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.