Dave Zeltserman - Outsourced

“A judge?”

“Why not? They can be bought like anyone else.”

“What about the picture?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Patiently, as if talking to a child, he explained how with digital cameras any picture can be faked.

“Why are you so interested in this?”

Dan had asked the question with such naivety that it stunned Carol. She stepped back like she’d been slapped, her jaw dropping open.

“D-Do you think Gordon was involved?” she asked.

“Involved in what?”

“What happened in that bank.”

“Gordon? Come on.”

“Why else would he be there?” She looked away from him, almost as if she were afraid he would answer. Or worse, that she’d see the answer in his face. She said, “Maybe he made someone up to look like that mafia person.”

She was so damned intuitive. Why’d she have to be so fucking intuitive?

He rolled his eyes to emphasise that she was talking nonsense. It took every ounce of control he had to sit there and act as if this were a joke. As if she were pulling his leg or something. Inside he was dying.

“If Gordon was that good he would’ve been working on Broadway,” he said, praying that his tone sounded as unconcerned as he wanted it to.

Yeah, you’re right, darling, Gordon should’ve been doing makeup at the Schubert and I should be up there right now on the same fucking stage doing Hamlet with the performance I’m giving.

Jesus, is she buying it?

*

“Dan, if there’s anything you need to…”

The question died in her throat. Her mouth moved silently as if she were chewing gum, but she couldn’t finish the question. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t ask whether he was involved. Oh God, he was grateful for that. He knew she was desperately trying to convince herself that she was being crazy. His insides felt like they’d been turned into an icy sludge, but he sat there trying to give the impression that he had no idea what she was really asking, all the while feeling he’d go insane if he had to sit there another minute.

Susie wandered into the kitchen. She seemed to sense something was wrong. As she looked from Carol to Dan, her features became pinched.

“Hi, Princess,” Dan said.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice flattening into a monotone.

“Nothing, Princess. Your mom saw something in the paper that she found interesting, that’s all.”

The look Carol gave him was damning, but she didn’t say anything. She walked over to Susie and kissed her on the forehead.

“Darling, what can I make you for breakfast? French toast? Pancakes? Eggs?” she asked while using her daughter to shield her eyes from her husband. How he ever managed to just sit there smiling and pretending nothing was wrong was beyond him. Somehow he did it, but God only knew how.

“I just want cereal,” Susie said, peeking suspiciously at her father as she tried to figure out what was going on.

“I better get some work done,” Dan said, excusing himself.

When he got to his study he collapsed into his chair. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding as if it were going to break. He had an image of all the lies he had been telling Carol, one piled on top of another, each larger than the one before, each making the tower more and more unstable as it leaned on the verge of collapse. If any more were added, they would come crashing down on him. Somehow he had to get out from under their shadow. He had to stop the lies.

How?

In a couple of days this would blow over. Carol would bury her suspicions and sooner or later forget about them. The cops had no real reason to suspect him. Or Gordon for that matter. There was no reason for this to change anything. He just had to stay calm. Focus on his articles, his book proposal, his business idea…

But how was he going to survive the next couple of days?

Sitting there realizing the futility of the situation, he lowered his face into his hands and wept like a baby.

Kenneth Hadley sat upright behind his desk with his doughy hands folded in front of him, his pale blue eyes looking miserable. Agent Donald Spitzer sat to his side and for once his long face looked more grim than dour. Resnick pulled up a chair.

Hadley said, “The district attorney wants us to drop all charges against Raymond Lombardo and release him.”

“That’s about what I would’ve expected-”

“That son of a bitch manufactured those witnesses,” Spitzer interrupted through clenched teeth. “Same with that picture.”

“I don’t think so,” Resnick said.

“You don’t think so? What kind of bullshit is that? Of course he did!”

“Alex, we’re still going with the theory that Lombardo is behind the bank robbery,” Hadley said. “Today’s newspaper article hasn’t changed that. Agent Spitzer, along with Stillwall and Hollings, are going to look into Lombardo’s witnesses, also that photographer, and see what type of connection they might have with him. If we can get the court’s assistance, we’ll also check their bank accounts and see if we can spot any unexplained transfers.”

“What did you have me come in for?”

Hadley’s round face seemed to deflate as he stared at his detective. Sighing, he said, “I was wondering if you have any other theories?”

“Possibly one.”

Hadley’s face tinged pink. “Would you care to share it?” he asked, barely keeping his annoyance in check.

“Not without a chance to dig into it more.”

“Do you have anything to make it more than a theory?”

“Not at this point.”

“Was your following of Viktor Petrenko at all productive?”

“Not really.”

“Why don’t you spend the next few days exploring your theory then.”

“A complete waste of time,” Spitzer offered, his mouth settling into something bitter.

“What about Walt?” Resnick asked, ignoring the FBI agent.

“I was just about to suggest he help you with this.”

Resnick nodded, told Hadley he’d let him know if his theory developed into anything more substantive and left. Without Hadley mentioning it, he understood that the district attorney must be pressuring him to investigate other alternatives to the bank robbery.

If Spitzer hadn’t been sitting there, Resnick might have let on that he had Carmichael made as the shooter. Before going to Hadley’s office, he had stopped off at the evidence room and examined Carmichael’s sneakers. Sure enough, there were spots of green paint on the bottom of them. If he checked Carmichael’s apartment he’d probably find that one of the rooms had been painted the same shade of green.

The problem was he didn’t trust Spitzer. He had no doubt the guy would screw things up with Dan Wilson. There was more to it than that, though. He didn’t even have a circumstantial case yet against Wilson. No real evidence of any kind. He had to find something concrete first, something he could use to force Wilson to hand over the items that were stolen. He couldn’t risk Wilson’s name showing up in the papers before that. Resnick knew full well what Petrenko would do to Wilson’s family if that happened. He pictured the way Wilson’s wife looked at the cemetery. At the time he sensed that she suspected something, but that was about it. She wasn’t involved in this, and shit, they probably had kids. Petrenko would take care of all of them. No, he had to try to nail Petrenko first.

He thought over what his next steps were going to be. All he knew for sure was that tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day.

Craig Brown called at nine fifteen to ask Dan whether he had made any progress.

“It’s only been a few days, but yeah, I was going to call you later. I have it figured out-”