“You know who did it,” I say calmly. “Someone both of you work with. Why are you protecting him?”
“There are a few guards who rotated between the docks and the house,” Sergei says calmly. “I’ll get you their profiles right away.”
The dock worker’s face goes gray. He knows we’ll find him out.
I step closer, slow and controlled. “Tell me what you did.”
He shakes his head quickly. “I didn’t do nothing,” he repeats, his voice breaking at the end.
“You’re lying,” I reply. “Your voice goes higher when you lie.”
His eyes widen in surprise, then shut tightly like he wishes he could take his own words back.
Sergei holds out a phone. “I’ve got his call logs,” he tells me. “There are several calls to a Brighton number before the attack.”
The dock worker stares at the floor. His shoulders shake.
“He called me,” he whispers. “He was freaking out. He thought she’d told you about the phone.”
“Who is he?” I ask.
He looks up at me with wet eyes, and I feel nothing. That is the scariest part. The absence of feeling. I won’t hesitate to kill this man.
“A man came to the docks,” he says. “He was polite. He asked questions. He said he was trying to prevent more deaths. He said Ivan Malenkov just wanted his daughter back.”
“What did he ask?” I ask.
The dock worker swallows. “He asked whether you were still in the borough. He asked whether you were moving. He asked whether you had doubled your security lately.”
“Did you answer?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, sir,” he replies in a shaky voice. “I told him it was none of his goddamn business and he should fuck off before he gets popped.”
Sergei’s voice stays flat.
“But you knew someone who wouldn’t be afraid,” I confirm.
The dock worker starts crying, and my men shift uncomfortably behind me like they want to look away. I do not.
“It wasn’t like that,” he says. “The kid approached me and asked what the guy wanted. I just passed along the information and told him to keep his nose clean. That’s all I did.”
I stare at him for another long moment. He’s telling the truth, but that doesn’t absolve him. He somehow made a link between Ivan Malenkov and one of my guards.
“How did you get involved?” I ask, turning to the driver.
He shakes his head violently. “I didn’t help him. I swear I didn’t.”
I glance at the driver once, then back to the dock worker.
“Then how did a dock guard get onto the house rotation?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
“You pulled strings,” Sergei says calmly. “I remember. You asked me to transfer your nephew from the docks.”
The driver’s shoulders collapse. “He’s a good kid,” he says in a small voice. “He’s just stupid.”
“Bring him to me,” I tell Sergei.
