Outsourced

26

Resnick didn’t believe in coincidences. Fate he believed in, and he had no doubt that it was fate that sent him to Carmichael’s funeral. As soon as he spotted Dan Wilson, he knew the guy was involved somehow and when he heard about Carmichael’s community theater work, he started to get an idea how.

Resnick couldn’t help shaking his head as it occurred to him that Wilson had forced the bank to pay him thirty-two grand to find a backdoor that he had snuck in himself. No kidding he found it so quickly.

As he drove back to Massachusetts, Resnick realized what it was about the robbery videotape that had been bothering him. In his mind he played back the scene of the second victim, Mary O’Donnell, being kicked over on to her back. Concentrating, he slowed it down, seeing it play out frame by frame. As if a pause button had been hit, the scene froze on the gunman’s foot being raised. Then a close-up of the sneaker the gunman wore. Then on the logo.

Fuck…

In his mind’s eye he could see the logo as clear as day. The one star logo used by Converse. He had Carmichael’s report memorized.

Victim at time of death was wearing Grateful Dead T-shirt, khaki-colored short pants, white Converse basketball sneakers…

Resnick pulled the Buick over to the access lane and called the Lynn Memorial Hospital using his cell phone. He’d been contacting the hospital regularly, keeping up with Mary O’Donnell’s progress, and knew she was now expected to recover. He was put on hold for several minutes and then transferred to a Dr. Carl Warner. O’Donnell was now alert and able to talk, but since Resnick still had a three-hour drive to get back to Lynn he wouldn’t be able to see her until the next day. Even then, Dr. Warner didn’t want Resnick to spend more than five minutes with her. Resnick agreed to Warner’s request and arranged a time when he could see her.

He swung back on to the highway. Images from the robbery videotape popped into his mind. He could picture the person who had masqueraded as Raymond Lombardo stopping after the robbery to take off his ski mask. There was no question that the person had posed for the camera, and Dan Wilson would’ve known where the security cameras were located. He was about the same height as Lombardo and had a similar body type, maybe thirty pounds lighter, but that could’ve been taken care of by some padding under the overalls. The makeup job was first rate, especially the nose and jaw. There was no reason that couldn’t have been Dan Wilson.

So Wilson had fixed the software so it would break. If he could’ve done that, he could have also hacked into the bank’s records and discovered who owned which safety deposit boxes. He had to have done some homework, found out who Petrenko was and then come up with his plan. Break into Petrenko’s boxes and frame Raymond Lombardo for the robbery. It was damn clever. Wilson must’ve guessed that Petrenko wouldn’t be able to report what was stolen from him; likewise, that the FBI and police wouldn’t give up on the Lombardo frame unless they were forced to.

As Resnick thought over the planning that went into the robbery, he found himself grudgingly admiring it. None of them were professionals, probably all of them software geeks. And they pulled this off. At least almost. Wilson couldn’t have anticipated the sequence of events that led to the shootings. If that hadn’t happened – if they had just ripped off Petrenko and framed Lombardo – Resnick could almost just shake Wilson’s hand and tell him good job. Almost. But that’s not what happened. Margaret Williams ended up brutally murdered and Mary O’Donnell badly injured. There was a price that had to be paid, not just by Gordon Carmichael, but by Dan Wilson and the other people involved, even if they’d had no idea Carmichael would flip out the way he did. As far as Carmichael went, he pretty much got what he deserved…

Resnick tried to think through what must have happened outside the bank. Carmichael had to have cut through the shrubs before they had him take his overalls off, that had to be why there was no plant debris found on him. Then after collecting his ski mask and gun, they shot him with the same gun he had used inside the bank. They must have had him take off his ski mask first, otherwise fibers from the mask would’ve been left in his bullet wound.

A thought stopped Resnick. What if they shot him first and then took his overalls off? If they did, they screwed up. The lack of any blood on his body or clothes would be sufficient proof that he had been wearing something else at the time he was shot. Both that and the Converse sneaker could be enough circumstantial evidence to tie Carmichael to the robbery and shootings.

Resnick found Kathleen Liciano’s card in his wallet and called her cell phone. When she picked up, she seemed surprised to hear from him.

“I’m sorry to bother you like this,” Resnick said, “but do you remember if any blood was found on Gordon Carmichael’s body or clothing?”

“No, none. The only traces I found were on his face and neck.” She paused. “I would’ve expected blood to have sprayed on him, especially with the blood patterns I found on the pavement near his body. Why are you asking about this?”

