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.
19
Dan had a mostly restless night. As much as he tried to fight it, his mind kept racing, jumping back and forth to different images from the previous day. The dead girl, her chest caved in, an ever-growing pool of blood leaking from her; the other one, the middle-aged woman moaning on the floor in agony, her intestines clearly showing; the back of Gordon’s skull blowing out; Joel pointing a gun at him, the look in his eyes while he tried to decide whether or not to pull the trigger…
It was as if those images were looped together to play endlessly in his head. Even when he opened his eyes he would see them. They would linger like ghosts in the dark before fading away.
At some point, exhaustion took over. Then there was nothing, just a drifting along. He felt almost at peace then. After a short time he could hear a voice calling him. It sounded familiar. He tried to ignore it, but it was persistent.
“Jeez, Dan, turn around already.”
Sighing, he turned around. Gordon was waiting for him, but he didn’t look quite the same to Dan – smaller, older, a harshness to him, with none of the goofiness that Dan had come to associate with him.
“I always told you Joel was a weasel,” Gordon said.
“Joel’s not that bad-”
“Not that bad? That weasel blew my brains out!”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“What the fuck, what’s done is done.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m past that. What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Jeez, Dan, you know what I mean. How are you going to get your cut from that weasel?”
“He’ll give it to me. He just needs a few days to cool off.”
“Not a chance. He’ll never give you a dime. You know that.”
“Maybe, I don’t know… Jesus, Gordon, what the hell happened in that bank?”