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.”
“Sounds too complicated to me,” Resnick said. “Why bother with something like that?”
“Because he thinks he’s smarter than we are.”
“I don’t know. Exposing himself so he can later claim he’s being framed doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Then what’s your explanation?”
“Either we’ve got some very clever bank robbers who knew where the surveillance cameras were hidden or someone very stupid in the FBI trying to sneak that tape in to frame Lombardo.”
“No one in the FBI manufactured that tape!”
Resnick took a sip of his coffee. “In that case we’ve got some very clever bank robbers.”
Dan had tried to ignore the phone ringing, but Carol shook him until he opened his eyes.
“Craig Brown from the Lynn Capital Bank is on the phone,” Carol told him. Dan wanted his wife to just go away, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, the sunlight hurting his eyes and forcing them shut again. Shielding them, he squinted at his wife. “What time is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a croak. It was funny how he felt like he had a bad hangover. Not even as much as a beer the previous day.
“It’s already eleven thirty,” she said, her expression both brittle and alarmed. As lousy as he was feeling, the look on her face made him feel worse. He took the phone from her, grunted okay a few times and hung up.
“What did he want?” Carol asked.
“He wants to hire me to find out why their security system didn’t work. I’m meeting him at the bank at one thirty.”
“When’s that other man supposed to call?”
“This evening,” he said, remembering he was supposed to have a second interview that day. “After seven o’clock.”
As he pushed himself out of bed, a wave of nausea rolled through him. He had to steady himself against the bedpost until it passed. God, he felt sick, like he had suffered food poisoning. Slowly he trudged off to the bathroom.