Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

Resnick took a sip of his drink. He felt awkward as he looked at Liciano. When he met her days earlier her hair had been pulled up and her expression serious and businesslike. Now, as she sat across from him, her brown hair flowed past her shoulders and she was smiling with a slight playfulness. Relaxed, her almond-shaped eyes half closed, she was stunning. He also realized that she was at least ten years younger than him. He took another sip of his drink and found himself looking away from her.

He asked, “Any way we can prove the sneakers the shooter wore in the videotape were the same ones Carmichael had on?”

Liciano fished an olive out of her martini and popped it into her mouth, her eyes thoughtful while she chewed. “I think all we can prove is that they’re the same brand,” she said. “If the videotape showed the sneaker’s tread, then maybe.”

“I should still be able to build a circumstantial case against Carmichael,” Resnick said. “We’ve got the same brand of sneakers, unexplained absence of blood on his body and clothes and your computer analysis showing the shooter being the same weight and height. It will then be a matter of convincing the courts to give me access to his phone records.”

“What then?”

“If I find any calls to Dan Wilson, I can start building a circumstantial case against him. Right now I have no hard evidence linking Wilson to anything. But if I can get the courts to allow me to dig into his phone and bank records I’ll find something.”

Resnick could tell that his embarrassment was amusing her. He felt a hotness in his face and knew he was blushing, which made him feel even more embarrassed. Staring at his drink, he muttered, “There’s no question in my mind that Wilson’s behind this bank robbery. I now have to prove it.”

“Alex, why don’t you look at me?”

Slowly, self-consciously, he looked at her. A smoldering intensity burned in her eyes. Her lips parted in an amused smile.

“Are you always this shy with women?” she asked.

“Kathleen-”

“Kat.”

“Kat,” he said. The name made him smile. It was so appropriate given the shape of her eyes and her sleek feline characteristics. “I find you amazingly beautiful,” he admitted. “I want to be here with you, but I really shouldn’t.”

Her eyes dulled. She nodded knowingly. “You’re married,” she said.

“Divorced. I’ve still got some issues I need to work through before I can date again.”

Her features relaxed, the intensity burning in her eyes again. She sipped her vodka martini and licked her lips. They were gorgeous lips. Resnick couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

“As long as you’re divorced, we should be able to work through your issues together,” she said.

“It’s complicated.”

“Do you still have feelings for your ex?”

“It’s not really like that. I care about her, I probably always will. But I don’t see her or talk with her.” He lowered his gaze back to his drink. “Anyway, she remarried years ago.”

“Years ago?”

Resnick found himself nodding.

“Alex, how long ago did you divorce?”

He had to sit back and think about it before realizing it had been eight years. When he told Liciano, his answer sounded odd even to him.

“You haven’t dated at all since then?”

Slowly, he shook his head, both embarrassed and humiliated. It hadn’t hit him until that moment that it had been that long. Eight years of simply going through the day-to-day motions of existing, but not really living.

“Alex, tell me what’s going on with you.”

He raised his gaze back to hers and felt himself swallowed up by her eyes. They were still burning with the same intensity as before, but now there was a sadness there too, an empathy. God, he wanted to tell her, but how could he? How could he tell her about his boy? How could he talk about Brian out loud and admit that his boy was really gone?

Resnick shook his head, lines along his jaw hardening with resolve. “It’s too complicated to talk about right now,” he said.

As the two of them sat staring at each other, Resnick’s attempt to smile turned to glumness. The din from the music and other conversations faded into the background while he stared into her eyes. At that moment she was the only other person who existed in the universe. He wanted to open up to her, but how could he?

She seemed to sense his helplessness. “Alex,” she said. “I don’t usually ask guys out. To be honest, you’re the first.” She stopped to sip her drink. As she lowered it, there was more of a warmth in her eyes than a heat. “I know you feel the same attraction I feel. I also know you’re a good person with a good heart. I want to get to know you better. For tonight, let’s just be friends. We can talk about the Red Sox or movies or whatever. But when things get less complicated and you’re able to tell me what’s going on with you, give me a call, okay?”

Resnick nodded. He finished his drink, signaled to the waitress that he’d like another. “I just need more time,” he said, his words sounding false to him. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, then sat back and tried to relax and simply admire how beautiful Kat Liciano was. “How about them Red Sox?” Resnick said, breaking into an easy smile.

One of the wise guys patted down Petrenko while another of “Uncle Pete” Stellini’s men blocked Yuri Tolkov and told him he could wait where he was. Yuri raised an eyebrow. Petrenko nodded to him, indicating for him not to worry about it. Petrenko was then brought back to the same room as the other day. Stellini sat by himself, his lips compressed like he had a bad case of gas. He grunted and pushed himself forward, extending a large beefy hand to Petrenko.

“Viktor, sit down, let me show you something.”

Petrenko sat down, crossed his legs and picked up a photo that Stellini had slid towards him. The photo showed Raymond Lombardo on a golf course, a big grin on his face as he joked around with a couple of companions. In the photo he was clean-shaven, his hair dyed yellow.

Petrenko looked up from the photo. “So?” he said.

“That was taken by some newspaper jerk-off who’s been following Ray around,” Stellini said. “He swears he took that picture same time that bank got hit.” Stellini picked up a stack of papers and waved them toward Petrenko. “These are affidavits. Over twenty of them. All from people who saw Ray at that golf course. One of the affidavits is from a judge. All genuine, none of these people were paid off or leaned on.”

Petrenko blinked several times as he stared at Stellini. “What does this have to do with returning my property?” he asked.

“I’m trying to tell you. Ray had nothin’ to do with that bank job. The FBI screwed up with their frame. All this is going to be in the papers tomorrow and they’re going to look like fuckin’ idiots.”

“What about my property?”

“Jesus, you’re a stubborn fuck.” Reaching into his pants pocket, Stellini took out a wad of bills and tossed them in front of Petrenko. “Forty-two hundred left of the twenty grand you gave me,” Stellini said. “The rest was spread around trying to find out who hit that bank. I’m not taking a single dime out of it. You know what I found out? Zero. Nada. Nobody knows nothing.”

Petrenko’s eyes grew distant as he stared at the money. He looked up at Stellini, his eyes as cold and lifeless as chunks of ice. “I told you I need those items,” he said.

“You got wax in your ears or somethin’? I told you I don’t know nothin’ about that bank. Nobody fuckin’ knows, okay?” Red-faced, Stellini pointed a large sausage-shaped finger at Petrenko. “I know you’re some kinda tough guy. But what you got, a dozen people workin’ for you? You cause any trouble, we’ll bury you all by morning and nobody ever knows the difference. Now get the fuck outa here!”