“Keeping tabs on me, are you?” Doyle retorts with a smile, sitting down in the chair across from me and folding his hands on the table. “Now that’s very interesting. I’ll answer that if you tell me if you were watching out for law enforcement before or after you started burying dead immigrants in an unoccupied lot?”
He’s gotten sharper since the last time we met.
“Funny thing is,” I go on, leaning back, “some of the bosses around town got real bold when word spread that you were around. In fact, word spread pretty quick. I always thought the FBI liked to keep quiet when they were stretching out the long arm of the law.”
Doyle chews on his cheek, giving me a thoughtful look. “When someone announces themselves, Mr. Volkov, I’d guess it’s usually to send a message. I think that much is clear, don’t you?”
“Crystal,” I say, unfazed. “But after all these years, Chungles, I guess I’m just bitter I still don’t know why, when you’ve got your nice and fancy office in Washington and tons of bigger fish than us to fry, you’re still so goddamn insistent on trying to strangle our little slice of New Jersey ‘till you feel its last breath of life fogging up those new glasses of yours?”
The agent’s eyes are unreadable for a moment. “I’m not here to ruin your little vanity project of a town, Mr. Volkov,” he says in a low tone. “If you weren’t busy riding bikes around all day, you might notice that it’s already ruined.” He leans in with an expression as placid as the docks at night.
“I’m just here to put a bullet in its head so the rest of us can move on with our business.”
13
Cherry
I have spent more time in this police station over the past couple of days than I ever expected to, collectively, for one whole lifetime. After the big scene at the grave site, I tailed the black sedans to the precinct and watched helplessly from the parking lot as the FBI suits dragged Leon and the rest of the Club into the building. I decided then and there to wait this out. I was determined to stick around until they were inevitably released again.
Of course, that was over twenty-four hours ago now.
I’m still sitting in the waiting room of the police building, waiting for Leon to come out of the interrogation room where they’ve been holding him for so long. I’m pretty sure, from the true crime shows I’ve watched, that they can’t keep him more than twenty-four hours just for questioning. If they want to hold him for longer, they’ve got to find some kind of evidence to pin on him, something substantial to make him a real suspect.
I have no doubt that these sleazy, shady FBI guys are more than willing to drum up some false information, any kind of fabricated evidence, just to make sure Leon doesn’t wiggle out of their grasp. But I’ve been camped out here waiting all this time anyway. I’m too anxious to go home — and besides, where is home now, anyway? The hotel room I’ve only visited once to shower, rest, and change into the outfit I’m still wearing now? I might as well cancel that room and pick up all my belongings and live out of my rental car if I’m going to keep up like this.
As for my dad’s old house? Well, it’s not exactly a home if nobody’s living there anymore, is it? His memory, his presence, still lingers like a shroud over the house. But that’s not enough to make it a home again. So where would I go? If I’m being honest, I never even really felt at home back in the big city either. My little studio apartment was nice, filled with personal touches that made it feel a little less like renting a cardboard box. But it was lacking in memories. It was mostly just a crash pad and a writing space. Nothing particularly “homey” about that.
In fact, the closest thing to a home I’ve known in a long, long time is the comfort I found that night wrapped in Leon’s arms. I felt protected there, pressed against his warm, hard body. I know it’s gotta be one of the craziest things I’ve ever done, but something tells me I can’t just walk away from this now, just because the water’s gotten a little rough.
Leon saved me from drowning once, and I owe him. Besides, if he’s the one who makes me feel like I’m finally home, then what kind of person would I be to walk away from that? If he’s going to be stuck here in this musty old police station, then by God, I am gonna just camp out here, too.
And so I have.
The secretary gives me dirty, confused looks every now and again. I know she thinks I’m straight-up insane for sticking around this long with no word from the cops about when Leon might be released. They won’t give me any information at all. For all I know, they’ve already pinned all seventeen murders on him and they’re taking their sweet time building an airtight — albeit false — case against him, and I’m waiting here for no reason.