Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(176)
“Mr. Enrique Medina was his name. He’s on his way to a full recovery, since your first aid made sure it didn’t end with a witness to a murder—very nice thinking, by the way. But I wonder, when you went to go terrorize Mickey Lamar at his place of business, before Miss Cherry LaBeau happened to stumble in on the scene as an accomplice, did you mean to kill off the immigrant workers to free up the job for locals—white locals, I should add—or were you not willing to kill two birds with one stone just yet?”
There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to say a word in response to that loaded question. Doyle’s a shrewd man with an arsenal of verbal traps. There’s no winning when answering his questions. I made sure the whole crew was drilled on that the moment I heard he was in town.
“Did I hit a nerve, Mr. Volkov? Or is that just something in your eye?”
I hadn’t even realized it, but my fists had clenched at the mention of Cherry’s name. I quietly pray he doesn’t notice that the thought of her getting dragged into this is what set me off.
“In any case, if you’re insisting on being so reticent, I won’t mind bringing the ACLU into the investigation as well? They like to keep abreast of reports of white supremacist biker gangs, you know.”
It takes every ounce of strength in me not to respond to that by kicking the table into that pencil-necked paper pusher as hard as I can.
“The ACLU and our club has a history of cooperation,” I say in a guarded tone, “and we’ve supported justice in Bayonne for years.”
“Really?” Doyle retorts without missing a beat, “because the seventeen dead Mexicans in the ground and the one in the hospital seem to tell a different story.”
I don’t breathe a word of the fact that the worker at the liquor store knows why we really came to the store that day. If they knew that poor worker could testify in our favor, there’d be no way he’d survive his treatment. But the threat of white supremacist accusations could be lethal to all of us, and Doyle knows it. It’s a low blow. Not only would it turn the black and Mexican clubs from neighboring areas against us, but the publicity Doyle would see to would turn the public against us. I’m not giving him any ammunition for that, so I hold my tongue.
After a few long, drawn-out moments, Doyle clicks his tongue and sighs. “You’re digging your own grave with your silence, Mr. Volkov. And as long as she’s supporting you in all this, Miss LaBeau is digging her career’s grave, too.”
I can’t help but clench my jaw, and I glare daggers at Doyle. He seems bemused. He’s lucky I’m restrained.
“What, you didn’t think I’d look into her, too? Upstart journalist living in the city, Bayonne native, comes down to help out some old friends cover their tracks during what’s quickly becoming a large-scale murder investigation? That doesn’t sound suspicious in the least to you? I’m sure it will to a jury, that’s for sure.”
“She’s an outsider. She isn’t involved with any of this.”
“Oh? And could you clarify what ‘this’ is, precisely? It’s looking more and more like a hate crime by the minute.”
I’ve said too much already, and Doyle’s snide smile tells me he knows it. He’s gotten under my skin, but he still doesn’t have anything hard. He’s just trying to bait me. That’s what I have to tell myself to keep the fire in my heart in check.
“In any case, being a suspected accomplice to a bunch of white supremacists is a nail in the coffin of any journalist trying to make it in New York City, of all places,” he says with an insufferable laugh. “But you know, if she goes down, it’s just another tragic casualty to keep your gang of, ah, motorcycle enthusiasts. All for the crew, right? I mean, like you said, she’s an outsider.” He grins, and I just narrow my eyes at him. “But it’s not as though that’s the only thing that woman could run into to put her career in the grave in a town like this.
“Those lines are starting to sound a lot like threats, Charlifer.”
“Goaded so easily, Mr. Volkov? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize she was that close to you.”
“Let’s quit beating around the bush, Doyle, you and I know each other a little too well to act like this is a first date. I got word that you were in town a few days before anyone reported anything about either the victims at that plot of land or whatever disturbances Mr. Lamar says went down at the liquor store. What’s a Washington hotshot like you doing in our little dried-up dock town? Can’t imagine you were here investigating reports that hadn’t happened yet. Unless I was wrong about that ‘psychic’ thing.” I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head in as though that’s a very real possibility.