Dave Zeltserman: Outsourced

Resnick sighed. At five foot ten and one hundred and seventy-five pounds, he was three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than his partner. He hoisted the cash register on to his shoulder and headed towards the entrance.

“What are you doing?” Maguire asked as he rushed to open the door for him. “I would’ve helped. And you’re compromising any possible fingerprints.”

“There weren’t going to be any fingerprints.”

Resnick carried the register to the counter and placed it where a dust outline showed it had originally been. Off to the side an elderly man lay on the floor while two paramedics worked on him. The man’s wife stood nearby crying. Resnick took a quick look around. A freezer in the back had been smashed up, probably with a tire iron. Top shelves were pulled out, bottom ones kicked in. The place was a mess.

Resnick moved closer to the store owner and could see that his forehead was wrapped heavily in gauze and that blood had trickled down from his ear. He asked the paramedics how the man was doing. One of them looked up at him briefly before turning back to the store owner. “Signs are beginning to stabilize,” he said. “He’s pretty much out of it. Took a nasty blow to the head.”

“But he’ll be okay?”

“It looks that way.”

Maguire had pulled the wife aside and was asking her what happened.

“My husband fell down,” she said, still crying.

“You’re saying he hit his head when he fell.”

“Yes. He fell. Over there.” She pointed towards the doorway.

“Then why’s there blood on the edge of the counter?” Resnick moved in front of Maguire, blocking him from the wife. “I am very sorry about this, Mrs. Wiseman,” Resnick said.

Mrs. Wiseman’s eyes were mostly shut as she cried. “Do I know you?” she asked, trying to open her eyes enough to focus on him.

“I shop here sometimes,” Resnick said. “You have very good smoked whitefish.”

Mrs. Wiseman nodded slightly as recognition seeped in. She was a small woman, not much at all to her. “I’ve seen you, yes,” she said. Her head turned to the side as she watched the paramedics lift her husband on to a portable gurney.

“You probably want to go with your husband to the hospital. We can talk with you later.” Resnick handed her a card. “How am I to go with him?” she asked. “How can I leave the store like this?”

“I’ll have the hospital call you then.” Resnick took a heavy breath. “Mrs. Wiseman, this is not Russia. People like Viktor Petrenko are not protected here. If you tell me he did this, I will arrest him, and I promise you he will go to prison.”

Mrs. Wiseman seemed to shrink inwards as she watched the paramedics move her husband out to a waiting ambulance. She pushed her mouth shut, her eyes helplessly looking over the damage that was done. Then she met Resnick’s stare and shook her head. “No,” she said weakly, “my husband fell.”

Resnick nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder before walking over to the counter. He found a yellow pages directory, called a glass repair shop and arranged for them to replace the store front window within the hour. Taking another deep breath, he moved to one of the aisles and started doing what he could with the shelves, then stacked the food back on to them.

“What’s going on?” Maguire asked.

“Go check if anything came of the canvassing,” Resnick said. “Give me a half hour, okay?”

“This is ridiculous. Let the old lady hire a cleaning service. And who’s Viktor Petrenko?”

Resnick ignored him and continued methodically restacking the food that had been dumped on the floor. Maguire watched for a moment then, cursing to himself, joined his partner.

*

“I can’t believe you had us do that,” Maguire complained.

Resnick gave his partner a hard stare. “You would leave that old lady alone with the store like that?”

“That’s not our job.” Maguire tried to meet his partner’s stare but had to look away. “Besides, I don’t like being lied to. She’s going to tell me straight-faced that her husband fell when it’s clear as day that someone slammed his head against that counter?”

“She had no choice.”

“Bullshit. And who the hell’s Viktor Petrenko?”

Resnick gave his partner a sad look before turning to talk to one of the cops who had been canvassing for witnesses. “Anything?” he asked. The cop shook his head. “No one saw a thing. At least that’s what they’re saying.”

“I’d like you to go to Lynn Memorial and take a statement from the husband when he wakes up. Okay?”

“Sure, but I’ll be wasting my time. He’s not going to tell us anything.”

“Yeah, I know, but we need to get his statement. Why don’t you wait until those repairmen are done with the window, then you can take the wife along with you.”

“Sure.”

Resnick clapped him on the shoulder before turning towards the Buick he was driving. He unlocked the car. Maguire got in the passenger side.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Maguire asked.

Resnick waited until he secured his seatbelt. Then, “Petrenko, among other things, runs an extortion ring in the North Shore, targeting Russian immigrants. He did this.”

“Why didn’t you push the wife some more? She looked like she was ready to start talking.”

Resnick shrugged.

“I mean, Jesus,” Maguire continued, “what’s wrong with these people? If she talks to us we can arrest the bastard.”

“Then he’d have her killed. Not just her, but her husband and any children they might have.”

“That’s bullshit. We could protect her.”

A shadow fell over Resnick’s eyes. “No we couldn’t,” he said. When Resnick got to Essex Street, he took a right, heading away from the station house.

“Where are we going?”

“I guess we have no choice but to introduce you to Petrenko. For all the good it’s going to do.” Resnick drove in silence after that, a darkness clouding his face. Maguire watched him for a minute then looked straight ahead, trying not to let his partner’s mood affect him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a thin smile crack his partner’s face.

“What?” Maguire asked.

“I was just thinking of something. When you meet Petrenko, make a comment that you think he’s Jewish.”

“Why? Is he Jewish?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the point?”

Resnick’s smile stretched half an inch. “Humor me, okay?”

“Fine. I’ll humor you. What did you mean when you told that lady that people like Petrenko are not protected here?”

“Pretty much what I said.” Resnick’s thin smile disappeared. “Petrenko used to be KGB. In the Soviet Union, that sadistic son of a bitch could pretty much do as he pleased. The Russian community here know his reputation and are terrified of him.”

“How’d someone like that get into the United States?”

“By invitation. Petrenko showed up in Lynn fifteen years ago, right after my rookie year. He started off as a collector, beating the crap out of deadbeat gamblers. I tried putting the arm on him and was stopped cold. I looked into it and it turned out to be someone from the State Department. Petrenko made some sort of deal with them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“Is he still being protected?”

“Not by them, at least I don’t think so. But Petrenko’s smart and living a charmed life. So far I haven’t been able to get anything on hime to stick.”

“What’s the worst he’s done?”

“Probably a couple of dozen murders.”

“Shit! You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I were.” Resnick showed a pained expression as he pulled up next to an auto body shop. “Petrenko’s in there waiting for us.”