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Resnick had gotten to the station at six the next morning. There were still no leads on the dead man they had found. He went through the witness reports Stillwall and Hollings had made and then played both videotapes; the one showing the robbery and the other one of Raymond Lombardo taking his ski mask off. There was something about both tapes that bothered him. He figured out what it was about the Lombardo tape. It was an eye movement that Lombardo made, almost as if he were locating the surveillance camera before he stopped to take off his mask. Resnick played the tape back several times. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure about the eye movement, but that’s what it seemed like. Anyway, it made no sense. Why take the mask off there? There was something also about the robbery tape that bugged him, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. Kind of like a name on the tip of your tongue that you just can’t quite pull from your memory.

Shortly after eight o’clock, Hadley wandered in, spotted Resnick and chewed the fat with him for a few minutes, remarking several times how glad he was they’d been able to wrap up that nasty business from the other day so quickly. Resnick was no longer so sure of that, but he held his tongue. Hadley seemed, for him anyway, buoyant, almost a sparkle in his dull eyes, and Resnick didn’t see any reason to ruin that over a hunch. But his gut kept telling him that this was something other than what it looked like.

He was surprised there were still no leads concerning the dead man. That meant the guy was either from out of state or a loner with no family or friends. He checked the Lynn police logs, saw that there were no reports of abandoned vehicles and then got on the phone to neighboring police stations, asking the desk sergeants to call him back if they found any vehicles that had been abandoned recently. With some luck they’d track down the dead man’s car. If he had a car.

Maguire came in a little after nine carrying a bag of donuts and two cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Resnick when they headed out together for the FBI building in Boston.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Maguire confided. “I dunno. I wish I hadn’t seen that videotape.”

He didn’t look like he had slept much, his complexion grayish, the skin under his eyes swollen. Resnick didn’t bother saying anything. After all, what was there to say? That you get used to seeing young girls shot to death? It wasn’t true. Maybe you get hardened to it, maybe you get to the point where you don’t lose sleep over it, but how can you ever get used to something like that?

When they arrived at the FBI building, Resnick found Kathleen Liciano in her office. Her handshake had a cool, dry quality to it. She looked more relaxed than the other day, more professional and matter-of-fact than rigid. Resnick told her they still hadn’t identified the dead man they had found behind the bank. He gave her a copy of the surveillance tape showing the robbery.

“I was hoping you could help us build a profile of the men involved,” Resnick said. “Heights, weights, other physical characteristics you might be able to detect.”

“We have computer modeling software I can use. I’ll start working on this today.” She took a folder from her desk and handed it to him. “This copy’s yours,” she said. “Ballistics showed that the same gun was used on all three victims. Death was instantaneous for both Williams and the unidentified man—”

“You mean the Grateful Dead man,” Maguire interjected, smirking.

“…found in the back lot,” Liciano continued, ignoring Maguire’s miserable pun as her eyes held steady on Resnick. “Concerning the dead man, height is six foot one, weight two hundred and twenty-three pounds. Age sixty to sixty-five. He had a scar along his left thigh where I found a fragment of shrapnel consistent with mortar that was used during Vietnam.”

“So he was a Vietnam vet, probably decorated with a purple heart,” Resnick said.

Liciano nodded. “Hopefully that will help in identifying him,” she said. “No other distinguishing scars or marks. No calluses or cuts on his hands. He was probably a white-collar professional.”

Maguire inspected his own hands. “Could also be a cop,” he said.

Liciano continued to ignore him. She said to Resnick, “If I can help you in any other way or you’d like to talk about this report, call me any time.”

“Thanks, I appreciate your help.” They shook hands again, her grip still cool and dry like before, but there was also a firmness to it that Resnick liked. Maguire, still sulking, didn’t bother to offer his hand and Liciano didn’t seem to notice or mind.

While they were leaving her office, Maguire muttered to Resnick, “Damn, that’s one uptight lady. Someone should take that stick out of her ass.”

Resnick ignored him.

“So how do you suppose she’d like to help you?” Maguire asked, and then answered his own question by making an obscene gesture using his thumb and forefinger on one hand and his middle finger on his other.

“That’s not very nice,” Resnick told him. At first Maguire thought his partner was joking, but the look on his face made Maguire realize quickly that he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Maguire said. “I told you before I didn’t sleep well. I spent the whole night thinking about that girl, how she was shot down like a dog… I don’t know, I guess it put me in a lousy mood. Besides, I thought my Grateful Dead man joke was funny.”

