Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

Spitzer held up a hand to stop Taylor, then faced Resnick, his expression grim. “We don’t need to do any computer analysis.” He waved a thumb in the general direction of a door on the opposite side of the room. “I think it would be better if you and your partner watched from the observation room. I’m afraid we might overwhelm Lombardo with too many people.”

Maguire started to argue, but stopped when Resnick shrugged and headed towards the door, Taylor glaring at him as he left. Stillwall now had both eyes open and was looking on with amusement. Maguire reluctantly followed Resnick out of the room.

“The nerve of that guy,” Maguire said. “This is our investigation and he’s going to push us aside? Asshole.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Resnick said. “We’ll have just as good a view from in here.”

He turned on the monitor in front of them and settled back in his chair. Maguire took a donut from his bag and offered Resnick one, who declined.

“You really think there’s a chance that wasn’t Lombardo?” Maguire asked.

“I don’t know. It bothers me that he stopped the way he did to take off his mask. Almost as if he were posing for the camera.”

“I think you’re reading too much into it. Sometimes you have to look for the most obvious explanation.”

“And what would that be?”

Maguire considered that as he chewed his donut. “Lombardo screwed up. He’s not too bright. He was too pissed off to think straight. Take your pick.”

“You could be right, Walt,” Resnick conceded, shrugging in a way that indicated he didn’t think there was much chance of that.

At twenty past ten Raymond Lombardo was escorted into the interrogation room. He was a big man, heavy, with rolls of fat around his middle. Instead of long stringy black hair, sideburns and a thick mustache, he was clean-shaven and had a short buzz cut, his hair now dyed yellow with orange highlights. Accompanying him was a square red-faced man who charged into the room like a bull. He introduced himself as Russ Korkin, Lombardo’s attorney.

“This is outrageous!” Korkin exclaimed, his eyes nearly bulging. “I hear that some Girl Scout had her cookie money taken away from her. You going to charge my client with that also?”

“If we have a videotape of him doing it, sure,” Taylor said.

Korkin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”

Spitzer tried to smile, but it came off more as if he had gas. “A picture’s worth a thousand words,” he said. Using a remote control, he turned on a monitor that was positioned in the opposite corner of the room. When the videotape got to Lombardo taking his ski mask off, he froze the picture.

Lombardo had been showing a big smart-alecky grin, but as he watched the tape his grin faded. “That ain’t me,” he told his attorney.

“You don’t have to say a word,” Korkin said, his manner now more subdued.

“I’m telling you that ain’t me,” Lombardo repeated. “This is a frame-up. They manufactured that tape.”

“We didn’t manufacture anything,” Stillwall said. “We retrieved the tape from one of the bank’s outdoor surveillance cameras.”

“That’s bullshit!” Lombardo forced himself to take a deep breath. Shaking his head, he showed a wide grin that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “You guys screwed up,” he said.

“I mean, look at my hair in that bullshit tape.”

“I’ve been noticing that,” Taylor said. “You cleaned yourself up, huh, Raymond? What happened, after the bank job you decided to change your appearance?”

“This bank got hit yesterday, right?” Lombardo asked.

“You think we’re stupid?” Taylor asked. “You know damn well when that bank was hit.”

“Yeah, well, this is where you screwed up your frame. I had my haircut and shave at my barber’s last Saturday.”

Taylor blinked several times. “You’re a lying sack of shit, Raymond.”

Hollings spoke up. “Now why would you happen to have gotten your hair cut this past Saturday?” he asked.

Lombardo showed a self-conscious smile. “I didn’t like the way I was looking in the papers,” he said. “I thought my hair and mustache made me look heavier and older than I am.” He turned to face Taylor, a wide toothy grin showing. “What do you think, asshole, I look better now?”

“You’ll look better after a lethal injection,” Taylor said. “Don’t think for one second I buy this bullshit of yours. What went down in that bank is felony murder, fits right under the new federal guidelines for the death penalty. I promise you, Raymond, I’ll be front and center when they inject potassium chloride into your fat lard body.”

Korkin had recovered some of his bluster. “This is so goddamn outrageous,” he exclaimed, his round face again turning a bright red. “You have the audacity to pass this fraudulently manufactured tape off as evidence? I’m going to see all of you brought up on charges for this!”

“Calm down,” Stillwall said. “The tape is genuine. As far as I’m concerned your client wore a wig and fake facial hair to the robbery.”

“That is asinine.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But if your client cooperates with us, tells us where he was from two to three yesterday, we’ll try to clear this up.”

“There’s nothing to clear up,” Korkin stated emphatically. “As far as I’m concerned this charade is over. Unless you’re charging my client, in which case I’ll be more than happy to-”

“Russ, this isn’t worth wasting time over. I played golf yesterday. Eighteen holes at the Swampscott Greens.” Lombardo rubbed his jaw, his expression thoughtful. “If that tape’s for real, then the guys behind this did a first-rate job planning that robbery,” he said. “Their execution may have sucked, but whoever thought this out, fucking first-rate all the way. If you catch the guy and can’t build a strong enough case to convict, tell him he’s got a job with me anytime he wants. No hard feelings on my part.”

“Awfully generous of you, Raymond. How about the names of your golf buddies?”

Lombardo rattled off the names of his foursome.

“We done here?” Korkin asked as he pushed himself out of his chair.

“I don’t think so,” Spitzer said. “I still like the idea of your client disguising himself under a ski mask, assuming he did get his hair cut on Saturday like he claims.”

“What do you mean like I claim? You think I’m lying about something so fucking easy to check up on? Or about playing golf yesterday?” Lombardo demanded.

Spitzer ignored him. “We’re going to be holding your client for the next twenty-four hours while we decide whether or not to press charges,” he added.

Korkin shook his head, exasperation showing in his bulging eyes. “I’m heading straight to Federal Court to file an injunction,” he warned. Then to Lombardo, “Ray, don’t say another word to these people.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Lombardo said.

“They’re nothing but a bunch of fucking clowns.”

Resnick was pouring himself a cup of coffee when Agent Spitzer approached him.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that that’s Lombardo on the videotape,” Spitzer said.

“What if you end up with a dozen witnesses claiming he was playing golf yesterday?”

“Then he paid those people off.” Spitzer paused, then added, “You were right all along about him intentionally posing for the surveillance camera. That was a good pick-up.”

“You think this is all some elaborate scheme on Lombardo’s part?” Resnick asked, struggling to keep his incredulity in check.

“Why not? You know how juries are. This allows him to claim we’re framing him, but we screwed up not realizing he had cut and dyed his hair.”