and then walked over to a table where he kept a bottle of vodka chilling. Pouring a glass, he drank it slowly, waiting until he was sure he could hide his disappointment before telling Yuri to meet him at the warehouse at noon.

“We will have a long day ahead of us,” he added. “Everything is ready, correct?”

“Yes. The plastic coverings have been put down. Everything that you will need is there.”

“Our Arab guests are not too uncomfortable?”

Yuri smiled broadly, showing yellowish, crooked teeth that were badly in need of dental work. “Sorry, but they were left very uncomfortable.”

Petrenko nodded, violence darkening his pale face. “That’s fine, then,” he said.