“Forget it.”

“But it’s still pretty obvious she’s interested in you, partner.”

“Just shut up, okay?”

“Man, your first wife must’ve really fucked you over.”

Resnick stopped in his tracks. “How do you know I had a wife?” he asked coldly.

“Stillwall told me—”

Resnick raised a finger and pointed it at his partner as hard lines showed along his jaw. “Here’s the deal, Walt. You don’t talk about my personal life, ever, and I don’t demand that Ken assign me a new partner. Deal?”

Maguire was taken aback by Resnick’s tone. “Excuse me for taking an interest,” he said. “Fine, whatever. Be a miserable fucking hermit for all I care.”

“Thanks for your permission.”

It was a quarter to ten when they got back to the front security desk. Resnick called Agent Spitzer on his cell phone. The security desk was then called back and an arrangement was made for them to be escorted to one of the interrogation rooms. Stillwall and Hollings were already there, Stillwall with his eyes closed, hands clasped behind his neck and feet up on the desk, giving the impression that he was napping. Hollings wore a thin, sarcastic smile and greeted his two fellow detectives with a wink. Also sitting at the table was a big linebacker type with a square jaw and wearing a suit stretched too tight across his chest and shoulders. He was introduced as Jim Taylor, an investigator out of the FBI’s organized crime unit. He acknowledged them with a short nod. Spitzer’s long dour face looked almost cheerful as he shook hands with Resnick and then Maguire.

“This could end up being very big,” Spitzer said. “We’ve been trying to loosen up Raymond Lombardo for over a year now. I think we’ve finally got him.”

“Let me guess, you’re going to let him walk on this,” Maguire said. “It doesn’t matter that two people are dead, another critically wounded.”

Spitzer gave him a stern look, any previous signs of cheerfulness fading fast from his long face. “Sometimes you have to look at the big picture.”

“This could help us shut down mob operations from Boston to Providence,” Taylor stated.

“What if he’s not involved?” Resnick asked.

“What?”

“Something’s not quite right about that tape.”

Stillwall had opened an eye. “Tell me more, boyo.”

“Before he takes his ski mask off, you can catch an eye movement as if he’s trying to spot where the surveillance camera is.”

Spitzer’s thin lips disappeared into two pale lines while he considered Resnick. “Sometimes if you look too hard you can see things that don’t exist,” Spitzer said, his voice thin, tight. “There’s no question the man on that surveillance tape is Raymond Lombardo.”

“Why would he take off his ski mask?” Resnick asked.

A slight twitch showed near Spitzer’s right eye. “Maybe he got hot,” Spitzer said. “Maybe he was pissed off about what happened inside the bank. Who knows, and you want to know something, who the fuck cares?”

“Maybe there’s some computer analysis you could do—”

“Can you believe this guy?” Taylor interrupted. He was staring at Resnick as if his head were a football that needed to be separated from his body. “It’s bad enough what we have to deal with now with defense lawyers who pull every underhanded trick imaginable and juries who won’t convict unless we can play them back the crime on videotape, but now that we actually have a videotape, this joker’s trying to claim that’s not even good enough.”

Spitzer held up a hand to stop Taylor, then faced Resnick, his expression grim. “We don’t need to do any computer analysis.” He waved a thumb in the general direction of a door on the opposite side of the room. “I think it would be better if you and your partner watched from the observation room. I’m afraid we might overwhelm Lombardo with too many people.”

Maguire started to argue, but stopped when Resnick shrugged and headed towards the door, Taylor glaring at him as he left. Stillwall now had both eyes open and was looking on with amusement. Maguire reluctantly followed Resnick out of the room.

“The nerve of that guy,” Maguire said. “This is our investigation and he’s going to push us aside? Asshole.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Resnick said. “We’ll have just as good a view from in here.”

He turned on the monitor in front of them and settled back in his chair. Maguire took a donut from his bag and offered Resnick one, who declined.

“You really think there’s a chance that wasn’t Lombardo?” Maguire asked.

“I don’t know. It bothers me that he stopped the way he did to take off his mask. Almost as if he were posing for the camera.”

“I think you’re reading too much into it. Sometimes you have to look for the most obvious explanation.”

“And what would that be?”

Maguire considered that as he chewed his donut. “Lombardo screwed up. He’s not too bright. He was too pissed off to think straight. Take your pick.”

“You could be right, Walt,” Resnick conceded, shrugging in a way that indicated he didn’t think there was much chance of that.

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.”