“I’m working on an idea. Any chance you can meet me at your office in three hours?”

“You’re talking eight o’clock on a Saturday night?”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll owe you.”

“I’ll make a deal,” she said, her voice softer. “Take me out for a few drinks afterwards.”

Resnick, taken off guard, hesitated for a second and then agreed to the deal.

They had spent almost two hours in Kathleen Liciano’s office going over videotapes, photos and other evidence and were now sitting in a martini bar off Newbury Street. Liciano wore tight black Capri pants and a matching short-sleeved polo shirt. Resnick felt disheveled in the same gray suit he had worn all day. Their drinks were brought over. Resnick had ordered a scotch and soda, Liciano a vodka martini.

Resnick took a sip of his drink. He felt awkward as he looked at Liciano. When he met her days earlier her hair had been pulled up and her expression serious and businesslike. Now, as she sat across from him, her brown hair flowed past her shoulders and she was smiling with a slight playfulness. Relaxed, her almond-shaped eyes half closed, she was stunning. He also realized that she was at least ten years younger than him. He took another sip of his drink and found himself looking away from her.

He asked, “Any way we can prove the sneakers the shooter wore in the videotape were the same ones Carmichael had on?”

Liciano fished an olive out of her martini and popped it into her mouth, her eyes thoughtful while she chewed. “I think all we can prove is that they’re the same brand,” she said. “If the videotape showed the sneaker’s tread, then maybe.”

“I should still be able to build a circumstantial case against Carmichael,” Resnick said. “We’ve got the same brand of sneakers, unexplained absence of blood on his body and clothes and your computer analysis showing the shooter being the same weight and height. It will then be a matter of convincing the courts to give me access to his phone records.”

“What then?”

“If I find any calls to Dan Wilson, I can start building a circumstantial case against him. Right now I have no hard evidence linking Wilson to anything. But if I can get the courts to allow me to dig into his phone and bank records I’ll find something.”

Resnick could tell that his embarrassment was amusing her. He felt a hotness in his face and knew he was blushing, which made him feel even more embarrassed. Staring at his drink, he muttered, “There’s no question in my mind that Wilson’s behind this bank robbery. I now have to prove it.”

“Alex, why don’t you look at me?”

Slowly, self-consciously, he looked at her. A smoldering intensity burned in her eyes. Her lips parted in an amused smile.

“Are you always this shy with women?” she asked.

“Kathleen-”

“Kat.”

“Kat,” he said. The name made him smile. It was so appropriate given the shape of her eyes and her sleek feline characteristics. “I find you amazingly beautiful,” he admitted. “I want to be here with you, but I really shouldn’t.”

Her eyes dulled. She nodded knowingly. “You’re married,” she said.

“Divorced. I’ve still got some issues I need to work through before I can date again.”

Her features relaxed, the intensity burning in her eyes again. She sipped her vodka martini and licked her lips. They were gorgeous lips. Resnick couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

“As long as you’re divorced, we should be able to work through your issues together,” she said.

“It’s complicated.”

“Do you still have feelings for your ex?”

“It’s not really like that. I care about her, I probably always will. But I don’t see her or talk with her.” He lowered his gaze back to his drink. “Anyway, she remarried years ago.”

“Years ago?”

Resnick found himself nodding.

“Alex, how long ago did you divorce?”

He had to sit back and think about it before realizing it had been eight years. When he told Liciano, his answer sounded odd even to him.

“You haven’t dated at all since then?”

Slowly, he shook his head, both embarrassed and humiliated. It hadn’t hit him until that moment that it had been that long. Eight years of simply going through the day-to-day motions of existing, but not really living.

“Alex, tell me what’s going on with you.”

He raised his gaze back to hers and felt himself swallowed up by her eyes. They were still burning with the same intensity as before, but now there was a sadness there too, an empathy. God, he wanted to tell her, but how could he? How could he tell her about his boy? How could he talk about Brian out loud and admit that his boy was really gone?

Resnick shook his head, lines along his jaw hardening with resolve. “It’s too complicated to talk about right now,” he said.

As the two of them sat staring at each other, Resnick’s attempt to smile turned to glumness. The din from the music and other conversations faded into the background while he stared into her eyes. At that moment she was the only other person who existed in the universe. He wanted to open up to her, but how could he?

