Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

“No, nothing like that. He was some sort of makeup guru.”

“No kidding?”

“He’s been doing community theater for years.”

“I saw on the news you caught the guy behind the robbery,” Dan said.

“It looks that way.”

“That’s a relief. At least the guy will pay for what he did.” Dan paused. “Did he tell you yet how he broke the security system?”

Resnick shook his head.

“I’m still studying the software and I think I’m close to figuring it out,” Dan said. “As I thought, a backdoor was added. A pretty clever one, actually. I need a little more time to finish things up. Maybe another day. With some luck I’ll be able to meet with Craig Brown again on Monday.”

Resnick smiled thinly. “That was quick.”

“Not really. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

Peyton put a hand around Dan’s shoulder. “This guy’s being modest. He’s one of the best.”

Resnick looked past them towards Gordon’s parents. “I don’t want to hold you guys up,” he said. Looking at Carol, he asked if he could reach her at the same number Dan had given him.

“I’d hope so since I’m living at home with my husband.” Carol moved closer to Dan, her grip tightening on his arm.

Resnick took a notepad and pen from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Peyton, asking if he could write down his and his wife’s names, along with a phone number and address in case he needed to contact them. After Peyton handed him back the notepad, Resnick excused himself, telling them he needed to have a few words with Gordon’s parents.

On their way back to the SUV, Peyton and Wendy commented on the police showing up at the funeral. Dan couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying. All he could think about was the glint in Resnick’s eyes when Wendy mentioned that Gordon used to do makeup for a community theater. The way Carol gripped his arm, he had a sick feeling she had noticed that glint also.

Resnick didn’t believe in coincidences. Fate he believed in, and he had no doubt that it was fate that sent him to Carmichael’s funeral. As soon as he spotted Dan Wilson, he knew the guy was involved somehow and when he heard about Carmichael’s community theater work, he started to get an idea how.

Resnick couldn’t help shaking his head as it occurred to him that Wilson had forced the bank to pay him thirty-two grand to find a backdoor that he had snuck in himself. No kidding he found it so quickly.

As he drove back to Massachusetts, Resnick realized what it was about the robbery videotape that had been bothering him. In his mind he played back the scene of the second victim, Mary O’Donnell, being kicked over on to her back. Concentrating, he slowed it down, seeing it play out frame by frame. As if a pause button had been hit, the scene froze on the gunman’s foot being raised. Then a close-up of the sneaker the gunman wore. Then on the logo.

Fuck…

In his mind’s eye he could see the logo as clear as day. The one star logo used by Converse. He had Carmichael’s report memorized.

Victim at time of death was wearing Grateful Dead T-shirt, khaki-colored short pants, white Converse basketball sneakers…

Resnick pulled the Buick over to the access lane and called the Lynn Memorial Hospital using his cell phone. He’d been contacting the hospital regularly, keeping up with Mary O’Donnell’s progress, and knew she was now expected to recover. He was put on hold for several minutes and then transferred to a Dr. Carl Warner. O’Donnell was now alert and able to talk, but since Resnick still had a three-hour drive to get back to Lynn he wouldn’t be able to see her until the next day. Even then, Dr. Warner didn’t want Resnick to spend more than five minutes with her. Resnick agreed to Warner’s request and arranged a time when he could see her.

He swung back on to the highway. Images from the robbery videotape popped into his mind. He could picture the person who had masqueraded as Raymond Lombardo stopping after the robbery to take off his ski mask. There was no question that the person had posed for the camera, and Dan Wilson would’ve known where the security cameras were located. He was about the same height as Lombardo and had a similar body type, maybe thirty pounds lighter, but that could’ve been taken care of by some padding under the overalls. The makeup job was first rate, especially the nose and jaw. There was no reason that couldn’t have been Dan Wilson.

So Wilson had fixed the software so it would break. If he could’ve done that, he could have also hacked into the bank’s records and discovered who owned which safety deposit boxes. He had to have done some homework, found out who Petrenko was and then come up with his plan. Break into Petrenko’s boxes and frame Raymond Lombardo for the robbery. It was damn clever. Wilson must’ve guessed that Petrenko wouldn’t be able to report what was stolen from him; likewise, that the FBI and police wouldn’t give up on the Lombardo frame unless they were forced to.

As Resnick thought over the planning that went into the robbery, he found himself grudgingly admiring it. None of them were professionals, probably all of them software geeks. And they pulled this off. At least almost. Wilson couldn’t have anticipated the sequence of events that led to the shootings. If that hadn’t happened – if they had just ripped off Petrenko and framed Lombardo – Resnick could almost just shake Wilson’s hand and tell him good job. Almost. But that’s not what happened. Margaret Williams ended up brutally murdered and Mary O’Donnell badly injured. There was a price that had to be paid, not just by Gordon Carmichael, but by Dan Wilson and the other people involved, even if they’d had no idea Carmichael would flip out the way he did. As far as Carmichael went, he pretty much got what he deserved…

Resnick tried to think through what must have happened outside the bank. Carmichael had to have cut through the shrubs before they had him take his overalls off, that had to be why there was no plant debris found on him. Then after collecting his ski mask and gun, they shot him with the same gun he had used inside the bank. They must have had him take off his ski mask first, otherwise fibers from the mask would’ve been left in his bullet wound.

A thought stopped Resnick. What if they shot him first and then took his overalls off? If they did, they screwed up. The lack of any blood on his body or clothes would be sufficient proof that he had been wearing something else at the time he was shot. Both that and the Converse sneaker could be enough circumstantial evidence to tie Carmichael to the robbery and shootings.

Resnick found Kathleen Liciano’s card in his wallet and called her cell phone. When she picked up, she seemed surprised to hear from him.

“I’m sorry to bother you like this,” Resnick said, “but do you remember if any blood was found on Gordon Carmichael’s body or clothing?”

“No, none. The only traces I found were on his face and neck.” She paused. “I would’ve expected blood to have sprayed on him, especially with the blood patterns I found on the pavement near his body. Why are you asking about this?”

“I’m working on an idea. Any chance you can meet me at your office in three hours?”

“You’re talking eight o’clock on a Saturday night?”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ll owe you.”

“I’ll make a deal,” she said, her voice softer. “Take me out for a few drinks afterwards.”

Resnick, taken off guard, hesitated for a second and then agreed to the deal.

They had spent almost two hours in Kathleen Liciano’s office going over videotapes, photos and other evidence and were now sitting in a martini bar off Newbury Street. Liciano wore tight black Capri pants and a matching short-sleeved polo shirt. Resnick felt disheveled in the same gray suit he had worn all day. Their drinks were brought over. Resnick had ordered a scotch and soda, Liciano a vodka martini.