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.
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?