How could any rational person have expected that?
But all that was in the past. There was nothing he could do now except move forward and do what was best for him and his family. He had to somehow forgive himself, but for now he needed to empty his mind and relax, at least before the pressure inside his head exploded.
He looked over at Carol and studied the outline her hips made under the sheets. They were so slender, her waist seemingly thin enough for him to wrap both hands around. At forty-four she still had a better body than most thirty-year-olds – hell, forget that, most twenty-year-olds. He touched her hip lightly. He didn’t want to wake her. He just wanted to have some sort of physical connection to her, to somehow make himself feel like there was still a reason for hope.
He gently rested his hand on her hip. She made a grunting noise in her sleep and angrily pushed his hand away. He lay paralyzed for a moment, feeling as empty as he had ever felt. Then he just started laughing. He couldn’t help himself.
Par for the fucking course, he thought.
Later, when he heard the thud of the Sunday paper against his driveway, he decided he’d been in bed about as long as he could stand. Carol was tossing restlessly, but she was still mostly asleep. Moving quietly, he got out of bed, put on a robe and went outside to get the paper. When he saw the front page, he stood frozen for a long moment not knowing what to do next. Then, resigned to the situation, he headed back inside.
Petrenko let the phone ring six times before he picked up. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and listened silently.
“Hello, hello?”
It was the same voice from the answering machine. Petrenko didn’t bother saying anything.
The pitch of the caller’s voice rose in confusion as he tried again. “Hello, is anybody there?”
Petrenko answered softly, “You have items that belong to me, correct?”
“I don’t have them.” There was a hesitation, then, “But I know who does.”
“And why should I believe you?”
The caller told him the numbers of his safety deposit boxes. “You had mostly packets of hundred-dollar bills rubber-banded together. Also videotapes and computer disks. Will you pay me a hundred thousand dollars or do I hang up?”
“Of course I will pay you. What time?”
“Tomorrow-”
“That is not convenient for me. Why not today?”
“Because I said tomorrow. Be at the Middlesex Diner in Burlington at eleven-thirty. If you are not there on time I will leave, and believe me, you will not hear from me ever again. Wait by the cashier and make sure you have the money with you.”
“How will I know you?”
“You won’t. But I know you and that is all that matters.”
The caller hung up. Petrenko, feeling more relaxed than he had felt in days, placed the phone down. He stood for a long moment rubbing his thumb over the hard calluses that had built up over his knuckles.
If the caller hadn’t known about the safety deposit box numbers, Petrenko could’ve considered paying him off – or, if not paying him off, at least letting him live. But now that was impossible. The caller’s knowledge, both about the safety deposit box numbers and what was taken from them, meant that he must have been part of the robbery. Which meant he had to be paid back by means other than money.
Petrenko couldn’t keep from smiling, thinking that this person must have been double-crossed after the robbery. Well, if he was double-crossed once, he could be double-crossed again.
Resnick was surprised to see that it was after ten o’clock. This was the first morning since he was told about Brian needing a new heart valve that he had been able to stay in bed past six. That was over ten years ago. Now he found himself lounging around, partly thinking about the robbery and what his next steps with Dan Wilson were going to be and partly drifting into daydreams about Kathleen Liciano. He kept thinking of how she looked sitting in the bar: the expression in her almond-shaped eyes, the way her hair fell past her shoulders, the softness of her lips and the way they parted slightly when she smiled. Thinking of her, he found himself longing to see her again. Then, clenching his teeth hard enough to hurt his jaw, he made a decision. She was too young to have all his emotional baggage dumped on her. He’d call her later and let her know that he was afraid things were never going to get less complicated for him.
He pushed himself out of bed, put on running shorts and a T-shirt, did his ten minutes of stretching and went out for a five-mile run to try to clear his head. When he got back he took a quick shower and then made some salami and scrambled eggs for lunch. It was almost twelve before he headed out to the hospital. On his way, he stopped off at a drug store for a newspaper. When he spotted the single-word headline, ‘Framed?’, on the front page, it took a moment for it to register. Scanning down the page, he saw the two pictures side by side: Raymond Lombardo outside the bank with his ski mask off, and at a golf course clean-shaven with his hair cut short and dyed yellow.
According to the accompanying article, the photographer who took the golf course picture swore it was taken at the same time that the bank robbery had happened. The article also stated that there were over two dozen people who supported the photographer’s claim, all of them filling out affidavits saying they had seen Lombardo at the golf course with one of the affidavits coming from a Massachusetts Superior Court judge. The gist of the article was that the videotape was a fake and that Lombardo was being framed, possibly by the FBI.
Resnick put down the paper and first tried calling Hadley at his home before reaching him at the station.
“What do you want?” Hadley asked brusquely.
“Nothing really. I thought maybe you’d want me to come in.”
“Didn’t I assign you to watch Viktor Petrenko?”
“Yeah, you did, but after what was in the paper-”
“Look, I’m with the district attorney right now. If you want to put in any overtime today, keep watching Petrenko.”
Hadley hung up. Resnick stared at his cell phone, wondering what the hell was going on. Shaking his head, he slipped the phone back into his pocket, paid for the paper and headed off to the hospital.
When Mary O’Donnell’s eyes closed, Resnick couldn’t help thinking she had passed on. Holding her hand and feeling the coldness of her skin, that was all he could think of though logically he realised this was the effect of the morphine. She reminded him of the way his mom had been during her last few hours. His mom was only fifty-two when she died. She had been brought to the hospital after her stroke and had the same shrunken look to her face. The same heaviness in her eyelids. The same frailness.
“Mrs. O’Donnell,” Resnick said. “Are you awake?”
Mary O’Donnell’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m so tired,” she forced out, her voice barely above a whisper. The whole middle of her body was thickly bandaged. Even with the morphine drip, Resnick knew she was in a great deal of pain.
“I know,” Resnick said. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions. Do you remember anything about the man who shot you?”
“He talked about Brazil.”
“What was that?”
“He was talking stuff about Brazil. I couldn’t understand him. Also something about the New Jersey Shore.” She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. “One of the beaches there.”
“Which beach?”
“Asb-” She coughed weakly. The effort seemed to wipe her out. When she could, she whispered, “Asbury Park.”
“Did you see anything that could help us identify him?”