She seemed to sense his helplessness. “Alex,” she said. “I don’t usually ask guys out. To be honest, you’re the first.” She stopped to sip her drink. As she lowered it, there was more of a warmth in her eyes than a heat. “I know you feel the same attraction I feel. I also know you’re a good person with a good heart. I want to get to know you better. For tonight, let’s just be friends. We can talk about the Red Sox or movies or whatever. But when things get less complicated and you’re able to tell me what’s going on with you, give me a call, okay?”

Resnick nodded. He finished his drink, signaled to the waitress that he’d like another. “I just need more time,” he said, his words sounding false to him. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, then sat back and tried to relax and simply admire how beautiful Kat Liciano was. “How about them Red Sox?” Resnick said, breaking into an easy smile.

One of the wise guys patted down Petrenko while another of “Uncle Pete” Stellini’s men blocked Yuri Tolkov and told him he could wait where he was. Yuri raised an eyebrow. Petrenko nodded to him, indicating for him not to worry about it. Petrenko was then brought back to the same room as the other day. Stellini sat by himself, his lips compressed like he had a bad case of gas. He grunted and pushed himself forward, extending a large beefy hand to Petrenko.

“Viktor, sit down, let me show you something.”

Petrenko sat down, crossed his legs and picked up a photo that Stellini had slid towards him. The photo showed Raymond Lombardo on a golf course, a big grin on his face as he joked around with a couple of companions. In the photo he was clean-shaven, his hair dyed yellow.

Petrenko looked up from the photo. “So?” he said.

“That was taken by some newspaper jerk-off who’s been following Ray around,” Stellini said. “He swears he took that picture same time that bank got hit.” Stellini picked up a stack of papers and waved them toward Petrenko. “These are affidavits. Over twenty of them. All from people who saw Ray at that golf course. One of the affidavits is from a judge. All genuine, none of these people were paid off or leaned on.”

Petrenko blinked several times as he stared at Stellini. “What does this have to do with returning my property?” he asked.

“I’m trying to tell you. Ray had nothin’ to do with that bank job. The FBI screwed up with their frame. All this is going to be in the papers tomorrow and they’re going to look like fuckin’ idiots.”

“What about my property?”

“Jesus, you’re a stubborn fuck.” Reaching into his pants pocket, Stellini took out a wad of bills and tossed them in front of Petrenko. “Forty-two hundred left of the twenty grand you gave me,” Stellini said. “The rest was spread around trying to find out who hit that bank. I’m not taking a single dime out of it. You know what I found out? Zero. Nada. Nobody knows nothing.”

Petrenko’s eyes grew distant as he stared at the money. He looked up at Stellini, his eyes as cold and lifeless as chunks of ice. “I told you I need those items,” he said.

“You got wax in your ears or somethin’? I told you I don’t know nothin’ about that bank. Nobody fuckin’ knows, okay?” Red-faced, Stellini pointed a large sausage-shaped finger at Petrenko. “I know you’re some kinda tough guy. But what you got, a dozen people workin’ for you? You cause any trouble, we’ll bury you all by morning and nobody ever knows the difference. Now get the fuck outa here!”

Two of Stellini’s wise guys started to move towards Petrenko. He knew he could take care of them if he had to, but he was beginning to have doubts about Raymond Lombardo’s involvement. Maybe the FBI did manufacture the video of Lombardo outside the bank. Maybe they were even behind the bank robbery. Petrenko knew there were high-level government officials who would do anything to get their hands on the computer disks and videotapes that he was keeping in his safety deposit boxes. If they had found out about his boxes, then maybe…

Both wise guys were stopped in their tracks by the look Petrenko gave them, their hard smirks drying up on their faces. Petrenko nodded curtly to Stellini, stood up and left the room. When he saw Yuri, he told him in Russian that things were not good. “I am afraid we might need to relocate to Europe.”

During the ride back to Lynn, Petrenko tried to sort out what his next steps were going to be. He still had connections in his home city of Volgograd and could set up operations there. As far as funds, he had maybe one hundred and sixty thousand that was liquid. That would be all he could take. He would have no choice but to leave Yuri behind and entrust him with selling off his other holdings.

When he arrived home, he was surprised to find a message on his answering machine. His number was unlisted, and usually his associates would call only on his cell phone.

The message stated that for a hundred thousand dollars Petrenko would be told how to get back his stolen belongings. The person added that he would call back on Sunday at ten in the morning. Petrenko stood rubbing his knuckles as he replayed the message. The second time around he had no trouble detecting that the caller was of Indian descent.