“No question, you would’ve gotten away scot-free,” Maguire added.
“My guess, you weren’t the one to actually shoot him,” Resnick said. “One of your buddies leveled an assault rifle on Carmichael right before he shot those two women. I’d have to think he was the guy who shot your friend. Anything to say yet?”
Dan shook his head.
“You might like to know what really happened with Carmichael,” Resnick went on. “The best I can tell he was only talking harmless nonsense to Margaret Williams. Stuff about Brazil and Asbury Park Beach in New Jersey. The problem was one of your buddies molested her a few minutes before Carmichael wandered over.”
“Your fat buddy,” Maguire said. “The short little fucker wearing the running suit.”
“You know who we’re talking about, right?” Resnick asked. He waited patiently for Dan to answer him. When he didn’t, Resnick continued. “Ms. Williams probably thought Carmichael was the guy who shoved his hand up her skirt. The whole thing was just bad luck. You still have nothing to say?”
Dan shook his head, shrugging.
Resnick breathed in deeply and let it out through his mouth.
He hadn’t expected Wilson to have the nerve to sit there as calmly as he was. He had been betting that this would crack him and was beginning to wonder how badly he had misjudged the guy.
“Here’s the deal,” Resnick said. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy. I saw the way you reacted after the shootings.”
Maguire added, “It’s on videotape, buddy. We can show it to you if you’d like.”
Resnick waited, got no reaction. He continued, “To me, it looked like you were in shock when you ran into the lobby and saw those two women. My guess, you never expected anyone to get hurt. You thought you’d just rip off a very bad guy and frame another bad guy. The problem is people did get hurt. Because of that I can’t let you get away with this.”
Resnick took two photos from his folder and flung them in front of Dan. They were both crime-scene photos. One of them showed Margaret Williams lying dead in a pool of blood. The other showed Mary O’Donnell with her stomach blown out and her intestines showing through a gaping hole in her middle. Dan looked at them and then back up at Resnick.
“Why don’t we get this over with,” Resnick said. “You’ll feel better afterwards.”
“There’s nothing to get over,” Dan said, his voice flat. “First you try to frame one person with a fake videotape and when that doesn’t work you try this.”
Maguire’s mouth opened into a bare-fanged grin. “Can you believe the balls on this guy?” he asked Resnick.
“Go ahead if you’d like, arrest me,” Dan offered. “You can’t prove any of this because none of it happened.”
Maguire stood up, his hand reaching for his cuffs. “What do you say, we bring this asshole in?”
Dan held both hands out so he could be cuffed. “I’m not saying another word without a lawyer.”
Resnick stopped his partner. “Let’s give the guy a chance,” he said. Then to Dan, “You don’t have anything to hide, right?”
“Not a thing.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if we searched your house?”
“Knock yourself out,” Dan said.
29
Shrini arrived at the Middlesex Diner shortly before eleven. After driving around the parking lot so he could look for Petrenko and satisfy himself that the Russian wasn’t there, he parked and hobbled to the diner’s entrance. He still hadn’t gotten used to the crutches. It was slow going and by the time he got to the cashier’s station he was winded. He knew it was partly due to the adrenaline pumping through him. This was a bold move he was making, but to succeed in life you have to make bold moves. Dan could act meekly if he wanted, but he sure wasn’t going to!
One of the waitresses showed him to a table and he ordered coffee and an egg-white omelet. He checked his watch. It was seven past eleven. The numbers seven and eleven struck him. They were a good sign. The strutting peacock was going to crap out, not him.
The anticipation wore on him while he waited. His food was brought over and he nibbled at it, every minute or so straining his neck to look out the window. He checked his watch. Eleven twenty-eight. He told Petrenko what would happen if he wasn’t there on time and he meant it! His fingers tapped the table as he waited. It was now eleven thirty-two. He started to get up but indecision slowed him. Crossing his arms, he decided to give Petrenko ten more minutes.
When those ten minutes vanished he got up and paid the cashier. He took a step towards the door and froze. He couldn’t walk away. It wasn’t just the money. He had to make sure that peacock got paid back. His face flushed as he told the waitress he’d like to sit back at the table and have another cup of coffee.
At twelve thirty he gave up. Petrenko wasn’t coming. For some reason he must’ve thought Shrini’s call was a crank. Dejected, he gathered up his crutches and hobbled towards the diner’s entrance. The steps leading out were tricky. He had to hold the crutches with one hand while he held the railing with the other, all the while hopping on one foot.
When he got to the bottom of the steps, he readjusted the crutches under him. He took several steps to the curb and then stopped to position one of the crutches more comfortably under his armpit. Right before the blow to the kidneys he sensed the two men behind him, but he didn’t have time to react. The blow paralyzed him. For several seconds he couldn’t breathe. His knees buckled, hot tears flooding his eyes.
They grabbed him from both sides. A car swung around, the trunk popping open. He was tossed into the trunk. This all happened within five seconds from the time he was hit. He tried to struggle and claw his way forward. Something hit him hard on the side of the head. Then blackness.
Pain brought him back to semi-consciousness. Every part of him seemed to throb with pain. While he wavered in his semi-conscious state, he had the sensation of spikes being driven into his broken ankle. Every few seconds there would be a dull thud followed by a jolt of pain shooting through him. One horrific jolt knocked him back into consciousness. His eyes opened to catch Petrenko swinging back a golf club. He started to scream as Petrenko drove the club into his unprotected ankle. The pain exploded inside him. At some level he knew his eyes were open, but the room flickered on and off into darkness. Sort of like a light bulb crackling on the edge of blowing out. Barely, he maintained consciousness.
“Our guest has woken,” Petrenko announced.
Behind Petrenko stood three other Russians, all looking on with mild amusement. Shrini’s arms were pulled tight over his head, his feet dangling, barely touching the floor. Something cold and hard bit into his wrists and he realized he was handcuffed, probably to a pipe. He looked down and saw that his injured ankle had swollen to the size of a large eggplant, its color an unnatural deep, darkish blue. The sight of it made him light-headed. As his eyes started to roll up in his head, Petrenko grabbed him by his hair, jerked his head up and slapped him hard across the face.
“No, I do not think so,” he said. “For now you’re staying awake.”
When Shrini’s eyes could focus again, he saw the corners of Petrenko’s lips turn up into a dull smile while his eyes remained vacant. Then Petrenko’s hand wrapped into a fist, and in a blur, threw a quick jab catching Shrini hard in the ribs.
Time seemed to hold still as he tried to gasp in air. For a long moment he didn’t think he’d be able to, not with the way his stomach muscles were convulsing. Then somehow he started breathing again. Labored, but he was breathing.
“No more,” Shrini tried to say.
Petrenko tapped him again in the ribs. A sharp, jagged pain ripped through him.
“Please,” Shrini forced out, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t hit me again.”
“No?” Petrenko asked. “And why not?”