Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

“Probably, but nothing we can prove.” Maguire raised an eyebrow. “Petrenko’s been in there over ten minutes. Do you think one of us should go in and check up on him?”

“Petrenko’s not going to do anything. He knows we’re both out here.” Resnick gave a thoughtful look as he took another sip of his coffee. “Unless he loses his temper.”

Maguire started to look nervous. He wiped his hand across his forehead again and up over his scalp, the sweat now matting down his hair. “I’m going to take a lot of shit if something happens to Brown. I better go in there.”

“Relax. Petrenko’s a bank customer, he’s got every right to be in there. And who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and be able to bring assault charges against him. Let’s give him another ten minutes.”

Maguire settled back in his seat. “Whatever you say. You’re the senior detective here.”

Resnick finished his coffee, crumpled the Styrofoam cup and slipped it into his pants pocket. “Any idea how long a drive it is to Greenwich, Connecticut?” he asked.

“Over three hours. Why?”

“I’m thinking of going to a funeral.”

Shrini’s foot hurt like hell. He took another codeine tablet – his fourth since he’d woken up, although with the drugs he’d been given he wasn’t so much sleeping as passing out.

As he had suspected, the bullet had broken his ankle and three bones in his foot. The story he gave at the emergency room was that he accidentally shot himself while hunting up in New Hampshire. The doctor seemed skeptical, but didn’t push him or get the police involved. Didn’t even question him as to why he drove back to Massachusetts before seeking medical attention. After cleaning out the wound and setting a cast from his shin to his toe, he was released. The doctor gave Shrini the name of a specialist for him to contact. If the bones weren’t setting right he would need surgery. Also, there was a chance he’d develop arthritis and end up with a limp.

He felt thirsty and wanted a Coke, but that meant he’d have to hobble over to the refrigerator. He had his leg propped up on the sofa, and while he sat staring at the fiberglass cast covering his foot, he thought up ways of getting even with that strutting peacock. One idea in particular struck him. As miserable as he felt, as much as the dull ache from his foot seemed to throb throughout his body, he couldn’t keep from smiling when he thought over that particular idea.

Craig Brown crossed one leg over the other, his face set in a smug frown as he talked in circles about why the bank wasn’t responsible for Petrenko’s losses. Petrenko had already heard one mealy-mouthed excuse after the next about why the security system had failed to work properly, and now this. When he first entered the bank manager’s office there was a small amount of fear in the man’s eyes. But as Brown mistook Petrenko’s seemingly patient, almost passive behavior for acquiescence, the fear dissolved, replaced by an air of superiority. The more he talked the more emboldened he became, thinking that Petrenko was here to play by the rules. This worm of a man actually believed he had the upper hand.

“It’s stated in the contract you signed that we can’t be held responsible for any items lost from a safety deposit box,” Brown explained. He stopped to search through a stack of papers before finding a copy of the contract. He held the paper out to Petrenko, who ignored it.

“The contract states clearly that it is your responsibility to insure the contents of your safety deposit box against theft,” he added.

“My boxes were the only ones broken into, correct?”

“I understand how that may seem-”

“How did they find out which boxes I owned?” Petrenko asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

Petrenko smiled thinly. “If I were you I would figure out a way that I could say.”

Brown frowned, clearing his throat. “I don’t appreciate threats-”

“No, please don’t mistake this for a threat. Somehow these criminals knew which boxes I owned. I would like to know how.”

“Maybe they received the information from you,” Brown answered stiffly.

“That is not possible. Who at this bank would have access to my box numbers?”

Brown’s color paled as he realized the information was stored in a database that almost any of the employees could access. “I don’t know,” he said.

Petrenko nodded to himself, understanding Brown’s reaction. In his pocket he had a hypodermic needle filled with enough digoxin to induce a fatal heart attack. When injected into a person’s gums, it is nearly impossible for a medical examiner to find the puncture mark and rule the death anything other than a heart attack. This was not new to him. He had used digoxin before in the Soviet Union on state prisoners, knew the effect it had on the victim, how much noise would be made and how long it would take before death. Of course, the two cops outside would find this man’s death suspicious, but let them prove otherwise. Petrenko stared at Brown and tried to decide whether to keep playing this game or use the necessary force to make this man talk. After he extracted the information he needed, the digoxin would be used.

“I don’t understand your complaint,” Brown added, his lips pulling his mouth into a haughty frown. “According to your statement to the police, your boxes were empty at the time of the robbery.”

Petrenko nodded visibly this time. His hand slid into his pocket, feeling the hypodermic needle. In a second he could be standing next to this bank manager, his hand against the man’s throat. He would let Brown know what would happen if he didn’t start telling the truth. Then, afterwards, he would apply just enough pressure to the man’s throat to make him start to scream. As soon as his mouth opened wide enough, the hypodermic needle would be used. Petrenko had little doubt that this man had worked with Raymond Lombardo, providing Lombardo with his box numbers and arranging for the security system to fail. While he knew that there was nothing Brown could tell him to help him get back his possessions, he needed to know if anyone else inside the bank was involved because one way or another they were all going to pay for it.

“This is a waste of my time,” Petrenko remarked. He stood up, started towards the door, stopped. “I want a copy of my contract.”

The time it took for Brown to turn towards the copy machine located behind him would be all Petrenko needed. He stood patiently, bracing himself, feeling the point of the hypodermic needle. Brown started to get out of his chair. There was a rap on the door, which simultaneously opened, and the zhid cop walked in.

“Craig, I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I have a few more questions,” Resnick said, all the while looking impassively at Petrenko.

“That’s quite all right, Detective. I believe you know Viktor

Petrenko. He will be leaving right after I make him a copy of some paperwork.”

While Brown made the copy, Resnick noticed Petrenko remove a hand from his pants pocket, his fist clenching and unclenching. Petrenko took the paper from the bank manager, and when he turned to leave, Resnick nodded to him.

“Be seeing you around, Viktor.”

Petrenko nodded back, his eyes as dull as stone.

Dan sat up front with Peyton, Carol in the back with Wendy. At one time they had been close friends, but after Peyton struck it rich they drifted apart. Dan knew it was mostly because of his own pettiness. He had worked as hard as Peyton over the years and it pissed him off that Peyton had made it and he hadn’t. The last year and a half being out of work, he had ignored the occasional phone calls from Peyton until they stopped entirely. This was the first time Dan had seen him in over two years, but they were quickly settling into their old friendship. There was none of the usual awkwardness that comes with someone you haven’t seen in years. While they drove to Connecticut in Peyton’s new Lexus SUV, Dan told him about the book and articles he was intending to write and then his plan to start a business examining outsourced software for potential backdoors.