“First of all, we have your men roaring up to a murder investigation, potentially endangering the crime scene and any evidence that may have been essential to the investigation, besides harassing officers of the law.”
“Trying to pin something some friends of mine did of their own accord on me after letting me go last time? That’s just shoddy detective work.”
Doyle’s fist clenches, but as long as the little red light is on the camera that’s pointed at me, I know I can goad him as much as I like, if he wants to keep his career. There’s a lot more buttons I know I could push on Doyle, but I also know that the camera’s gonna get shut off sooner or later, and this is a man who doesn’t bat an eye at burying immigrants in unmarked graves.
“You proceeded to put together a rally orchestrated by the union Club in an attempt to align Bayonne citizens against law enforcement, are you aware that some would call that ‘rabble rousing,’ Mr. Volkov?”
I laugh at that, though it hurts a few ribs to do so.
“I think the good people of Bayonne would love to hear you call them rabble, pizdoon.”
“What was that, Mr. Volkov?”
“That was Russian, Agent McCarthy. You might do well to learn a little bit about the heritage of a town before you go harassing its workers. Or maybe that’s not really why you’re here?”
Doyle keeps his eyes even on mine for a while, studying my face before smiling. “I’m here to enforce the law, Mr. Volkov, nothing more. While we’re on the topic of your Russian heritage, though, maybe you can speak for some of your other gang members’ actions, hm?”
I snort in derision at the word gang. It got under my skin once, but not now. This is all an act. Doyle is just trying to wave the fact over my head that he’s got half the club locked up and maybe get enough of a rise out of me to incriminate one of them. I know all his tricks.
“Ms. Eva Zolnerowich, for starters. You know, the mechanics we interviewed after the arrests admitted that she was soliciting illegal vehicle modifications to them? How long has the union Club been in the business of peddling street wares, Mr. Volkov?”
He wants me to say that I can’t account for the actions of my cohorts, but that would just incriminate Eva, and I’m not gonna throw my VP under the bus like that.
“I’m failing to see what your accusations have to do with ‘obstruction of justice,’ Agent Toyle.”
My name-calling seems to push Doyle over the edge, and he slams his fist onto the table, leaning in close to me. “Do you want me to tack on ‘badgering an officer’ to the laundry list I’m about to throw you away for, you little shit?”
I just smile at him in response, and I think I can see a little vein pulsing in his forehead as he steps back.
“Mr. Gennedy Alkaev, another of your officers, wasn’t apprehended at the scene. You ought to know that was because he’s been working with us since your first arrest, Mr. Volkov. He tipped us off about your little rally and let us show up in time to break things up before it got violent. How does it feel that your supposedly loyal little personality cult is willing to sell you out?”
I say nothing in response. I know that’s a lie. It has to be. Genn’s more than a gentle soul with a ton of muscle padding it — he’s a close friend. Cherry is a good judge of character, and she seems to get along with him fine, to boot. That on top of his years of friendship to me are more than enough proof that Doyle’s lying through his teeth.
When I keep quiet for a few seconds more, Doyle lets out a long breath and moves over to the camera, shutting it off.
“Alright then, let’s talk,” he says, walking over to sit on the table beside me, peering down at me through his glasses. I have a feeling he gets off on looking down at people like that.
“Tell me, Mr. Volkov, how much did you and that little cunt you’ve been dragging around with you see down at the docks the other night?” he asks in a still, quiet voice. My eyes narrow at him, and I lean forward in my chair, looking at him as though daring him to keep going. “Any of the ‘cargo’ look familiar? Did you recognize some of those corpses’ relatives in those containers? Mothers, children?”
My jaw is tight, and I feel my hands flexing into fists. There it is: Doyle’s confession. He’s got me locked away, and this whole interrogation is just a farce to cover up whatever trumped-up charge he’ll pin on me.
“Did your parents get here by similar means, Mr. Volkov? Is that why you’re so insistent on disrupting my business with Marty Chandler? Maybe you had a sister who met a similar fate on a voyage over here, is she buried out back behind your bar?”